England and USA in goal-less stalemate but Brazil in rudest health.

 England and USA in goal-less stalemate but Brazil in rudest health

Football has an almost innate capacity for catching us unawares where the most extraordinary shocks and surprises may seem almost inevitable. In the first week of the men's World Cup in Qatar 2022 we have already seen the downfall of multiple World champions Germany by Japan and even Peter O'Toole would have been entitled to a private giggle had he known about the defeat by Argentina at the hands of Saudi Arabia. Oh for the thoughts of Lawrence of Arabia on such pressing issues.

 A couple of days before that epic tale of the unexpected, Argentina, also prolific winners of the World Cup were summarily toppled from their perch by a Saudi Arabia side who hadn't travelled that far to peel away the layers of an Argentina team who themselves had once been beaten by Cameroon in Italia 1990 on day one. Now the law of the averages always insist that at least one or two global footballing giants will fall from grace. But two in one week does seem to be pushing it. There is a sense that the conventional is about to be replaced by the unorthodox at this World Cup since none of us can see where this World Cup is heading.

You could have been forgiven for thinking that England were just sleep walking into a place in the knock out round of this tournament. Yesterday England were so wretchedly bad and awful against the USA that you were almost relieved to find that little long term damage had been done. It could have been a whole lot worse but not much so. By the final whistle of this stultifyingly boring game, England manager Gareth Southgate must have looked to the heavens and blown out his cheeks. Qualification to the knock out round may be a formality given that a 4-0 win for Wales against England in the final group tie, seems highly unlikely. Still, stranger things have been known.

In their 6-2 thumping of Iran, England had revealed all of their peacock plumage, a team thoroughly well organised, oozing electrifying athleticism, imaginative ideals, a commendable ideology, lithe and supple movement, feline flexibility and classical finishing. After a brief period of feeling their way into the game with sharp, staccato passing between the lines, England sent all of the Iranian skittles tumbling. A lovely brace from Bukayo Saka, the second a shot of exquisite placement and power, a Raheem Sterling guided missile into the net, simple goals from the ever alert and ingenious Marcus Rashford accompanied by an even more straightforward tap in from Jack Grealish completed a royal command England display.

But last night ITV viewers were subjected to a teeth pulling, mind numbing England that looked as if it had recalled South Africa 2010. Then Algeria stifled Fabio Capello's England with the type of football that should have been locked in a cupboard and never released into the open. At the end of that game Wayne Rooney, wild eyed with righteous indignation, declared that he had never been so ashamed of the England supporters. True England had been distinctly underwhelming and just tedious in the extreme but this was the final straw. 72 years ago of course Billy Wright's England fell appallingly to a sensational 1-0 defeat against USA in Belo Horizonte.

In theory, the defensive pillars and columns erected by the stern and unforgiving Harry Macguire, the resolute and rugged John Stones, the capable and competent Kieran Trippier and the always forward thinking and venturesome Luke Shaw seemed to have things under control for England. But Gareth Southgate's battle hardened English troops were then startled rabbits in the headlights. The Americans, now seemingly buoyed by a knowledge that anything could happen, flooded forward impressively, pinning back England back into their own half where that territory should have been encroached upon at frequent intervals by an England side still licking their lips after the Iran goal fest.

When Chelsea's Christian Pulisic thundered his shot against the bar midway through the first half, the Americans must have thought pleasantly back to Larry Gaetjens who had scored the only goal to beat England in Brazil 1950. Then the selection committee including Walter Winterbottom were clearly too arrogant and presumptuous for their own liking and the American dream became a shining reality.

But this was no stroll in Central Park for England, more like General Custer's last stand, a meeting of great minds thinking alike and much more so for the Americans.The country that had given us vast  condominiums, soaring skyscrapers and corporate, high tech companies worth billions of dollars, had now reduced the England football team to a subdued whisper. The blue shirts were more than adept in keeping possession of the ball and were not nearly as naive as some might have thought. Now their football had shape, symmetry, fluent patterns, gentle and audacious flicks and tricks. Unfortunately the USA of yesterday hadn't quite the decisive cutting edge but it wasn't for the want of trying.

 Declan Rice was still a hugely influential shield in front of England's back four, tidying efficiently and passing the ball with consummate ease. But then Rice discovered that the likes of Raheem Sterling, Bukayo Saka, Mason Mount and Harry Kane were singularly failing to respond to the always vocal encouragement of the England fans. The ball was quite awkwardly sticking, losing its way, bogged down in treacly feet, all very painfully pedestrian and just not going anywhere. The footballing satnav had now told Gareth Southgate's team they were heading for hard shoulders rather than smooth freeways.

At times it looked as if Arsenal's Saka was about to lead the Americans a merry dance, creating havoc , tricking his way past defenders as if they simply weren't there. Then Saka tried to find Kane and Kane tried to look for Mount and before you knew it, the ball was in some desolate wasteland. Just before half time England almost opened the scoring when Luke Shaw smuggled his way past an American defender and slipped the ball excitingly into the path of the Arsenal youngster but Saka met head on with the ball and couldn't really find any direction or accuracy in the snap shot.

For the entire second half England reminded you of labourers on a building site, hod carriers with tons of cement and bricks. It was very much toil and drudgery, sweat and hard graft, the application of some kind of science but little in the way of real invention. By the half hour England looked leggy and quite possibly exhausted, rather like a group of tourists searching for the right museum, cinema or restaurant. It was all very anodyne, huff and puff, laborious and shapeless, valid descriptions on the night but not nearly good enough if England are to make concrete progress in the Qatar World Cup of 2022.

By now England were leaden footed, neither here or there, yearning for the final whistle and perhaps dwelling on their own obvious shortcomings. This had not been the night we'd anticipated. For a moment our minds wandered back to England's second group match of Euro 2020 when Scotland had barricaded themselves firmly in their own half and refused to come out of their shell. The goal-less draw that followed could have been foreseen at the beginning of the second half. But now of course  circumstances, although markedly different, still had the same aura about them. True there were no cones with sand bags draped over them, but there was a huge tailback and the road was jam solid with traffic.

Meanwhile back in the Brazilian camp, the five team winners of the Jules Rimet World Cup and majestic standard bearers of the Beautiful Game were re-enacting the Mexico World Cup of 1970. Indeed, the progenitors of the game that we've always come to appreciate and embrace re-discovered their former identity, the game they'd given to the world, pure and unblemished, always breathtaking, beyond classification and still holding the flame of creativity wherever they go.

Their 2-0 opening victory against Serbia was quintessential Brazilian, fundamentally Brazilian, stereotypically Brazil, a side of wily whimsicality, ingenuity, an abundance of flair, lorry loads of the stuff, improvising at will, extemporising on the spot, off the cuff at any given moment. When Brazil won the World Cup in Mexico 52 years ago some of us thought we'd never see its like again. The Brazil of Gerson, Tostao, Pele and Rivelino belonged on another footballing planet.  One of the four goals in a one sided victory in the World Cup Final will probably never matched for its completeness, its sumptuousness, its effortless stamp of class. Six, seven or eight passes into its construction, Carlos Roberto came steaming up from defence and lashed an unstoppable shot past the Italian goalkeeper.

None of us are crystal ball gazers but the bookies would be well advised to hold onto Brazil as overwhelming favourites for another yet World Cup trophy for what would be their sixth. England of course have their own psychological obstacles to negotiate and look as far from the finished article as ever before. The wishful thinkers in the heart of England are probably dreaming of a Christmas they may come to fantasise about.

Oh, for an open top bus parade along Oxford Street to welcome home England as world champions. It may well happen but the probability is that it won't. And yet the sight of Gareth Southgate and Harry Kane celebrating as white bearded gentlemen called Santa Claus is so very appealing. Maybe the stars are aligned this year so hold onto your festive fare. It could yet be a Christmas and Chanukah to remember. We can but hope.

England carry out World Cup demolition job against Iran

 England carry out World Cup demolition job against Iran.

In the end England knew they could and they did, something of a self- fulfilling prophecy. The nation was convinced and so were their gloriously loyal supporters for without them this would not have been the same convincing England victory that many of us were hoping for. Or maybe it might have been and we were just completely lacking any confidence in Gareth Southgate's England. So we settled down and swept all the filthy stains under the carpet and forgot about the potentially destructive politics that had threatened to overshadow England's opening group match against Iran.

In the background there were dissenting voices, deeply offended by the dreadfully extenuating circumstances that were unfolding before them. This was not an idyllic setting for any sporting contest let alone a World Cup, one hosted in a country that nobody had approved and some had found detestable and abhorrent. How it came to pass is quite beyond anybody's belief but Qatar it is and will be for the next month or so.

In the middle of a monumental homage to chrome, steel and glass, the Qatar skyline is dominated by towering minarets where wailing chants echo around the Middle East with astonishing reverence and idolatry. There are the mosques and temples where the people daily come to pray and worship, a vast mass congregating in religious droves to acknowledge once and for all that the game of football is much more than some cheap propaganda exercise.

We were probably dreading this World Cup because this World Cup should have been banned and banished to the sidelines long before it had ever been contemplated in the first place. But former UEFA head honcho Sepp Blatter has now meekly apologised for the ridiculous choice of country when, quite clearly, the consensus was that Qatar and everything it represented to the rest of the world had now become a world pariah. This decision, in retrospect, should never been made but regrettably we are now faced with damage limitation. There's no turning back from this point.

Somehow it almost feels football has gone back to some distant Biblical hinterland where the muezzin slowly wander around their home country on languid camels and then the Old Testament turns into the New Testament. Qatar and everything in the Middle East and football, you always felt, would never have figured prominently on their daily itinerary and there is an air of novelty which spreads across Saudi Arabia.

For most of us though the political baggage, the bitter taste in collective mouths, the violent opposition to this World Cup and the moral high ground is very much a painful reality. We are now all too familiar with the well documented issues that consistently rear their ugly head. The Qataris appallingly shameful human rights record has now been so frequently analysed and discussed that you must have heard and read about it. The outrageous ban on alcohol in Qatar was something we were warned about months and years ago. Qatar is though teetotal, preaches complete abstinence and doesn't encourage shows of affection.

But most of us back in Britain were watching from the privileged position of pubs, wine bars, schools, offices, village halls and community centres. Some of us were at home while others were simply travelling through and stopping off at some convenient Plasma 64 inch TV set. The right minded amongst us are hoping that the sooner this World Cup is over the better. The impressions are still unfavourable, the messages still shrouded in negativity and nihilism. And yet the show must go on.

England manager Gareth Southgate is still in pole position although privately licking the wounds of defeat to in the Euro 2020 Final at Wembley last year. During the summer though the rehabilitation was far from complete. An embarrassing 4-0 defeat at home to Hungary was the tip of the iceberg for England since it still felt that England were experiencing vertigo and desperately unsure of their bearings.

Before last night's 6-2 demolition of Iran fevered brows were quite hearteningly soothed. England are no longer punch-drunk impostors at World Cup Finals tournaments and are now accustomed to a game designed to get the job done efficiently, skilfully and professionally. There was a feeling that England were still brooding and introspective after the heartache of last year's Euro disappointment. During this summer though England manager Southgate was still wearing sackcloth and ashes. At some point the burden of responsibility will lift for him but the doubters are still wearing worried frowns.

You are reminded of that critical point when England managers were examined from every angle before suddenly the inevitability of bad form and results can lead to prophets of doom. You knew when Don Revie's time was up when ironically the Saudis came calling with substantial wads of cash.When Kevin Keegan walked off the pitch having lost to a single goal to Germany in the old,last Wembley hurrah, we realised that Keegan was not a happy bunny and the legendary England and Liverpool legend was now history. Keegan impulsively quit the England job.

It is now 56 years since England had won the World Cup and when Sir Alf Ramsey suffered hurt and rejection when he dragged off Martin Peters and Bobby Charlton in the 1970 World Cup of Mexico when the West Germans took one look at Peter Bonetti in the England goal and thought it was their birthday. Two years the West Germans exacted sweet revenge when Ramsey's England were humiliatingly outclassed by the West Germans in a grisly 3-1 European Championship defeat to the West Germans at the old Wembley.

Last night though England's blossoming generation of hyper-active, energetic, well balanced and well adjusted players stepped over the white line and proved conclusively that they are no longer pushovers or mugs. Tournament football has always been a punishing assault course for England and although psychological obstacles still exist for Gareth Southgate's men, the way ahead is much clearer than might have been the case in years gone past.

England have now shaken off those opening World Cup blues. The goal-less draw against Morocco in the 1986 World Cup when poor Ray Wilkins was sent off for chucking the ball at a referee, may be lodged deep in the country's subconscious. Then there was the pathetic charade and farce of England's miserable goal-less draw against Algeria in the 2010 World Cup, a forgettable match highlighted by Wayne Rooney's now famous rant at England supporters.

Last night England executed their game plan in devastating fashion. For the first half an hour against Iran, England wove intricate, almost over-elaborate short passing movements in and around the Iranians, works of high culture and art that must have given most England's supporters back in England purring with pleasure. This was an England of high sophistication, a premeditated plan and project, knitting and sewing passes together before linking everything together with cat's cradles of mesmeric passing over and over again.

After the Iranian keeper had to be stretchered off with concussion almost reluctantly, England promptly filled the boots.  Harry Maguire has now been restored to the fold in international circles after private difficulties, calmness and dependability. Alongside Maguire there was the equally as reliable John Stones, with the ever enterprising Luke Shaw always showing initiative. England were positive, progressive and reaching for the stars. They had now developed an excellent relationship with the ball, almost as if the ball had become a kindred spirit, compatible with their very specific thinking.

When Mason Mount of Chelsea, the remarkable Jude Bellingham, Raheem Sterling began to indulge their whimsical flights of fantasy with the ball at their feet, you always felt that Iran would remain permanently on the back foot. Now England's football oozed from every pore rather like one of those fashionable chocolate fountains at big, lavish parties. There was a real connection here, a palpable smoothness and sleekness about their passing and movement that left us pleasantly surprised.

After Luke Shaw had whipped in a perfect cross following some neat interplay, the wonderfully young Jude Bellingham, too gifted for words, sent a glancing header over the Iran keeper and England were in front. Then the Arsenal sensation Bukayo Saka received the ball on the edge of the Iranian penalty area and drove the ball sweetly low past the keeper for England's second goal. By now England had established an unbreakable grip on the game. 

Now Jude Bellingham was fully living up to his teenage prodigy status. Breaking forward at every opportunity, Bellingham dashed and darted past players, performing all kinds of trickery and chicanery with the ball. The Borussia Dortmund striker could become a permanent fixture in any side that Gareth Southgate may choose. Charging into acres of space, Bellingham surged forward towards the opposition's penalty area before releasing the ball to Raheem Sterling who steered England's third goal deftly into the net. The game was well and truly over for Iran.

In the second half England simply picked and mixed up their passes with an even greater taste and a studied consideration. The match was going nowhere for Iran and the final 45 minutes must have felt like a lifetime which indeed it was. At the end of the first half almost 10 minutes were added on for injury time and the second half followed suit. England kept pouring goals into the Iranian net and the match had now become one of sedateness rather than one of emergency or, dare we say, disaster.

Shortly into the second half, Arsenal's precocious wonder kid Bukayo Saka once again emerged as a central figure in England's richly endowed attack. Saka, sensing blood, jinking, dancing, shimmying, cutting the ball back smartly inside his opponent before ramming the ball home for England's fourth goal. This was followed almost immediately by yet another goal for England. Manchester United's Marcus Rashford and Jack Grealish had come on as subs to bring yet more vivacity and vibrancy to England's attack. It was Rashford who, picking the ball up from England captain Harry Kane, ran superbly at his defender leaving defenders flat footed and then almost passing the ball into the net for England's fifth.

In between Iran had scored nothing but consolation goals, the last a penalty when the match had become declared as job done for England. Callum Wilson, Newcastle's muscular striker, gleefully bounded forward into acres of space before racing into a perfect spot and then laying the ball back to Jack Grealish who scored with almost absurd simplicity in a straightforward tap in for the sixth goal. England and Gareth Southgate are up and running. We'll see how far they've come in the forthcoming days and weeks. The United States of America are up next for England. We must hope that the World Cups of 2010 and 1950 are no more than minor catastrophes. For Gareth Southgate this is the business end. We wish him well. 

The day they stole the World Cup in England

 The day they stole the World Cup in England.

It hardly seems believable now, but the football World Cup was once stolen in England because, quite clearly, we would never have won the 1966 World Cup without it. Suddenly in March 1966, one of the most highly coveted footballing trophies in the world the World Cup went missing. We knew how consumed with envy other supposedly lesser nations than England would have been at the time and, perhaps mischievously, Scotland were just delighted, nay less thrilled since their old Hadrian's wall rivals were about to conquer the world in the July of that year.

Last night in Channel 5's excellent documentary on the day they stole the World Cup, the whole bizarre story of how they nicked the Jules Rimet Cup was superbly highlighted in extensive detail. The black and white images and extraordinary mysteries that surrounded the great heist emphasised the often amusing nature of what exactly happened. None of us could have script written the initial shock of discovering why the trophy had been pilfered in the first place. In retrospect, it now seems both hilarious and farcical but at the time the whole of England must have been desperately worried about the World Cup's disappearance.

Here was a trophy that England boss Sir Alf Ramsey had promised his nation would win quite easily if truth be told. Besides, England had invented the Beautiful Game and it was about time that England won it for a change. England had been reluctant participants in 1950, the first World Cup after Second World War hostilities and of course we could string a couple of passes together and we could score goals so what was the problem? So the time was right and a nation held its bated breath. What could go wrong? Well, it did for a while but then the fault was rectified eventually.

One day in early March 1966 at a Stanley Gibbons stamp exhibition in London, a beautifully polished World Cup, proudly standing on a shelf, was there one minute and gone the next. During the night, in a carefully rehearsed, hush, hush and clandestine operation, the trophy was sneakily smuggled out of the hall during the night and by the following morning we were aghast. It was gone, lost. Somebody would have to be summoned to find the World Cup and that became one of the most drawn out, lengthy and protracted episodes of police work and almost indefinite investigation in the force's history. Perhaps England feared they'd never win anything ever again.

But the focal point of everybody's attention and the basic premise for last night's programme was the identity of the troublemaker, the hoodlum, the hardened criminal. It is at this point that we should introduce one Dave Corbett into the story. Our friendly Mr Corbett just happened to be taking his dog Pickles for a walk one day and, quite innocently minding his business. Perhaps he was checking on the first tulips of the spring or just whistling the latest Beatles masterpiece. But then it all happened. 

In the heart of deepest South London suburbia, Pickles started dragging our Dave over to a tangle of bushes desperately scrambling, scuffling, furiously pawing away at some mysterious shiny object. So Mr Corbett, ever ready to satisfy everybody's curiosity, bent down and helped his canine friend. After unwrapping the bag in which the World Cup had been hidden away in, Corbett confirmed that indeed it was the most famous sporting trophy in the world.

For the next couple of months leading up to the 1966 World Cup, the police pursued every angle, every avenue of possibility, every suspicious suspect who had now sent the police into a frantic search for the evil perpetrators. In deepest Camberwell, South London, the streets were alive with gang warfare, gangsterism and armed bank robberies masterminded by inveterate criminals. Huge council estates were broken into, questions were asked on a monumental scale and we just wanted to get to the bottom of why and who would have the audacity to rob the country of a trophy we thought we might just win?

And then poor Dave Corbett was drawn into this moment of madness. Now it was that accusing fingers were horribly pointed at Corbett and his trusty dog Pickles. How could a dog possibly steal anything let alone a silver trophy that was so valuable as to be positively priceless? And then the swinging prison cell bulb had now metaphorically led us to believe that it could only be Corbett because, after all he and his dog had found the World Cup so we'd like to detain you Mr Corbett for our enquiries.  

Finally after intensive foraging and secretive break ins to flats and residences in South London, the police found their men and cuffed them immediately. One Sidney Cugullere and brother Reg, notorious 1960s gangsters, thought it would be a jolly good idea to unlock the keys into the hall where the World Cup was hidden and then quietly remove it before taking it home like naughty schoolchildren pinching jars of sweets. At first we were never quite sure why the two shifty brothers had committed this dastardly deed. But fifteen minutes of fame and front- page celebrity had to be a necessity since a World Cup concealed in a family living room would never be considered as the first line of thinking.

But everything turned out to be happily ever after although as last night's programme revealed, the silver World Cup trophy was quickly swopped once again for a replica. At the end we were told that the Jules Rimet Cup as held aloft by goalkeeper Gordon Banks at the Kensington Garden Hotel balcony was not the real thing although by now most of us were just baffled at the lightning fast turn of events. 

This weekend the current generation of England's World Cup protagonists will step onto the stage of a World Cup that has now been stained by sinister allegations and dark rumours. Qatar was not the country we were hoping for when the candidates were announced for hosting the tournament. The country is riddled with funny money, deviousness and duplicity, the kind of egregious publicity that no country would have wanted had they been chosen as a potential venue. You can smell the poisonous fumes even now.

But on a far distant day at the end of March 1966, England panicked, wiping the sweat from apprehensive foreheads and so concerned about its immediate future as World Cup hosts that maybe they'd have to scrap the whole idea. Fortunately though it all turned out for Sir Alf Ramsey and his courageous, doughty warriors. Bobby Moore, Jack and Bobby Charlton and Nobby Stiles all ventured out from their Hendon Hall hotel headquarters for a morning's window shopping in Golders Green, Nobby Stiles paid a visit to a local church for a very private confessional and the World Cup had been returned to its rightful owners. England would indeed become World Champions. And it was their trophy. Nobody could take that one away.

The World Cup none of us wanted.

 The World Cup none of us wanted.

In a couple of weeks time the men's football World Cup will, quite preposterously, get under way and the world will close its eyes, bow its head in disgust and then just shiver with horror, trepidation and dread. This is not the time to get all hot and bothered about a World Cup that few right thinking people would have wanted in the first place. But the painstaking preparations have been made, the construction workers have risked life and limb and most of us will try to pretend that this isn't really happening.

Amid an ugly backdrop of corruption, venality, crooked deception, horrendous immorality, a vast tidal wave of anger and vicious opprobrium, football will heave an uncomfortable sigh of despair. What on earth, the experts and pundits tell us, possessed the powers that be at FIFA to award the greatest football tournament on Earth to a nation of money obsessed, materialistic and obscenely wealthy sheikhs and sultans, the kind of people who normally do their everyday business in shady corners and back street alleyways.

In just over a weeks time Qatar will host the World Cup for the first time in that country's history and the objections are getting louder, the criticisms more vehement by the day and those who passionately care about the integrity of this blue riband football tournament are privately grieving and don't know why. We know why though and so do those within in the highest hierarchy of FIFA. The simple fact of matter is that nobody wants this whole grotesque spectacle to start at all. The problem is that there can be no turning back and this could turn into an unbearably painful experience for football followers all around the world.

In the old days football had decency, purity, high standards, exemplary sportsmanship, national anthems proudly sung, glorious patriotism, a feeling of harmony, unity, commonsense, rationality and fair play. Of course there were the fixed matches, the underlying suspicion that cheating had won the day again and some matches were blatantly rigged but most of us knew what we were getting and it was legally acceptable.

But in the sweltering heat and deserts of the Middle East football will come under the fiercest scrutiny, monitored like a hawk, analysed and then deconstructed. We'll rub our bewildered eyes with the shock of it all and then resign ourselves to fate. This was destined to happen and we fully understood the implications and consequences of FIFA's potty actions. And yet this still stinks, leaving a trail of controversy and bad feeling behind it. The poisonous stench is almost unbearable but world class football has to go on regardless.

There are traditionalists of course who can't get their head around the deplorable timing of this World Cup. World Cups are always open to new gimmicks, forward thinking innovation and expansion. But this has one has to beggar belief. You suspect that certain boundaries have been unforgivably crossed and the choice of a Qatar as hosts of this current World Cup had not been thought through properly.

There were no doubts, qualms or misgivings, no sudden reservations about Qatar and its suitability for a World Cup stage. The country's despicable human rights record, disgraceful stance on the rights of gays and lesbians to enter Qatar and no alcohol laws have now been widely discussed. Suddenly the World Cup, once joyously accessible to all nations and cultures, now finds itself at the behest of Arab rulers who would rather this whole circus simply go away.

Some of us though love the Beautiful Game, its whole-hearted passions, its infectious enthusiasms, its delightful eccentricities at times and the positive message it always sets out to support and advocate. But now we appear to have hit a brick wall and this may not have been the way it was supposed to be. Football cherishes its clean living, puritanical image both in Europe and the global community. Now though it all looks horribly unsightly and feels unsavoury.

Sadly, the events about to unfold in Qatar shortly, defy description and explanation. Who, for instance could have imagined a World Cup that would be air conditioned, still sweating in record breaking temperatures even at the end of November and just seeking cooling breezes as well as the shade? At the back of our minds there are lingering concerns about the welfare of both players and managers. Once again the World Cup finds itself in alien territory and terribly concerned about its image and, dare we say it, threatened identity.

We all know that in South Africa 12 years ago the good people of South Africa enthusiastically embraced the competition with a loving tenderness. There was a sense then that life had changed radically for the best in a once apartheid- stained country. The bitterness, hatred and division had all but vanished and generally speaking South Africa had got it absolutely right. Football and the vuvuzela had succeeded in its task of altering perceptions and correcting prejudices.

Then in 2022 South Korea and Japan stunned the world with its Far East mysticism, its warm acceptance of everything associated with the game and its commendable knowledge of the game's finer points. The World Cup was back in the hands of an admittedly novice footballing country but everybody kept smiling and nobody refused the hands of co-operation and agreement.

And as the World Cup approaches we still look at the game's governing bodies and privately question the sanity of those who made it possible in the first place. FIFA has never been the most charming of organisations even when things were going reasonably well for football. There were always the secretive spivs, the grubby characters who skulked menacingly in shady corners. They were the game's nasty, nefarious figures with vast sums of filthy, squalid money in their back pockets. They were the people who have no interest in the game whatsoever and just want to ruin the spectacle once and for all.

But then we remember the bad old days of former FIFA president Sepp Blatter so consumed with his own ego that most of us can hardly believe what football had done to deserve such a faceless bureaucrat. Here was a man with very few principles, little in the way of any honour and a man who seemingly held an enduring grudge against England's repeated bids for a World Cup. So we shook our heads and just allowed Blatter to get away with it.

In retrospect of course the decision to give Russia the World Cup four years ago now seems shamefully misguided. After the catastrophic conflict in Ukraine and the war that still rages on, we all look back at 2018 with a feeling that even then things would spiral out of control. We were right. Russia 2018 was, in its way, hugely successful and England almost won the World Cup for what would have been only the second time in its history. The truth though is Putin was still grumbling and sneering rather like somebody who privately believes that wretched gatecrashers would wreck his party.

Still, as they say nowadays, it is what it is. This weekend's Premier League fixtures will be the last to be played until Boxing Day and managers will be worried, players perhaps enormously frustrated and some just deeply disoriented. We have never travelled this highway before and the sense of disruption although not palpably felt, is still ever present. These are, quite literally, unprecedented times for football and the suspension of reality could become a genuine cause for anxiety.

Premier League leaders Arsenal will play their last game before the World Cup knowing full well that a two point lead over Manchester City could be obliterated quite quickly by New Year's Eve. But Arsenal are a strikingly attractive footballing side under manager Mikel Arteta and a World Cup could have a beneficial effect on the side who play at the Emirates Stadium. But it is impossible to know what may lie ahead for the Gunners although we do know that the Premier League surely has one or two unexpected tricks up its sleeve.

But the Qatar World Cup is almost upon us. That sentence itself has a chilling finality about, a doomed, worst-case scenario. Of course, England boss Gareth Southgate has done his meticulous planning and extensive research on all of his opponents. As well he should perhaps. He will though take a sharp intake of breath, bite his fingernails and gaze critically over proceedings rather like a father applauding their child on a Sunday morning at Hackney Marshes.

Regrettably this will not be a pleasurable experience for all concerned in the Middle East. We will cheer ourselves from the rafters of the stadiums themselves to the privacy of our living rooms. We will make our feelings abundantly clear. We won't be happy with the realisation that a World Cup Final will assuredly take place a week before Christmas Day. Some of us will be gritting our teeth hoping against hope that Santa Claus will not be required to hand over the World Cup to the triumphant country. Still, stranger things have been known to happen. Strike up the band and let the fun begin.

Oh woe West Ham

 Oh woe West Ham.

So here we are on a dark, wintry evening in early November and your wretchedly unpredictable football team are back in the doldrums. Something tells you that deep inside there is actually an entertaining, engrossing, free flowing football team waiting to get out but sadly today was no such day. In fact West Ham, it has to be said, were, by all accounts awful, dreadful, intolerable, unbearable and excruciatingly painful to watch. It could have been far worse but defeat at home always gets you right there in the pit of your stomach.

Having grinned and bore over 40 years of abject misery, utter despondency, triumphant victory, pulsating drama, grim melodrama, deeply emotional investment, experiences of the supernatural when everything looked beyond belief and a good helping of crazy anti-climax, you find yourself wondering why. Why the tears and tantrums, the trials and tribulations, the agonising mediocrity and then the inevitable defeat after dominating a game that should have been won quite emphatically at half time?

At lunchtime West Ham transported their supporters to one of those places that were wearisomely familiar by now and almost unavoidable. In recent away visits to Liverpool and Manchester United, West Ham did give a fairly convincing impersonation of a team who might have thought the impossible could have been possible if only they'd played the game at three o'clock on a Saturday afternoon. But then again when was the last time that happened? Was it before the Neolithic Age, the Ice Age or were cavemen scrawling hieroglyphics on a wall just to pass the hours away and shortly before the advent of the BBC Test Card?

But earlier on today the team who play their matches at the London Stadium Olympic Park looked anything but Olympians or Greek Adonises. West Ham were beaten 2-1 by a Crystal Palace side under Patrick Viera who themselves have struggled to find any kind of consistency. So this was a contest between glaring inconsistencies. Palace have now sailed serenely into the calm waters of mid table Premier League safety while West Ham looked as though they'd seen a terrifying ghost and were almost beaten before they'd even started.

True, these are still comparatively early days in the Premier League season although November now seems fairly well advanced by anybody's reckoning. West Ham were thankful of course that the bottom three isn't quite as close as it could have been for them. But here is a side stuck in a rut and the sense of morbid malaise in East London could suck them down towards a destination that may not to be their liking. This is too close for comfort for a West Ham side who are now experiencing the kind of form that dogged them horribly several years ago. The 3-0 home defeat to Burnley was more or less the lowest point and the sight of a corner flag being stuck in the centre circle by disgruntled fans, may haunt some supporters for quite a while.

And yet it is still hard to reconcile yourself to the fact that over the last two seasons West Ham have qualified for Europe by finishing sixth and seventh respectively. Sometimes the laws of gravity can defeat all of us but a home fixture against an eminently beatable Crystal Palace team, left some of us speechless and mystified. Palace are not seasoned commercial travellers away from home and this afternoon's last gasp victory over West Ham must have been the most welcome antidote.

Not for the first time this season, West Ham took the lead and then squandered it only this time right at the end of the match. Nobody said any season would ever be that easy for the Hammers since every season is rather like a gruelling assault course for the team in claret and blue. The acquisition of 40 points for West Ham has now become a regular challenge since most teams who reach that exalted level always need smelling salts once they get to that point.

For West Ham laborious struggle has become almost common for a club of West Ham's status. On sober reflection the remarkable feats of the last two seasons, almost feel like some Hollywood fantasy film where all that glisters glistens. There was of course the horrendous Sam Allardyce period which even now leaves most of West Ham's hardened loyalists reaching for excessive quantities of alcohol whenever they think about it. Poor Allardyce is a friendly and likeable man but his footballing philosophies left a lot be desired. 

West Ham of course may have cause to be grateful that the Manuel Pellegrini ordeal is now well and truly behind them. The Chilean of course had led to Manchester City to the Premier League title but after a severely traumatic time at the London Stadium, was sacked when defeat after defeat became too much to bear for West Ham's owners David Gold and Sullivan. The final straw for Pellegrini was the Hammers humiliating FA Cup exit to AFC Wimbledon.

Now of course the midfield engine room of Tomas Soucek, Declan Rice supplemented by the willing and conscientious running of Jarrod Bowen, seemed to just dissolve before their fans eyes. West Ham's football does have the potential to take the breath away but then you realise that there are occasions when the pistons and pulleys are in dire need of oiling. None are panicking in East London but for those who have seen it all before, the machinery that used to serve West Ham so well now seems to be misfiring.

Completely against the run of play West Ham opened the scoring when after some intricate manoeuvres between the Brazilian Lucas Pacqueta and Said Benrahma, still a stunning talent when the mood takes him, left Benrahma on his own and the Algerian cracked home a special goal. By now Palace must have been cursing themselves since they were the only side who looked as though they could score a hatful of goals.

Under Patrick Viera, a player honed perfectly in the arts and crafts of the game by former Arsenal manager Arsene Wenger, Palace treat a football like a fondly cherished uncle, passing the ball around in ever increasing circles, commanding possession, guarding the ball jealously and then going through the geometric motions, angling the ball around as if it were some isosceles triangle. Viera has finally found the right chemistry and Palace looked the real deal, cohesive, clear in their thinking and gambling on the right cards.

On a day when even skipper Declan Rice wasn't quite the potent attacking force manager David Moyes might have been expecting and even the Brazilian Pacqueta looked as if he was far more preoccupied with thoughts of World Cups and Qatar, West Ham were appallingly off the pace. It is hard to find an adequate explanation for this lacklustre, desperately poor display for West Ham but sooner or later they may have to find something in reserve just to pacify restless fans.

In a couple of weeks time, the World Cup in Qatar does indeed begin and there is a school of thought that it can't come quickly enough for West Ham and Moyes. West Ham have yet to release the handbrake and you get the impression that they may be relishing the temporary break in the Premier League season.  

During next week West Ham play their Carabao Cup match against Blackburn Rovers before wrapping up the first half of the season with a home game against Leicester City who themselves look both morose and stagnant. Then the shutters go up on the Premier League season and some of us must be hoping that by the time they resume their campaign with a match against Premier League leaders Arsenal on Boxing Day the dust will have settled.

But these are worrying times for David Moyes and West Ham may be forced into finding something that will help them to escape the sticky treacle they now found themselves in. But Boxing Day and ironically Blackburn Rovers does have an unfortunate resonance for West Ham. An 8-2 victory for Rovers at Upton Park in 1963, still leaves West Ham cold. Oh for the simple joys of following the happy Hammers. Anybody for turkey sandwiches.

My new book called Football's Poetic Licence.

 My new book

Oh well it's book promotion time for yours truly. Yes folks yours truly has gone into print again with the publication of my fifth book called Football's Poetic Licence. Now for those of you who simply can't stand football and believe that it's nothing more than a sport for muddied oafs then you might want to stop for a minute and re-consider your options. Football is now commonly and historically regarded as the Beautiful Game, a game of vivid ball skills, close control, passing, shooting, tackling, beating the offside trap, defensive discipline and attacking brilliance. 

When the first public schools and universities first took football to the newest levels of prominence and publicity all those centuries ago, none of us knew that the game would achieve such a dramatic popularity seemingly overnight. Now it remains the global game, the game we used to acknowledge on a Saturday afternoon at three o'clock in the afternoon but now accept as a different phenomenon. Football is now played, or seemingly so, at any time of the day, month or week. It does seem to have morphed into the weekend sport that just finds random places in our gruelling work/play schedule. 

Football is the Premier League, the Championship, League One and League Two. It is all about VAR, modern technology, white sprays, referees who seem to change the colours of their clothing each and every week, the players, the coaches, the dug outs, the tears and tantrums and managers performing all manner of theatrical histrionics. There's Jurgen Klopp, the Liverpool manager, who seems to be at permanent war with not only the officials but everybody who doesn't agree with him. There's Pep Guardiola, the Manchester City manager, who has now produced the most ravishingly beautiful Manchester City team. And yet although City have now won a whole clutch of Premier League titles, Guardiola always looks as though he's lost his wallet and blown everything on the gambling casinos.

But I wonder if I could kindly turn your attention back to my new book called Football's Poetic Licence currently available at Amazon but will be distributed to yet more retail online book shops such as Waterstones, Foyles and Barnes and Noble online in due course. Football's Poetic Licence is football as poetry in motion. It is a book about vividly lyrical description, thought provoking imagery, rhyming in some cases but, above all, it's a book that will bring a smile or chuckle while you're sitting on a train, bus, drinking tea or coffee in a cafe, waiting at a railway platform or just looking for an entertaining read. 

I've always loved writing and have always written for as long as I can remember and have now taken that love to its logical progression. Throughout Football's Poetic Licence you'll find everything from poems about my football team West Ham United but also a whole variety of different themes ranging from the men's Euro 2020 squad, nostalgic poems about the World Cup, the FA Cup in all its splendour, one about my local team growing up Ilford Football Club, Premier League reviews in poetic homage form, my wonderful and lovely grandpa and dad. So before Christmas if you feel like dipping into or becoming deeply immersed into a book that is original, I think amusing and football as poetry in motion then this is definitely the book for you. Football's Poetic Licence is now at Amazon by Joe Morris. Thanks everybody.