John Motson, another broadcasting legend passes.

 John Motson, another broadcasting legend passes.

Now that's a shock to the solar plexus, a deeply upsetting piece of news, secretly dreaded. It may feel like the end of a generation since none of us could see it coming and we're shocked beyond belief. Within the space of a couple of days, two of Britain's most lovable and hugely revered TV sports broadcasters have passed away and their legendary presence with it. Firstly it was the inimitable Dickie Davies who graced our Saturday lunchtimes and afternoons and now John Motson who filled the late night slot on our Saturday nights so gracefully and uncomplainingly.

This morning we discovered that the gloriously accurate, immensely well informed and hugely knowledgeable John Motson had passed and the world of football bowed a mournful head, lamenting the passage of an unforgettable period of time that spanned almost the entirety of the 1970s, all of the 1980s before winding down into splendid retirement towards the end of the 20th century. How time flies when you're having fun.

John Motson was our tour guide through childhood and adolescence. He took us on a joyous roller coaster of footballing drama, melodrama, bathos, pathos and an endless sequence of statistics and more statistics. But did that bother us? Not in the least. Motson, or 'Motty' as he was affectionately known, was a football encyclopedia, fully equipped with the simple facts, the important commentaries, the telling observations, dates, birthdays and anniversaries without which we wouldn't have known where players came from or how old they were.

To the uninitiated, Motson may have come across as the proverbial anorak but this was far from the case. John Motson was a conscientious compiler of the obscure and the arcane but then the topical and wonderfully significant. He once claimed that modern technology was probably not for him and that the yellow post it notes on his clipboard were far more legible than Google could ever provide him with. Motson was a good, old fashioned traditionalist, far more comfortable with old school practicalities than those new-fangled website complexities.

And yet it almost didn't happen for Motson. After serving his commendable apprenticeship on the local newspaper circuit and then, most satisfyingly, the radio, Motson joined Match of the Day at exactly the right time and almost as if fate had ordained it to be. It was the match of the weekend, the competition of that weekend, the stars were aligned, the moon in the correct position and everything was ready and prepared for the Salford born sports journalist.

On the Saturday of the third round of the FA Cup in February 1972, John Motson was assigned the match between Hereford United and Newcastle United. At a heaving, seething, throbbing Edgar Street, pulses were racing, blood pressures soaring and Motson was the calming, emollient influence. Dressed in what would become his trademark sheepskin coat and jaunty cap, the nation held its breath. It was almost as if the history books were ready and waiting, the intervention of the incredible about to happen.

The Edgar Street pitch, now more appropriately suited to growing cabbages and beetroots rather than football, came wondrously to life. Newcastle, high flying in the old First Division and Malcolm Macdonald full of stocky, red blooded aggression up front for the Toon, were level pegging with non League outfit Hereford and who could have possibly believed what would happen next? Hereford United, all plucky spirit and determined defiance of the odds, stopped the world on its axis and a nation leapt for joy with delighted impartiality.

Hereford had two icons and ready made newspaper back page heroes, Roy of the Rovers giant killers. The FA Cup had never seen anything like it for years and decades. The last time the non League had captured our imaginations was when Yeovil, under the shrewd guidance of Alec Stock, beat top flight Sunderland in 1948. Surely we were imagining this but we weren't. Non league Hereford had beaten top flight Newcastle. But the man responsible for breaking this sensational news upon a flabbergasted Britain was John Motson.

Two men Ronnie Radford, who also died recently, accompanied by Ricky George in the Hereford white shirts masterminded the finest Cup upset at the beginning of the 1970s. Up in the commentary box a new, fledgling BBC football commentator was oiling his vocal chords. The story, as Motson told us, afterwards, was that had it not been for that Cup tie then maybe we would never have been privileged to  recognise this very distinctive sporting voice. 'Motty' insisted that Hereford against Newcastle was the pivotal turning point in his blossoming career. 

With minutes to go, Radford, an opportunist striker and sensing his opportunity, picked up a beautifully executed pass to him that must have bobbled about for ever on the muddiest pitch. Radford, taking aim precisely, fired an unstoppable shot past the Newcastle keeper and mayhem ensued. Hundreds and thousands of passionate Hereford fans flooded onto the Edgar Street pitch and you've probably seen the same archive footage a million times on FA Cup Final days that followed.

A star was born and John Motson would continue to exercise a most profound influence on the Beautiful Game with a whole host of Match of the Day commentaries every Saturday night, numerous League and FA Cup Finals, UEFA Cup Finals, European Cup matches and a whole host of Charity Shields and League Cup Finals. Motson was a mine of verbal superlatives and fascinating facts once referring to Wimbledon football club as the Crazy Gang and Liverpool as the Culture Club shortly after the 1988 FA Cup Final between Liverpool and Wimbledon had finished. Wimbledon had beaten Liverpool, the most stunningly improbable of all FA Cup Final results. 

At the 1984 European Championships, Motson was the one who screamed elatedly when Michel Platini had scored the winning goal in the Final itself. There was also the amusing moment when Motson would state that, for the benefit of those who still had black and white TVs, Spurs were in the yellow shirts. The statements of the obvious became Motson's signature themes.

By the mid 1990s, a new crop of football commentators were emerging. Sky had the reliable Martin Tyler and ITV had the combined forces of Clive Tyldesley and latterly Sam Matterface while Guy Mowbary, Jonathan Pearce, and Steve Wilson are now football's main reference points. Motson had now taken a back seat on Talk Sport, and then there was a return to his roots but in slightly more controversial territory for a man who might have preferred the more tried and tested formula of BBC's Match of the Day.

But John Motson had several strings to his bow. During the summer the mellifluous Salford tones of Motty would warm the radio airwaves at the tennis pageant that is Wimbledon. From time to time there were occasional forays into boxing, frequent contributions to football magazines and then unannounced pilgrimages to Barnet football club. Nothing could diminish the Motson appetite for the carefully crafted phrase, the magical bon mots and the comment we knew he'd make.

Motson's loyal colleague and good friend Barry Davies, now another classic set of footballing tonsils, you suspect, is probably weeping copiously into his morning cup of espresso or cafe au lait. Both shared commentary duties for what seemed like an age and Davies will be echoing the sentiments of many of us. John Motson has died. It hardly seems possible but it's true. We'll miss you deeply John.

Dickie Davies passes

 Dickie Davies passes

It almost feels as if somebody has turned off the lights, turned down the volume and simply bid farewell to a singular generation in our lives. This is not to suggest that we're in the land of catastrophe but nothing will ever seem quite the same anymore. We're renowned for our toughness and resilience. Nothing can ever faze us because we're more than capable of finding another TV sports broadcaster to focus on for our hero worship. The trouble is that we may never find another quite like him.

A couple of days ago Dickie Davies, he of the distinctively black moustache and ultimately grey streak in his hair, died at the grand old age of 94. To say we were devastated and heartbroken would be a gross exaggeration but when you've followed the career of an articulate, well respected TV presenter from the 1970s it seems as if the world has now moved on and nostalgia for the past provides a soothing antidote to the way things used to be.

Every Saturday lunchtime though Davies would clasp his fingers and hands together, smile genially at the camera for what seemed like the best part of five hours and speak in that very confessional and sincere voice that most of us had come to expect. He would never frown with sanctimonious disapproval  at the corruption that may have infected an Olympic Games or the five iron wedge shot on a golf course nor would he snigger at what might have seemed the frequent frivolities that would accompany the Saturday national treasure that was World of Sport.

For World of Sport was the weekly Saturday helping of sport and entertainment that without fail would veer from the sublime to the ridiculous. It would wend its way through lunchtime and then into afternoon before ending with the classified football results at roughly five o'clock in the evening. But before then World of Sport had encompassed some of the most bizarre, ridiculous but also professional sides of sport.

Just as most of us were wolfing down our final cup of coffee at lunchtime and heading off to Highbury, Old Trafford, Maine Road, Goodison Park, White Hart Lane or Upton Park, Dickie Davies would sit in front of a camera patiently. Behind him, women wearing brown tabards would type away industriously at those now old fashioned typewriters with all of the relevant information on the day's sport, be they football results, tennis confrontations, the household names of sport and the lesser known characters who brought such colour and personality into the tumultuous decade that was the 1970s.

Dickie Davies was the man who did his utmost to keep a straight face when the production team on World of Sport told him that he had to introduce caber tossing from Edinburgh, cliff diving from Mexico and stock car racing from some dusty track in Middle England. Then on a more serious level he would roll out those dulcet tones that would invariably precede the late Prince Philip's carriage driving, the occasional tug of war contest, weightlifting, badminton, cross country running through thick layers of mud and of course darts followed swiftly by the snooker. 

But before Davies went any further he had to be at his most polished and earnest before handing over to the legendary Brian Moore, one of the many founding fathers of  TV football. There had hitherto been very limited exposure of the Beautiful Game. We had watched BBC's Saturday night diet of football with Match of the Day taking pride of place. But then football slotted seamlessly into ITV's somewhat empty sporting schedule. Moore was a friendly, smiling, deeply enthusiastic and measured TV commentator who captured both the energy and vibrancy of 1970s football with those dramatic turns of phrase and emphasis on excitement.

Dickie Davies though was always a safe hand on the tiller and how apposite that must have sounded to many of his viewers. For Davies previous job before becoming the familiar face of TV sport on a Saturday afternoon, was as a ship's purser and entertainment's officer aboard cruise liners.Then he was known as Richard Davies but when he climbed onto dry land in the late 1960s, the commercial channel known as London Weekend Television summoned him to ITV land before choosing Dickie Davies as the new presenter of World of Sport.

Before long he would become established as the almost elegant and refined figure of international sport. Davies was never wayward or erratic, clumsy or accident prone, a man who religiously stuck to the script and was always word perfect with impeccable timing. He would charm his audience with witty references, humorous remarks and a mischievous twinkle in his eye when he had to announce the latest misdemeanour from John Mcenroe, a chuckle on the exploits of the wondrously lovable Jackie Pallo in the wrestling ring and general delight in any sport that had to be relayed to the World of Sport audience.

There were those memorable Christmas editions when all inhibitions and formalities were temporarily discarded only to be replaced by fun and laughter. Yesterday's obituaries to Davies included the famous World of Sport festive offering featuring Eric Morecambe in typical wisecracking form. While desperately trying to present another item on the programme, our Dickie would be reduced to gales of giggles as Eric Morecambe went right up to Davies face and made all manner of glorious observations on the Davies moustache.

In later years Davies would be consigned to the after dinner circuit with regular requests to host charity events, a brief stint on a Sky sports quiz show before full time retirement in a quaint country home beckoned and everybody simply recognised him as that wonderful TV sports presenter from a long time ago. Sadly Davies suffered lengthy spells of serious illness during the 1990s and would never return to the limelight again.

Today we lament the passing of a TV legend, a man who never took life too seriously and always saw the brighter side of life. With the demise of both BBC's Grandstand and then World of Sport Saturday afternoons remind you of an old, neglected building falling into horrible decay. But we still remember Dickie Davies, the warmly charming gentleman who would always remain splendidly impartial when asked which football team he supported or who his favourite sportsman or woman was. So it's Good Afternoon and Evening everybody from Dickie Davies. Saturday afternoon sport will now become a sporting wasteland without you. 

Spurs against West Ham- North London meets East in local derby.

 Spurs against West Ham - North London meets East in local derby.

This weekend you'll probably go out into your back garden, watch the first wintry buds of the traditional roses and then wander back into your kitchen for a lengthy perusal of either the tabloid newspapers or the broadsheets in the hope of finding some good news. The chances are that you'll find nothing of any significance that will lift your spirits because it's all very bleak, depressing and negative. It'll be another litany of wars, missing women, an NHS at breaking point again and just general tittle tattle designed to make you feel as though the world has lost its moral compass.

But tomorrow marks the latest instalment of one of football's oldest of all confrontations. It's a match up of two ferocious enemies, long standing antagonists, two teams separated by just a couple of miles across London but sworn enemies on the heaving terraces of the Premier League. The fans just can't stand each other and the sooner the contest is over the better. The trouble is that it's all very petty, geographically inexplicable and yet it's still a local London derby. For years these two teams have been thrown together into combat twice over the course of a season and that just sticks in the craw. Not them again, they may cry.

Tottenham Hotspur will come face to face with West Ham United, a match so laced with poison, bad blood and virulent vitriol that if the game finishes in a victory for either one of them, there are likely to be horrendous repercussions. Industrial language, insulting remarks, four lettered expletives will fill the North London air and grudges will be carried for the entire season. There will be bitterness on a very personal scale, raging resentment and lingering threats to each other's welfare. It'll all be frighteningly petty and vindictive, two marauding armies who simply want to conquer their territories.

But tomorrow's Premier League conflict between Spurs and West Ham will once again be loaded with almost unbearable tension, laced with poisonous chemicals and just charged with a crackling electricity. It was always like this and for some of us unfamiliar with the history of this fixture it really shouldn't be this way.

 Spurs of course are based on the North side of London and West Ham on the east so surely never the twain shall meet. And yet for reasons that may become abundantly clear one day, there is no love lost between the two. Maybe something untoward happened a long time ago and the two local gangs fell out permanently over something both trivial and unnecessary. There will be a moment after tomorrow's needle match when some of us may be wondering why Spurs and West Ham fans have always been at loggerheads with each other. You can now see two feuding neighbours who have never seen eye to eye with each other hurling abuse without a hint of  reconciliation.

Strictly speaking, this should be just a straightforward London derby with little in the way of animosity. The real deal happens when Spurs meet the noisy North London neighbours Arsenal. For almost as long as one can remember these two North London powerhouses have gone toe to toe with each other, willingly trying to beat each other out of sight. In fact so well entrenched is the hostility that some of the more better behaved of supporters simply can't wait for the referee's final whistle to blow.

Local derbies across Britain have always been synonymous with the unsightly side of the game, an ugly blight on the landscape. Tomorrow a vast majority of Spurs supporters will do their utmost to make the lives of the opposition fans as uncomfortable and distressing as possible. They'll head towards the exit at Tottenham tomorrow and rush back to the warmth and security of family, fearing a whole sequence of pitched battles, violence outside on the high streets and wailing police sirens to follow.

The most celebrated regional local derbies are mostly good- natured but still spicy, fast and furious and exposing perhaps the most tribal tensions between the two protagonists. Liverpool and Everton, the Merseyside derby is all very jovial, teasing and taunting in its content but still fiercely contested and quite divisive in its way. Whole families on the Anfield side of Liverpool will bombard their Everton neighbours with malicious comments and salty slogans that none of them would ever utter in private.

Further down the East Lancs Road, Manchester United and City have always tried to avoid each other in the same street, shopping centre or pub. When City were relegated from the old First Division by United in the last match of the 1974-75 season you could hardly hear a pin drop. Denis Law, who had graced the Old Trafford turf for longer than he might have cared to remember, cheekily back heeled the winning goal past United keeper Alex Stepney and his face registered nothing. United were demoted to the old Second Division and the noisy neighbours could take a warped pleasure in United's misfortune.

Then in a memorable FA Cup semi final between Liverpool and Everton in 1977. Then nine years later the two Manchester conurbations were pitted together in the 1986 FA Cup Final. Both Ian Rush and Kenny Dalglish were the main tormentors in chief in an enthralling, end to end game. But a Merseyside derby is not for the faint hearted, a bloodthirsty conflict where tackles come in thick and fast with ruthless brutality.

But tomorrow it'll all get extremely heated, lively, feisty, fearsome and deeply unnerving. Some of the more hardened pacifists will be dreaming of an honourable draw. For Spurs, Antonio Conte and company this will represent not only a make or break point in their season while West Ham will be desperately hoping that Spurs have another off day. Last week Tottenham went to Leicester and were confronted by a hungry pack of Foxes, the 4-1 victory for Leicester reminding the North London side once again of brittle vulnerabilities in the Spurs defence. 

So let the local derby pick up its bayonets, blunderbuss and flintlock and bear arms. West Ham face the daunting knowledge that if they do lose tomorrow at Spurs the spectre of relegation becomes a very real possibility. Some claret and blue observers are familiar with this scenario and sadly the pattern of events is utterly predictable.You do begin to wonder where West Ham will find the minimum 40 point target now almost essential for survival in the Premier League. Spurs have no such problems and the season has now been defined by singular underachievement. They will of course finish in respectable comfort in the Premier League but not quite the Tottenham their fans would have preferred.

Little Darvel exit the Scottish Cup.

 Little Darvel exit the Scottish Cup

Deep in the heart of Ayrshire in Scotland, little, humble and unpretentious Darvel of Scottish football's sixth tier were given their marching orders and told to leave this year's competition. Their brief flirtation with fame and celebrity status was over for another year and football's romantics and sweethearts waved a tearful farewell to the underdogs, the unheralded ones, the unnoticed part timers and the ones who would otherwise have received no recognition on the weekend's back pages.

Throughout recent decades Scottish football has played out against a bleak landscape of utter mediocrity and has now remained outside the mainstream of the world game for far too long for its own good. It is now over a quarter of a century since last Scotland took part in a World Cup and since then the void has been a hollow and embarrassingly empty one. True they did rub shoulders with the big boys at Euro 2020 and the goal-less draw with losing finalists England did represent some semblance of a minor achievement but even that game now seems no more than a minor feat in the much bigger picture of things.

Celtic have almost monopolised the top flight of Scottish football because their fierce rivals Rangers have either been penalised for fraudulent activities or just relegated to the lowest of leagues. Now though the Glasgow heavyweights are still going head to head with each other at the top of the Scottish Premier League. Celtic, inevitably it seems, are nine points clear and the tartan hordes who wear the traditional green and white hoops are staring down on their hot pursuers Rangers, nostrils flaring, breathing heavily down each other's shoulders and privately suspecting that they could be poised to win the Scottish Premier League for what would seem like the millionth time.

But last night Darvel, in a small corner of their Recreation Park, huddled together in the wintry setting of a Monday evening, clapping their hands together in unison and cheering from the rafters. Now most of us that none of us would ever have heard of Darvel since they had never remotely troubled the elite of British football and besides, had they lost last night's match, then they would have been quickly forgotten. But this was a giant killing on a quite modest scale because the gap between Darvel and Falkirk is a yawning chasm.

At the end Darvel's snug and intimate terraces, applauded their team as if they had actually won a Cup. In the end, a crowd of roughly 2,750 crammed tightly into their beautifully claustrophobic ground. By the 90th minute, Falkirk had soundly beaten their sixth tier opponents and the 5-1 scoreline probably told its own story. How dare did these bold upstarts from the lower orders of football's obvious hierarchy, come to challenge their so called superiors. In the previous round of the Scottish cup they had dumped high flying Aberdeen from the competition so this may not have been entirely unexpected.

But last night proved once again that even the happiest of fairy tales can end up with the saddest ending. Now Darvel return to the domestic bread and butter of their sixth Scottish division. There they will be once again be confronted with the likes of Airdrie, Alloa, Queen of the South, Clyde and Peterhead. It'll almost seem like a re-acquaintance with the harsh realities of football life, a sharp reminder of where they were before Cup glory came knocking on their door.

For those with a nostalgic turn of mind, the names of Airdrie, Alloa, Queen of the South, Clyde and Peterhead almost sound like a throwback to the days of when football pools coupons always ended with these unfashionable minnows and hidden away in the dark corridors of the game. And yet football has always needed teams like Darvel because Darvel are synonymous with everything at football's grassroots level. They seek negligible publicity, somehow resigned to their fate in the backwaters of the game. But Darvel are vitally important to the game, football's throbbing heartbeat, essential to the game's overall development since without their like Scottish football may never aspire to the loftier heights. Celtic and Rangers had better beware of sleeping giants. They may wake up one day.

TV advertisements

TV  advertisements

Remember the days when TV advertisements were something that would never be forgotten. They had a distinctive theme to them, varying shades of wholesome originality, imagery and symbolism that remained in your subconscious for months and years. You'd walk into school, university or work whistling the tune, humming the melody and then realising that your colleagues or friends were imitating you and you weren't the only one. So you indulged yourself in that fantastic moment when everybody around you couldn't help but join in.

In the pioneering USA they were creating soap opera masterpieces from whence came the expression of the soap opera. On the screen would appear Camay's Soap followed by Palmolive Soup and an iconic signature tune of our lives had suddenly entered our subconscious. TV ads have been around for seemingly ages, decades, time frames that simply can't be measured. They are always jolly and frivolous, brief, short but sweet but meaningful and profound, baffling and cryptic quite recently. And yet we just can't get enough of the traditional advert, a ringing endorsement of everything commercial, food, drink, furniture, cars, holidays, free offers and, perhaps, quite disturbingly, sports betting in recent times. 

From the moment ITV was born on the 22nd September 1955, the advert has entered our soul, something subliminally at the back of our mind. On that momentous day, the first ever British TV advert was for toothpaste. Naturally. It could hardly have been anything else since the brushing of teeth is either a daily, morning or late night ritual which happened every day. For the first time those dynamic advertising executives could never have imagined the resounding impact TV advertising would have on the whole of Britain.

SR Gibbs was a minty- flavoured nugget of chloride gold. So here's how it goes. Find a large ice cube and then a tube of SR Gibbs toothpaste before incorporating the message of white, gleaming teeth, golden gnashers, munching molars, combine the two memorable themes and you'll never go wrong. And that was the catalyst for a brand new generation of consumers and shoppers at home who could now see what they were buying and not be afraid to add to the shopping basket because TV thought it might be the best idea in the world.

So from toothpaste on ITV everything became available, neatly packaged, seductively presented in lovely wrappers, boxes and bunches, merchandise you simply couldn't resist because it somehow looked stunningly attractive. During those early days of the mid 1950s it was very much a learning curve for TV but then the men and women in suits gathered around their tables, figured out a way of capturing a captive audience, the perfect demographic and the market who couldn't wait to rush out of their homes and hit the supermarkets.

Suddenly we were bombarded with adverts for chocolates, thousands and millions of brands of chocolate, bars of chocolate coated with cholesterol and at the time, pretty good for you. Then the 21st century arrived and told us to stop stuffing our faces with any kind of chocolate since they were guaranteed to put several stones on us, making us overweight, bloated and deeply uncomfortable. So you developed a guilty conscience for even thinking of chocolate.

The brands became domestically familiar and wonderfully tempting. There were hundreds of ads for Milky Way, Mars, Dairy Milk, dark chocolate, Fry's Turkish Delight, boxes of chocolates and then the elaborate advertising campaign. One day somebody thought it might be a good idea to use a James Bond style to promote their chocolate so here's the deal.

Here's what you do. Find a dashing, dapper, fearless stuntman, dress him in black, give him a set of knives and then a balaclava to disguise his appearance. One of the main stipulations for the advert is that you wait until late at night. Cue advert. A man in black starts running before diving into shark infested waters, climbing up what looked like thick and taut ropes before ultimately ending up in a woman's bedroom. This is where things get very intriguing. He produces from his hand a box of Black Magic chocolates carefully placing the box on the bedside table next to a lamp where the woman can see them quite clearly.

In a sense boxes of chocolates tap into the innermost recesses of romanticism, a reward after a candlelit meal for two, a way of expressing our enduring love for our sweetheart. But chocolates weren't the only vehicle for our attentions. Advertisers hit upon a whole series of warm, reassuring family oriented campaigns. Besides we were hungry and our appetites had been whetted for a good, old fashioned evening meal in the living room or kitchen. We knew we just had to watch this classic piece of advertising because it was out there and ready to be bought on impulse.

The Oxo meat cube advert became an almost cultural institution that still brings back pleasant memories of our childhood. The mother of the family the late British actress Linda Bellingham would relish gathering her nearest and dearest around the dinner table and tell a delightful story about the archetypal family of four. Here the main discussions of the day would revolve around the kind of day they'd had. It was a simple but effective format. And we were enchanted because we could identify with who they were and their lifestyles.

Before you knew there were adverts for DIY, hammers, Black and Decker saws, chisels, kitchen pots and pans, crockery and cutlery and of course fish fingers. Who could ever forget them? Captain Birds Eye was a deliberate attempt to persuade us into thinking that a man with a thick white beard and a naval outfit would be sufficient to make fish fingers irresistible. There were adverts for fridges, toasters, blenders, biscuits and cakes, lawnmowers, hundreds of different brands of toothpaste, soap and windows with men in helicopters being lowered down to double glazing windows.

And then there were the legendary adverts that still induce gales of laughter whenever we think of them. During the 1970s potatoes were given a whole new dimension. For years we wouldn't have thought twice about filling our heaving trolleys  with spuds, big bags, huge quantities of spuds. What we hadn't bargained for was that potatoes would come as readily made mashed varieties. One day we were confronted with what looked like very weird and bizarre space age aliens or creatures with funny voices. Then there was the punchline and strapline. FOR MASH GET SMASH. It was an ad that would capture our imagination for ever more.

Who remembers the most famous commercial product of them all? At the beginning of the 1970s our celebrated advertisers were looking for a way of glamorising the world's favourite drink with a globally uplifting theme to it. Hundreds of children and adults were summoned to this vast field in the middle of nowhere and then told that they had to promote Coca Cola, extolling its virtues with some of the cleverest lyrics imaginable. Soon we were teaching the world to not only drink Coca Cola but drink it in perfect harmony. Absolute genius.

Then there were the multitude of car advertisements. Now most car ads are always accompanied by swanky sports cars, perfectly streamlined cars and huge Land Rover cars that had to be filmed in the same location. Before you knew it cars of all shapes and sizes would be seen roaring around winding country lanes at the speed of sound, meandering hillsides, sprinting around tight corners, through muddy quagmires, bumping over ruts, gliding past mountainsides, hairpin bends and chicanes. Then back in the car showroom our managing director would convince us that the said car was full value for money.

Finally there were the unforgettable cinema adverts before our favourite film which continue to weave their magical spell over us. Now there were the beautifully photographed adverts of perfumes, after shave  lotions and anti perspirants that had vivid images of muscular men swimming oceans and climbing cliffsides before claps of thunder and forks of lightning would light up the cinema screen. 

Banks and building societies advertisements have been abundant throughout the ages. But the one that shows a whole procession of horses galloping together across beaches and fields is one that will live in the memory. It is an advert for a major high street bank and the financial ad market still figures prominently in our minds every time we head for our local shopping centre. So don't forget. The next time you switch on your TV and find an extensive ad sequence for hair gel or shampoo. It's for your amusement and benefit. You'll never get a better offer.

Harry Kane- record breaking Spurs goal scorer

 Harry Kane- a record breaking Spurs goal scorer.

Over the weekend Spurs striker Harry Kane broke the record of immortal Spurs goal machine Jimmy Greaves. There are times when you can only  admire the phenomenal feats achieved by the man who, in some cases, has to plough a lone furrow up front for his club. A striker for any club spends most of the match wandering, wondering, roaming, hunting and then pouncing hopefully for his bumper crop of goals. Occasionally he simply hangs around penalty areas like somebody on their own waiting for a late night train in the hope that it does eventually thunder out of the tunnel and ends up on the platform.

For Harry Kane the successful conquest of scoring more goals than any of his recent predecessors must have the sweetest taste of them all. In recent decades Kane has surpassed the highly regarded likes of Steve Archibald and Garth Crooks. During the 1970s the legendary Martin Chivers and Alan Gilzean became idolised for the simple act of hitting the back of the net with commendable frequency. Most forwards are judged somewhat unfairly for either their technical prowess or natural ability. When it does all fit together seamlessly the devoted fans chant their songs of adoration and enduring adulation.

But Harry Kane finally overtook the master craftsman who was Jimmy Greaves, all smoothness of movement, instinctively gifted and full of breathtaking acceleration. In one match against Manchester United, Spurs moved the ball almost magically towards Greaves feet and, with one wondrous turn of his body from just over the half way line, Greaves drifted past a whole succession of United defenders, gliding over the grass nonchalantly with the grace of a ballroom dancer, rounding three United players before scoring quite the finest goal the old White Hart Lane had seen for quite some time.

Kane of course has scored goals for fun over recent years, a born poacher with a destructive shot, explosive pace, a perfect nose for goals and an immaculate positional sense. During the recent World Cup in Qatar we thought he'd re-discovered his blistering form for club and country. But then he became the centre of attention for all the wrong reasons. After converting one penalty for the equaliser in the quarter final against France, Kane, mindful that the piercing eyes of a nation were watching him with splendid anticipation, approached another spot kick that would certainly have taken the match to extra time.

Remembering where we'd been as a nation in World Cup Italia 90 against West Germany and where we would be yet again six years later in Euro 96, you'd have thought salutary lessons had been learnt. But Kane confidently stepped up to the ball and, maybe overcome with momentary unease, seemed to dig his foot into the ground and the ball must have landed somewhere in a desolate Saudi desert. The cynics would have told us that we should have known that something like that would happen.

But for Spurs Kane has been positively unstoppable, firing beautifully executed goals from all angles and ranges, timing his runs into space near the 18 yard box with remarkable accuracy and then finishing in the manner of a born striker who knows exactly where the goal is. With Son Heung Min for company and sharing the workload with admirable persistence and chipping in with his fair share, Kane will go down in the Spurs Hall of Fame.

In West Ham's 2-0 FA Cup fourth round victory over Derby County you were reminded of another striker with a dazzling knack for finding the goal. Steve Bloomer, back in the early 20th century, scored with an amazing consistency and still, misty eyed Derby fans yearn for somebody anybody to launch the club back into the Premier League elite with vast quantities of goals. Bloomer of course was no slouch for England as well.

And then you thought back to the early 20th century ironically when Everton's Dixie Dean once found the back of the net with 60 goals in one season. Are we to assume that defences of the day were ever so lenient and charitable? The fact is that Dean was simply irrepressible and how the Toffees could do with a Dean of the modern day incarnation.

The former Leicester City and Spurs striker Gary Lineker loved nothing better than a clear sight of the goal before swooping in with goals that flowed like a river from his feet and head. Having already established himself as a valuable asset at his childhood club of Leicester City, Lineker scored dozens and dozens for Spurs.

But now Kane finds himself in the best of company. Strikers have always had a sixth sense, a premonition of when the goal is going to be scored and certainly won't be the last to break a goal scoring record. Lineker once scored a hat-trick for England against Poland in the 1986 World Cup held in Mexico. Kane must have desperate to look for a hole in the ground after that missed penalty against France in Qatar. And yet Kane who also came through the Spurs youth academy will be heartened by the knowledge that sometimes the goals simply dry up when least expected.

Today he finds himself acclaimed as one of the great all round finishers in the Premier League. He has yet to win any major trophies for Spurs and this has to be a considerable source of personal frustration. A season or two ago Kane could have been tempted by the blandishments of a move to Pep Guardiola's Manchester City but persevered with Spurs in the vain hope that something surprising would take place at Tottenham.

But the cynics and snipers are only too ready to criticise Kane for a complete lack of ambition, an insatiable appetite for winning Cups and of course the Premier League. At the moment he remains a Spurs player and the ones who continue to deride him so cruelly may be consumed with a private jealousy that will always endure as long as there are strikers with a boundless flair for being in the right time and place. Keep going Harry. England and Spurs still need you.

Britain on strike

 Britain on strike

The natives are restless. In fact Britain was in a state of revolt and mutiny, raging at obvious injustices and determined to express itself in no uncertain terms. Yesterday the voices of anguish and trade union militancy were once again vocally apparent, shouting from the rooftops and deeply unhappy. The nation ground to a standstill. Britain was fuming, livid and incandescent. There comes a point in our lives when you simply can't abide those stubborn politicians who refuse to listen to you. You begin to boil over with resentment and refuse to back down. Enough is enough.

Yesterday the nurses, teachers, train workers and every conceivable member of the blue collar movment in Britain walked out of their respective profession, trade and place of labour. It was time to down tools and just hit the streets of London, Birmingham, Manchester, Sheffield, Nottingham, Leeds and any other centre of industrial excellence where the every day and important businesses of our lives, were up in arms. They were furious at gross underpayment, the domestic struggles, trials and tribulations that millions of families will now have to undertake and their increasingly desperate plight. 

We have of course been here on countless occasions throughout the years. When Margaret Thatcher was Prime Minister the once thriving mining industry was constantly threatened with extinction. Then there were the vehement protests and demonstrations, the cries of angst and well entrenched hatred, the feeling that they were the majority and therefore the deprived ones, the marginalised ones, alienated by the powers that be at Westminster and the House of Commons. They were the overlooked, ignored and just silenced by the Tories who simply told them to go back to work immediately. 

Now this is where we are at the moment. For well over a decade ago all of the above trades and professions have been criminally neglected by both the Labour and Tory party and if they don't play ball now then this could get very nasty. There has to be room for compromise and negotiation but neither the Government or our strikers can find any common ground. Does this sound like a familiar narrative? Of course it does. Yesterday was the culmination of violent disagreement, protests over and over again, flags, banners and slogans indicating a real groundswell of impatience and vociferous disapproval. 

Neither side is prepared to back down from their moral high ground or seething intransigence. What we now have are the people who provide Britain with a vital backbone, now rising up en masse clearly on the warpath and just ruthless into the bargain. And yet you feel duty bound to sympathise with the working classes, the ones who work themselves into the ground every week and month of the year just to survive, putting food and water on the table but unable to do so because they simply can't afford the weekly bills or the food banks seem the only plausible option.

Here we have a Britain more sharply divided than they were at the height of the endless Brexit rhetoric. Then nobody knew whether we were in or out and none, significantly, knew which direction the country was heading. We were squabbling over complete control of our trading laws in Europe, being bossed about in an annoyingly overbearing fashion by those who told us what to do in the EU. But now everything has come to head and we're none the wiser.

For the last three years a global virus destroyed the confidence and resolve of our everyday waking moment. It almost seems as though the aftermath of both Brexit and Covid 19 has quite literally broken the spirit of everybody. So we look to the rest of the world and find that they may be coping with their economy in much more sensible way. But then a certain Vladimir Putin, president of Russia came along and from what had been a hitherto position of strength, Ukraine has now been blown into oblivion and the rest of us are suffering the damaging consequences.

So here in Britain, the cost of living crisis has bitten savagely into our everyday lives, food and drink prices are now astronomically high, the young professionals can forget about a four bedroom terraced home in suburbia and today's generation may have to settle for scraps. It is all very disconcerting and dispiriting, enough to drive you around the bend. But somehow the cyclical nature of the British economy  is such that boom or bust may be with us for many years.

But yesterday an impassioned Prime Minister Rishi Sunak got off his green bench and delivered the usual patronising tosh about our poor schoolchildren. How dare the teachers go out on strikes! These children are our future and those teachers ought to be thoroughly ashamed of themselves. But now Sunak repeatedly got on his soap box and lectured the teachers in a way that was so uncomfortable that you feared that the only reaction he was going to get was a hostile one and so it proved to be the case.

He turned his body to one side, confirming once again that every Prime Minister since time immemorial has always spoken at a profile of their choosing. He looked at his sneering opponents in the House of Commons and seemed to enjoy being the centre of attention. He ranted and raved, lifted his voice so loudly that everybody could hear him and then might have been privately shocked when nobody was listening to him properly. Oh how we love the body language of British politicians.

Sadly we are no further forward than we were at the beginning of the week and passions are still running high. Sir Keir Starmer, the Shadow leader of the Labour opposition, still gives the impression of a man whistling in the wind. He can argue his point for as long as he likes but the rest of Parliament still think of him as a gibbering buffoon. At some point we will reach a point in the proceedings when something will give in Westminster.

Today the blue collar workers went back to work reluctantly but not before the metaphorical bloodied noses were wiped and everybody just retreated into a world of almost reluctant silence. Mick Lynch, our trade union head honcho, almost spat out his annoyance and then promised that one day those who work their fingers to the bone will get their just desserts. We must hope that this time will be with us sooner rather than later.