King Charles the third in Germany.

 King Charles the third in Germany.

It's some time since we last heard of the whereabouts of King Charles the third. He's always been there at the back of our minds and even there in the middle of an important news bulletin. True, the public image and perception of the King hasn't been the high profile one we might have been expecting. But with King Charles the third Coronation now just over a month away now, the man who would be King found himself in the middle of Germany today speaking in German, entertaining German politicians with a dry line in humour and then realising that his position of monarch is now one that has to be taken seriously.

But today King the Charles the third spoke to the Reichstag in Berlin with all the natural fluency of a German citizen. To those of us with very raw sensitivities on the subject of the World Wars and the Holocaust, this is the not the sound we would have liked to hear even 76 years after the end of the Second World War. The Germanic Teutonic dialect is still as harsh, guttural, stern and distressingly military at times but there is now a grudging acceptance of bygones being bygones and moving on.

Listening to the King speaking German is now something to be admired rather than abhorred, a language that no longer belongs in Hitler's impassioned, hysterical speeches where the fists were brandished with menacing intent and wholesale barbaric murder of the global population was the only issue that had to be addressed. Admittedly, the King's impeccable command of German is remarkably reminiscent of the late and much loved Her Majesty the Queen's French so there is a multi lingual love of languages running through the royal genes.

Today though King Charles the third appealed warmly to his audience in a way that his mother would have taken careful mental note of and probably approved of. We all know of the Royal Family's German ancestry but for the first time in quite a long time Charles looked comfortable and relaxed, at ease with himself and no longer the sole focus of attention as became readily apparent when Her Majesty The Queen passed so poignantly. He was happy, relaxed and delighted to be among a nation who once launched a blistering attack on Buckingham Palace during the Second World War.

And yet it was time to talk about more up to date, topical and contemporary accounts of the monarchy and today's problems, difficulties, anxieties, hopes and passions. Dressed in typically sartorial elegance, Charles gazed across a rapt Reichstag fully equipped with gentle pleasantries and the fervent hope that Britain could still enjoy amicable relations in Europe despite the uncertainties surrounding Brexit. He then did something that nobody thought he'd ever mention. He made humorous references to Monty Python humour and probably thought of the celebrated sketch in BBC's 1970s national comedy treasure Fawlty Towers. 

You must remember the sketch, surely. John Cleese(aka Basil Fawlty, owner of the craziest hotel in Torquay) strides pompously into a dining room where a poor, unsuspecting German family are subjected to a rude and vitriolic tirade from Fawlty. Cleese then barks furiously at the said Germans with all the ruthless arrogance you'd expect of the man. He then reminds them of their German heritage and then apologises for his irrational behaviour insisting though that the Germans were still wholly responsible for the Second World War.

Still, here we are on the final day of March 2023 and maybe now would be the right time to forgive and forget the sins of our now distant ancestors. From where you stood there should, in theory, be no room for apologies and a conviction that it'll never happen again doesn't really sound realistic. The truth is though that there remains a strong underground element of racism and antisemitism brewing quite disturbingly in Europe. 

At the moment there are isolated outrages of desecrated Jewish gravestones being daubed unforgivably with Nazi swastikas or destroyed in quite the most reprehensible and disgusting fashion. Russia, under the despicable tyranny of one Vladimir Putin, are spreading hate crime of the most malicious and evil kind, killing hundreds and thousands of innocent Ukranians and flattening homes, buildings and shops with a violent ferocity that hardly seems possible. And yet it's happening on a daily basis.

For a while though today King Charles the Third was the authentic voice of peace and reason, reassurance and dignity, a man with an unwavering commitment to the civilised standards that you'd like any society to stick to. He plunged his hands in his pockets as his late father Prince Philip was often wont to do on so many occasions and told his German audience that most of the world would just like to cut out this aggressive nonsense, the ugly face of bloodshed, death and brutality consigned to history.

It was nice to see the new King of the United Kingdom and Head of Commonwealth because at long last Charles has got everything under control. In the days and weeks after the sad death of his mother Her Majesty the Queen, Charles was an emotional wreck. The image of Charles showing understandable annoyance when handed a leaky fountain pen for yet another signature is one that does stay in the mind from time to time. Let us all salute the new King Charles the third and the Queen consort Camilla. May they reign supreme with enormous dignity.

Two out of two for wins for England in Euro 2024 qualifier

 Two out of two wins for England in Euro 2024  qualifier.

They came from all four corners of Ukraine, the inconsolable, heartbroken, devastated, grieving so desperately, praying and hoping that one day that the wicked mass murderer Russian president Vladimir Putin simply rots in hell. The tears have been shed in gallons, an abundance of suffering that can never be properly measured because you simply forget how long war can just drag on interminably. Already Ukraine is traumatised and will be permanently and maybe that's even more of a tragedy.

But on Sunday evening a small corner of Ukraine gathered in their thousands at Wembley Stadium, massed away tightly at one end of the ground. For 90 minutes they were emotionally united, delighted to be at the home of a country whose sympathies remain just as unconditional as ever. In vast rows of yellow and blue flags, they stood brave and honourable, undaunted, unperturbed by the occasion itself and just grateful to be in a welcoming sporting environment where nobody would judge them, criticise them or humiliate them.

For the duration of England's second Euro 2024 qualifier against Ukraine, yellow and blue clad supporters spent all of the match, jumping up and down joyfully, bouncing together, arms linked, all wedded to the same underlying theme of the afternoon. They were our kindred spirits, the men and women who just want to wake up every morning in the hope that one day they'll be given the freedom and the luxury of open spaces to play football from morning to evening, displaying their skills and participating in the Beautiful Game. At the moment it is a forlorn hope but at least here was a temporary truce.

Nobody was ever going to say this was an easy game for Ukraine since football may not be their foremost consideration or over riding priority. Instead they lined up against an England side searching for their second consecutive victory in their opening Euro 2024 qualifier. Last Thursday of course England broke the habits of a lifetime or seemingly so by beating the European Champions Italy in Naples. It may have been a significant breakthrough but then this is England we're talking about so anything could and probably will happen.

And so Wembley welcomed home their battle hardened if ultimately defeated Euro 2020 runners up as if painful memories had been summarily obliterated from their minds. Ukraine of course were looking for some modicum of  revenge after the 4-1 thrashing by England in the 2018 World Cup at a time when Russia was just being a grizzly bear with a sore head. What we witnessed at Wembley on  Sunday evening was the steady evolution of an England in transition, still recovering from the body blows of both Qatar and Russia and re-connecting on the same wavelength.

Here we have an England side, who although missing out on a major international trophy, are still testing the waters after dipping their toes at the shallow end and finding that they do belong in the highest echelons of world football. For the opening twenty minutes to half an hour, England moved the ball around like pawns and bishops on a chessboard. They looked comfortable and assured, never in danger of losing the game but just waiting for the right moment to pounce. Their movements were strategic but simple, nothing to get excited about but then there were carefully constructed platforms to score when the mood took them.

In years gone by, England would have strolled onto the old Wembley with some kind of masterplan only to find that there were pieces missing, components of their game that still needed refining and tweaking, a side who were  just awkward and cumbersome. These were the days when the ball would spend so much time in the air that reconnaissance missions were sent to look for the ball. The ball resembled a hot potato when England had possession and sides were built on strength and endurance rather than technical ability and skill.

Now of course England are much more socially aware of their surroundings. Gareth Southgate, England's smartly dressed boss, has revolutionised thinking back at St George's Park and most of the England players now genuinely look forward to future confrontations rather than being scared stiff. Now a football is something to be treasured and relished, where friendly relationships are formed and the sense of bonding can never be disguised. It's true. England are changing and changing for the best.

When England returned home from Qatar just before Christmas, the festivities were somewhat tinged with sadness. England hadn't brought home the World Cup after all so what was there to celebrate? We'd got to a quarter final against France but even Napoleon Bonaparte would have been laughing all the way to the Champs Elysees had he known what happened. England's cross Channel rivals had stolen their thunder and the spirit of entente cordiale among the French had ensured that England would be taking the first plane home.

Still, here we were back at Wembley once again on the last Sunday of the month and England were ready and waiting to go again. Regrettably Ukraine were nowhere to be seen, on the outside looking on, hovering on the periphery but never really engaging in the game. For a while England tapped out a veritable Morse Code  of passing movements, short, succinct and clear passes that restored your faith in the national side. This was an England side building and re-building, gently as she goes, patient, possessive, proactive and constructive, considerate rather than rash and hurried, protective rather than panicky.

When John Stones and Kyle Walker had erected their portcullises and fortresses in England's defence, there would be no way through for Ukraine who threatened only sporadically. Both Stones and Walker are now ageing rapidly but there's a great deal to be said for experience. Walker still looks like the fastest athlete and Stones just happens to be in the right place and the right time so there would be nobody to encroach on their territory.

Once again Declan Rice was magisterial, shifting around in front of England's rigid back four, a player of flair and flexibility, nipping into tackles with impeccable timing and always a master of the solid interception, throwing the full force of his body into challenges in a way that had to be admired. Then there was Ben Chilwell who although now settled at Chelsea has found that the season has not been quite as successful as he would have hoped. Chilwell looked secure and responsible, never resorting to over elaboration when simplicity was all that England needed.

In England's midfield James Maddison made his international debut and looked every inch the controller, the barometer, easy going, a player of the highest culture and excellence. Maddison, rather like his midfield partner Jack Grealish, could form the most compatible of partnerships. He is pleasing to the eye, passing the ball cleanly and accurately, stylish to his fingertips. At Leicester he looks the kind of player who may find himself travelling to pastures anew since relegation battles may not have been in his job description when he joined the club.

And so it was that England fired on all cylinders again. Jude Bellingham was quite breath taking once again, breezing past players effortlessly and authoritatively, picking his moments to find the right ball for one of his colleagues and by far the most exciting discovery the England side have made in ages. Bellingham is still blissfully young, elegant, the complete article, never anxious or nervous and just England's future. At times you thought of Paul Gascoigne and hoped for a similar package but without the troubled private life that so sadly accompanied Gazza on his footballing journey.

Then the goals inevitably arrived. We had to wait for a while but then England opened the scoring. Arsenal scoring sensation Bukayo Saka, a John Radford or Charlie George in the making was just inspirational for England and is destined for honours within the game. Saka is almost impossible to catch when he's in this mood. There were times when the Arsenal forward seemed to running rings around the Ukranian defence, tricking, dropping his shoulder, teasing his opponent mockingly, checking back onto his other foot and then driving the ball forcefully into the net.

His reward came shortly before half time. Jordan Henderson, now in the autumn of an admirable career at both club and country level, fed a typically perceptive pass inside his defender and Saka picked up the ball on the edge of the penalty area. What followed was a masterclass of wing play with Saka cutting back onto his favoured foot before curling a beautiful shot that flew past the Ukranian goalkeeper. It was a goal fit to win any football match let alone this one.

The second half, for what it was worth, seemed just a terrible anti climax with England apparently content with their afternoon's work. England just stroked the ball around as if the match had now been reduced to a training ground routine. Job done for England. It was good to be following an England match at the beginning of the spring equinox. Optimism had replaced a world weary disappointment following England's failure to bring home the World Cup.

England manager Gareth Southgate, now as dapper and chipper as it was possible to be, distanced himself from his menswear salesman persona, always respectable and unfailingly polite. At some point an England football team and manager will win something and you find yourself wondering whether the always diplomatic and former Crystal Palace defender may be the one to lift that elusive trophy. Nobody deserves it more. 

England open Euro 2024 qualifier with win against Italy.

 England open Euro 2024 qualifier with win against Italy.

They say that all good things come to those who wait. Patience must have been a virtue and, at long last, it was rewarded. There are times though that however hard we try to redress the balance, or rectify our faults, nothing seems to go right. For large periods of England's Euro 2024 qualifier against Italy in Naples, we all felt that eventually something would give and it did. So when the referee blew his whistle at full time, some of us were so pleasantly surprised that if somebody had told us a full moon would appear at roughly midnight we'd have probably questioned them and dismissed the thought out of hand.

Last night though in the grand old city of Naples, home of some of the most violently disturbing skirmishes between rival fans and a good deal of gang warfare, it all came right on the night for England and a 2-1 victory away from home against the indisputable European Champions can never be sneezed at regardless of the stakes. So it was then that Gareth Southgate gently strolled up to his players, relieved at the knowledge that some measure of revenge had been exacted over Italy after England were beaten by the Azzurri at Wembley Stadium in the Euro 2020 Final.

Across the picture postcard hills and sloping valleys of England and Middle England, its silvery streams and sweetly flowing rivers that nestle peacefully next to dramatic waterfalls, a victory for the English football team is normally a plausible excuse for a stirring knees up in pubs and wine bars across the land. We congratulate ourselves because we too felt a real sense of affinity and belonging to any occasion that culminates in a famous victory over rival international teams. And here we are back in the rarefied land of international football qualifiers, a major forte for any England team in recent decades.

Guess what? England have once again started with yet another win in their opening Euro qualifying group. This has happened so many times now that some of us have lost count. But the difference this time is that England were up against one of the strongest and most attractive looking Italian national side for years. In the second half of the Euro 2020 Final, Italy had called England's bluff, noticed something strange in English poker faces and totally bossed the second forty five minutes that unravelled for England like a threadbare cotton wool. It can be no coincidence that the law of averages would throw up a result in England's favour.

The last time England beat Italy in Neapolitan surrounds was back in 1961 when the late and much missed Jimmy Greaves ran ragged an Italian defence who would normally have taken out an insurance policy for ages knowing fully well that few countries would ever break it down. The bad, old days of obsessively negative defensive football with the language of catenaccio very much to the fore, are now locked away securely in the vaults of Italian football. Now Italy play the game very much on the front foot, an inspirational and uplifting sight in full flow, positivity flowing through their veins, a team with a very palpable air of freedom and independence about their football. At long last the Italian national side are going places.

Before this Euro 2024 qualifier, the stadium darkened quite alarmingly before we were told that this was the precursor to a wondrous light show. Suddenly purple lights flickered around the perimeter of the pitch and then needles of light illuminated Naples. Then the match itself burst into life and for well over half an hour, England took the fight to their hosts as if all the misfortunes that had befallen them beforehand were no longer evident and they could just venture into what had been forbidden territory up until last night.

England, in contrast to the second half of the Euro 2020 debacle, were coherent, cohesive, unified, together in thought and deed, fearless, undaunted and supremely adventurous. They began to dictate the pace of the game with a controlled authority and a pronounced style. England were swaggering rather than swaying about in a drunken fashion as if the Italians had spiked their drinks. Their football oozed confidence, athleticism and a pliable flexibility rarely seen in international football at any level.

Suddenly there was a real sense that Italy could be caught off guard. England were now moving the ball around with quick, quick, slow slow staccato passing that spun webs around the Italian players. No longer are England teams inhibited by circumstances they could never control. Under Gareth Southgate the ball is an amiable family relative who always smiles at you in instant recognition. The channels of communication were buzzing last night and England were talking the most expressive language.

And so it was that Harry Maguire, John Stones, Kyle Walker and the superb Declan Rice put their indelible imprint on last night's match. The understanding that had been developed so carefully and shrewdly for so many months and years, once again revealed itself in its finest plumage. Maguire occasionally looks slightly sluggish and cumbersome at the back but the Manchester United defender is a model of reliability. Luke Shaw, who was deservedly sent off for a moment of madness late on, still chained himself to the Italian attack, reminding you of a limpet. Walker is still stunningly quick while the rest of the England defence simply did their duty with due diligence.

By far the most handsome of performances came from Declan Rice, the West Ham captain, who at this rate, will certainly lead his country. Rice was like a huge cinema projector screen, skilfully reading the game like somebody deeply immersed in a historical novel, tackling with an instinctive awareness of events around him, muscling blue shirts out of the way with decisive interventions. It now seems almost inevitable that Rice will be leaving West Ham this summer regardless of his team's fate at the end of the season.

With barely minutes into the game England asserted themselves intelligently. The ball seemed to switch between white shirts with a lovely accuracy, short, pinpoint passes that were sent with eye catching effectiveness and an innate belief that finally they could beat the Italians in their own backyard. From an inswinging corner England finally discovered a strategic spot that the Italians hadn't covered. The ball eventually landed at the feet of Harry Kane who swung the ball back into the six yard box, helping the ball on productively to Declan Rice who emphatically slammed the ball into the net from close range.

England now found themselves in the most unusual of environments. The last time this happened George Martin had sat down with the Beatles at the Abbey Road recording studios with radical song arrangements and lyrics on his mind. Then the esteemed likes of Johnny Haynes, Sir Bobby Robson and Jimmy Armfield were at the heart of Walter Winterbottom's by now experienced team. Jimmy Greaves and Gerry Hitchens shared the goal scoring that distant afternoon 62 years ago.

Shortly before half time with England increasing their share of possession by the minute, England scored again. Another England corner descended rapidly down from the air and a blue Italian shirt caught Kane's attempt to challenge for the ball. An arm was raised which looked as if the ball had been accidentally ricocheted off the Italian arm and the back of his hand. After much deliberation and the consultation of a VAR screen the referee pointed to the penalty spot and Kane stepped up to blast home England's second goal.

After the break, Italy, perhaps hoping that things could hardly have got any worse than they already were, rallied and recovered to some extent. There was a much greater purpose and intensity to their passing and it all looked well constructed but lacking in the vital cutting edge. We're all familiar with the theatricality of Italian football, the almost operatic movements, the sense of a persecution complex about them. At times it almost feels as though the whole world seems to be ganging up against them. 

But last night it all felt pure and unblemished, free flowing, fluid and frequently inventive. In the second half Italy were administered with an injection of attack minded football. Their incessant pressure for at least twenty minutes into the second half was deservedly rewarded. A magnificent exchange of quick, impulsive passes around the edge of the England 18 yard box was threaded through to Mateo Retegui who picked his spot and fired past a helpless England goalkeeper Jordan Pickford.

The last quarter of the game was spent largely in the England half as England struggled desperately to hold onto possession. Italy had established something of a foothold and looked like equalising but failed to find away through a stubborn and well disciplined England defence. So, as is becoming quite the custom now, England were off to a confident winning start to yet another international qualifying group. This time only one team can qualify for Germany next year so the incentive could hardly be bigger for England. Perhaps Gareth Southgate could summon the spirit of Sir Alf Ramsey in 1966 when the lad from Dagenham was convinced England would definitely win the World Cup four years before. Maybe next year. We shall see.

My new book of football poetry.

 My new book of football poetry.

It's hard to believe folks but this is my fifth book. You'd have forgiven for thinking that I'd simply run out of energy, desire and inclination but not me. You wake up in the morning and think of an idea or hundreds of ideas and the words just seem to pour out of me in torrents and you've no resistance whatsoever.

So what, you may ask, is the subject matter? My first science fiction novel, a horror book about monsters and evil forces, perhaps my first love story-cum- romantic novel, an epic psychological thriller or a collection of short stories? But no folks it's none of the above and that maybe for another day. Who knows? This one is different, original, fresh, and unexpectedly surprising in as much as that I didn't think I was ever capable of writing such a book.

My new book of football poetry is called Football's Poetic Licence by me Joe Morris. Now where did that one come from? You weren't ready for that one, hey. Yes a book about football poetry. It occupies a place in the literary market somewhere far away in the distance and is suitable for all fans of the Beautiful Game. It's poetry that does rhyme for every reason and most amusingly if I say so myself. But it's football poetry that paints pictures, illustrates different themes, football that is both thought provoking and full of lyrical descriptions.

In Football's Poetic Licence I wax lyrical about the FA Cup, Premier League, Champions League, my late and wonderful mum and dad, there's a eulogy to my lovely dad, my grandpa Jack, the World Cup, England, Euro 2020, Europa League, the Carabao Cup, football grounds and Ilford FC. There are topical and nostalgic references from the present day to yesteryear football. It is football poetry full of imagery, meaning and soul. It is the kind of book that may transport you all the way back to some historic FA Cup match or just make you smile, giggle and laugh.

So here's how to buy a copy of my book of football poetry. Football's Poetic Licence is available to buy at Amazon, Waterstones bookshops and Waterstones online, Foyles online, Hatchards online and Barnes and Noble online in the USA, always our friends. It's a book that you can pick up at any time of the day and find yourselves swept along with poetic adjectives, adverbs and pronouns. It is football poetry that has a very definite identity and character and I hope you'll enjoy reading it.

Football's Poetic Licence is all singing, all dancing and designed to make you feel good about football poetry. It's football as poetry in motion, football with life and vitality and football with verse and whimsical word play. You'll love Football's Poetic Licence because it's about words with emotions and from the heart. So go on, treat yourself. I can guarantee you a rewardingly enjoyable read. Thanks everybody.

Manchester City safely through to the FA Cup semi finals

 Manchester City are safely through to the FA Cup semi finals.

In the end it all looked so ridiculously easy and simple. Manchester City have well and truly mastered that art form. City beat Burnley of the Championship almost effortlessly, impudently and, of course, stylishly. But then you knew they would. They are now through to what must seem their umpteenth FA Cup semi final and they were just blase and matter of fact in their approach to the game. It's at times like this when you wish they would look vulnerable at times, a side with rough edges, deficiencies and shortcomings, chinks in their armour. But that certainly won't happen and nor is it ever likely to be the case in the foreseeable future.

Suddenly the FA Cup has become Manchester City's favourite toy or game, an inanimate thing perhaps but still visible to the eye. Yesterday City eventually walloped a Burnley side whose manager once decorated all of City's big occasions with his presence, his stature and his all encompassing influence. The sight of Vincent Kompany in the opposition dug out at the Etihad Stadium almost felt like some optical illusion. Surely you were imagining this one because Kompany had light blue in his veins and was permanently regarded as a cult hero at City.

In the bigger picture Manchester City may have taken their eye off the ball metaphorically of course. They'll be eight points behind Arsenal, the Premier League leaders, if the North London side beat Crystal Palace today at the Emirates Stadium. The calculations are now obvious and City know it. City are still capable of overhauling Arsenal at the top but the FA Cup has assumed an altogether greater significance for Manchester City.

And yet City were just relentless, remorseless, singularly without any leniency or contrition, a side revved up,  a side of spectacular co-ordination, constant movement both on and off the ball, freestyling, freewheeling, high fiving, jinking, darting and then passing the ball to each other like children at a birthday party handing the parcel around. City are truly memorable, seminal, pioneering, a force of nature quite often verging on the unbeatable, impossible to catch and, more importantly, to dispossess. It looks as if their route to another FA Cup Final can only be a matter of time.

Over fifty years ago Malcolm Allison and Joe Mercer used to sit in the Maine Road directors box drooling and salivating over the Manchester City of the early 1970s. In those days the likes of Francis Lee, Rodney Marsh and Colin Bell were elegant exhibitionists linking together joyfully in midfield, reading each other's minds, then stripping away the fragile layers of opposition defences and delighting in the wide open spaces. City didn't win anything as such but at the end of the 1960s they did win the old First Division League Championship trophy.

Then City dropped into the wilderness for decade upon decade. For a while they were trapped in the old Third Division which, in retrospect, must have seemed quite degrading and demoralising. But now under the fantastically inspirational Pep Guardiola, City are a team transformed, rejuvenated, effortlessly flamboyant passing, a team of mesmerising intricacies, one and two touch football that leave most of us gasping for yet more superlatives and flattery. By the final whistle Burnley, in a darker shade of shirt, must have been pleading for their team coach to whisk them away from the scene of the crime. But this was no crime, simply a reassertion of Manchester City's Premier League supremacy.

Now City's mega wealthy Saudi owners are beginning to look to the future with some confidence whereas the City of Allison and Mercer were just building site labourers laying down the foundations, planting the seeds, digging for gold they were never likely to find. On the surface it all looked very good and highly impressive but for years and decades City have struggled to find the identity they thought they had discovered under Allison and Mercer.

But now everything has come to fruition. City have now won back to back Premier League titles but you get the impression that the FA Cup and the Champions League may take priority to winning the Premier League. The next couple of weeks after the international break for England could tell us much more than we already knew about City's realistic aspirations. Arsenal are currently in the driving seat and look as though they may be pulling away from City but then anything could happen. Two horse races can often be an immense source of fascination although we are now at the business end of the Premier League season and Nostradamus has yet to reach any positive conclusions.

Yesterday Pep Guardiola looked like a bullfighter who wasn't afraid to take any nonsense. He stood on the touchline animated quite frequently, gesturing politely with his hands and  pointing his fingers at his players in  a a quiet, restrained manner before the eyes would begin to flare and it all looked very serious and businesslike. Guardiola doesn't do fedora hats and smoke cigars though and it became quite evident though that his City are not quite as annoyingly unpredictable than the City of the Maine Road era.

However in the away dug out Vincent Kompany, once Guardiola's captain, was doing his level best to look like the apprentice facing the sorcerer. Kompany looked suitably honoured to be on the same pitch as his old boss but then it must have seemed like an emotional return to his old home. Burnley will quite definitely be back in the Premier League, after a season's absence and a good, old fashioned bottle of wine will be ready and waiting when Kompany and Guardiola renew old acquaintances.

For the time being City are very much class personified. Once again the difference between City and Burnley is that City have the once again immaculate Kevin De Bruyne, a measured, composed and serene influence on the game every time he touched the ball. For a number of seasons Bruyne has been City's beacon, trigger point, catalyst, smooth as honey, floating delightfully weighted passes angled to perfection. De Bruyne has been order among the chaos, playing the game as if by memory, strutting here and swaggering there as if he'd performed the same act a thousand times. De Bruyne has to be the first name on Guardiola's team sheet.

With Julian Alvarez, the evergreen Ruben Dias, Manuel Akanj, the valuable and game changing Aymeric Laporte and, particularly Riyad Mahrez at his most cunning and manipulative whenever the ball was at its feet, City were just unstoppable at times, unsurpassable, too good to be true. Then there was the still young Phil Foden, frustratingly unsuccessful with Gareth Southgate's 2022 World Cup at the end of last year but still  vital and prominent in everything City did. There is a hint of the Colin Bell in Foden inasmuch that his tireless running and carrying of the ball can often remind you of what stage Bell had reached in his years of magnificence.

Then there were the youngsters Cole Palmer and Rico Lewis, products of City's prolific academy and hopefully the spine of City's first team in years to come. With Kyle Walker as fast as a train in a hurry at the back and Laporte equally as immovable in City's rock solid defence, the likes of Sergio Gomez and Rodri were given the luxury of free roles in the final thirds of the pitch. Rodri waved the baton and Gomez simply blew on the bassoon and tinkled the ivories of the piano.

And so for the goal feast. With the game into its first quarter City began to find their flow and irresistible tempo. They were like an orchestra in the pit, warming up their instruments. From Stefan Ortega's short goal kick out, Foden shrewdly anticipated the pass, looked up almost instinctively, saw the options in front of him before sending a precise through ball to Erling Haaland and the extraordinary Norwegian striker then ran beautifully onto Foden's classic ball, rounding the keeper and then slotting home City's opening goal.

Minutes later City had doubled the lead. Bruyne of course was once again the tormentor in chief, prodding the ball through the back of the Burnley defence, finding this time Alvarez who, cutting the ball back sharply, jinked inside his defender and whipped the ball firmly high into Burnley's net like an arrow. Game effectively over for Burnley then anyway. The games was beyond the Clarets reach. City were humming, purring, ticking over efficiently, clipping and snipping their passes together and then briefly admiring their own handiwork. There was something very presumptuous and contemptuous about City's football that led you to believe that they didn't really care whether you'd liked them or not.

From another crazy bagatelle of passes across the centre of the pitch and then whizzing back through Mahrez and Foden, the cat's cradle of passing landed gently and conveniently at the feet and from Foden's cut back low cross that man Haaland was there to nudge home the easiest of third goals. City were definitely in cruise control and the fourth was soon forthcoming. From another multi pass fashion parade of passes from City Alvarez almost steered the ball into the net with all the expertise of an experienced veteran. Then De Bruyne obliged with another goal and the youngster Cole Palmer gave his goal scoring demonstration with a goal he will always remember. Six of the best from City.

And so it was that Manchester City progressed to a Wembley FA Cup semi final in roughly a months time. This is familiar territory for Pep Guardiola's and not for the first time will City fans gather in their droves. There are few heavyweights left in this season's FA Cup so as long as you avoid City in the last four, the chances are that this could be your year to win the FA Cup. Still, as long as Pep is around this is merely wishful thinking.

The Cheltenham Festival

 The Cheltenham Festival

You can tell it's almost spring. The days are getting ever so slightly lighter for longer, the wintry sun seems to be out until late afternoon, the burning embers of log fires in country pubs are beginning to fizzle out and there is a different kind of symphony orchestra out there in the atmosphere. The rumbling of vans and lorries seem to be more pleasing to the ear, while the fragrant smells of tulips, daffodils and daisies are altogether more stunning than the gaunt-looking tree branches without any foliage at all.

In a fortnight the clocks go forward as they always will and always have done and Rishi Sunak, the Prime Minister might decide to have a lie in on that Sunday morning while the rest of Britain will be grateful for mercies as well it should be. All over the country there is a sense of liberation from those dark early evenings of December, January and February which have now left us. Spring, with all of its encouraging omens and promising hints of colour and vitality, is about to arrive on our doorstep with a friendly wave and comforting breeze.

This week springtime wouldn't be springtime without one of horse racing's annual jamborees. The Cheltenham Festival is now a firmly established tradition, a bookie's favourite and one of those sporting spectacles synonymous with our Irish friends. Essentially the Cheltenham Festival is all about those who groom and race their horses on the Emerald Isle. You'll see them all over this idyllic corner of Gloucestershire, the jockeys, the trainers, the immaculately turned out horses, the voices, the foaming glasses of Guinness beer, the flag itself and all of the Festival's social niceties.

Today almost the entire community of Northern and Southern Ireland will be gathering en masse in all of the local bookmakers, busily putting their last- minute bets on the overwhelming favourites, the odds on favourites and those beautiful thoroughbreds who have quite definitely got form and must be fancied to win their respective races. Money will change hands at a quite bewildering speed and some of us will look on with mild astonishment. But then you look at our equine's breeding and stock and begin to see the reason why the Cheltenham Festival retains its enduring affection on those who just love it.

For those of us whose sole venture into a local William Hill or Paddy Power is confined to the Grand National and the Epsom Derby, this is just another day on the sporting calendar. But none should ever underestimate its significance on horse racing's biggest stage. The Cheltenham Festival is normally the dress rehearsal for the Grand National in as much that it gives us a strong indication of which horse has got what it takes to win the Aintree spectacular.

Wednesdays are normally reserved for the Ladies and of course it's Ladies Day. Now this is the day when all of those macho and machismo men step aside decorously for the ladies who will happily treat the day as one big, great celebration of horse racing. They will wear those magnificently striking hats, discreet feathers, fabulously fashionable dresses, the very latest in designer clothes and then stroll around the course proudly and nonchalantly. The uber- wealthy among them probably think they deserve to be there, to be seen and noticed. It is a day for statements and vivid personalities.

In no particular order there's the Ballymore Novices Hurdle, the Brown Advisory, Novices Steeple Chase, the Coral Cup Hurdle and, perhaps quite notably, the Queen Mother Champion Chase, We will also be witnessing the Grand Annual Handicap Chase and the Champions Bumper. Now, to all intents and purposes, this sounds like a pretty full day for experienced punters. So they'll park their Land Rovers quite possibly in just the right spot, take a bracing walk across the rural pathways and meandering country lanes of Cheltenham and then dig into their Ploughman's lunch. This could only be England at her stateliest, loveliest and prettiest. Don't forget to take as many photos as you can.

Horse racing of course was her late Majesty the Queen's favourite sport. How Her Majesty adored her horses, riding them across desolate moors, galloping freely across her favourite geographical locations without a care in the world and just enjoying their company. This afternoon, you suspect, Her Majesty would undoubtedly have been at Cheltenham, binoculars in her hand, scarf around her neck, sun- glasses perched neatly on the bridge of her nose and a copy of the Racing Post tucked away in her pocket.

Sadly Her Majesty is no longer with us anymore so we'll miss her terribly and always think of her as somehow an integral part of  Cheltenham. But today for those who can't get to the Festival, all of the usual social media platforms will be available for a punt or two, TV will bring everything to life, into our lives and living rooms and betting slips will be rapidly torn up in disgust or simply thrown up into the air with delight.

And now we find ourselves in March, the Ides of March, a month of emerging from our winter hibernation. It's the Cheltenham Festival followed by the Grand National before really getting down to the nitty gritty of the Boat Race, before the football season gradually reaches its thrilling conclusion. The seasons may come and go with a heartwarming familiarity but the sounds and sights never change. Let the cavalry charge begin and the thunderous hooves pound the ground with startling conviction. The Cheltenham Festival is well and truly underway. You can almost hear the Irish craic. It's everywhere.

The Gary Lineker tweet

 The Gary Lineker tweet

You may well have been wondering what all the fuss was about. Besides, the joys of freedom of speech have always been celebrated at every level of society. Those dark days of censorship, prohibition, and subjects that were fiercely taboo, have well and truly disappeared like a powder puff of smoke. In Putin's Russia anything that contravened the party line was suitably punished by the KGB with a lengthy spell of solitary confinement in a dark room and possibly a bullet in the back of the head.

And this is where Lineker gate, as it should be so coined, becomes the major if only topic of discussion this morning. When Gary Lineker levelled West Germany's deflected free- kick that looped over Peter Shilton in the 1990 World Cup in Italy, most of us thought the angelic one whose family used to run a market stall in Leicester would never do anything even remotely wrong. His behaviour was impeccable and a squeaky- clean career with both club and country led us to believe that one day he would be sainted, knighted and elevated to the peerage.

How appearances could be so deceptive? After a series of minor skirmishes with social media and a couple of grumbles, Lineker is back in the spotlight and under the scrutiny of all and sundry. Not for the first time the former Leicester City, Spurs, Everton and Barcelona striker has put his size 10s in it. It was not so much a grievance or just a dissenting voice but the innermost thoughts of a passionate and forthright social commentator. But sadly it was the kind of comment that he may come to regret permanently in the immediate future if the BBC decide to take a very dim view of his heartfelt beliefs.

Yesterday Lineker took full advantage of his position as a famous public figure and a football individual who rightly felt he could pontificate on any given subject provided it wasn't too controversial. But then everything came unstuck and unravelled almost alarmingly for the blue- eyed boy from Leicester who once played for his country. He jumped onto his soap box, exercised his keyboard fingers and found Twitter to be the most convenient platform for his highly explosive and incendiary comments.

In normal circumstances Linker's take on the topical migrants story may have been quickly dismissed as the rantings of a former footballer with designs on becoming, dare we say it, a full - time politician. And yet it was the nature and context of his comments that were almost immediately attacked and criticised. It was almost as if Lineker had committed the ultimate sin, reacting perhaps too sharply to a news story he had no right to be as judgmental on since apologies would be demanded and besides Lineker was just endorsing the sentiments of the whole of the British population.

But the man who once scored an overabundance of goals for fun at Spurs, wasn't about to go away quietly. Yesterday Lineker sheepishly emerged from his home, smiled obligingly for the cameras and was convinced he was the innocent party. He ducked into the back of a car, coat draped casually over his arms and, for all the world, totally unaffected by all the commotion. He reminded you of a man who had just been accused of stealing a dinner jacket from a reputable menswear shop. It was an absurd allegation and one he would fight all the way to the highest court in the land.

The truth is of course that a nation of football lovers will be denied its weekly fix of highlights- driven football on a Saturday night. Match of the Day is not only the most familiar theme but also one of its leading voices of authority of BBC football. Both Ian Wright, Alan Shearer, Micah Richards and Danny Murphy and made all of their objections heard in the public domain. The pundits have had their say and it is to say nothing while the commentators have also downed tools. In fact the Salford studios from where Match of the Day delivers its weekly broadcast will begin to resemble a municipal library this evening.

So where does that leave Match of the Day? You suspect it'll be left in an awkward state of limbo and dumbstruck, contemplating its navel and examining its Reithian code of morality. Lineker went on record as saying that the migrants escaping from persecution in troubled, war-torn countries reminded him of the language and rhetoric emanating from the 1930s. Now the implication might have been that foreign migrants looking for safe sanctuary could be directly compared to all the pre -Second World War propaganda.

Now depending on your point of view this is no more than a statement from the heart of one of football's most jovial jokers, a man who rigidly sticks to his guns on any topic and will never be reluctant to say it straight from the hip. Lineker was also outspoken on the recent World Cup in Qatar and there are seemingly no boundaries in his world.

Match of the Day, which next year will mark its 60th anniversary, stands by its principles and will not tolerate the nonconformists, the rebels and renegades, the militant tendency, the trade unionists with their banners, their shop stewards and those well lit braziers with smoke pouring from every angle. It is hard to know where or how far Lineker and company will take this now very political hot potato. At the moment football is not so much in revolt but simply disillusioned with its paymasters at the BBC. You suspect that peace will be restored and mutual agreement between all parties will be found eventually. But for tonight at least Match of the Day will be turning the off switch and hoping that a temporary crisis doesn't degenerate into all out warfare.

Eurovision fervour spreads.

Eurovision fervour spreads.

You must have heard about it a thousand times by now without being aware of its true importance. It happens every year in much the way that the Grand National, the Epsom Derby, the Boat Race, the Chelsea Flower Show and the Henley Regatta does- without fail. It looms into a view like a distant yacht on the horizon glowing like a golden sunset. It is, undoubtedly, one of the most popular, the most ridiculed, the most satirised and, if you're not a fan, quite the silliest spectacle on the cultural calendar.

But to those who pour both scorn and mockery on its very existence, then you might be advised to stay out of the living room for the whole evening because it could get on your nerves. Every year the Eurovision Song Contest presses all the right or wrong buttons depending on your point of view. Those in the know insist that Eurovision is one of those contests that always lift the sagging spirits of a disenchanted nation. It does no harm whatsoever and, if anything, is probably one of the most entertaining TV programmes of the year. But then, you knew that anyway.

Today though the connoisseurs and Eurovision Song Contest addicts are preparing extensively for the occasion by ensuring that nobody is caught out by tickets on the black market. The fact is, of course that this is no ordinary Eurovision because this year is the United Kingdom's turn if only because the real winners were Ukraine last year and the whole world now knows that a Eurovision Song Contest in Ukraine is now physically and heart breakingly impossible. Ukraine, on a wave of sentimentality, have now reluctantly, and with the heaviest of hearts, told the European Broadcasting Union that a violent war in their country has scuppered all their plans and fond hopes.

Now to those with compassionate hearts this must have seemed the only course of action. At the moment poor little Ukraine is being bombed and blasted into a smoking, charred ruin with rubble everywhere, masonry and buildings razed to the ground and a people whose lives have now been permanently traumatised and destroyed. It seems like the end of the world for this lovely, peace loving country with nothing but love to give. The truth is though that they would have given everything to hold the Eurovision Song Contest but were denied by evil, murderous forces who just left them helpless.

So how did the United Kingdom react. Well, they gave us an extremely personable and likeable chap by the name of Sam Ryder who, last year, gave us a song called Spaceman and he came second. Now the man with an incredible charisma and admirable generosity of spirit, insisted that the world should come together, link arms and stick the proverbial two fingers up at Russian president Vladimir Putin. Nobody and nothing could ever dampen the spirit of a competition that began during the mid 1950s and is still going 70 years later. Take that you tyrannical tin point dictator, some must have felt. And they were surely right.

But judging by recent events Eurovision is still a thriving cultural phenomenon, a European songfest where the countries of Europe give us their splendidly funny, whimsical, often hilarious renditions of songs that are sadly, swiftly forgotten but always remembered if the song is particularly catchy.Some call it amateurish, appallingly offensive to the eye and ear, demeaning and, quite frankly a waste of time and money. And yet what do they know who know?

In 2023 Liverpool have been awarded the opportunity to hold the Contest and they're so excited that if it were allowed to happen tomorrow night the chances are that everybody on Merseyside would be ready and waiting. It's as if all of Liverpool's birthdays and anniversaries have come at once. They weren't expecting this and besides the United Kingdom haven't been Eurovision hosts since Katrina and the Waves in 1997 and that feels that like ancient history.

All around Liverpool, from the Albert Dock to Anfield, home of Liverpool football club and the main city centre, there is a buzz of anticipation and excitement not experienced since that famous Liverpool boy band rocked into town and then conquered the world. Of course Liverpool is the most logical choice for Eurovision since music has always generated an almost off the scale electricity. The Beatles more or less secured its musical folklore and legend and all around Liverpool the whole of population is rubbing its hands together with an unparalleled excitement. Bring on Eurovision. Liverpool can't wait.

Everywhere there are planned festivities, parties, social media driven events, huge publicity machines at work and a sense that this was all somehow preordained to happen. Realistically nobody had really considered Liverpool as Eurovision hosts but then somebody had to step forward. And Liverpool threw their collective hats into the ring without any hesitation, this from a corner of England which once gave us Cilla Black, Jimmy Tarbuck and Gerry and the Pacemakers, a nation that gave us the gossipy Brookside on Channel Four and the highly amusing Liver Birds on BBC One.

Now Liverpool is the centre of attention again but this time for different reasons. Somewhere deep in the land of BBC's animated decision makers, there is a realisation of a dream come true. After all of those years of humiliation, rejection and rib tickling humour, history repeated itself over and over again. The late and great Terry Wogan once insisted categorically that he would never be the BBC host again since the whiff of conspiracy theories were in the air and nobody wanted the United Kingdom to ever participate again. 

Since 1997 the United Kingdom have finished nowhere in particular, even further down the list of countries and, one or two occasions, rock bottom. When the first plans were laid down for Britain's withdrawal from the EU, some of us definitely suspected the worst. Two can play at that game and revenge is now ever so sweet. So here we are 26 years later and still we find ourselves banging our heads against the proverbial brick wall. The whole of Europe is still ganging up against the United Kingdom and you're not welcome in their club without our permission.

It does seem as if all may have been forgiven and peace has been restored between Britain's neighbours after Sam Ryder's victorious moment when runners up place became the winner's podium. We will of course be prepared for the predictable sequence of unusual Greek folk songs, bizarre synth pop with all manner of electronic gadgets, flashing strobe lights, laser beams, Cypriot religious chants and the customary singers and groups. We will be transfixed by those weird hairstyles and guitars that look as though they've fallen out of a sixth form school cupboard.

Be sure to book your place on the sofa for the ingenious scoring system which determines eventually which European country will take pride of place at the top. In the old days there was one block of scoring where 12 points would be kindly given to one country and the others would get a kind of consolation prize such as a goldfish or a Crackerjack pencil. Now the scoring and allocation of points seems to have taken on the appearance of some seaside amusement arcade. At any moment you find yourself half expecting hundreds of those mauve tokens or tickets which guarantee at least a brand new, 5,000 piece jigsaw puzzle.

The memories of the Brotherhood of Mann's 'Save All Your Kisses For Me', Bucks Fizz with 'Making Your Mind Up', Sandy Shaw's Puppet on a String and Cliff Richard's delightful 'Congratulations' still sound like era defining melodies that all of us should remember and probably sing in the bath or shower. It'll all be Scandinavian politeness between the likes of Sweden and Norway or maybe not. And then Liverpool will open its doors wide open, hospitable to the end of the show. The hotel bookings are now in the process of being rapidly filled and the musical city of Liverpool will reach out its hands and hope that nobody should overlook the important contribution the Ukraine have made to Eurovision. We all wish them the very best. Bring on the Eurovision Song Contest. 

National Maths Day.

 National Maths Day.

Against a miserable backdrop of barbaric murder on quite the most colossal scale, deaths by the hundreds and thousands in beleaguered Ukraine, the cost of living crisis and the now well publicised tomato, pepper and general fruit shortages, Britain may well think that there's no light at the end of the tunnel. In fact if you were to believe half of the well documented issues on the news agenda you'd be forgiven for thinking that the world has quite clearly fallen apart and there's nothing to look forward to. 

This morning parts of Britain woke up to find that the nation is knee deep in snow and that winter, effectively drawing to a close, is still with us. The wintry skies are still hovering above the nation, the motorway gritters will inevitably make their presence felt and we'll be aghast or delighted at its unexpected appearance a couple of weeks before the first day of spring. The kids will still go to school - or at least a vast majority of them, we'll all be at work, college or university busily engaging in important meetings. Then we'll be frantically rushing around the office searching for paper clips, missing documents and pens and pencils that are now slowly being replaced by computers all the while pre-occupied in the business of the day.

And that's where today's  National Day finds its relevance and resonance. Today Ladies and Gentlemen it's National Maths Day. Now who would have thought of that? Of course its National Women's Day but that's a wonderful coincidence because the proportion of women maths professors and lecturers must be as high as their male counterparts. You must have read about in all of those journals and magazines that frequently refer to bewildering statistics, demographics, percentages and extensive market research campaigns.

National Maths Day, in any context, would seem to be a peculiar topic of discussion since some of us simply didn't understand about the basic mechanics of maths, the innumerable columns  of figures on spread sheet data and the blank face you immediately assume because it just doesn't seem to make any sense at all. But decades after leaving school, maths still seems to surplus to requirements because it was a subject fraught with nightmarish complexities. How were you expected to understand maths since maths felt like an incomprehensible puzzle, a language completely unfathomable and simply a mystery.

But to those who found maths to be a piece of cake, a straightforward matter of simple addition, multiplication and division then maybe you should have been listening more intently. And yet even now maths just leaves you cold, despairing and totally flummoxed. Firstly, there were those mind blowing calculations that constitute your weekly shopping bill, the price of manufactured goods, and the numbers and figures that didn't really add up even though you've spent the best part of an hour scratching your heads almost indefinitely.

You can still remember that first agonising reference book on logarithms, algorithms, cosines and angles, then quantum physics if you were remarkably intelligent and wanted to move on to bigger and better things. Then you shuffled back to your seat, head still buried in utter confusion, bewilderment, disillusion and wondering why on earth you had to be roped into doing something that gave you no pleasure at all and counting down the hours before school was out.  

In theory though maths should be regarded as a fundamental part of education, an essential tool to have when the bills drop through your letter box and somebody tells you that the extortionate price of car insurance beggars belief. Then, quite pertinently, most of us have had to tighten the proverbial belt because the mortgage has to be paid, the children still need school uniform and then there are the vital necessities such as food or drink, clothing, furniture and all of those electronic gadgets seen in every conceivable environment. Today's kids, you suspect, would be completely lost without them since they're just indispensable and besides they'd kick up an enormous fuss if they weren't there anymore.

So it is that we go about our everyday living with maths as some private accompaniment to our busy lifestyle. During the 1970s every electrical shop throughout the land stocked the calculator, a snazzy piece of equipment still in fashion but then the most crucial accessory to have. If you wanted to be an accountant, economist or at the very heart of the banking industry, an 'O' Level and 'A' Level in Maths was a foremost priority. Besides, if you couldn't add up, work out a seemingly complicated balance sheet or do the sums and equations, then you couldn't hope to make your way in the world.

On personal reflection maths just gives you a guilty complex if only because the world is all about costs, the criminally expensive price of bread and milk and you haven't got a clue at times. Shame on me. Your abiding memory of maths is of an excruciatingly painful period or two periods of time during the day when nothing of any substance would happen at all. You felt as though time had been recklessly wasted mentally wrestling with a meaningless experience. 

So there you are folks. It's National Maths Day. It's time to close your books, put down your pens and pencils, ponder over another set of graphs or tables and pretend you were doing something infinitely more rewarding. Your uncle once told you that maths was all about logic and commonsense but to this day it all seems like some scientific formula that was just beyond us. Now where's that calculator again? You've probably left it in cupboard or chest of drawers where none should ever be able to find it. National Maths Day. Now there's a conundrum. 

It's all your fault Matt Hancock or is it?

 It's all your Matt Hancock or is it?

Throughout Covid 19 most of us had to get used to both confinement, self isolation, fear, suspicion and terror when it seemed to blow over us and then leave us once and for all. Then we experienced feelings of utter grief, a worrying estrangement from all of our loved ones, both friends and families. For months on end, the Tory government, headed by the well intentioned if eccentric Boris Johnson, were cruelly exposed to almost constant ridicule and derision, hatred and then resentment. 

Now all of those virus restrictions and financial constraints are, more or less, ancient history. The general consensus is that we can do everything that we were banned from doing for just over two and a half years  and human relationships have been restored to their right and proper level. Of course the cynics will continue to wear those cold and clinical looking masks just in case somebody should be stricken and the rest of the global population goes down with the same, dreaded illness.

But now that the coast is clear and the last remnants of the disease have vanished, the post mortems are particularly painful. The inquests and recriminations, the accusations and counter accusations will probably rumble on for a considerable amount of time. In fact certain people may have to look at themselves at the mirror at some length, reluctantly admitting their guilt and shame before shuffling off to their holiday home in the Caribbean. The accusations will becoming increasingly more heated and personal. But whose fault is that? Not me governor. You were just breaking every law in the land.

Now the man in the spotlight is one Matt Hancock. Hancock was the one man who just stood there glumly, sombrely and apologetically as if all the troubles of the world had made his job almost unbearable at times. He looked into the TV cameras and came out with so many statements of the obvious that it almost felt as if he was deliberately undermining our intelligence and patronising most of Great Britain with heartfelt apologies, reminding us of the severity of Covid 19. But why on earth is everybody blaming Hancock? He did nothing to jeopardise the welfare of the United Kingdom. His hands were clean and the nation should hold somebody else to account rather than him.

Those familiar themes of accountability and transparency have almost got completely lost in the general messy aftermath of  Covid 19. First there were the wild, debauched parties that were totally illegitimate and forbidden. There was Boris Johnson's birthday party which was a minor rave, the raised glasses of champagne, the cheese and wine gatherings in Downing Street when most of the public who had voted for them were shut up in our homes, clattering their frying pans together, clapping and acknowledging the huge and memorable contribution the NHS had so unceasingly made.

Then poor old Matt Hancock was caught kissing and canoodling his lady friend and colleague while his wife was boiling with incandescent rage. Oh what a circus! Then, and quite understandably, Hancock conveniently drew a veil over his obvious indiscretions and tried to deny that anything untoward or unsavoury had taken place. But then he found he hadn't spotted any close circuit camera in the middle of his passionate clinch. So how could anybody prove anything without any circumstantial evidence?

The gist of this sorry tale is that the first touchpaper has been lit here. An inquisitive and industrious Times journalist Isobel Oakeshott, has simply followed her leads and tip offs in the political hot house and Hancock has been caught in the headlights. Oakeshott has defended herself to the hilt, rightly pointing out that she was just doing her job and nothing else. Those who take an almost sadistic pleasure in the downfall of our politicians must have been rubbing their proverbial hands together with unashamed glee.

This morning Sunday Telegraph readers woke up this morning convinced that Matt Hancock was just a red blooded male looking hungrily for an illicit relationship. Regrettably the Tory party have now become synonymous with sex and scandal, front page tabloid stories. The moral majority have probably spat out their toast and Corn Flakes, incensed at yet more governmental controversy. You'd have thought the dust had settled by now but outrage has now become almost common currency on a daily basis when the Conservative party take residence at 10 Downing Street.

And yet the world will continue to spin around because it always has done so. The current news agenda is probably no more different to the one we've been so much an integral part of during the last three years or so. Politicians do like to preen and posture when a TV or radio microphone is pointed at them. Publicity invariably follows them like a bad smell and some of us have now reached the point of complete indifference. For those who may be searching for something much more light hearted and frivolous you might be interested to know that the Eurovision Song Contest, to be held in Liverpool, is not that far away. Now that's something to positively look forward to. It could be another night to remember.

Fulham reach the FA Cup quarter finals beating Leeds United.

 Fulham reach the FA Cup quarter finals beating Leeds United.

Older Fulham supporters often look back with overwhelming feelings of regret, sadness, philosophical resignation, longing for the good times and a sense that opportunities may have been squandered in the past. In recent seasons Fulham have been bouncing from the Championship to the Premier League rather like somebody on a trampoline who can't quite adjust to an easier way of life. Sometimes it just makes sense to keep your feet on the ground with an activity that's rather less arduous and demanding.

This season Fulham have developed the most pleasant feeling of belonging and acceptance. At the moment they are now sixth in the Premier League and somebody must have told them that you can reach the giddy heights of success with the right manager and an important sense of direction. European football is still a fanciful objective for Fulham but you never know. The Cottagers famous comedian and chairman Tommy Trinder would almost have certainly called the fans those lucky people. It isn't often you get to tread the boards or trip the light fantastic in such elevated company.

Last night Fulham booked their place in the FA Cup quarter finals with a highly impressive and professional 2-0 victory over Leeds United. Those of a nostalgic turn will probably tell you that both Fulham and Leeds reached their respective FA Cup Finals within three years of each other during the 1970s. The late and great Bobby Moore and Alan Mullery led out Fulham in the 1975 FA Cup Final against West Ham and Leeds were still revelling in their only FA Cup win against Arsenal in 1972.

Some of us can still see the down to earth and pragmatic Don Revie walking out at Wembley, overly critical and judgmental if he thought his players were becoming lazy and lackadaisical while Alec Stock of Fulham was a jolly, jocular and humorous character who just embraced life. Both experienced contrasting fortunes with their teams. Fulham were beaten by West Ham in one of the dullest and most disappointing of London derby FA Cup Finals. Revie had Peter Lorimer, Billy Bremner, Mick Jones, Jack Charlton, Alan Clarke and Johnny Giles in their illustrious ranks so Revie had much more to celebrate than Stock. Besides, you'd never want to be on the wrong side of an argument with Revie anyway.

And yet for Fulham at least this must have felt like redemption for all those wasted years of going nowhere in the lower divisions. Exactly 60 years ago, Fulham demolished Ipswich Town with a 10-1 win on Boxing Day. There followed years and years of emptiness and mediocrity, the butt of music hall jokes, ridicule on the most humiliating scale and there was a sense that people were giggling behind their backs. For the next couple of decades the Cottagers became an industry without productivity. So they went back to sleep and just snored contentedly in both the old Second Division and Third.

The giddy, happy days of Tosh Chamberlain, Johnny Haynes, Jimmy Hill, Tony Macedo, Viv Busby and John Mitchell now meant much more to a generation that just loved its home grown players. The romantics will always point to one season in particular. It was the mid 1970s and somebody must have had the right connections. Fulham were about to start the season in their usually mundane fashion, dedicated to their craft but maybe bordering on the businesslike without any flights of fancy.

Then suddenly, in the most stunning exhibition of audacity, Fulham ventured into the unknown. George Best and Rodney Marsh were summoned to that placid club by the River Thames. For the grumbling and disgruntled who would regularly turn up on the Fulham terraces, this was a complete shock to their system as well as a cultural thunderbolt from nowhere. Within a couple of weeks Best and Marsh had converted Fulham into one of the most delightful of attacking teams in the old Second Division.

Best and Marsh were the dynamic duo, laughing, joking, teasing and taunting poor Hereford United in a comfortable 4-0 victory at the Cottage. After one goal they proceeded to slap each other's hands, smiled broadly at each other and then kept indulging in the most hilarious tomfoolery. It was football from another planet. Both slowed the game to walking pace, leisurely holiday makers and transforming the Beautiful Game into something that lent itself easily to the realms of fun and frivolity. They kept the ball for lengthy periods and just restored our faith in how the game, perhaps unrealistically, should be played.

But now Fulham are back in the Premier League after a brief spell with a yo yo in their hands. Their manager Marco Silva is a well qualified purist, a stickler for the prettier aspects of the game, devoted wholly to the short, sharp and sweet passing game and, quite understandably, an idealist. Things didn't quite go according to plan for Silva at Everton but at Fulham there are now shades of  Best and Marsh in their pomp. Their football has a polished sheen, a shining lustre and a technically triumphant feel about it.

Last night Fulham wove and spun their lacy passing patterns in much the way Silva would have wanted. The ball was exchanged at ground level with a handsome authority and tenderness of touch that none could have anticipated when they were still rubbing shoulders with the likes of Plymouth, Port Vale, Preston, Oldham and Swindon Town. But there is an air of palpable magic in the air by the River Thames and the age of enlightenment has well and truly arrived at Craven Cottage. For the time being the Cottagers are in no mood to loaf about idly while others are winning trophies.

When the likes of Tim Ream, Marek Rodak, Andres Pereira, Cedric Soares, Bobby De Cordova Reed were linking daisy chains of passes around Leeds as if spring had already sprung, the home fans could hardly believe what they were watching. Reed, Soares and Carlos Vinicius were all powerful, lively and permanently athletic, carrying the ball forward with poise and panache. Then Tosin kept appearing in open spaces in the Leeds half, searching, hunting and foraging with vigorous intent, while the brave and heroic Aleksandar Mitrovic battled gamely for goals that never came.

Leeds for their part are under the management of former Watford boss Javi Garcia, a man with a huge responsibility on his shoulders and managing a club that used to terrify the old First Division with classical football that sadly turned nasty and unsavoury at times. Garcia looks both affable and likable and comparisons with the blunt Revie are utterly ludicrous. Leeds are flapping furiously this season, desperately hoping that something will turn up for the best. Their football is daring and ambitious, forward thinking and progressive at times but the defence does creak alarmingly at times and a young side is still learning the ropes.

The visitors had Luke Ayling striving purposefully for possession, passing with both accuracy and foresight quite notably at times but then losing his bearings as well. Robin Koch, Rasmus Kristensen, Americans Weston Mckennie and Tyler Adams and Marc Roca were all gelling together quite brilliantly and intelligently, carving Fulham open like butchers slicing open Sunday beef. Then Junior Firpo gave us a cultured display of his exotic skills, Crysencio Summerville moving the ball easily in and around the Leeds defence like a child jumping on and off a fairground carousel. Leeds, in sporadic periods, were a handful for Fulham but then Georginio Rutter, alongside Wilfred Gnoto, missed perfect chances to score in excellent positions. The cutting edge was quite clearly missing for the visitors.

Fulham duly took the lead after an excellent high tempo approach to the game in its opening stages. Attacking with a symphony of movement and clever thinking, Joao Paulhinha, picking up a ball from his nearby colleagues, jockeyed into space, before floating a beautifully curled, bending shot that flew past Leeds goalkeeper Ilian Meisler who could only admire the goal.

From that point onwards Fulham grew in stature and confidence, switching the ball lightly and effortlessly between them as if a previous arrangement had been made before them. When Israeli forward Manor Solomon had fired an identical goal to the one had beaten Wolves last Friday, Fulham must have thought of dreamland. The Cottage had recognised boundless possibilities and the spectre of an FA Cup Final must have entered their minds. They have a number of obstacles to negotiate but with the absence of Arsenal and Chelsea in the sixth round, quarter final draw, Fulham may well become Trinder's lucky people. The FA Cup has many cunning tricks up the sleeve. Watch this space.