Party political Conference season.

 Party political Conference season.

After all the fun and games that normally accompany the party-political conference season in Britain there follows an important announcement. Politicians who fly the red flag must be ready to launch into their customary themes of working-class ideals before attacking the other parties with strongly worded language, rousing rhetoric and, above all, promises and pledges, guarantees and vows. 

At the moment the Labour party have all taken their outstanding business to one of the most famous docks in the country. Liverpool is far more accustomed to innumerable football League Championships, one Premier League, the Champions League and the European Cup. Over the years they can proudly boast some of the sweetest pop music sounds ever seen or heard, the most magnificent of musicians, song writers, boy bands and a city heaving with its timeless maritime history, a culture that embraces all of the latest art and modern architecture. 

For the rest of this week the Labour party have set up their socialist bandwagon in the home of Sir Paul McCartney, Sir Ringo Starr and the dearly departed John Lennon and George Harrison. It can also blow its trumpet for those now household names in Britain such as Cilla Black, Jimmy Tarbuck and latterly the comedian John Bishop without ever forgetting the superbly funny Paul O' Grady. It is quite a notable CV. But this week those earnest politicians with plenty to say for themselves have arrived in Liverpool and won't be afraid to express exactly what's on their mind.

Suddenly the city of Liverpool has changed to a political shade of red rather than the infinitely more entertaining of football red at Liverpool's Anfield. As regular as clockwork the Labour party will be equipped with their down to earth pragmatism, their no- nonsense pronouncements and then their declared statements on how the Britain economy would be far better served by Labour if they were voted into power at 10 Downing Street. Will this yet be another year for hot air, wise but meaningless words or will the country will be surrounded by yet more Labour grandstanding, bluster and points scoring?

Of course when, if at all, Sir Keir Starmer gets the top job the railways will be nationalised, the NHS, that vital emergency service that Labour once set up, will be restored to full health and schools will provide far more opportunities to those young students who just want to be fiercely ambitious and get on in life. The party conference will be well catered with those traditional beer and sandwiches left over by the Trades Union Congress and all will be sunshine and brightly coloured flowers. It'll be all for one and one for all. 

But this is the point when the Labour party will fall between all of the stools and may yet graze themselves into the bargain. Now the dilemma they may have to deal with is that their previous Labour leader underwent brutal character assassination and was criticised severely for everything including the weather, the way he dressed and the controversially filthy antisemitism that ultimately cost him his job. 

Since those heady days of the White Heat of Technology and well-lit pipes under Harold Wilson during the 1960s, the Labour party have quite literally laboured, plodding laboriously at times and then just muddling through against a permanent backdrop of revolutionary developments in the world of music, TV, radio and fashion. Suddenly the youngsters wore hip kaftans, beads in their hair and finally converged on Woodstock, that now iconic pop music festival during the late 1960s.

Under Harold Wilson, Huddersfield Town's most celebrated football fan, satire and irreverence shook hands with scandal and controversy. Nothing new then. But when women chose the right to take the Pill and Coronation Street gave us a revealing insight into its world of cobbled streets, pubs and back to back houses, the Labour party dominated proceedings and heavily identified with its dustmen, miners, postmen, office workers, milkmen and engineers.

But then until 1997 Tony Blair was elected Prime Minister of the UK, an achievement in itself since the Labour party had remained a dormant volcano ready to erupt at any moment. Labour pinched itself and couldn't help how excited they felt. Under Blair education would become the foremost priority and spoken three times over in case we hadn't got the message. Then pop stars like Liam Gallagher would be invited to swanky 10 Downing Street parties, a clear indication that Britain was listening to its contemporary voices and watching their faces.

Sadly, Blair was unfortunately drawn into the Iraqi war abroad against his better wishes and, alongside George Bush junior, succeeded in attracting the wrong kind of headlines. It's easy to be heavily critical of Blair's handling of the conflict, but the fact remains that some of us believe that he remains one of the most competent and capable of Prime Ministers in recent times. Blair was smartly dressed, proactive, fulfilling most of his promises and then smiling at his supporters with a clear conscience and respectable into the bargain.

After Tony Blair, Labour replaced their outgoing Prime Minister with the softly spoken, witty, articulate and always on the ball Gordon Brown. He had been well versed in the world of finance as Chancellor of the Exchequer but never really came to terms with the inherent difficulties that frequently cropped up while he was Prime Minister. It was one of those moments in Labour's history that everything good that happened before may have turned sour, perhaps a dreadful anti -climax.

And so we return to this year Labour party conference where the spotlight falls on a once human-rights lawyer of some renown and highly esteemed by his closest friends and colleagues. At the moment the jury is out on Sir Keir Starmer and judgments are perhaps premature but the feeling among most people is that the man is well intentioned and knowledgeable. Karmer resembles a man who'd rather be in a court of law though rather than the House of Commons opposite the new Prime Minister Liz Truss.

But when the week and the public opinions have been aired and the Labour party has stopped battling with its own rather battered image we may be able to see how far they've come. The bad, old days of Jeremy Corbyn, so Labour must hope have now gone forever. The attention now turns to a man with a highly intellectual legal brain but is still overseeing a political party who can only long for the day when all the publicity is favourable and the time is right to vote for a Labour Prime Minister. It does seem highly unlikely at any point in the immediate future but then Labour may try to recall a certain Tony Blair. The next two years could be interesting and eventful. Watch this space.

 

England lose again in UEFA Nations League to Italy and relegated

 England lose again in UEFA Nations League to Italy and are relegated.

It can only happen to England. To those who are still wrestling with the peculiar complexities of the UEFA Nations League this one must have thrown us altogether. Once we were confronted with both the Euros and the World Cup to deal with and understand. Then another tournament comes along to blow our minds completely. We were jogging along quite happily until football added another confusing conundrum or maybe the governing bodies of Europe have decided, in their infinite wisdom, to just complicate matters.

No sooner had England seen the back of Italy in last year's Euro 2020 Final than another edition with different connotations but similar themes arrive on our doorstep. A year ago England succeeded wondrously in reaching their first tournament Final since the 1966 World Cup Final. Last year the omens were distinctly more encouraging than we could ever have hoped. We had home advantage and Italy must have felt like a minor obstacle. But the Italians would have the final word and England were beaten.

Sadly, this was very much a case of deja-vu for Gareth Southgate. The Italians, if anything, were infinitely worse than England on the night and the whole shooting match was one long and tiresome yawn. For 90 minutes England slugged and laboured painfully against opponents who would probably have preferred the gastronomic delights of a large deep pan chicken and anchovy pizza for their evening meal followed by a late-night Netflix art house film.

Deep within the bowels of the San Siro, shortly be to bulldozered by the wrecking ball and consigned to the history books, Italy found themselves in a similarly broken state of disrepair. The Italians, quite beyond anybody's belief, have missed out on another World Cup. This feels like a leading American baseball side failing to turn up for any World Series confrontation. It simply doesn't make any kind of logical sense. But then very little in the Beautiful Game seems to figure in any calculation.

On Friday night Gareth Southgate, England's invariably smartly dressed manager, ended the game politely applauding the England fans in much the way an opening English cricketer would acknowledge the plaudits at Lords. It was as if Southgate had completed a leisurely game of crown green bowls rather than lost an international football match. But then this was sour, hostile booing reserved only for those who perform quite abysmally for the national team.

This was England's latest defeat following hard on the heels of their humiliating 4-0 defeat to Hungary earlier on in the year. What we had on Friday night could only be described as a moping, sullen- anti-climax after the courageous heroics of the Euros last year. England were sluggish, dangerous in sporadic periods, sloppy, unkempt, painfully lacking in any cutting edge and lacking all those elements of flair, invention and creativity that had illuminated their path to the Euro 2020 Final.

It is always hard to make any valid comparisons with England sides of yesteryear. The managers have come and gone and their legacies have been always telling. Kevin Keegan simply walked out of the job on impulse after Dietmar Harman scored the only goal in England's last ever game at the old Wembley. Glen Hoddle was thoughtful and well-intentioned but then came out with that tactless remark about the disabled and that was the end of Hoddle. Roy Hodgson, in more recent times, was also studious and thorough in his preparations but was then beaten by Iceland in Euro 2016. It was farewell Roy then. 

But after almost reaching the promised land of a World Cup Final in Russia four years ago, Gareth Southgate is beginning to stare down the barrel, waiting for the cannon to go off. At times it almost seems as if Southgate has been inadvertently drawn into a fashion contest of his own making. His wardrobe of well-tailored waistcoats is almost as familiar as his beard. But recently Southgate has taken to more sober clothing, casual at times but still fashionable.

Once again though Southgate looked out of plausible answers for this downturn in fortunes. He kept promising all and sundry that come the end of November England will be ship shape and ready to go in the Qatar World Cup. You keep wondering why Manchester City have won so many Premier League titles under Saudi owners while the national side struggle to form a coherent sentence without stumbling over their words. England have been this way before so this may not be considered a major shock to their system.

Not for the first time Harry Maguire looked awkward and unsure of himself at varying points in the game, Reece James was persistent and moderately adventurous on the overlap at full back but nothing really seemed to click for the Chelsea defender. Eric Dier tidied up skilfully at the back before breaking with some initiative and enterprise but even Dier looked off the pace. Kyle Walker of course was left completely lacking in any kind of athleticism for the Italian's winning goal and Luke Shaw's days as an England defender could be numbered at this rate. 

In the England midfield engine room Phil Foden added some art and ingenuity to this game but then Constable and Turner did much the same on their artists easel. Foden was both clever, forward thinking, progressive and highly imaginative while Raheem Sterling had one of those uncharacteristically quiet games where it was hard to believe he was still on the same pitch as the rest of the England team.

By the time Jack Grealish was introduced to the game as a sub, England had lost their tourist guide, now resigned to going around in ever increasing circles. Grealish's influence on a game is both profound and game changingly effective. Grealish is much more the silk weaver than the blood and sweat artisan who simply goes unnoticed. The fouls he draws with those bewitching runs at defenders can often lead to productive free kicks. But even Grealish seemed surplus to requirements last night.

When captain Harry Kane seemed to go down with a serious injury during the second half it looked as if England would just hobble to limp defeat without so much as whimper. But then Kane sat up, wiping the blood from his mouth seemingly before returning to the fray. Kane, though was admittedly deprived of the necessary supply of goal scoring opportunities and many more under par performances like this and England may think that TE Lawrence would probably have had more success in the desert. 

Italy, for their part, were neither here nor there. There were the cultured, short passes to feet, the mathematical triangles, the neatly co-ordinated movements but then came a frustrating cul-de sac. Bryan Cristane caught the eye with some pleasing touches in midfield, Nico Barella was smooth and sophisticated, Tomasso Pogeba, intelligent, far sighted and innovative while Davide Frattessi and Jorginho kept mixing it up with variations on a midfield theme.

But this is an Italy in rehabilitation, still shell shocked after another failure to reach a World Cup tournament. Maybe we've taken their presence in a World Cup for granted but you remember their brilliant manager Enzo Bearzot during the 1970s and can only imagine what his reaction would have been to this preposterous state of affairs. A World Cup without Italy is a World Cup without drama, controversy, the operatic soundtrack, the flares among their passionate supporters, the emotional banners and of course the players. 

There are no Baresis, Maldinis, the genius of Pirlo or the incomparable Rivera in their ranks. Italy are now wandering through the Venetian back streets desperately searching for a gondola that takes them all the way to their destination. One goal was enough in last night's game against England and it came in the second half. Some things are destined to happen and Italy grabbed hold of fate and ran with it.

On the hour, Giacomo Raspadori took hold of the ball just outside the England penalty area. He checked back, quickly sorted out his twinkling feet, drove inside Kyle Walker, England's now flailing defender before striking the ball beautifully high past England keeper Nick Pope. It would be the game's decisive winning goal on the night and Gareth Southgate slouched off the pitch disconsolately off the San Siro, hoping that a World Cup will become his enduring salvation. On this form though this is wishful thinking and delusional. Southgate is no Don Revie but that rarefied desert air could work in his favour. Revie was never forgiven for walking out of England but Southgate was never one for carpet bowls before a big game. In Gareth we trust.

Rosh Hashanah and the Holy Days.

 Rosh Hashanah and the Holy Days

It's that time of the year again. No, it's not Easter, Christmas or any festival of that nature. It is the end of September and, in the light of recent events, it may not be a source of celebration. But it is a holiday all the same and in the Jewish religion we love this time of the year. It's a time for thoughtful reflection, religious prayer, reverential chanting and, above all, family. Some of us will be remembering lost and loved ones while others may just want to sit down in shul(synagogue), relax with their wonderfully loving and supportive family and enjoy the freedoms that democracy has brought us, the people who mean everything to us and just the atmosphere surrounding the whole of the global Jewish community.

Once again, we will gather in our millions around the world and embark on that blissful journey towards a happy and healthy New Year. To the non- Jewish population, it may feel like a crazy time to be ushering in a New Year since our calendars tell us that we're a couple of months away from the start of the new Christian year but then we Jews do like to be awkward and contrary. And yet, in all seriousness, this is the time to feel optimistic about the immediate future despite the gloom and doom around us. 

But on Monday morning Rosh Hashanah will dawn bright and early, and that familiar service of renewal, rejuvenation, resurrection will begin, surging ahead into a world of certainty, conviction, positivity and all the good things in life. Of course, we'll be eating honey and apple because we've been doing this since time immemorial. Rather like most religions, the Jewish High Holy Days of Rosh Hashanah, Succot and Simchat Torah are full of symbolism, ritual, habits and customs, traditions and special moments of introspection, remorse and penance for all the sins we might have committed. Now what is it that we've done so terribly wrong and apologies are surely unnecessary.

Living in Manor House you find yourself acutely aware of the vast numbers of Orthodox Jews who will now be scurrying in and out of Jewish supermarkets, fishmongers and local shops at quite the most remarkable speed. Now begins that frantic search for round chulas, delicious cakes, a plethora of chickens for soup and fruit by the orchard load.

It is a time for recognition of this time of the year for the Jewish people, of that wonderful awareness that on Monday morning you can put to one side all of the workaday chores or perhaps pleasures of working life. You can just contemplate the sad passing of Her Majesty the Queen, the aftermath of Covid 19, and the imminent hardships that may be brought about by the domestic trials of cost- of -living issues. There may just be the small matter of Brexit and all the complications that might have presented us with. So it's a difficult time for all of us and the horrendous problem of rampant inflation is still a distressing watch.

Still, for my lovely Jewish family and friends, this could be the perfect opportunity to stop what we're doing on Monday morning and just be among our kith and kin. It is time to get out our prayer book, cast our eyes over the Hebrew literature that keeps delivering and be grateful for both our mental and physical health. We'll be assembled together in a congregation of richly uplifting harmonies, singing the blessings that have their own character, their glorious profundity and a resonance that can be heard and easily identified with.

We will march into Saracens rugby union club with our chests puffed out with pride and greet the smiles with overjoyed hugs, kisses and the collective shaking of hands. We will share a brief joke or witticism with our precious families as if it were the most natural behaviour in the world. We will be delighted to see each other since it's been ages now and besides you still look good, fine, dapper and fashionable.

Now the urban myth was that when we were younger the lovely Jews of the world would be both extremely fashion conscious and possibly self- conscious. You can still remember the ladies upstairs and downstairs at the old Beehive Lane shul( now Cranbrook United) in Ilford, Essex parading their latest styles, profusely colourful hats and designer dresses as if it were the most important part of their appearance. It happened every year without fail and none of us will ever forget it.

As a teenager you knew what you had to do every year. My late and gentlemanlike dad and yours truly would shuffle across to seats that weren't reserved and plonked ourselves down to flick through the pages of the siddur. We were accompanied by my grandma and grandpa who were devout Jews and just revelled in the whole ambience of Rosh Hashanah day. It was a time of unity, togetherness, camaraderie, humour at times and the constant hum of conversation. 

It is now that you recall with amusement the incessant whispering between those members of the synagogue who simply wanted to regale you with details about their business. All you could hear was the low undertone of chatting, giggling, laughing and then an orchestra of coughing. Looking back now it always felt that this was the way things had always been. But then you realised that the rabbis and cantors had every right to tell the congregation to be quiet. The synagogue was and always be a place of worship, prayer, thinking time, love, raising your voices to a thunderous crescendo and simply being at one with the world.

Then, as regular as clockwork, the prayer for the dead (Yiska) would be the cue for a mass exodus for the exit doors. Whole groups of families would beat a hasty retreat out of the shul and head for home in the middle of the most significant period of the service. This was never considered as strictly forbidden or a gross violation on their part but you were never quite sure why they were in such a desperate hurry particularly on Yom Kippur on the Day of the Fast. 

For my family though being part of Finchley Reform shul(synagogue) is quite the most magical experience of them all. This year we'll be holding both Succot and Simchat Torah services in our beautiful new shul, a state of the art, stunning building that is both spacious, comfortable and deeply impressive. The Torah is a splendid set of wooden stylised blocks that takes your breath away. 

Personally though you find yourself eager to embrace Saracens rugby union club. Now of course this is the most unconventional setting for a religious gathering but who are you to complain. Once you enter this room of wondrous paintings and trophy cabinets your eyes are spellbound by the many and varied sporting references. 

And once again we will file into the room in an orderly fashion into a world of unashamed achievement, success, victories, personal milestones, records broken and set again. We will lovingly drape our tallit(shawl) over our shoulders and arms, place our kippa(skull cap) very carefully on our heads and just pray for another sweet New Year. This could be the year when peace and goodwill will eventually break out but then you look at the horrendous conflict in Ukraine and despair. Still, to all my Jewish family and friends I'd like to wish you all a happy, healthy, peaceful and sweet New Year. L'shana tova to you all. Keep well.

Her Majesty's state funeral

 Her Majesty's state funeral.

It was the most beautiful royal state funeral of all time, certainly in our lifetime. This morning had a unique and unforgettable feel to it. It had an indefinable quality that none of us could really explain or describe but then again there can be no specific category any of today's events would ever fit into neatly. We were all lost for words, stunned into silence, spellbound by the sheer enormity of the day, its solemn gravitas, its sense of terrible loss of somebody we hardly knew by person but who still had the capacity to make us cry, laugh and smile at the same time. We knew it would be like this so there was never any disappointment.

At 11.00 this morning the coffin of Her Majesty Our Gracious Queen Elizabeth the second left her lying in state venue at Westminster Hall and began the journey home to the place where everybody had given her the full red-carpet treatment so welcoming that it felt as if we'd all known her personally. She reminded you of the lady next door who would always stop in the middle of high street shopping centre and always engage you in convivial conversation. She was that amiable and kindly neighbour who would invite you in for a cup of tea and a slice of cake, making you feel a million dollars. 

It was a fair and bright September morning and you could the full weight of history on your shoulders. For well over 70 years Her Majesty the Queen has behaved with impeccable civility, propriety and humility. She has conveyed a regal elegance and style that always decorated the big public occasions in our lives. She has risen above petty politics, the heckling and haranguing of our sometimes disgraceful politicians, spoken with perfect eloquence at dinners, banquets, the Opening of Parliament, the yearly Christmas Queen's Speech and of course a measured precision while the rest of the country thought she'd forgotten the late Princess Diana. 

And then so aptly she reduced us to helpless laughter when a small bear called Paddington joined her for tea and marmalade sandwiches. Her Majesty had always kept her marmalade sandwiches in her trusty bag and the humour was never lost on us. For years and years Her Majesty would appear at the balcony at Buckingham Palace to acknowledge the adoring cheers of the public. She would smile almost endlessly, wave with refinement and then close the windows before re-joining the family that meant the world to her.

Today was very much about fond farewells, the passing of the baton from one generation to the next and generally indulging in memories, affectionate reminiscences and expressions of the deepest love, perhaps idolatry and genuine tenderness. We dug deep into our childhood and knew that Her Majesty had always been that calming influence, that soothing balm in a world of often dramatic change and evolution. Sometimes it all became too frantic and frenetic, hurried and often chaotic but our gracious Queen never seemed to be flustered, showing very few signs of agitation or anguish, always there for us when we needed her to be.

And so it was that the most stately of state funeral wended its slow and steady way through the streets of London. On the heaviest dark green gun carriage you're ever likely to see, our Queen passed along the Mall in a such a decorous and traditional manner that it almost felt we'd seen the same ceremony over and over again. On both sides of the Mall there were all the manifestations of royalty at its finest. There were row upon row of Union Jacks, a vast outpouring of emotion and patriotism that lifted your heart to its highest point. 

You couldn't help but notice that air of familiarity about today's events that was so recognisable that perhaps only Britain could have presented the kind of united front when faced with a crisis or death. Usually, we could always count on Her Majesty's landmark Jubilees to cheer us all up but this was starkly different and for some painfully so. Her Majesty the Queen had passed and this was the ultimate tragedy.

The one woman most of Britain, the world and Commonwealth had always held up as the most exemplary of monarchs had died and we could hardly hold this one together. But we did and it was a testament to our strength of character that we could just bow our heads reverentially and wipe away our tears since we too felt the numbness and hollowness that only a major public funeral can bring to the surface of our hearts. 

For the last week and a half or so we have followed the mass crowds as they've slowly walked around the catafalque that held the coffin of our Queen. We have seen their glazed stares, their bemused glances, that sense of being transfixed and astonished by something for which there are no words. Every so often one of the guards tapped a stick into the ground repeatedly and we wondered whether this ceremony had taken on a medieval complexion.

But today the coffin, draped lovingly in the red and yellow cloth that had accompanied our journey to Westminster Abbey, reached the front doors of the Abbey. Westminster Abbey remains one of the most imposing and magnificent of tourist sites. It's seen both weddings and funerals throughout the decades but not since 1760 had it seen a royal funeral on this scale. 

Inside Westminster Abbey there was the customary gathering of former Prime Ministers, heads of state from every conceivable corner of the Commonwealth and the world and global ambassadors from places we thought we'd forgotten about. There was the American president Joe Biden with his wife, European, Far East representatives and seemingly every continent you could think of. They took their seats accordingly and began to look around at the soaring grandeur of the Abbey. 

Above them there were vaulted arches, transepts, stained glass windows and of course the angelic young choristers whose voices were so sweet that for a minute that it was rather like listening to a junior school assembly before the lessons. Then the pomp and pageantry that Britain does so well came into its own. Everybody inside this most venerable of all religious buildings sat quietly and respectfully, just thinking and reflecting about the monarch who had played such a significant role in their lives.

And then the hymns and chants came to a natural conclusion. It was a time for Her Majesty to head back to Windsor castle where she would finally be buried. The coffin had become wreathed in  colourful bouquets of flowers, a sight that we'd seen at the funeral of Princess Diana. They threw their roses and carnations, geraniums, yellow sprays, and what looked to be orchids over the hearse and most of us were awe stricken. 

This had represented the final curtain call on this day of all days. We knew it would arrive but were rather hoping it would be any other day than this. Her Majesty the Queen has now joined her mother the Queen Mother, her dearly beloved husband of 73 years Prince Philip the Duke of Edinburgh and her sister Princess Margaret. It felt like the end of an extraordinary and eventful royal era and indeed it was but this may be the perfect opportunity to move into the 21st century with a purposeful step and a confident strut. Rest in Peace Your Majesty and Long Live the King.

Our noble Queen

 Our noble Queen

They filed slowly and patiently past Her Majesty the Queen, quiet, polite and deferential. They looked around Westminster Hall thoughtfully, stared mournfully into the middle distance, faces frozen, grim, melancholy but still stunned and shocked. The vast crowds are now queuing in their thousands along the Mall, across Lambeth Bridge and then they stood again grief stricken, mortified and crestfallen. Most are inconsolable, hardly able to gather their thoughts together because, quite frankly, there is little more to be said.

For over a week now the good citizens of the world and of course Britain have been focused on one memory, one image, one lady of distinction and grace. They convince themselves that the death of our Queen couldn't have happened because the lady in question is still residing in our hearts, smiling at us radiantly, believing quite fervently that things will always turn out for the best. 

And yet the fact is that Her Majesty the Queen has now come home to the capital city where it all began in 1926. She had travelled all the way from Balmoral in Scotland and back towards the now dark, early evening streets of London and Buckingham Palace. On Monday evening the royal coffin had moved gently towards its destination. The rains had come and gone but nothing would come between the British people and our noble Queen. In fact, there was a romantic quality about the whole evening in as much that autumn had come to greet Her Majesty and there was still a pervasive warmth about the occasion.

Suddenly, the gravity and solemnity of it all began to hit you quite emphatically. Her Majesty's adoring family had walked together in harmonious unison, private thoughts etched clearly on their faces. The walk had that palpable air of stateliness and sorrow that had been a recurring theme for over a week. It was inevitable and perfectly understandable. It would be the last time they would ever see their beloved Queen, a monarch who stood for seamless continuity, steadfast stability in a world of almost constant flux and unflinching loyalty to her subjects. It was tear jerking, appropriate and deeply touching.

But Monday evening represented much more than the end of an era or the passing of several generations. It was the end of a supreme reign, over 70 years of caring and compassion for her Majesty's people, a Queen who always listened to those who may have felt completely marginalised and alienated, excluded from society, homeless and disadvantaged. For Queen Elizabeth the second had been there for everyone at all times, never forgotten, always including us, making us feel special and important. 

The truth is Her Majesty has been nobility personified, deeply in love with her people from all backgrounds, races, religions and cultures. Nothing had ever been too much trouble for Queen Elizabeth the second. She had always been a passionate stickler for etiquette and protocol, always welcoming heads of state from every country, island, state and city in the world with humour and cordiality. Of course she'd waved regally for everybody who had come to revere her, idolise and worship her but this was duty and service.

Even now the legendary bridges of London are heaving with people, the global population, the men, women and children who had kept all the royal memorabilia. Those were the people who had accumulated vast quantities of royal mugs, T-shirts, postcards, knitted creations of the Queen, the ones that had possessed cupboards replete with Union Jacks, red, blue and white hats, telegrams from the Queen, photographs of the monarch and all manner of sentimental keepsakes. 

Above all Britain had lost one of its most wondrous of figureheads, a friend to all nations, never discriminating, singling out or rejecting anybody. Of course there was something angelic about our wonderful Queen, an aura of ethereality that would never disappear from view. As has rightly been pointed out repeatedly but fundamentally Her Majesty was a mother, grandmother and great grandmother. But she was no ordinary mother, grandmother or great grandmother.

In 1997 Princess Diana had died in a tragic car crash and across Britain we turned to Her Majesty. When Her Majesty vanished from our TV screens for a while, the nation privately questioned and then resented her absence. But of course Her Majesty was still there for us, perhaps dumbfounded and disbelieving. She then proceeded to do what Her Majesty always did best. She went before the TV cameras and insisted that she was our Queen and of course she was heartbroken and promptly waxed lyrical about Princess Diana. And that's all we needed to know. 

When Her Majesty's precious and beloved Windsor Castle was severely burnt, she must have thought that her world ended. But there was a lovely resilience and hard-nosed fortitude about the Queen that just wanted to move on from this horrific tragedy. So while the rest of her family seemed to be going in all the wrong kind of directions, the Queen forged ahead, still delighted to see everybody, chatting sociably to everyone and making them feel nicely at home.

And now across the farmlands, villages, mountain ranges, cities, suburbs and quaint market towns in Middle England they will be bowing their heads unashamedly, tears flowing from their eyes, redness in their cheeks, handkerchiefs at hand to dab those tears. They will get out of their cars, buses, lorries and vans to think for a while, to compose themselves, pausing in complete silence and lost in almost spiritual contemplation. The factory floors will suddenly turn off their machinery next Monday, the supermarkets will refrain from selling their essential food and drinks and by the end of the day, we will all be emotionally exhausted.

So it is that today the people from all four points of the universe will converge on Westminster, casting their minds back to their childhood, remembering recent times and full of fond recollections about our personal encounter with our gracious Queen. They will ponder reflectively on where they were when the Queen celebrated her Silver, Diamond and the Platinum Jubilee, what exactly happened on the day of those joyful street parties, when we pretended to have cream teas and scones with Her Majesty. But above all they will remember this day of all days, this week of weeks in our lives.

At the moment, ardent monarchists and lovers of everything connected to the late Queen will take their place at the Westminster Hall after queuing for what will probably seem like an eternity. In the centre of the great hall there is a beautifully decorated coffin complete with the deep red and yellow cloth depicting the Irish harp and the English lion rampant. The catafalque rested comfortably in the middle of an austere yet uplifting setting. The coffin itself is surely one of the most aesthetically stunning sights you're ever likely to see.

Meanwhile around the coffin are the elegantly dressed Beefeaters and Yeomen of the Guard somehow bereft of all emotion but understandably so. It is all steeped in rich tradition and history, the most moving and poignant of all occasions in recent history. We will never see its like again and you wondered whether the country, Commonwealth and the rest of the world will ever recover from its sense of grievous loss.

Mile upon mile of people are stretching across London just desperate to share the national mood, embracing the monarch who never stopped believing, hoping and then reaching out to those in pain and suffering. Across the UK and the Commonwealth, we now await the state funeral of our Queen, the one constant in our lives, the rock of security, the voice of re-assurance, a powerful force for good and the lady who never despaired when others were losing touch with the Royal Family. Let this time be devoted to recalling our paragon of virtue, our shining light, flawless, glamorous, tireless and the lady who made us all smile. Thankyou Your Majesty.   

Rest in Peace Her Majesty.

 Rest in Peace Her Majesty the Queen.

It must have felt like the longest journey of all time. Yesterday morning a dark, grey pall of sombreness fell over Scotland as a deeply loved monarch made her way out of Balmoral for what was now the last time. A fleet of limousines cruised out onto the open road, the royal insignia more visible than ever, a crisp early autumnal day serenaded by the early morning blackbirds and crows. It almost seemed too perfect to be true. And yet there was something not quite right in the world. Of course we were all alive and well for which we should all be grateful. But there was something missing.

Her Royal Majesty Queen Elizabeth the second was no longer here to tell her fascinating story. The final chapter of her book had been read, the pages now perused and the new volume would be opened up on a fresh new adventure into the unknown. The truth is of course that most of us are familiar with both the plot, the characters, the narrative and the main protagonists. This is the beginning of a new monarchical reign and history faded away from Buckingham Palace. Long live the King. Rest in Peace Her Majesty. 

Meanwhile, as has now been observed, a gorgeous rainbow perched itself over Windsor Castle. This had to be the best of all omens. Surely Judy Garland hadn't come back to life and we were just hallucinating but the truth is Her Majesty the Queen had joined her husband Prince Philip in heaven. But in a small corner of Balmoral the royal cars smoothly drove away from the crunching gravel way, sad and symbolic reminders of why we were mourning, reminiscing and tenderly cherishing the Queen, her perpetual legacy and memory still shimmering with glory days. We'll always miss you Ma'am. 

And so the funeral cortege slowly and respectfully wound its way around the back streets of chocolate box Scottish villages pausing only to allow the motor bike outriders to flash their lights and pay homage to a great Queen. It was very surreal and almost incomprehensible, a world away from the pomp and ceremony in the bigger cities, all the attention to be focused on Windsor and then the centre of London. 

Yesterday morning we were confronted by madness and stupidity. Now some of us have nothing but admiration for the Metropolitan Police and there are times when you feel terribly sorry for some of the predicaments they invariably find themselves in. How often have we seen them at the centre of violent demonstrations in the inner cities of Britain, charging batons and horses bravely at the feet of disgruntled activists, dodging smoke bombs, tear gas and all manner of dangerous ammunition?

But on the Sunday morning after Her Majesty's passing, my lovely wife and yours truly took ourselves to the Mall, that famous tourist landmark which has been privy to some of the most colourful royal anniversaries throughout the decades. We would walk down the Mall in much the way we always had. We'd been loyal spectators at some of my father in law's Jewish Ex Serviceman services the week after Remembrance Day in November and now here we were again. 

We were to be flabbergasted at the complete lack of any crowd control. Finally, we would hit the proverbial brick wall, a human traffic jam that beggared belief. In front of us we could see masses of people simply being herded into two narrow lines barely able to move at all let alone make any kind of progress. So we moved and moved and then moved again tentatively, steadily but essentially went nowhere. We both took a breath, inhaling and privately seething. Who on earth had organised this chaos? Was this a premeditated attempt to wind us up, provoking a totally unnecessary argument. Why couldn't we just accept the wretched absurdity of the operation?

So you passed a whole phalanx of policemen and women guarding the innumerable barriers, held back your increasing frustration but then realised that your whole objective on the day was to get to Buckingham Palace and join the rest of the mourners outside the gates. Sadly, one policeman refused to see the glaring logic of it all. 

You were then subjected to both barrels of heavy sarcasm, barely believable humiliation and a sharp dressing down. Now we feel sure that the said policeman is a pillar of his community and a loving husband to his wife and children but yesterday you had no idea what exactly you'd done to suffer such a sardonic tongue. You have no issue with his exalted status and what was said may have been in the heat of the moment but this was totally uncalled for. He didn't swear at me and there was nothing wrong with my questioning on crowd management, but it all seemed a storm in a teacup.

Your grievance was that the vast crowds may have got to their intended destination much more quickly if they'd simply been allowed to walk in the road itself along the Mall at a leisurely pace. What we saw yesterday was a total breakdown in communication and a complete lack of recognition of the obvious. In front of us there was a massive gathering of well-wishers who just wanted to put their flowers and Paddington bears at Buckingham Palace. 

Instead we were left high and dry, just left to climb over the Green Park railings, wandering around the brown autumn leaves with our dog before swiftly turning around and going home again. It had been a brisk and invigorating walk in part of one of London's lesser- known parks but not the one we would like to repeat at any time in the immediate future.

So off we strolled back to a bus stop for home and concluded a day that was therapeutic for my wife and yours truly in so much that it had given us some excellent exercise. But the next time you're in the Mall and there are loads of people who would just like to do what they'd set out to do in the first place it might be advisable to take a good book, the Sunday Times perhaps or just wait very patiently in case the day doesn't materialise in the way you thought it would.  

Her Majesty the Queen passes.

 Her Majesty the Queen passes.

This has to be the saddest day of our lives. You can hardly hold back the floods of tears. Her Royal Highness Her Majesty died yesterday at 96 at one of the many homes she used to call her home. For those of us who have formed a firm, emotional attachment to the Queen this was devastating news if perhaps not entirely unexpected. It'll be front page news and every page in all of our esteemed national newspapers. It'll be the obituary most of us have been dreading to see. We shall cry and sob until the streams of tears roll down our cheeks. Perhaps we'll be upset and grief stricken for the rest of the year and long into the future. 

For over seven decades Her Majesty the Queen was everything you could want as monarch of the United Kingdom and the Commonwealth. Her qualities have now been well documented. She was the gentlest, warmest and most charming sovereign. She kept abreast of all the latest technological inventions and discoveries, anxious to be kept informed of everything society was doing at the time. She was modern, intrigued, fascinated, always smiling and above all else a shining beacon of stability in a world that may have had other ideas.

Yesterday we bid a fond and final farewell to our gracious, graceful, dignified and majestic Queen of both the UK, the Commonwealth and the rest of the world. She had tact and diplomacy when asked awkward and uncomfortable questions and was always ready and willing to listen to those in pain and suffering without ever passing judgment on those who may have been sceptical of her. The Queen remained both politically impartial, culturally curious and just interested in young and old. But now Her Majesty's long reign spanning a record 75 years had come to a moving and poignant end. 

At Balmoral Castle yesterday evening we were told, quite heartbreakingly, that Her Majesty the Queen had peacefully passed away surrounded by her doting and loving family. It must have been the one moment in their lives that they must have feared but then reluctantly accepted as fact. For some time the Queen has been unwell, experiencing serious mobility problems but then you'd probably have expected her to be incapacitated. 

The rumours have been flying around the world for some time. Last year of course she lost her beloved husband of 73 years The Duke of Edinburgh and this may have been considered the end of the world for Her Majesty. Philip was, as she must have said repeatedly, her rock and stay, the man who stood next to her faithfully at every gathering of presidents, kings and queens and of course the public. She sat next to the assembled company at large royal banqueting tables and carried out all of her duties with admirable aplomb, seemingly nerveless, cool as a cucumber and imperturbable at all times. When the Queen laughed and smiled so did the rest of the world. 

And yet this news has yet to sink in properly. Besides it's almost impossible to believe that anybody could hope to either emulate or surpass her colossal and phenomenal achievements throughout the  decades. She was tireless, possessed of remarkable powers of stamina and adaptable in a world that may have been reluctant to follow in her lead. She was a loving mother, grandmother and great grandmother, a constant force of good, almost overly kind and understanding without ever resorting to over sentimentality.

When the Queen's father King George the sixth passed away a young Princess of Elizabeth was on holiday in Kenya in 1952 with Prince Philip. The world stopped spinning for a while but recognised that it had to move on and usher in a brand-new era in the history of the Royal Family.At the time of course Britain was still sore and raw after the horrors of the Second World War. Most goods were still under severe rationing. The world was still trapped in a state of semi mourning and loss.

Suddenly the onerous task facing a new Queen became the greatest responsibility any new monarch would ever undertake. The Queen's first Prime Minister Winston Churchill was still in charge at 10 Downing Street, a harsh austerity had gripped the 1950s and a young Elizabeth would conduct herself with all the dignity and decorum that always became her. She travelled the world with Prince Philip, waved smilingly at the adoring crowds in open topped cars, opened a million village fetes, cracked  champagne bottles on to countless boats at their launch and worked assiduously every day in her study, ploughing through sizeable quantities of paperwork and more legal documents than any of us could possibly imagine.

But she carried out these duties with an uncomplaining dedication to duty, a quiet industry and wholehearted commitment to the cause of being the monarch who cared. Then there were the innumerable visits to exotic locations in faraway places, the shaking of hands, the weddings, the happy days with family when Prince Philip would think nothing of organising the summer barbecue, climb into go karts with his children and then relax on the Royal Yacht Britannia with his always compassionate wife.

Then Philip would go off on one of his many excursions as an ambassador for Britain and the Commonwealth, bumping up and down intrepidly in those halcyon days of carriage driving, a hobby that endured until his dotage. But the Queen was always there besides her husband, immaculate and elegant, hair perfectly coiffeured, then dressed in sparkling tiara and all the regal finery you'd expect to see from the Royal Family.

There were the summer Highland Games in Scotland, a country she fell in love with you at a very early age. It almost seemed a coincidence that Her Majesty should have passed away in Balmoral. Then there were the yearly New Year's Eve dances, where both Her Majesty and Prince Philip flung aside inhibitions and danced the night away in rich tartan kilts, days of innocent pleasures and good times.

But now the Royal Family has lost its most valuable and cherished member, the woman who held everything together when everything around her seemed to be crumbling into the dust. When the Queen looked in on horror at a burning Windsor Castle in 1992, she must have thought the world was conspiring against her, that everything she must have thought had turned to gold had now become tarnished silver.

Last night Buckingham Palace almost reminded you of that night in 1945 when the world was liberated, released from the torments and travails of the Second World War. Victory in Europe day saw thousands of people jumping for joy, cavorting and carousing, doing the conga dance around the Victoria memorial. Meanwhile, in Trafalgar Square yet more of the masses climbed onto the fabled lions, bottles of Pale Ale in their hands and joy in their hearts. But last night was in marked contrast to that night.

And then there was Princess Elizabeth and her sister Margaret, children at the time but determined to enjoy this most special of nights. Our future Queen ran out into the heaving mass of overjoyed people. They raced, giggling and laughing into the darkness, two girls seeking enjoyment, beside themselves with exultant relief. But Princess Elizabeth would become the complete noblewoman, the Coronation still eight years away.

The day came and went though and June 1953 still has a magical place in our thoughts. It was a seminal moment in all of our lives since from that point onwards Her Majesty the Queen would become the most famous royal in the world. The smile had never been more radiant, her serenity almost her permanent accompaniment wherever she went in the world. Whether it be the traditional Royal Variety Performances at the end of the year or the highly regarded garden parties at Buckingham Palace, Her Majesty the Queen never ever stepped out of line or offended anybody. There will never be a Queen like Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth and how privileged we were to be a part of her magnificent reign. Rest in peace, your Majesty and Long Live the King.

Liz Truss- the new Prime Minister.

 Liz Truss- the new Prime Minister

So there it is. But you must have known anyway. It always seemed only a matter of time and besides it was hardly the best kept secret. Liz Truss duly became the third female Prime Minister since records began. But then there could only have been one result since her opponent and challenger Rishi Sunak was never likely to come anywhere remotely close to Liz Truss in his admirable quest to become Prime Minister. The bets were off ages ago so let's breathe a sigh of relief. 

In the end, the result was clear cut and conclusive, never a walkover but still a commanding margin, sufficient to leave Sunak with a regretful smile on his face. The man did well and performed creditably but when your opponent is a woman there really couldn't be any room for argument. This was a victory for girl power, female empowerment and another sharp reminder to the boys that there can be no room for complacency. 

Now there are probably a whole number of reasons why Sunak missed out on the big job at 10 Downing Street. Maybe he knew everything there was to know about high finance, big bucks and the money game since he was in banking and probably possessed a working knowledge of the Stock Market and the fine minutiae of the business world, having worked for Goldman Sachs. So he could count, add up quite adroitly and skilfully and then multiply before dividing in the same breath. But this would not be Sunak's day.

As faithful henchman to Boris Johnson as boss at the Treasury, Sunak smiled warmly at his governor, obeyed Johnson's every command and then just got on with the job he was appointed to carry out. Then, Johnson finally crossed the line with his latest string of bumbling indiscretions before falling into the political abyss where none would see him ever again. Johnson clung on for dear life in the end but when you find that your popularity rating has reached rock bottom, the very nadir, there was no turning back for Boris Johnson. 

During the summer the whole of Britain went into that honeymoon period when nothing seemed to matter in the political furnace that is Westminster. Most politicians took their buckets and spades, their windmills, lilos and their swimming trunks to their respective seasides both at home and abroad. They then disappeared into their bathing huts, caravans or holiday homes in the Caribbean and tried to be anonymous. But the holiday mood is no longer relevant and it's back to the House of Commons for the movers and shakers. 

Tomorrow Liz Truss will go to Her Majesty the Queen for formal approval and then move her furniture into 10 Downing Street pronto. If she tip toes carefully along the corridor and into the living room she may hear the distant echoes of her illustrious predecessor. You must remember her, surely. Nobody will ever forget Margaret Thatcher because her carbon footprint will never be wiped from history. Thatcher was memorable for all the wrong and right reasons. She polarised Britain in a way that few Prime Ministers had done so and then redeemed herself when the Falklands War was won and our brave troops came home victorious.

In more recent times Truss may look over her shoulder at her last female Prime Minister and find that maybe things weren't quite as bad as they must have seemed. True, Theresa May may have failed to make up her mind on the mad conundrum that was Brexit but she did have a magnificent pair of shoe heels, always dressed immaculately and only got it wrong when her colleagues started deserting her and questioning her prowess as leader of the country. But she couldn't really win wherever she looked. 

There was the horribly distressing moment when May stepped onto a stage and started sneezing, coughing, spluttering and generally being totally incoherent. But she remained dignified, upstanding and defiant to the bitter end. Her last words as Prime Minister were pained, anguished, tearful and deeply emotional. She loved her country but the damage had already been done. The exit door for Theresa May was over there. 

Politics of course is a dirty, filthy business anyway and most of us think that Liz Truss is in for a rude awakening. This is no piece of marzipan cake and Truss may have to roll up her sleeves diligently and get cracking on the mountainous pile of problems that seem to be accumulating by the hour. The tasks may be frighteningly daunting for her but she must have been expecting that this was no straightforward nine to five job with only plenty of overtime throughout the weekend. 

Today she appeared at her podium, speaking clearly and articulately into the microphone. Dressed in a stylish purple dress and her hair perfectly brushed, Truss spoke from the heart forcefully and came across to her audience quite favourably. She was quite clearly not a lady for turning but then Truss is certainly not Thatcher and she'll be decisive when she believes the time is right. The jury will be out for some time but first impressions count for a lot. 

During one of the hustings that preceded this ridiculous beauty contest, Truss was no nonsense, pragmatic, no holds barred and occasionally imitating all the noises made by any Prime Minister but Truss does seem to be a completely different character to Boris Johnson. She'll never describe her weekend away with her family at a child's leisure park, never stumble foolishly over her words, lose her place in a speech or just look at two highly esteemed scientists with a bemused stare. Covid 19 was never going to be Johnson's finest hour but it all seemed distinctly amateurish. 

At the end of one rousing speech Truss left the stage, walked towards the exit and just forgot where to go next. Does she turn left or right? Has anybody got an Ordnance Survey Map? Then there's her overall delivery. The words were executed with care and precision. But perhaps too much. You remember the lengthy pauses, hesitation, brief struggles to make a cogent point and then surrendering to defeat when it didn't go quite according to plan. So she resorted to her innate charm and graceful femininity to gloss over the faults. It was all very deliberate and well-mannered, but you knew what she was talking about. 

And so the show goes on at the House of Commons and Westminster will be like some amusing circus, with all manner of high wire acts treading gingerly from one side to the other. The Tories will be coming from one direction while poor Keir Starmer will be dreading the backlash of the disgruntled members of the Labour party who just thinks he's a dud.

The autumn and winter seasons are almost upon us, the costs of living crisis will grow more problematic, we'll all panic in case the electricity has to go off as it did during the 1970s and things will go downhill very rapidly. Maybe we'll all have to carry candles around our homes when the power cuts bite hardest. Then there's the price of fuel and energy. What a fiasco and palaver. For Liz Truss go our best wishes because you may need as many as you can get. Welcome to the world of Prime Ministerial duties.    

Brian Moore - football commentator par excellence

 Brian Moore- football commentator par excellence.

Today marks the 21st anniversary of the passing of one of Britain's greatest British football commentators. Brian Moore was the most gentle and charming of all football commentators in as much that nothing seemed to either faze or trouble him. Moore was the quiet, humble and unassuming commentator who would only become really animated when a microphone was thrust in front of him. He was the voice of ITV and the then newly formed London Weekend Television.

In 1968 London Weekend Television were looking for a brand- new football magazine type programme that would capture the weekend football's highlights in one hour. In those far off days of course, football was predominantly played on a Saturday afternoon at 3pm. These were the certainties and formalities of life way back when. You knew where you were and didn't have to consult the listings page in case your game was being played on Tuesday afternoon. Sky TV certainly solved that problem.

But back then a young Brian Moore, fresh from his days on the Times sports desk and a brief stint on BBC radio, had provided the radio commentary for BBC Radio 2. It was at this point that Moore's life would change almost overnight. From being the sound only voice of football, Moore would become a visual entity, London Weekend Television's answer to the recent arrival of BBC's Match of the Day. And so it was that a legend was born. 

The title of the new commercial TV football vehicle would be The Big Match, a football festival of three matches from all four divisions of the Football League and a sprinkling of chat, humour and probing interviews with all the latest players, managers, characters, charmers, rogues, rebels, mavericks, renegades and party animal socialites. None could have known just how dramatic impact the Big Match would have on TV audiences but at the time football's relationship with TV was still in its infant stages.

When Kenneth Wolstenholme became the first Match of the Day TV commentator in August 1964, none could have predicted which direction football would take in its eager quest for much greater media exposure and publicity. Of course, there were teething problems and difficulties in those black and white days but by the time The Big Match aired in the late 1960s, football had already enjoyed heady, salad days. 

England had won their only World Cup in 1966, Manchester United had kept the European Cup in Britain after Celtic's Bobby Murdoch and Tommy Gemmell had so magnificently won it the year before in Lisbon. Everton had won the FA Cup in 1966 followed by Spurs victory over Chelsea the following year. Football craved yet more and football was about to provide them with a healthy banquet of more and more football. The Big Match ticked all the relevant boxes and the programme was launched in 1968.

The Big Match format consisted of three recorded matches on a Sunday afternoon just as most of us were devouring the Sunday roast and dad was washing his car. Now, viewers could feast their eyes on one London based match with commentary from Brian Moore, a regional variant from Granada, ATV, and Anglia. The programme would be lively, informative, entertaining and very topical. By the end of the programme mum had wiped up all of the Sunday lunch dishes and the weekend was almost over. 

But Brian Moore sadly died today at the age of 69 in September 2001. Bizarrely, it coincided with the day England famously beat Germany in a World Cup qualifier in a stunning 5-1 victory in Munich. It was the day Steven Gerrard hit a rocket of a shot that had goal written all over, Emil Heskey scored and Michael Owen chipped in as well. 

Moore though was the consummate professional, a thorough and meticulous analyst of the game from all angles. His voice would become instantly recognisable, at first possibly too loud by his own admission since none in TV knew exactly what they were letting themselves in for. And yet it was a voice of conviction, sincerity, first- hand knowledge, reliability and professionalism. Slowly, the straight- forward, tough talking, clear and strident vowels and consonants could be heard right across the country. 

There are perhaps too many Brian Moore classics to be related now but there is one that sticks in the memory indelibly, never to be forgotten. After Sir Alf Ramsey's England had laboured their way through a World Cup qualifier in October 1973, the truth dawned on us that England had been knocked out of the competition to be held a year later in West Germany. In a heated discussion with Brian Clough, Moore had insisted that the heroic Polish goalkeeper Jan Tomaszewski should have taken much more of the credit than Clough was prepared to offer. Clough thought the Polish keeper had been a clown and Moore challenged him.

And unforgettably there was the World Cup in 1970 held in Mexico. Moore chaired a distinguished panel of guests ranging from the flamboyant Crystal Palace and Manchester City manager Malcolm Allison, the former Wolves striker Derek Dougan, Manchester United's firm but fair, abrasive but dependable Pat Crerand and of course Brian Clough, never ever short of a forthright opinion. TV had never seen its like before and in many ways it was a pioneering trail blazer.

During the 1980s and 90s the Big Match would both lose and win the rights to edited highlights and live games. Moore was still as enthusiastic as ever but the game had now entered a new age of extensive marketing of the sport and sponsorship on the players shirts. Trevor Francis had just become the first million- pound player for Clough's Nottingham Forest and football had other priorities.

Then Moore, who used to host a Saturday lunchtime preview of matches called On The Ball and then reported on a London game on the London Weekend Television sports magazine programme World of Sport presented by the ever smiling, chipper Dickie Davies, must have thought football had reached an awkward fork in the road. 

It was no longer the game that he used to love and revere. Players had become pampered prima donnas, wealthy beyond belief and had lost touch with the supporters who had pumped so much oxygen in the game, the lifeblood of its working -class origins in many ways. You were personally privileged to chat to the great man in an Independent newspaper where he would lovingly regale you with details of his football team Gillingham, the old days, the players and the loyal fans at the Priestfield Stadium.

Sunday lunchtimes were always special for this young child. The Big Match was top of your menu, a footballing culinary must. Moore was the complete football commentator and while his BBC contemporaries Barry Davies and John Motson were painting vivid pictures with their commentaries, Moore stoically shivered on TV gantries in his comfortable sheep coat. He was though permanently cheerful, upbeat, courteous, sharp and acerbic at times but always passionate in his unwavering beliefs on the Beautiful Game. Brian Moore, surely one of football's most heartfelt of all football orators. We'll always miss you, sir.