West Ham cruise into the fifth round of the FA Cup

 West Ham cruise into the fifth round of the FA Cup

It's hard to retain your neutrality when the FA Cup comes calling but for West Ham bias is perhaps understandable. And yet this season the FA Cup may prove to be an unnecessary distraction given that the club are languishing dangerously close to the bottom of the Premier League. Admittedly, the gloom was temporarily lifted after West Ham's critical 2-0 victory over Everton over a week ago. But for David Moyes, West Ham's beleaguered and under pressure manager, the vultures that may have been hovering over Moyes team have flown to different shores. For the time being, anyway.

Last night West Ham comfortably dismissed a Derby County who now ply their football in the third tier of English or League One. It almost seems like ancient history now but Derby County once discovered that they were the new League champions(the old First Division just over 50 years ago. Beside a leisurely Spanish hotel poolside, the players of Derby were joyously informed that they had won the race to win the League title. Brian Clough, Derby's legendary manager, could hardly control his boasting and gloating.

We were also regaled with tales of Derby's historic conquest of Europe, which almost culminated in European Cup Final victory. It was the night when those footballing princes Real Madrid came to Derby's old Baseball Ground and were soundly thrashed only to win the second leg of their semi final emphatically and categorically. Time flies though and Derby's modern day incarnation were once again beaten by Premier League West Ham, who have their own trials and tribulations at the moment.

Now it would be easy to simply overlook this FA Cup fourth round tie as a straightforward contest between a Premier League and League One side, just a mismatch since Derby have left behind the likes of Archie Gemmell, Francis Lee, Bruce Rioch, Kevin Hector and Roy Mcfarland far behind them. Derby are now just a pale imitation of their former selves, once a Premier League team fairly recently but now decaying ever so slightly in a lower League. But good times must surely be ahead for the Rams.

At Pride Park Derby were eventually outclassed, out passed, out thought and generally out manoeuvred by a confident, ambitious West Ham side who finally looked like something of their old selves. Having signed eight excellent signings last summer, the experts told us that West Ham were destined to qualify for the Champions League this season and, unthinkably, Premier League title winners. But that would have been pushing credibility.

Sadly though things have gone disastrously wrong for the team who play at the London Stadium and the Nostradamus crystal ball gazers have got their predictions in a complete muddle. Lucas Paqueta, one of the many golden boys of Brazilian football, probably thinks he must have been drinking the wrong coffee, Gianluca Scamacca, the Italian stallion and now a prominent member of the Italian national side, has yet to find his feet although he has scored sporadically and Emerson Palmieri, who did play last night, has certainly settled down but can hardly believe that he's in a struggling team.

But West Ham looked as though a heavy burden had been lifted from their shoulders and their superior passing skills, admirable collective ethic and team work made Derby look like a young and inexperienced team who were still trying to imagine how Brian Clough might have reacted to their performance yesterday. He'd have probably leapt out of his dug out, frantically pointed fingers at his players and then told Peter Taylor, his assistant, to get out the squash racket and prepare for battle on another court rather than the Clough one at the Baseball Ground.

Still what we had yesterday evening was a perfect demonstration of one team who would like to aspire to loftier achievements in the Premier League and another who just wish they could re-capture the greatness of another age. For a while Derby sparred and probed tentatively with West Ham but were then submerged under a barrage of neat and controlled attacking football from the visitors. West Ham, after a brief period of introspection, are much more socially comfortable and their victory was never in doubt.

With Angel Ogbanna, leading superbly from the back as skipper of the night, Nayef Aguerd, still on a high after a gloriously improbable World Cup journey in Qatar with Morocco, looks increasingly more assured on the ball and a World Cup semi final place has certainly lifted his profile. Ben Jonson rampaged along the flank like a good, old fashioned attacking full back, while Thilo Kehrer is at last responding to the encouragement of the London Stadium fans.

It was noticeable that Declan Rice was on the subs bench for West Ham but both Thomas Soucek and Flynn Downes floated easily around the back and into midfield with an easy going nonchalance and supreme authority. Further forward Jarrod Bowen continued his recent rich vein of form scampering furiously around the pitch, tussling and hustling for possession as if his depended on it. And of course Michail Antonio, West Ham's gutsy and physically persistent striker, just kept running, holding up the ball with intelligence and perseverance and then shrugging defenders off as if they didn't exit.

Half way through the first half  West Ham were rewarded for their ornate approach work, stringing together tight packages of passes that had Derby gasping for breath. A delightful exchange of quick passes saw Bowen and Soucek open up the Derby defence like a birthday present.The ball fell to Antonio who rolled his body athletically and slid the ball to Bowen. Jarrod Bowen lunged at the ball, connected with it perfectly and slipped the ball into the net for West Ham's opening goal.

The second half became a formality for West Ham with Derby not quite up to the required standard on the night. West Ham were occupying strategically important areas of the pitch and their second goal was conclusive and clinical. Breaking forward on the wing, Fornals scuttled gingerly into space, running directly at a now rapidly retreating Derby defence before Bowen picked up the ball promptly, crossing low and fiercely towards an onrushing Antonio who simply headed the ball into the net from close range.

So it is that West Ham now travel to Old Trafford for an FA Cup fifth round tie with Manchester United. These two have met in the FA Cup on innumerable occasions. 22 years ago Paolo De Canio nipped in behind an astonished Manchester United defence and Fabien Barthez shot up his arm rather like the kid answering a simple maths equation. United were dumped out of the FA Cup unceremoniously by West Ham. But more immediately West Ham visit St James Park over the weekend for what now has all the makings of a vital Premier League match with Newcastle United. Oh to be a member of the claret and blue club.

Manchester City through to the fourth round of the FA Cup.

 Manchester United are through to the fourth round of the FA Cup.

The FA Cup always delivers tasty morsels of nutritious goodness and when the top two teams in the Premier League arrive in town there is something uniquely delicious and mouth watering to behold. You'd have been forgiven for thinking that this fourth round FA Cup tie was merely an aperitif  before the delectable main meal of the evening. But this was a proper, meaty, gristly and sinewy FA Cup spectacle, one to warm the cockles of any heart.

Arsenal, who appear to have established a firm foothold on the Premier League title race, were bundled out of this year's Cup unceremoniously. It certainly wasn't for the lack of trying and for a while the North London table toppers seemed to be tripping the light fantastic through the City defence with grace and fleet footed dexterity. At the moment Arsenal look ready and primed to launch a sustained assault on the Premier League title, five points ahead of their immediate challengers Manchester City and ready to go again every time questions are asked about their stamina and endurance.

But last night although once again controlled in possession for much of the game, Arsenal were lacking in one or two ingredients, off the pace ever so slightly but nonetheless still overawed by their opponents quality and stature. For City, make no mistake, were full value for their victory over Arsenal and this could well represent the pivotal turning point in the season for them. There is still something inherently stylish and aesthetically pleasing to the eye about City's football that does make you believe that they're still more than capable of winning what would be a hat-trick of Premier League titles. But that's for the future.

It was though Friday night football for these two footballing powerhouses and for those who look at these things from a sober perspective, this was not quite the decisive battle that determines who wins the Premier League. Realistically, Arsenal will keep going with their exceptional, quick passing movements and delicate impulses. This Arsenal look as though they mean business and you'd have loved to have been a fly on the wall of Arsene Wenger's living room. How Wenger would have been overjoyed at the smooth tika taka, one touch football that has so illuminated Arsenal's football this season.

But last night somebody appeared to have switched off the machine for the red shirts of Arsenal. It was clearly malfunctioning and the wheels were in desperate need of oiling. The tightly knit clusters of passes were still there,  close huddles of players on the same compatible wavelength, circling each other around the pitch, interchanging sweetly in close proximity. This was passing of the highest intelligence and the kind of football that the Gunners have revelled in since last August. Then there were the broken lines in City's defence that saw Arsenal flooding into space, players dashing forward at breakneck speed and witha lethal incisiveness.

City though came out for the second half of this Cup tie, flaunting their peacock feathers, the ball moving delightfully between light blue shirts as if swept along by the gentlest of breezes. When City's bright new Academy defender Rico Lewis and John Stones ventured forward into the Arsenal half there were visible signs of anxiety and panic in the Gunners ranks. Then there was the ever graceful Aymeric Laporte aided and abetted superbly by the precise promptings of Rodri, the always accomplished Riyad Mahrez  while Kevin De Bruyne has lost none of his powers of improvisation and that very thoughtful approach to any game.

After a slow and sluggish start City were a joyous attacking force to be reckoned with, matching everything Arsenal had to offer with identical footprints. In fact this was rather like watching a mirror, such were the reflections of the two teams when both had the same ideas as each other. Although the first half had been deeply disappointing now City threw their inhibitions away with the carefree and cavalier football that would now become their template for the rest of the match. 

Once again Jack Grealish was so influential and brilliantly effective for City that you wondered what might have happened had Gareth Southgate had the courage of his own convictions and played him even more frequently than he did in Qatar. Still, Grealish was once again in a class of his own, those thick, muscular legs dribbling past Arsenal players, cutting back on to either feet, then driving through a red wall of players rather like a combine harvester on farmland.

For fleeting moments you were reminded of Paul Gascoigne but then thought Grealish would probably have thought about twice about burning the midnight oil in sleazy nightclubs. Besides, perhaps Grealish detests kebabs and excessive amounts of alcohol. But we'll always adore him for all his faults and foibles. Grealish is a genuine ball player, manipulating the ball tenderly, running at defenders purposefully before drawing a whole succession of fouls and free kicks. This is Grealish at his most sublime and effortless. None can ever take that part of his game away from him.

Suddenly the defensive shield that Rob Holding, Takehiro Tomiyasu, Oleksandr Zinchenko formerly of the City parish were holding, had lost its gleaming lustre. Thomas Partey, Granit Xhaka and Vieira, a familiar name among Arsenal fans were no longer silk or steel in Arsenal's midfield and even Partey looked as if  he wasn't really enjoying this particular contest. Xhaka was still spiky, fesity and combative in the central midfield areas but both Bukayo Saka and Eddie Nketiah, the English pillars of strength and vitality were not quite up to the elevated standards they may have inadvertently set from the start of the Premier League season.

And then it happened. After a brief session of sparring and stretching with the Arsenal defence, City snatched the ball back, maintained possession almost with almost mesmeric insistence. Suddenly a fierce shot from outside the Arsenal penalty area from City rocked back the visitors onto their heels and the ball fell conveniently to Grealish. A slick sequence of touches from City ended up with Grealish. Grealish, with a lovely balance, spun bewilderingly, turned sharply before laying the ball back to the onrushing Nathan Ake and the Dutch defender steered the ball low into the Arsenal net with amazing precision, the ball touching the post on its way in. Arsenal must have had  more important priorities on their mind.

So it was that Manchester City march forward into the fifth round of the FA Cup, convinced that the Double could be far more of a viable proposition than some would have you believe. The hat-trick of the Premier League titles maybe a seductive possibility and for now we will wish them well on their way. Arsenal, for their part, are now revisiting the golden years of Arsene Wenger not quite the Invincibles, but still imagining what could be rather than what might have been. The Gunners of course are firing on all cylinders and are  full steam ahead. Football has never had it so good.

National Compliment Day.

 National Compliment Day.

It's that time of the year again, folks. We're into the final days of January and now would be a good a time as any to be just nice to each other, models of generosity, benevolence and altruism. You've done your good deeds for the year last year and now it's only right that you should go through the whole process again. There are times when we get it horribly wrong and others when everything goes like clockwork, according to plan, clicking seamlessly into place and then tickety boo, a brilliantly executed project that just makes perfect sense.

But now maybe the right time to look at our fellow human being, smile warmly across the office or just next to you and remark on their impeccable dress sense, their flawless conduct, congratulating them perhaps on their fully deserved promotion before buying a round of drinks at the local pub. For today you believe that they're the best company in the world, a credit to their profession, one of the most reliable members of the staff. Go on, you've said it. Thanks for being a loyal colleague, friend, for being there when things got tough and when adversity threatened the harmony of everything.

For today folks it's National Compliment Day. It's a day for showering praise where it's due, making a fuss of those we've always admired and then making as many flattering statements as you can think of. It is strange how we go through our entire lives taking our friends and family for granted, recognising their achievements but never really knowing how to express our simple gratitude. Sometimes it all gets rather mixed up in the chaotic, maddening maelstrom of our busy lives and we just assume they'll always be there.

But compliments are odd emotions. It could be said that as a nation Britain is too modest and self deprecating, humble and unassuming, unwilling to blow our own trumpets and not sure whether now would be the right moment or later on when the mood warrants it. There is an almost stifling reserve and nervous reticence about Britain when it comes to patting somebody on the back and telling them that they're the best thing sliced bread. So we go about our daily business and just hope that that special occasion will crop up eventually.

You're amongst a gathering of family and friends and somebody notices that your hair stands out from the rest of the crowd, an appealing shade of grey and white, neatly combed and just fabulous to behold. Then your neighbour tells you that you've got the finest singing voice this side of Western civilisation, tonsils from heaven. Then your hosts wax lyrical about the magnificent lunch you've put on them for their personal benefit and delectation. Maybe the furniture looks immaculately clean or they just like you for who you are and aren't afraid to tell you so.

Compliments to those we love come quite naturally and easily. We're never going to criticise them when there's no necessity for doing so. It is common knowledge that most women look much younger than they are and age is somehow totally irrelevant. Men, in the company of each other, always trade compliments with each other when their football team win yet again. At that moment they are together, sharing camaraderie, supporting their team and they're the best mates in the whole world.

In the world of male bonding cars play a significant part in their lives. If your friend has suddenly bought a top of the range Land Rover and you've done much the same thing then mutual appreciation can't be avoided. Suddenly men feel a common bond in as much that they've always enjoyed being with you and your tastes are compatible with theirs. So they slap you on the back, compare engines and upholstery before engaging in a discussion about their shared passion for fishing.

Generally speaking though compliments do have to be deserved and worked for. Many of us find it very hard to accept compliments, denying anything in the way of  eulogising and then just being grateful that they were always there for us anyway. They shrug off their contribution in the creation of something new and exciting. They refuse to accept their influential role in any kind of project or event. But you've done exceptionally well and that's a fact. Please take a bow.

Yes Ladies and Gentlemen today is National Compliment Day, a day for being the milk of human kindness, for commenting positively on our kith and kin, the neighbours for being so neighbourly, the children who behaved gloriously when you told them to be quiet and even the world. Sometimes the world gets it spot on, never erring or stepping out of line. So while you're out and about today, you could stop for a moment and tell each other how proud you are of them and you've got a heart of gold. It's still Tuesday afternoon and it's never too late.  

Andy Murray. the Scottish tennis dynamo

 Andy Murray- the Scottish tennis dynamo

You'll never believe this but Andy Murray has done it again. When all the odds were heavily stacked against him and medical opinion had more or less given up on him, Murray stuck the proverbial two fingers up against the doubters and cynics who must have written him off as an ageing has been who should have been playing on the veterans circuit ages ago. The back had gone, the long term injuries were multiplying on a consistent basis and nobody thought he had it in him to stage a sensational comeback. But then something incredible happened deep into the early morning dawn of Melbourne. Good old Andy had lifted the spirits of the nation once again but this time it felt even more special. 

So just before we opened our curtains and blinds- at 4am to be precise- the Dunblane dynamo with the big, wholehearted, totally committed posture and achingly dedicated approach, fought back from the jaws of defeat and found himself in almost familiar territory. He was facing near certain defeat against Australian Thanasi Kokkninakis but then discovered a wondrous second wind and rolled back the years. It was a moment to savour and Murray now joins the illustrious list of players who have also made us  swoon with delight. 

Andy Murray was back on the big stage, a stage many of us thought he would never be able to perform to the same exalted standard as was certainly the case when the Wimbledon men's singles title was captured twice and everything was hunky dory in the world of  Andy Murray. And once again doting and loyal mum Judy was there to witness this truly remarkable exhibition of supernatural stamina, reckless abandon and the kind of endurance that a majority of his devoted fans would probably have felt beyond him.

There is something sport that continues to mystify us, makes us scratch our heads in total bemusement and then just look for some plausible explanation. When his back problems were at their most aggravating and frustrating, quite apart from being draining and physically debilitating, we all thought the retirement home for tennis was beckoning for Murray. Never again would we see the hunger, the insatiable appetite for victory, some felt the brashness and arrogance that used to be associated with him. These were passing emotions and clearly unfair since no other British player had ever come remotely close to matching him.

Yesterday morning in the early morning heat of  Melbourne, fighting back the mental and physical exhaustion that might have taken its toll on Murray, we saw a performance that was so dogged in its determination and defiance that why anybody would have thought he'd falter again at the final hurdle had to be born with scepticism in their hearts. This was Andy Murray at his commanding best, an irresistible force of nature, a bewildering whirlwind, the perfect fusion of guts and rampant ambition.

In one of the most enthralling displays of tennis most of this Australian Open crowd had, quite possibly, ever seen, Murray was all pumped up aggression, devil may care exuberance and intense focus from the opening set to another dramatic five set thriller. At times we thought we were imagining this one because Murray just dug into his old repertoire of sumptuous ground strokes, mighty returns of serve and those devastating forehand winners that fly past opponents like rockets. This was a morning to cherish and just in time for a deservedly recuperative breakfast.

At the end of one astonishing rally of heavy top spin and quite spectacular reflexes, Murray returned fire with fire with breathless returns from the back of the baseline. By the end of the match Murray, who must have been out on his feet by then, just kept going regardless of the early hour of the morning as if time was immaterial. With yet another full blooded return of serve Murray completed a quite mesmerising comeback and his Aussie opponent could hardly believe what he had just seen.

And so it is that this tennis phenomenon, obviously recalling the brilliant Ken Rosewall and Rod Laver who were still playing well into their 30s and late 30s, this was Murray's night. The dodgy back and now fully extended muscles were pleading for the Scotsman to stop. But Murray just rolls on and on into the next round of the Australian Open and just for a minute we too began to think that anything is possible. Watch this space. Murray means business and that's a warning.

World darts- sport or not sport?

 World Darts- sport or not sport.

There was a time when darts used to be dismissed as some riveting pub game played by either your work colleagues after a hard, punishing day at the office or just as some harmless recreation at Sunday lunchtime before tucking ravenously into your traditional roast dinner with all the trimmings. Darts was that diverting past-time of those who had grown totally disillusioned with either snooker or dominoes, possibly shove ha' penny, before downing your Guinness and then checking the day's racing results.

But today marked the end of the Cazoo World Darts Championship at London's most celebrated darts venue Alexander Palace in North London or as it's affectionately known 'Ally Pally'. Now in the usual scheme of things none of us would have batted an eyelid at something that may have been scheduled to take place as normal. Some of us still think of darts as something that normally accompanied bar billiards and a quick pull on those one armed bandit machines that are guaranteed to bring a sardonic smile to your face. What can't be denied is that Michael Smith is the new World Darts champion.

And yet this is the point when all of those tired stereotypes and prejudices creep into your vision and then reinforce your arguments just when somebody tells you that darts should be considered as an Olympic sport. At this point you simply move away from this heated conversation and just accept the status quo even if you still believe that you were right anyway. So you just let the discussion simmer in some small corner of Ally Pally and allow the show to go on.

Almost 50 years ago darts would be compulsive watching on London Weekend TV's World of Sport, almost a definitive signature event sandwiched between horse racing(ITV seven) with John Rickman and Brough Scott and breathtaking cliff diving in Mexico. Then just when you thought you'd seen everything there was to watch, stock car racing, yachting and, quite possibly, caber tossing from Edinburgh. TV sport had reached the lowest levels of childish banality or maybe not depending on your point of view.

 Finally there was the hilarious wrestling from Leeds Town Hall with Jackie Pallo and Giant Haystacks, a spectacle so ridiculous and incomprehensible that many of us thought that the executives at London Weekend Television had lost their minds. Hey, hold on there are some of us who had nothing but admiration for Dickie Davies and my grandpa loved the grapple gang with their outrageous wrestling antics. So it was that we settled down to cast our critical eyes on the kind of TV nonsense we'd ever seen. But if my grandpa had no objections to grown up men lifting each other up into the air and then jumping on them almost naturally then who were to disagree?

In between both wrestling and horse racing darts emerged as a positive breakthrough in televised sport or, perhaps, still pub game. Shortly after the football preview On the Ball with the gentleman who was Brian Moore as presenter, it was darts from somewhere in Manchester, Bolton, Oldham, Preston or Sheffield, Leeds, Wigan and Bradford. The images were quite memorable but according to the cynics, ugly, unbearable, embarrassing and eminently forgettable. The trouble was that nobody could get their heads around darts as a compelling and legitimate sporting occasion. 

But your abiding recollection of darts is that of a lunchtime TV event that represented everything that was both unhealthy, distinctly underwhelming and just lazy, almost slovenly. Here we were watching middle aged men with cigarettes in one hand, several pints of beer in the other and only a steady eye to aid their intense concentration. Somewhere in there was a pub game that just wanted to be fully accepted into the sporting mainstream. Resistance would become futile.

Soon we were treated to the extrovert likes of Eric Bristow, Jocky Wilson, Bobby George and more recently Phil 'The Power' Taylor, men with an insatiable appetite for 181s, bullseyes and then a fixed grin for their rapt admirers. Darts though had become box office, a delightful discovery in the great, athletic world of sport, something to devour your Ploughman's lunch with gleeful relish. For a while it would become a permanent fixture on TV screens and radio, an unavoidable reference point for TV lunchtime viewing.

For ages darts would become engulfed in huge quantities of cigarette smoke, white wisps of nicotine hovering dramatically over a room now seemingly gripped with feverish excitement. Huge crowds of families and fanatical darts enthusiasts would shout and bellow their now relentless enthusiasm. Pints of lager, shorts and gallons of lager would be swallowed down with unashamed enjoyment. Then the men with silk shirts and colourful letters on the back of those shirts would step forward in quite a knowledgeable fashion as if they were about to take a university exam. Now what did those stubborn sceptics know about darts? It was brilliant, marvellously entertaining and what was there not to like about it.

It still seemed though, that darts was regarded as the lowest common denominator, scraping the bottom of a dirty barrel and just dreadful in the extreme. Did the likes of Bristow, George and Wilson realise that this was just a clear example of wasted youth? You could argue that darts involved the simple exertion of bending your index finger back and clutching the said arrow for all it was worth. Then the arm and elbow would be gently lifted in an arduous display of ice cool composure before the arrow would be sharply released into the air and hopefully hit the number 20 in the same spot. 180! What about that Ladies and Gentlemen.

In more recent times darts travelled to the more salubrious suburbs of Essex. In a kind of mass sporting migration the preferred venue of choice was Purfleet and the Circus Tavern just off a busy motorway. Regularly thousands would flock to the Circus Tavern for the main cabaret. Some who might have been offended by this gross parody of sport, this bizarre burlesque in some small corner of deepest Essex, could only hold up their hands in horror.

Still, here we are in the second decade of the 21st century and the slightly unfortunate stigma that has now been attached to darts seems to have all but vanished. Admittedly, it still involves the straightforward act of chucking sharp tipped arrows at a black board with numbers dotted around the board and you still get the same score for hitting whichever part of the board you happen to be aiming at.

But now it's markedly different. The prize money is still obscenely extortionate but now the darts players themselves are sober, more abstemious individuals who just drink Coca Cola or orange juice in between throws. The cigarettes are still there but even then they're hardly noticeable in the general competition of it all. The sponsorship money seems to multiply by hundreds and thousands of pounds every time darts is played but then where would we be without the Cazoo Darts Championships?

So get ready for the World Championships live from Alexander Palace. Yes 'Ally Pally, once the home of BBC TV at its birth, a monument to splendid achievement and groundbreaking invention. Eventually a winner of the World Darts Championship has emerged triumphant but then we'll once again question its sporting credentials because athleticism of one kind or another does seem the major requirement. But please step up to the oche gentlemen, gaze into a numbered board and dream your dreams.

Rishi Sunak- our maths teacher

 Rishi Sunak - our maths teacher.

You must remember them surely. They were the ones who drummed mathematics into your head with such passionate insistence that by the end of the lessons and double lessons you felt emotionally exhausted, on the point of desperation, questioning your sanity and just fed up. Maths lessons at school were quite the most soul destroying experience you'd ever been subjected to, agony and purgatory in one morning or afternoon. It was the most horribly futile exercise, utterly demoralising and a complete waste of time.

And yet over the weekend our latest Prime Minister Rishi Sunak has gone out of his way to remind us of our delicate sensibilities, our hackles raised, annoyance and exasperation being the overriding emotions. The latest from 10 Downing Street headquarters is that Sunak is convinced that if the kids of today knuckled down to the task, rolled up their shirt sleeves and got stuck into Algebra, Logarithms and Algorithms, Pythagoras Theorem and, seemingly complicated mathematical equations, then their lives would be considerably enriched and the benefits would be felt almost immediately.

For all the world, Sunak does come across quite favourably as a man and a highly intelligent individual with natural gifts as an eloquent speaker on most subjects. After the uniquely buffoonish Boris Johnson- which is clearly open to debate and not necessarily everybody's point of view - Sunak is an intellectual giant with much more commonsense and intelligence than Johnson ever had but this is also open to interpretation. Then there was Liz Truss, a decent and well educated woman but a woman who made the wrong decisions at the wrong time and suffered the consequences. We all know what happened to her and that's history.

But the juxtaposition of Johnson and Sunak at the head of Johnson's tenure as Prime Minister was always fascinating and the relationship between the two still polarises Britain whenever we dwell on the past. Johnson was the one who, after only a couple of months after being elected as Prime Minister, was suddenly thrown into the deep end and found himself floundering in raging waters before sinking horribly into an embarrassed oblivion when Covid 19 and its emotional aftermath just swallowed him up.

Now Sunak is in charge at No. 10 Downing Street and all the forces of evil are beginning to conspire against him. He believes, quite rightly or wrongly depending on your point of view that school students should be compelled to take mathematics until that crucial moment when boredom sets in. But hold on, the great academic minds will tell you that the importance of a good, rounded education can never be underestimated and maths is an integral part of that process.

But our Mr Sunak has now suggested that angles, geometry, advanced maths, long division, rows upon rows of figures should dominate our thinking as we grow into adolescence. In fact maths should be made compulsory and he does have a valid point. However, what happens when you find yourself huddled over a book with bewildering numbers and questions that take an age to figure out. Maybe the revisionists are entitled to ask why maths is so absolutely essential.

The professions of accountancy, banking and insurance are of course hugely respected but for somebody who detested sums, tables and graphs, maths represented a world of nightmares and horrific dreams. You can still see your head buried in a state of almost chronic despair, staring vacantly into a book that was just unintelligible and unfathomable. You may just as well have been on some remote desert island or, dare you say it, trying your utmost to sort through the complexities of another language.

Now we know that some of the great economists and maths professors would insist that Sunak is absolutely right but since when did we have to do something that was against our better judgment?  Why should maths be compulsory since there are those who wanted nothing to do with the subject. And therein lies the moral dilemma. Do we take careful note of Sunak's apparently quite patronising preaching or just ignore him as some great academic whose father is a doctor?

We are at the start of a significant year for the Government. This could go either way for the Tories. They have now been in power for thirteen years which as somebody once said memorably and clearly is a long time in politics. The fact is that it isn't because it's a week but that's immaterial. 2023 has got a great deal going for it insomuch as that it marks the beginning of a new era in royal circles. King Charles the third will have his coronation in May and we'll all be proud and respectable citizens.

For Rishi Sunak there lies the enticing prospect of repairing a damaged economy, wading his way through a fuel and electricity crisis this winter. And oh yes there's the matter of a never ending war in Ukraine at the moment which probably fills him with dread. But Sunak knew that was part of the taxing job description so there can be no room for complacency there.

Anyway it's time to settle back in our comforting sofas or spend huge quantities of time on Facebook and Twitter, tapping on your Tablet, e-mailing ad infinitum before surfing as many Internet sites as you can possibly visit. But Rishi Sunak would like us all to go back to school, college or university, swot studiously on the subject of mathematics, get loads of qualifications and then become Chancellor of the Exchequer overnight. Just like that.

 And before you go don't forget to do your homework tonight because you'll be spending all day being tested in the hope that eventually you'll just walk into 11 Downing Street. You've got two hours now so turn over your paper and make sure you pass with flying colours. If you fail you'll be forced to do detention and write a thousand lines. Rishi is watching you Ladies and Gentlemen.

Leicester beat Gillingham in the FA Cup third round and the rest of the results

 Leicester beat Gillingham in the FA Cup third round and the rest of the results.

The FA Cup third round normally starts its journey in the picturesque surroundings of  Middle England where the hanging flower baskets at remote country railway stations seem a million miles away from the industrial heartlands of where it all started over 150 years ago. On Friday Manchester United narrowly beat their Premier League counterparts Everton in the opening exchanges of this year's competition.

They did so because Marcus Rashford, the man who had scored such an outstanding free kick for England against Wales in their World Cup qualifying group in Qatar, terrorised a terrified Everton defence and set up the assist for the own goal that sealed a highly impressive victory for United. They now promptly move into the next round of the FA Cup. Then the FA Cup cranked up its engine for another road trip to chocolate box Kent, the Garden of England where nothing out of the ordinary was expected and this became a self fulfilling prophecy.

Yesterday the good, fine and upstanding citizens of Gillingham put out all of their bunting, adjusted the traditional rosettes and banners in their shop windows, wrapped their scarves around their necks, allowed themselves a moment or two of delusional day dreaming and then woke up again. You can say what you like about the FA Cup but magicians do perform the most astonishing tricks and maybe just maybe this rabbit would jump out of the hat. But not yesterday though. This was one of those FA Cup third round ties that conformed to the norm and nothing even remotely outrageous happened. Gillingham were good and adequate for a while but not for long alas. The Premier League had the last word and that was final.

In fact Gillingham are rock bottom of the Football League and have the most appalling statistics to back it up. You can only assume that their defending is dreadful, perhaps barely evident to the naked eye, their midfield must be a haphazard jumble of young players simply cobbled together to make up the numbers and their strikers - cum wingers were yet to be introduced to each other. But then you realised why this was more or less a desperate mismatch. Leicester must have treated this Cup tie rather like tourists on a leisurely day out in a Saturday market town, knowing where the bargains were and capitalising on their opponents generosity.

Away in one corner the Brian Moore stand, named after the legendary TV football commentator, Gillingham's enthusiastic fans were huddled together in hope rather any lofty ambition. They kept up their defiant cheering, perhaps resigned to their fate more than anything else. In the game's opening stages it did look like the blue shirts were gelling quite effectively, settling down for a comfortable lunchtime of watching the world go by. Gillingham knew their station in life and this was not to be their afternoon.

It would become patently apparent from early on that the gentle and genteel folk from Gillingham would not be destined to earn any of the lucrative riches on offer as a result of a victory over Leicester City. The collective of Robbie Mckenzie, Max Ehmer, William Wright and Cheye Alexander strove mightily to force the issue and intermittently broke the well ordered lines that Leicester had laid down for them. But then David Tutonda and Alex Macdonald began to huff and puff in laborious fashion and the contest was not so much over but simply a figment of Gillingham's imagination. When Shaun Williams, Dom Jefferies, Hakeeb Adelakun and Scott Kashket began to look a threatening force up front, the attacks fizzled out into obscurity.

Slowly but surely the vastly more experienced Premier League club began to exert their dominance on the proceedings. It is hard to believe now that Leicester were Premier League champions several seasons ago and of course won the FA Cup three years ago for the first time in their history. Their football is still easy and pleasing to the eye, captivating at times but there is a sense here that their manager Brendan Rogers has taken them as far as he can. At times their football is indeed as sweet as sugar but then it occurs to you that striker Jamie Vardy is now almost 30 plus and there is something rickety and creaking about Leicester that may just give way if the goals dry up.

Now that Riyad Mahrez, their hugely and gloriously influential is now picking up Premier League titles with Manchester City for fun, the midfield engine room is spluttering, the machinery malfunctioning  and it all looks as if Leicester may have had their one moment in the sun. At the moment the team who play at the King Power Stadium are beginning to look like the team who used to play at Filbert Street. Still, after a session of trampolining between the top flight and the second tier, Leicester do look stable and cohesive. And yet mid table security seems perhaps their only realistic ambition.

A less celebrated Leicester took to the Priestfield with every confidence and purpose in their hearts while never underestimating their League two opponents. Jannik Vestergaard, Caglar Soyuncu, Kasey McAteer and the ever dependable Marc Allbrighton joined forces skilfully and efficiently in midfield with pedantically precise passing to feet while further forward Nampalys Mendy, the cultured Youri Tielemans and Ayoze Perez  was nimble and quick witted up front. Occasionally though Perez did flatter to deceive though although his direct running and speed of thought had much to commend it.

Finally though Leicester found a vital chink in the Gillingham defensive armour. There was something leaking in their porous back four and the visitors toppled over the Kent team's last line of resistance. From one of many sustained breaks into the Gillingham half, the ball settled at Leicester feet. Lewis Brunt, one of a clutch of ambitious youngsters at Leicester, flashed the ball across the Gillingham six yard box and eventually the ball bobbled kindly for Kelechi Iheanacho who slammed the ball low and hard into the net.

So the pretty garden of Kent will now revert to tending their lovingly preserved allotment sites. Gillingham will return to their painful relegation struggles at the bottom of the League and Leicester will attempt to climb the heady heights of the FA Cup mountain top. The FA Cup, in all its endearing innocence, had opened its often stark class divisions once again and Leicester will be grateful for what they have. We do salute Gillingham though.  

FA Cup third round rumbles into view

 FA Cup third round rumbles into view.

In the days when the FA Cup was all about public schools, universities and those with few pretensions to Wembley Cup glory, the world game was still finding its feet.  Now though the oldest and still the most highly respected Cup competition in the world is still oozing animal magnetism, timeless popularity, vastly appealing to the romantics and idealists, still clinging onto the last vestiges of old time nostalgia when the rattles and rosettes that once decorated the 1950s, 60s and 70s were symbolic reminders of what the FA Cup meant to the whole of England.

We may have come a long way since the Royal Engineers, the Old Etonians, the Old Carthusians, while Oxford and Cambridge still took a very genuine interest in a predominantly working class game. Now the game has moved on since the iconic old Wembley once groaned and creaked painfully in the first FA Cup Final between Bolton Wanderers and West Ham United in 1923. The Wembley Arch now stretches across North London like some spiritual sign and the protagonists now seemed to consist of players from South America, France, Italy, Germany, Africa, South Africa, the United States of America, Australia, Spain and Senegal. The game is wholly cosmopolitan and multi cultural, full of ethnic diversity and rightly racially intolerant.

This weekend the FA Cup third round arrives on football's doorstep rather like an old school friend who keeps attending the same reunion over and over again. Football's hierarchies and class distinctions have always struck an awkward note when the Premier League season becomes the only consideration. And yet the FA Cup becomes football's ultimate level playing ground, non judgmental, somehow impartial and never knowingly accepting that underdogs should ever be considered inferior.

The whole concept of giant killing heroism, fairy tale romanticism, the wonderfully unexpected, the truly unconventional still gives the FA Cup just a sprinkling of stardust. The gallery of heroes from yesteryear are still woven into the fabric of the game, like a dinner jacket in high society. There was  Yeovil, Leatherhead, Sutton United, Hereford United and the usual suspects who were never meant to be in the third round of the FA Cup, uninvited guests, impostors, interlopers, strangers, peasants, plebeians, the underclass, the chimney sweeps rather than the earls and dukes.

Then there was Ipswich Town, then in the old First Division who were supposed to be just country yokels from Suffolk with combine harvesters and tractors as singular evidence of their rustic status. And yet how insulting that must have sounded when Ipswich visited the old Wembley for the first time in 1978. When they came face to face with high flying Arsenal there could only have been one script. But when Roger Osbourne, exhausted and emotional, scored the winning goal for the Tractor Boys your belief had been suspended and it almost seemed the unthinkable had happened. Over the weekend Rotherham stand in the way of Ipswich in the third round of the Cup.

Five years earlier Bob Stokoe's gallant Sunderland in those dizzying red and white stripes came to Wembley and dared to challenge the finest in the land. Don Revie's Leeds were overwhelming favourites in the 1973 FA Cup Final  so much so that the bookies simply stopped taking bets. Then the sadly late Ian Porterfield trapped the ball adeptly on his thigh from a Billy Hughes corner and the orange ball billowed the net for the game's opening goal and subsequently winning goal.

Of course there had been the warmly companionable and ever cheerful Alec Stock with his valiant Yeovil in 1948. The Somerset club must have felt like sinister intruders who were simply kicked out of the Garrick gentleman's club for wearing the wrong tie. Sunderland had top flight football stature, impeccable pedigree and were expected to make mincemeat of their non League opposition. You can probably guess the next sentence. Sunderland were bundled out of the FA Cup unceremoniously. The giants had been toppled from the loftiest of perches.

So what about this weekend's FA Cup third round. This season the FA Cup will somehow feel  traditionally British and yet played against a recent backdrop of an exotic World Cup. Argentina's unforgettable World Cup Final victory over France before Christmas gives the game an even richer lustre and social cachet. The FA Cup trophy in May throws football into a much sharper relief, spoilt beyond reason and yet ready for another glittering cabaret before the main act. 

The one stand out tie is quite obviously the one between Manchester City and Chelsea which might have graced another May Cup Final rather than the third round. Here are two fashionably attractive Premier League sides one in hot pursuit of leaders Arsenal and the other breathing hot and cold. City are Marlon Brando's contenders chasing the Arsenal bone while Chelsea are still recovering from the shock of losing Roman Abramovich as chairman but still in a genuine hunt of silverware.

At Gillingham's Priestfield Stadium very little of significance has ever taken place. But when they face Premier League Leicester City, the FA Cup will have an infinite repertoire of tricks up its sleeve. Spurs, who once won the Double of the Cup and League in 1961, were always the flashy sophisticates, push and run as demonstrated so masterfully in the days of Arthur Rowe and Bill Nicholson. Portsmouth, of course won the FA Cup in 2008 in one of the strangest and most improbable of Cup Finals against Cardiff City. 

Once again Boreham Wood of the non League are knocking on the door of the FA Cup's country estates. They meet Accrington Stanley, the team once immortalised by Ian Rush, once Liverpool striker in a TV milk advertisment, a tie that surely has a dastardly sting in its tail. Blackpool, who once captured all of our hearts in the 1953 FA Cup Final with Sir Stanley Matthews elusive Cup winners medal, come face to face with Nottingham Forest who came agonisingly close to winning the competition for only the second time. But even Brian Clough, the game's great psychologist, couldn't understand the Cup conundrum. When Spurs beat Forest in the 1991 Wembley spectacle, Forest subconsciously threw in the towel of surrender, settling for victory over Luton in the 1959 Final.

And finally there are those now familiar faces in the third round of the FA Cup. Little Stevenage will take on Aston Villa at Villa Park. Villa have similarly been starved of FA Cup success over the years and the Hertfordshire club will go into the match believing that the impossible could still morph into the realms of dreamland. You somehow think otherwise but then presumptuousness can often leave the messiest egg on everybody's faces. Preston against Huddersfield sounds like one of those old fashioned Cup ties where black and white images are accompanied by boggy, muddy pitches, baggy shorts and the heaviest of boots.

Wherever you may be going over this weekend's FA Cup fairground be sure to brace yourself for the dramatic, sudden, the occasional bout of hiccups and who saw that one coming. Liverpool, the Cup holders won't have it all their way at all against fellow Premier League counterparts Wolves. At three o'clock, five in the evening and either Sunday or Monday, the bugles will be calling and once again the bandwagon will trundle into action yet again, the non League confronting their allegedly haughty superiors. Let the show begin.