Pele passes away.

 Pele passes away.

We woke up this morning and found he was no longer here. For 82 years he had established himself as one of the greatest, most pre-eminent footballers of all time. There could never be any exaggeration whatsoever because he was arguably the finest, purest and most exemplary of sporting ambassadors. He achieved so much within the game itself that if somebody had told him as a child that he would be the most masterful across so may decades then he'd have probably laughed at you and with every justification.

Yesterday Pele died at the age of 82 and the world of football deeply mourned a heaven sent talent, a player of prodigious gifts and a man who never stopped delivering magical moments at both club and international level. And of course there was Santos, where loyalty and fidelity of the most extraordinary kind would become his leitmotif. There was Brazil, inevitably and at the age of 17, as has been deservedly well documented, he won the World Cup for his country in an embarrassingly one sided Final in Sweden 73 years ago.

But amid the fulsome tributes and glorious homages, Pele was much more than the exceptional player. He became the benevolent humanitarian, a wholesome, charitable man, undoubtedly generous, always prepared to encourage, coax and cajole youngsters who felt that fame, fortune and celebrity were somehow beyond them. Pele though was the complete striker, a man of huge sporting accomplishments, a model of versatility, elegance and courtliness, a charmer, a hugely respected orator and commentator on the game.

From his very first game for his only club Santos, we could tell that he was head and shoulders above his contemporaries. Pele was always progressive, forward thinking, years ahead of the rest in his radical thinking on the game, a player always prepared to experiment with bold, new ideas, pushing back the frontiers, innovative, somebody who treated a football as if it was his dearest friend. Football was never a vanity project for Pele because the man was above conceitedness rather that he was genuine and well grounded.

By the time of the 1970 World Cup Finals, Pele had already won two World Cup Finals, a world champion in excelsis. In 1958 Pele, alongside a golden generation of Brazilians such as Garrincha, Va Va and Di Di, beautifully trapped the ball on his chest for one of the goals in the comprehensive 5-2 victory over Sweden. Then in Chile,1962, Brazil's prodigal son did it again when the South American sorcerers swept aside Czechoslavakia dismissively and disdainfully in the World Cup Final.

And yet it would be Pele's third World Cup triumph that would elevate him to the rarefied heights of footballing excellence, the finished article, the master craftsman, a celebrated nobleman, a player of male intuition, painter of pictures, immense foresight and remarkable footballing intelligence. In the sweltering heat of Mexico in 1970, Pele, a strikingly proportioned athlete with muscular shoulders and thighs, executed perhaps one of the cheekiest and most audacious of goal scoring attempts ever witnessed on the global football stage.

Half way through a match against Uruguay, with the match boiling to a fascinating climax, Pele, picking up possession of the ball, ran joyously at the Uruguay before entering the penalty area. Spotting on an onrushing goalkeeper, he daringly dummied the keeper, rounded his man and only narrowly missed the target. But this was an amazing exhibition of sheer footballing genius. Pele had already pre-empted the thought processes of his opponent and had, in a matter of seconds, blissfully anticipated where the Uruguay goal stopper would be going. A lingering image of a helpless keeper stretching out at thin air, would fondly linger in the mind. 

In the 1970 World Cup, the ambitions of a brilliant mind would come to fruition. Brazil toyed, taunted, teased, flirted, nagged and then completely fooled a rapidly retreating Italian side in a World Cup Final that remains the most emotional and profound World Cup Final of all time. Pele had for exalted company Gerson, Tostao, Rivelino, Jairzinho, Carlos Alberto so the half job had already been completed. Brazil just held onto the ball for almost the entirety of the match with proprietorial rights on possession. A monopoly on the game turned into world domination.

Memorably though one of the Brazilian goals is still highly regarded as one of the most exquisite team goals ever produced. Even in retrospect, the goal itself, in isolation, was the most outstanding collective efforts you'd ever  witnessed. As a child, you were awe struck and mesmerised by its technical ingenuity, a goal so fabulous in its simplicity that even now you look back at it with considerable fondness.

Receiving the ball on the half way line a possee of yellow and green shirts, stole the ball back from the Italians and then slowly caressed the ball as if it were theirs for keeps, a permanent souvenir of the game itself. A lovely sequence of short passes were exchanged before the ball reached the flank from where a gorgeously weighted ball was directed down the touchline. A sudden burst of lightning acceleration down the line ended up with the ball being passed across the edge of the Italy penalty area before Pele himself stunned the ball before gently feeding it across to Carlos Alberto. It must have looked like arrogance but Pele knew exactly what he was doing. Alberto thrashed the ball into the corner of the net. Game over. 4-1 to Brazil and a hat-trick of Jules Rimet World Cups for Pele.

In the twilight of his career Pele, lured by the prospect of a financially lucrative pay day, succumbed to temptation. New York Cosmos, now dedicated to wholesome promotion and marketing of the game in America, were building something pretty special. The USA of course were responsible for one of the most sensational World Cup victories in 1950 when Walter Winterbottom 's England were humiliatingly beaten by the United States of America 1-0.

Now the 1970s had brought the pioneering spirit out of the Americans. Suddenly and almost overnight the birth of an American soccer League gave us the Tampa Bay Rowdies and the the Cosmos. With the esteemed likes of George Best, Franz Beckenbauer, Rodney Marsh in situ, Pele jumped onto the bandwagon himself and revolutionised the game in the States where others had failed miserably.

By the time retirement had beckoned and age finally withered him Pele began to revel in veteran status. He had already scored well over 1,200 goals for both club and country and the keys to the Hall of Fame had been delightedly handed over to him. Football was now a distant spot on his horizon. The 1980s and 90s were decades of winding down, relaxing, and bathing in the reflected light of an honourable and vastly rewarding career at the very pinnacle of the game.

Pele had now become a benevolent humanitarian, an altruistic soul, giving back to a game that had so richly decoratedm his career with so many trophies and silverware. He raised immense amounts of money for those who were poor, disadvantaged, hungry and then cruelly marginalised by society. He travelled the world bringing cheer and comfort to those who were suffering and communicated a natural love for football that had been nurtured in himself so lovingly and unstintingly for most of his life.

In the last couple of days the nostalgic footballing community have been doing some serious overtime on Pele. You can still remember the now fuzzy TV images flickering across your consciousness, the balloons floating into the Mexican air, the thousands and millions of football fans across the globe, observing with breathless and fascinated eyes. There were the analytical and studious minds who just wanted the Brazilians to dominate the global game because none could possibly match their style of football.

And finally there was that iconic image of England and West Ham skipper Bobby Moore, all blond hair of ice cool composure, facing Pele after the Brazilians had just beaten England in baking Mexican heat. The two met up with each other, broad smiles wreathing each other's faces, acknowledging their personal contribution.  and accepting that this moment would be framed forever in footballing history.

With both of their shirts now taken off, both men grinned with pleasure at each other and respectfully swapped yellow and green and white vice versa. Moore just stood there awe stricken and deferential, worshipping the ground his Brazilian counterpart had walked. Pele, for his part, was still rationalising the miraculously acrobatic save that England goal-keeper Gordon Banks that had prevented Brazil from taking the lead much earlier on in the game.

So it is that we bid a fond farewell to the legendary Pele. He was the Brazilian striker we could never dream of aspiring to be. We will always remember the silky ball control, the exceptional passing range, the permanently creative projects racing through a mind that never stopped believing and hoping would reach even giddier heights of achievement. But above all we will never forget the most spectacular footballer ever to grace a football pitch. Pele. Football will always owe you a debt of enormous gratitude. It was always richer for your presence. Goodbye Edson Arantes Do Nascimento. It was a privilege indeed.

Boxing Day- nowhere to go.

 Boxing Day- nowhere to go.

It's early afternoon here in North London and, generally speaking, there's little in the way of any activity or movement on the streets and roads. For reasons that baffle some there were small rivers of traffic flowing past the local traffic lights and for some of us, this made little sense. Christmas Day on the roads of Great Britain were traditionally deserted and only the birds that perch on rooftops before flying off in orderly formation, were stirring. Yesterday was no different.

On Boxing Day the West End of London normally bursts into a paradise of capitalism, a richly uplifting sight of hustling and bustling folk on both Oxford and Regent Street. Today marks the beginning of the sales season, as is normally the case. It is hard to gauge either the prosperity or poverty among the good people of the world. We are now told that Britain is well and truly skint and destitute, not a penny to its name and the struggle to pay off those essential bills has never been more painful. In fact, if you were to believe some, we have to yet to encounter darkness, power cuts, fuel and electricity at its most premium.

The truth of the matter is that, to quote, a former Prime Minister, we've never had it so good. The big, influential department shops are heaving with affluent, middle class families who have at least four Jaguars in their gravelled drive ways, at least 17 bathrooms with gold taps, 14 dining rooms with the finest bone china, crockery and cutlery, mahogany cabinets in every room in the house and a butler for every meal. But this is surely nonsense although such close knit communities probably do exist.

It has been a year tinged horribly with sadness and sorrow. In early September Britain lost its most deeply loved and revered monarch when Her Majesty the Queen died, a nation falling into sombre reflection and mourning for the best part of a fortnight. At that moment the tourist industry in Britain went into a deep state of shock. What on earth would they do with all those mugs, tea towels, plates, bowls, postcards and every conceivable ornament with Her Majesty's face adorning these much cherished ornaments?

And yet we are still here, fighting fit, optimistic that the future has to be filled with brightness and better days since they could hardly get any worse. We're alive and that's a blessing. It's a privilege to be here and nobody could deny that we should be grateful for everything that we have. That now lengthy period since Covid 19 restrictions fell by the wayside permanently, seems like an age ago. Of course normal service has been restored and how good that feels. But the sense of recovery and revival of spirits may have had caveats and cautionary warnings at the back of our minds.

Every so often we're reminded of the precautions we should take if we find ourselves cramped together in tight, claustrophobic groups. The trains and buses are more or less free of masks both fashionable and unfashionable but the underlying nerves, paranoias, anxieties are still bubbling away under the surface. Hospitals have every right to be careful, vigilant and responsible but there is a sense now that we can still go about our every day business without being followed by park ranger vans telling us to finish our walk and go home as quickly as possible. The ghost of George Orwell seemed to reside in all of us.

But come on everybody today is Boxing Day and that could only mean one thing. Yes folks, it's Boxing Day and its pantomime season. Oh yes it is. Oh no it isn't. It's time for Dick Whittington, Jack and the Beanstalk, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs or Aladdin. Now it's been many a decade ago since my wife and yours truly took our little darlings to their first pantomime at the Hackney Empire but the magic, mystique, tradition, the harmless innuendos, the hilarious behind you comments still echo powerfully around the many theatres dotted around the country.

The whole concept of pantomime used to be as relevant as Victorian garden parties and cabriolets taking their passengers to the latest edition of the good, old fashioned pantomime. But here we are at the end of 2022 and the things we used to take for granted are no longer regarded as such. The cynics will insist that the trains that used to run on time on Christmas Day are just faded, sepia tinted memories. And whatever happened to the gallons of snow that would fall elatedly to the ground on Christmas Day. Why do our kids still complain about their presents and why is Christmas Day on TV simply an empty wasteland of dull mediocrity?

For some of us Christmas Day used to be synonymous with the geniuses who were the Two Ronnies and Morecambe and Wise preceded wonderfully by Bruce Forsyth's Generation Game. Sadly, the days of music hall that were once a breeding ground for these fabulous entertainers have now vanished into thin air. True, the BBC did give us a Strictly Come Dancing Christmas special but even that must have felt like the curling leftovers of the family turkey to some. But then again nostalgia ain't what it used to be.

You can be sure though that extended families with their usual mix of uncles, aunties, cousins, nieces and old pals from way back when, are still predominant figures in our lives. Admittedly you never see their likes from one year to the next but come Christmas back they come again. They still snore contentedly on their sofas while all around them disorganised chaos reigns. The kids will keep scurrying around in states of constant excitement and whole rooms will resemble battlegrounds of sleep, exhaustion, inertia, yawning and general bloatedness. Why on earth did we eat and drink so much when quite clearly we'll all be told to wake up, do the washing in  the kitchen and tidy up.

But Boxing Day is upon us yet again and somehow it still feels like New Years Day 2022. You can still hear the bagpipes in our hotel in the glorious surrounds of Dumfries and Scotland. Oh yes and they were allowed to dance on the dancing floor on New Year's Eve. Even the last days of Covid couldn't stop the enthusiastic guests from putting their best foot forward. Come on everybody it is Christmas or to be precise Boxing Day. It happens at the end of every year. We could hardly resist a jolly old party. Mine's an orange juice. 

 

Days away from Christmas

 Days away from Christmas

In days and years gone past Christmas used to be the gleaming highlight of the year, the perfect conclusion to a year of hard industry, businesslike commitment to the cause, toil and drudgery suitably rewarded by the perfect family feast, a time of much merriment and mirth, fun and frivolity, children's smiles, much excitement, the tree in the far corner of the living room and all of those familiar accoutrements that make Christmas so special.

For those of a literary nature Charles Dickens invented Christmas. He did you know. It's probably an urban myth though since there can be no conclusive proof that Dickens had anything to do with Jesus Christ, Joseph or Mary and the only evidence we can find is Dickens Christmas Carol which may be just incidental anyway. Still, Christmas looms on the horizon and Santa's sleigh bells are rushing over the chimney tops of millions of homes across the globe. Then he'll squeeze his body down the said chimney with a huge grin on his face, mulled wine stains on his beard and happiness being his ultimate objective.

Anyway the fact remains that in a couple of days time we'll all be abandoning ourselves to the perennial knees up. It now occurs to you that the years are indeed flying past and now that you've reached 60 and have been gleefully informed of grandfather status next year, the time is now rolling relentlessly. You are thrilled and delighted for your lovely son Sam and equally as lovely daughter in law Lucy and still floating down from your bubble of holiday euphoria in glorious Brazil.

But out there in the supermarkets of the world, there is a wild ferment of activity, humanity sprinting around frantic aisles, swerving, dodging and weaving their way past each other. It does seem that every year that timeless ritual of panic, emergency and mini crisis seems to spiral out of control. How many bags of brussel sprouts can you physically pack into one trolley? How many boxes of chocolates can feasibly fit into a huge metal basket? 

Where on earth do the veritable farmyard of turkeys go amid the mountain of Christmas mulled wine, the frightening amount of booze we just keep knocking back and then the potatoes that become roast potatoes in rich abundance. And don't forget the blue flamed Christmas pudding. You'll never be forgiven for forgetting the pud, full of raisins, sugar, currants and loads of cholesterol. And that's when the all consuming guilt and regret suddenly kick in. What possessed us to indulge in such copious quantities of the very food and drink we were implicitly told not to eat and drink throughout the rest of the year. 

And yet the concessions have to be made. Christmas only happens but once a year. Go on let yourself go. It's Christmas. It's time to be silly, frivolous, carefree, wanton, happy go lucky, getting completely and unashamedly drunk and renewing acquaintance with family and friends you haven't seen for ages. This may be time to don those ridiculous crepe hats, drape lanterns and tinsel over grandma, grandpa, uncle, auntie and cousin and then slump back deliriously on the sofa, refusing to get up until New Year's Day.

But hold on. Let's slow down and reflect on the harsh realities around us. This should be the most harmonious time of the year, re-uniting again, catching up again, chatting small talk, watching the kids wrap open presents which last for precisely for five minutes before the batteries go and you find yourself scanning the pages of an Argos brochure for an adequate replacement. It's all very hectic and perhaps unnecessary but then it's always been this way, no different from Christmases of yesteryear.

This Christmas though, according to some, could be the most traumatic of all time. Amid all the cheer, the sentimentality, the tradition and vivid illumination, Britain is suffering a major industrial meltdown. In fact it's all gone rather pear shaped and misshapen. No, let's be frank here. It's a nightmare. The professions that used to serve the country so admirably are now going out on strike, protesting vehemently about pay and living conditions. Before you know it, the electricity will be switched off, power cuts will plunge us into insufferable darkness and all hell will break loose.

Yesterday the entire nursing profession hit the streets of London and the rest of the country was incensed about the pathetic wages they have now been forced to accept whether they like it or not. The nurses are now rubbing their hands next to warm braziers with placards in their hands and boiling resentment in their hearts. Outside the hospitals of Britain there is raw anger, animosity, fury, militancy on an unprecedented level. Christmas Day on the wards of Britain could be the gloomiest of all time. This is not a good time to be Rishi Sunak and being a Prime Minister. It was always thus.

Then there are the post offices of Great Britain, the fuel bills that have to be paid, the increasing poverty, the unutterable misery and desperation. The council estates and neat, comfortable terraced homes and bungalows are growing restive, impatient and downright disgusted. The bright and shiny Christmas trees and flashing lights may be redeeming factors but how do you explain to your children that Santa won't be arriving by your fireplace because, to be honest, mum and dad, just can't afford to bombard you with all manner of electronic games, I Pads, Smart phones and high tech gadgetry.

This could be the most disappointing Christmas since goodness knows when. The chances are that Christmas could be very bleak, spartan, cheerless and forgettable because nobody has got any money and besides you're surrounded by luxury and affluence anyway so stop moaning and be grateful. Get real. But greed and rampant commercialism demands that we all be happy, pampered and contented. It does seem that a huge helpful of perspective may be required anyway.

We'll all get up on Christmas Day limbs moving, eyes wide open, normality restored, communication resumed and we can deal with the drawbacks, the slight inconveniences, the perceived shortages since our neighbours have got far more than us. Then you realise that we can all be good to each other and still continue with our lifestyles without any worries about starvation, want or chronic deprivation.  

And then we'll remember those famous pop music anthems that have so enlivened and uplifted us over the years. Slade's Noddy Holder, one of the many noblemen of glam rock during the 1970s, is still counting those substantial royalties every time Merry Christmas Everybody is played on the radio. Then your personal favourite Chris Rea's Driving Home for Christmas will be wiping the windscreens of his car from the falling snow as a car meanders its way along slushy motorways and winking headlights. You Tube will remind you of this now 34 year old festive ditty. Chris, you're a superstar.

The list will continue for posterity. Jona Lewie still smiles broadly whenever somebody plays his celebrated anti War single Stop the Cavalry. Stop the Cavalry is a charming melody, detailing the horrors and ravages of the First World War and then Lewie's longing for home and his wife. Paul McCartney of course could never be overlooked in this festive homage to reindeers, sleighs and men in red coats. Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas time is a warm, heartfelt and enriching tune, showing McCartney and his late wife Linda revelling with friends in a local pub and then doing the Hokey Cokey around snow caked streets.

The former legendary Beatle also gave us the beautifully moving and poignant Pipes of Peace, a song so bitter and sweet that some may find themselves on the verge of tears. Pipes of Peace is another anti War song depicting a military tunic dressed McCartney pleading for reconciliation.. Against a terrifying sequence of exploding bombs and gun fire, he then treads awkwardly across a minefield before stopping in the middle of a muddy battlefield, smiling at his German enemy and asking whether they can be the best of buddies again. But then Christmas arrives and he then tenderly clutches a love letter to his wife.

So there you are folks. You have several alternatives and choices to make this Christmas. You can either wallow in the general misfortune around you or just be very appreciative of your faculties. The year 2022 has of course witnessed the most tragic of all deaths. On a bright morning in early September Her Majesty the Queen died at the age of 96. Some of us were heartbroken and bereft since Her Majesty had been one of the most dominant of constants in our lives for as long as we can remember. She was indeed the personification of majesty, a wonderfully unifying and stabilising influence over both Britain, the Commonwealth and the rest of the world. All of the eulogies and words have been said. Thankyou Your Majesty. We shall never ever forget you.

Now though we find ourselves at the dawn of a new era, another generation, a future that none of us can predict but would rather take one day at a time. For everyday is a gift, sweet as honey and richly gratifying. We could rise from our beds in the morning with dark, nihilistic pessimism, a firm conviction that once again the world will simply end at some point and we'll all end up as cynical, grumpy curmudgeons who can never see the bright side of life. Still, three sleeps to go before we all engage in frenetic unwrapping of festive presents, complaints about the latest pair of socks and jumpers we've already got from last year and then watch the first King's Speech on Christmas Day for over 75 years. It could be a Christmas to remember.

Argentina are World Champions

 Argentina are World Champions.

Your mind was whisked back to 1978 when, amid a turbulent backdrop of the military junta and a shower of ticker tape in the venerable footballing cities of Buenos Aires, Cordoba, Rosario and River Plate, Argentina won their World Cup in their country, their backyard and none of us had seen anything like this. Ticker tape streamers were showered upon a grateful and ecstatic nation, their celebrations running deep into the night and early morning.

That was the World Cup Final when Argentina's opponents 44 years ago Holland were beaten cruelly when it looked as if they may have been the better and technically superior side. But, as was the case last night Holland got tangled up in foliage of their own making and were simply outclassed by the highly respected likes of Mario Kempes, Leopoldo Luque, Ossie Ardilles and Ricky Villa, a side of enormous gifts and somehow destined to win a World Cup.

Last night revisited their past yet again. In 1986 a certain Diego Maradona, now sadly missed, went through a series of tangos and bossa novas while Bobby Robson's English defence just disintegrated as Peter Reid, Terry Fenwick and a whole succession of flailing English legs failed miserably to stop Maradona in his tracks. We all know about the disgraceful hand that allegedly had given Argentina the lead from the stocky but well muscled Maradona, but this is now ancient history and hardly worthy of any mention.

Once again another Argentina icon and surely enshrined in Football's Hall of Fame, finally received his just desserts. Lionel Messi has been consistently recognised as the greatest and finest world-class player of his generation. For years the World Cup has eluded Messi and yesterday evening in Qatar, in what will certainly be his curtain call and moment of departure from the world stage, the former Barcelona heart throb, lifted aloft the Jules Rimet World Cup and an adoring footballing community raised a glass.

For what must have seemed a lifetime now, Messi has ventured through the forests of football's prettiest landscapes and wondered why he simply couldn't get his hands on that much coveted World Cup. But on a late Sunday evening we settled back to watch the embodiment of genius, a master of his craft, the stunning, multi faceted talents, the extraordinary phenomenon, the man who elevated football to its highest level and always made the game look effortless.

Now for those of us who would be tempted to make dubious comparisons with football's legendary world names, this may be the time not to engage in such futile exercises. Pele, for many us the most complete of all remarkable players, had everything you could wish for in a player. During the 1970 World Cup, he had attempted an outrageously spectacular goal from the centre circle that only narrowly missed the target. Then there was that breathtaking dummy which simply left a Uruguay goalkeeper stretching out his arm. Pele missed but the sheer audacity of its execution will always be recalled affectionately.

There was the extravagant style and brilliance of Johan Cruyff, a Dutch master. Cruyff would become the chief exponent and pioneer of the stepover and drag back, an act of such impudence and impertinence that none of us would have dared to try and emulate it. But Cruyff would be robbed of his World Cup glory in 1974 when West Germany cancelled out his dazzling run and goal with a well deserved victory. Holland had won their penalty from the kick off when Cruyff simply shrugged off the German tackles as if they weren't there. And then there was Diego Maradona. Football took a sharp intake of breath. Genius is such a rare commodity that maybe we should bottle it up for ever.

But last night was all about the appointment of Argentina as World Champions. On their way to this year's World Cup Argentina summarily dismissed Holland in a repeat of the 1978 World Cup Final. Now Argentina looked at themselves in the mirror longingly and gave the Dutch another dose of its own medicine. This time France were on the receiving end of their decades long World Cup frustrations. Les Bleus though were not though in any mood for entente cordiale. The Gallic swagger and free flowing attacking fluency had gone horribly missing for large periods of this World Cup Final.

You cast your mind back to the footloose and fancy free French of yesteryear, the likes of Raymond Kopa and the prolific goal scoring prowess of the astonishingly talented Just Fontaine from many moons ago. In recent times there was the eternally elegant Michel Platini, Jean Tigana, Didier Six, Alain Giresse who wafted the ball almost naturally amongst themselves as if the ball had a mind of its own. Then in 1998 the World Cup swashbucklers of Zinedine Zidane, Didier Deschamps and Emmanuel Petit gave us an authentic reproduction of the football their ancestors had passed down their generations.

For France though this was not to be their night. Four years ago in Russia, Kylian M'Bappe had single- handedly conducted the French orchestra that accompanied France to World Cup victory against Croatia. From the moment the match kicked off France looked like a group of men stumbling around a dark room searching for a light switch. They looked off the pace, sluggish, leaden footed and neither nor there. Their passing had little in the way of co-ordination, their movement reminded you of those marathon dancers in America who would think nothing of tripping the light fantastic for hour upon hour. By the end of extra time last night, France were out on their feet and with nowhere to go.

Argentina knew this would be their night of tango, dramatic pauses, sumptuously intricate passing that seemed to be gather in momentum as the match wore on. There were the familiar triangles, isosceles at its finest, thick clusters of passes that blossomed into almost wondrous floral creations. It was a display of football at its most natural, football of delightful spontaneity and fluidity. Messi was always at the heart of it all, acting quite frequently as a shield in the middle of the park, gathering the ball with his back to opponents and then gliding forward with purpose and logical progression.

For Alex MacAlister, now the only Brighton player ever to play in a World Cup, fused the Argentina attack intelligently and stylishly with glorious close ball control. Both Julien Alvarez, Christian Romero, Nahuel Molina, Paulo Dybala, Nicolas Otomendi, Gonzalo Montiel, Enzo Fernandez and Angel Di Maria, formerly of the Manchester United parish, were highly qualified engineers and architects, one touch passing maestros, weaving webs in and around the French defence as if they'd been going back through the same, familiar routine a million times.

When Di Maria had been upended in the French penalty area and Messi had confidently struck home his penalty for Argentina, the South American team moved in perfect unison for a very special exhibition. From another magnificent cat's cradle of passes that simply opened up France like Pandora's Box, Argentina spreadeagled the French defence with counter attacking at its most polished. Breaking forward with speed and exquisite fleet footed dexterity, the ball swapped feet in a blizzard of neat passes. MacAlister, Messi and several other blue and white striped men flooded forward before the ball was laid back across goal for Di Maria to sweep the ball home for a nonchalant second goal.

Then shortly before half time France rallied as we always knew they would eventually. Kingsley Coman came much more forward with a sharpness of mind and footballing intelligence some of us were convinced he still had. Eduardo Camavinga , Ibrahim Varane, Youssof Fofana and Antoine Griesman, still capable playing the simple game, were now revitalised, refreshed, much more committed to the cause. Their football was still stuck in a treacly quagmire but at least they were far more alive and alert now. M'Bappe was finally flourishing, tucking home a penalty and then volleying the equaliser home quite staggeringly. 

As the game reached its final stages, both Argentina and France were locked together in battle like marauding armies ready to deliver the lethal blow. For all the world it all looked like Argentina had blown up at least psychologically. Suddenly though Argentina found a second wind. There were though hints and suggestions that the Latin candle had yet to be extinguished. Lionel Scaloni, the Argentina manager, must have been repeating the mantra of Sir Alf Ramsey. In 1966 Sir Alf had implored his team to win the World Cup for England again in extra time and they promptly obliged.

In one last sustained assault Argentina threw the cliched kitchen sink at France. A lobbed ball into the French penalty area, bobbled around dizzyingly and Messi was there to prod the ball home - but only just. For a moment none of us could tell whether the ball had crossed the line but after brief deliberation, Messi's goal was given and the World Cup had to be in Argentina's hands. But oh no there was yet another underlying pulsating narrative. France were far from finished.

A ball that landed in the Argentina penalty area seemed to bounce up against the back of a blue and white striped elbow and the Polish referee had no hesitation in pointing to the penalty spot. M'Bappe, the French matinee idol, completed his hat-trick and Argentina were shocked into submission. Now the most unforgettable World Cup Final had given as much as it could. Some of us would have been quite happy to see the match go on for an indefinite period of time. It was 3-3 and by the time the match had reached extra time without any resolution, we knew there had to be a winner. But the inevitable and farcical penalty shoot out loomed and so it was.  

France now looked drained of colour although Argentina were hardly any sprightlier. France seemed to freeze at the most vital moment. Penalties were converted for a while but finally France lost both their concentration and focus. Their final and crucial penalty was horrifically sliced wide of Emi Martinez and Argentina had won their third World Cup. Their fiercely patriotic supporters went berserk, exploding with delight and grinning with irrepressible happiness.

In the moments after this stupendous spectacle, your thoughts went back to 1978 and Buenos Aires while at the same time pondering on the magical exploits of Diego Maradona during the World Cup of 1986 in Mexico. There are parallels with today's Argentina's golden generation. In a country that still simmers with political tension, this was all the escapism that Argentina needed. Argentina, Argentina they cried as one in Qatar. You couldn't possibly disagree. This one is for you Lionel Messi. It's time to wander into the honeyed sunset and accept all the bouquets of praise. None surely deserve this moment so much.

  

Brazil and the high seas

 Brazil and the high seas

A Brazilian taxi driver drove through a tunnel for the last time and our memorable holiday was over. Sadly and reluctantly we bid farewell to one of the most beautiful countries on the planet. We were passing through the busy, bustling streets and roads of Rio on the last leg of our dream cruise which culminated in a visit to Rio De Janeiro. My lovely wife Bev and I were overwhelmed with gratitude. It had been the most joyous voyage of discovery.

As we emerged from the said tunnel we witnessed the truly remarkable sight of street hawkers selling their wares in the middle of a typical rush hour, dodging the kind of heavy traffic that you'd  normally see in any city as dusk and darkness falls on a happy go lucky capital city. We thought it had been a dream come true and indeed it was. But now it was time to leave Rio, departing quite the friendliest and most extraordinary country in the world. South America had done its best to be as enchanting as it possibly could and it ticked all the right boxes. 

We had now left behind us special memories, vividly stunning images, a thousand mountain ranges of classical beauty and the locals were pretty cool as well. We saw, admired, sighed with disbelief and wonder, pondered on a compilation of sights and sounds and concluded that it could hardly have gone any better. Brazil had been magnificent, fabulous and breathtaking. You found yourself struggling with innumerable superlatives because maybe you'd run out of using any more. Recommendations have to be made since Brazil so richly deserves them.

But then this hadn't been all about Brazil exclusively. Over 18 days ago, we had set out on our first port of call from a Lisbon airport that had been wrapped up in chaotic red tape. We had now seen a shameful display of ridiculous incompetence on the part of stern looking officials who seemed to be wandering around a hall populated largely by yet more security staff who were just as bemused as we were. So we held our breath and just got on with yet another endless round of queuing seemingly indefinitely and going nowhere fast. We asked questions, tore our hair out with increasing irritation and then grudgingly smiled since that was all we could do.

Eventually bureaucratic form filling over roughly three hours later, we boarded the Norwegian Star boat, ship or, as a captain on one of our previous cruise captains had insisted, should be called a vessel. The vessel sat sail to our first port of call in Cadiz, our first connection with Spain. A lovely afternoon spent in a local market square was spent drinking a coffee and munching a chocolate doughnut. In the distance, a languid looking guitarist plucked his strings with a series of splendidly relaxing old standards deservedly rewarded with ripples of applause from alfresco diners outside a cafe. 

Visits to Lanzarote, Tenerife and the Canary Islands were familiar sights to us on other cruises. To say that we had now become blase, seasoned travellers and globetrotters may be regarded as just gross exaggeration but then we all have this innate desire to see as many countries in the world as we possibly can. To some this could be seen as perhaps physically impossible but when you do get the chance grab it with open arms.

So we took in the terracotta tiled rooftops of countless restuarants, houses, cafes and restaurants that the whole of the Canaries seemed to consist of, gazed longingly at the sun kissed landscapes and then just drooled with admiration. Our visit to all three of the aforesaid felt very much like the same set of volcanic islands  as we'd seen before in recent years. Still, there was a fundamentally spiritual feel to both Lanzarote, Tenerife and the Canary Islands.

After several days out at sea we walked the richly carpeted floors which led us into jazz infused cocktail bars, one of which was called Gatsby's, an obvious reference to the F. Scott Fitzgerald masterpiece the Great Gatsby. We then made the acquaintance of a delightful group of devout church goers from Bournemouth who just wanted to have fun, play cards and then just share cheerful badinage and laughter. Every so often we would accidentally bump into them and they were still finishing off a card game of Kalooki or just giggling with some merriment.

And then there were balmy, blissful hours spent sun bathing on the main deck of the Norwegian Star boat, thrusting our faces towards the cobalt blue skies and slapping on another jar of brown varnish on hitherto lily white cheeks and foreheads that had now been left behind in Britain. It now occurred to yours truly that the football World Cup in Qatar had also been left behind. For a moment a slightly unnerving sense of regret and desertion would now be coursing through your veins. It passed.

Before leaving Blighty we had seen Gareth Southgate's battle hardened England struggling desperately yet again to beat a USA team who had now become a thorn in their side. The 2010 World Cup in South Africa had also seen England held to a wonderfully respectable 1-1 draw. Once again Qatar would see yet another frustrating draw between England and the States.

Half way into our cruise, you resigned yourself to the fact that both the venue and location of this year's World Cup had proved truly decisive factors in any kind of interest in the World Cup. Besides, you simply wanted to abandon yourself to the incessant heat, the constant warmth, quotidian sunshine, on the hour, by the hour, every single day, week after week, non stop. We were simply spoilt.

So you made your decision and just topped up those vital vitamins of sunshine, chatting to passengers from Canada, the United States and Israel. There were of course the stupendously colourful yellow and green shirts of Brazilian families cruising back home to Rio. The memory of a huddle of Brazilians yelling with jubilation and then crying out their grief when the vital penalty was missed against Croatia would linger warmly in your mind. You felt horribly sorry for Brazil since they were the international team who had introduced you to the Beautiful Game when you were a knee high to a grasshopper kid.

But back you returned to the considerable quantities of Pina Colada and something called a Mango Meltdown. Now there was a proper name for a cocktail, arguably as good as a Pina Colada. In between there was the Rum and Coke with a tantalising tinkle of ice, an IPA pale ale, a Brazilian beer just for good measure and then gallons of Capuccinos, yet more coffee and alcohol quite literally on tap.

And finally there was Brazil four days in all in a country you'd heard about in every World Cup and TV coffee advert back in England. It was the land of samba and sensuality, easy living, seductive and suggestive music and dance that simply didn't stop. It was the land of carnival, the Copacabana beach, flags that stretched for miles on a beach that seem to go on forever, beach volleyball nets liberally scattered across well heated sands and a sprinkling of small goal posts and cross bars. Usually those posts and bars would have been heaving with outrageous displays of keepie uppies, trapping the ball on both shoulders for hours on end before doing convincing impersonations of performing seals.

Now the peacock feathers would have to be permanently hidden and football in Brazil would just have get on with the business of watching their fellow South American neighbours Argentina squaring up to current World champions France in this year's World Cup Final on Sunday. You knew where their allegiances would lie. 

Personally you would reflect on your pilgrimage to the Maracana stadium, Brazil's national stadium, a ground that in another incarnation many moons ago once held over 200,000. The gladiatorial amphitheatre that had once witnessed the magisterial genius of Pele, Garrincha, Va Va, Di Di, Socrates, Gerson, Tostao and Jairzinho to name but a few would now acclaim Neymar Junior in a new Maracana. Neymar will have to wait for his World Cup Final stage but time is quite definitely on his side. Our guide for the Maracana must have done a course on charm and courtesy because he simply breathed enthusiasm. 

As we left Brazil equipped with our grandson's new present, the customary souvenirs and an art gallery of emotions, murals of the football greats could be seen gracefully adorning the walls of Rio. Then there was Sugar Loaf Mountain, and the wondrous Christ the Redeemer, who even for the least religious, must have touched a chord. It towered over Rio in much the way that Lord Nelson does over Trafalgar Square in London. It seems a weak comparison but then again historical figures always seem to hold a spell over you. Thank you, Brazil, Cadiz, Lanzarote, Tenerife and Brazil again. We'll never ever forget you.