Happy 100th birthday, Wembley Stadium.

 Happy 100th birthday, Wembley Stadium.

Is it really 100 years since Wembley Stadium opened its hallowed turnstiles to feverish sports fans? How time flies and yet the truth is the national stadium does looks healthier in as much as that the new stadium looks stronger, fitter and more appealing to the eye than ever before. The celebrations are in full swing and yet little in the way of publicity has been given to the centenary of Wembley. It stands there modestly and imposingly, as if not caring a jot what other people may think of it. There is a very discreet respectability about Wembley Stadium that many of us have come to respect for as long as we can remember.

Wembley Stadium was there when you were a kid, it was there throughout your adolescence and even now brings a sentimental lump to your throat whenever you give it several moments of consideration. But why? The simple answer is that we don't know because we grew up with its stunning architecture, its place in Britain's cultural history, its easy accessibility whenever FA Cup Final day just happened to be on the TV. You could feel the tension, become an active participant in everything Wembley represented. You, too, could be there in the 100,000 crowd, amusing banners flying, scarves whirling in the air before soaking up the magical atmosphere as goals or rugby league tries were scored in glorious profusion.

From a very young age Wembley was FA Cup Final day, the must see sporting event of the day. It drew you into the huge banks of seats, the stands and terraces bursting at the seams. Wembley was like a welcoming host to the grandest party of all time. The sense of human communality and solidarity amongst rival fans almost made it personal, a stadium with a mystical aura about it, a timeless charm, a ground that heroically survived two World Wars and then just dusted itself down for another 75 years of ecstatic victory and tear stained defeat.

Teams came and went, players cried copiously and then celebrated the night away in London nightclubs, bars and restaurants. It almost felt as though something extra special had just taken place. Wembley was the emotional roller coaster that kept turning our stomachs with every conceivable feeling. You remember where you were when consciousness of the old Wembley Stadium suddenly made you feel ten feet tall. You were a child of nature, the year was 1971 and Arsenal played Liverpool in that year's FA Cup Final.

In retrospect of course it feels strange now but there was something that made for compulsive viewing, a fascination with the images, pictures, the whole context and narrative of what had just happened. At one end of the old Wembley Stadium, a huge electronic score board showed a Radio Times advertisement, the BBC's now celebrated TV listings magazine. But you gazed in wonderment at Arsenal, under the magnificently paternal figure of Bertie Mee, wearing yellow shirts on the day while in the red corner there was Bill Shankly, canny, shrewd, hugely knowledgeable and a Liverpool manager whose legacy would never be forgotten.

By coincidence, it just happened to be one of the most gripping, compelling and brilliant FA Cup Finals your very young eyes had ever seen. You had no idea of the game's fundamental mechanics, its laws, rules and regulations, its complex technicalities and its very basic rudiments. You had to work out why there were two goals with two posts and two crossbars. You scratched your heads with utter bewilderment at the white lines on both wings, the goal- lines, the tunnels from where the players emerged and why there were so many people cheering their heads off when a football crossed the line.

But as time went on you accepted that a homegrown Arsenal product in Charlie George loved nothing better than slumping to the ground and lying flat on his back as his ferocious shot from just outside the Liverpool penalty area flew past Liverpool goalkeeper Ray Clemence for the winning goal. He then stretched out his arms to embrace the rest of his team mates and at that point you realised immediately that Wembley was something more than the building that hosted major sporting occasions. It was our first connection to football, our embryonic relationship with the game and everything it meant to the outside world.

From that moment onwards you were hooked, transfixed by its seductive charms, thrilled by its theatricality, its sense of occasion and the way you were just transported to a world of 90 minutes of pure excitement, those fluctuations of fortune where nobody can predict the outcome of any one given match at any time. Wembley put the whole of the world in some very sober perspective because 100,000 invariably turned up for an FA Cup Final so there had to be something in the air. Here was a gathering of like minded souls, supporters with passionate hearts while the rest of society and the globe went shopping on a Saturday afternoon or washed their cars.

And yet it made all common sense. During one memorable summer during the 1970s, an intrepid daredevil risked life and limb in perhaps the most spectacular of spectacles. Evil Knievel, an American with a complete disregard of any of the risks attached to motor bike riding, settled down in his bike ready to launch into what can only be considered the craziest stunt ride of all time. Wembley Stadium fell silent, a hush descended over North London and our fearless friend from the USA revved up his bike before hurtling towards the longest row of London buses that had ever been seen. Travelling at some ridiculous speed Knievel lifted the said bike into mid air and jumped over the buses as if he'd done the same thing over and over again without batting an eye lid.

Then Wembley has opened its doors to a myriad other activities. Over the years, the stadium has hosted speedway meetings, pop concerts, greyhound races while not forgetting of course American football. It is an all purpose, versatile and vastly impressive ground where on an early afternoon in May two football teams normally slug out for the gold medal, FA Cup winning trophy. But this year this FA Cup Final is, bizarrely, at the beginning of June. This would never be the intention in any other year but at the end of last year the World Cup took precedence to everything else thus pushing back the date of the FA Cup Final. 

So it is that we will look on at the first ever Manchester derby FA Cup Final between United and City and find some poetic symmetry in it all. Wembley is 100 years old and two of Britain's most famous, popular, enormously wealthy and instantly identifiable of all clubs. It is a prospect to whet the appetites of any neutral football supporter because Wembley does that to you, right in the solar plexus.

Overlooking the new Wembley is its most distinctive and striking Arch. On FA Cup Final morning the rituals will be observed and protocols carried out with due diligence. They'll set up the sprinklers in strategic areas of the immaculately green grass, thoroughly check the nets, lay out the players kit in those wonderfully spacious dressing rooms and then just get on with the business of playing. The days of TV involvement from early morning to late afternoon are long since defunct but the players will still wander around the pitch before the game, compare suits, shirts or ties for a while, wave to watching families in the crowd and then joke about their hair cuts.

Wembley Stadium, in its centenary year, will not be getting a telegram from the new King perhaps but it will be reminiscing on the Stanley Matthews Final when the Blackpool winger finally picked up his first FA Cup winners medal in 1953. It will remember Bob Stokoe galloping across the Wembley pitch like a man running after a bus, all coat and hat as Sunderland became one of the first old Second Division sides to win the FA Cup.

But above all English football will never be allowed to forget the World Cup in 1966 where a remarkably over confident Sir Alf Ramsey guided England to their very first World Cup. It's all well documented and gleefully replicated now but England did win the World Cup at the old Wembley Stadium and even the most cynical would have to admit that matches do not get any better with the passage of time. It's 100 years since Bolton Wanderers beat West Ham United in the first FA Cup Final at the old Wembley and 100 years later the brand new, sparkling Wembley Stadium awaits its next gladiators. What a national treasure. Happy Birthday Wembley.

National Telephone Day.

 National Telephone Day.

You have to be joking surely. This is not National Telephone Day. But it is you know. Where on earth would we be without the telephone? Lost, you suspect, lacking in complete communication with the outside world. More so than ever the phone has become not only essential but also a fashion accessory, a vital connection with both your family and friends, almost critical to the way we are since without a phone you're simply forgotten, neglected, an outcast, no longer regarded as quite as popular as you might have been five minutes ago but nonetheless deeply loved and respected. 

A phone though is your invisible window on the world, a voice from another location but still important and  valued by people as recognisable and familiar, urgent at times but less so than other moments. Most of us can go through a whole day on both a landline number or now that celebrated piece of high tech gadgetry with Apps, What's Up facilities, games galore, recipes should you want them, card games, personal and family numbers and the whole spectrum of online websites that have now transformed our every day life.

It occurs to you that the great Alexander Graham Bell, the inventor of the telephone and engineer supreme would have been enormously flattered at the remarkable popularity of the phone. It's hard to believe that some of us would never be able to function without the phone although without that absolutely necessary dialogue with the people we love, you suspect nothing would ever be achieved. Besides, what harm are you doing, only chatting, conversing, telling them that you'll meet them outside the bus stop next to Marks and Spencer and you'll try to get there in time. But if you don't happen to make it then you shouldn't worry and nor should they.

Nowadays phones are hugely fashionable marketing campaigns in all areas of our lives both on TV, radio, street advertising hoardings and in almost every coat, trousers and shirt pocket conceivable. We walk around the streets and roads attached to our phone, ears tenderly clutching that small piece of equipment that holds the key to earnest business meetings, school runs, hospital appointments, a constant aid to our daily shopping habits and the most common of sights in every commercial outlet you can possibly think of.

Of course we need to keep in touch and the opinion from here is that we do need to know how the rest of the world is doing and maintain some semblance of contact with work colleagues, cherished family and friends and anybody else you may care to think of. But the telephone is slowly turning into a compulsive habit, an obsession from time to time but a genuine necessity when the mood takes us. It is no longer just the landline at home nor is it a last resort when your miles away from those you may want to ring immediately.

The telephone now is an integral part of our furniture, the background mood music of our lives when all around is all enveloping silence. We somehow feel obliged to hold indefinite conversations on buses, crossing roads and streets, standing in doorways but perhaps dangerously oblivious to our surroundings. How many times have you found yourself strolling down the street without a care in the world and then that world becomes threatened by needless distractions? Before you can look up and find your bearings somebody will casually walk straight into you without any recognition of your existence. In other words it was your fault that there might have been an accident while they protest their innocence.

But today it's time to pay a warm homage to the telephone and a word or thousand of praise to Alexander Graham Bell, the Scotsman who may have had a light bulb moment well over a century or so while tucking into his porridge. Bell must have been a shrewd visionary, perhaps suspecting that the concept of talking to people would indeed catch on in a big way at some point in the future. So he fixed all of the wires into the right electrical socket, manufactured an object that had massive potential and then sat back as the adulation poured in from a grateful public.

Sadly there are advantages and disadvantages to the new brand of I Phones, Smart Phones and the phones that just keep ringing even when you're trying to drop off to sleep. We have been told repeatedly that if you stare at a phone screen for any length of time late at night your sleeping patterns could be regularly disrupted because your eyes need sleep rather than the harsh light of your mobile phone. 

But how many of us have been tempted to spend all night just surfing through a million websites of any description. It can't be denied they do have the capacity to ruin us as the land of shut eye becomes fundamental to our health so it may be advisable to have a late night natter during the day rather than damage our body clock. We keep telling ourselves that those office e-mails that had to be dealt with immediately can always be responded to in the morning but then it had to be done so now rather than later.

Then there are the innumerable up to date models, the new Nokias, the scintillating Samsungs, the Car Warehouse creations that can do so many things that its contemporaries just can't do. There are also the mobile phone warehouses, Internet cafes, queues of people standing patiently outside shops desperate for a better class of phones with an abundance of Gigs, sim cards that work almost immediately. And then there are the car phones, a controversial subject since many of us have to work and talk on the phone while travelling to some destination. None of us can ever gauge the true importance of the phone but the sight of somebody with a mobile in one hand and the other on a steering wheel does look quite disturbing.

Still, it's National Telephone Day folks. Three cheers to the one household object that seems to have a mind of its own. A couple of days ago we had one of those epic seconds or minute. A national security and emergency ring buzzed through to the entire population of Great Britain and quite possibly the world. It smacked of George Orwell's classic novel 1984 when all the clocks started ticking and Winston Smith was but a lad in shorts. Happy National Telephone Day everybody and don't forget to give us a bell, as Alexander Graham may well have said.

Manchester City reach another FA Cup Final

 Manchester City reach another FA Cup Final.

It was never like this in Mike Summerbee's day. The hugely reliable former Manchester City defender sat in Wembley's plush royal box in much the way he played his football; relaxed, commanding, nerveless and totally at ease with the world. He must have been thinking about his distinguished role in City's defence as Manchester City laid waste to Leicester City in the 1969 FA Cup Final. Little could Summerbee have known what we now know. Roll forward 54 years later and the current Manchester City side are a side so breath taking to watch at times that you'd have been forgiven for thinking that the 54 years since had been some elaborate hoax and that City had just been desperately unlucky.

Yesterday City, under the remarkably inspirational guidance of Pep Guardiola, swotted aside Sheffield United, who themselves now seem destined to return to the Premier League once again. City did so in such a dismissive and cavalier fashion that this just felt like another day in the office for Manchester City. They are now poised to clinch what would only be the second domestic Treble achieved by a Premier League club. And City certainly need no reminding of the last club to hit the hat-trick since the red side of Manchester United would probably love nothing better than to rub City's noses in it if Manchester City stumble at the final hurdle.

Manchester City ran out comfortable 3-0 winners over a Sheffield United team who never really turned up for this blue riband occasion. The neutrals may have been convinced that United had become easily distracted by more important issues in the Championship promotion race. It was the ultimate pre-occupation and one that always looked likely to end in anti-climactic disappointment. True, the last time Sheffield United had made any waves in the FA Cup, the USA was in a state of severe economic depression, Al Jolson would capture the hearts of cinema audiences while debutantes, socialites and flappers would dance the Charleston and the rest of the night away.

In theory this seemed like a complete mismatch between two sides with completely different perspectives and philosophies and, in a sense, priorities. City were beautifully entrancing to watch, their possession of the ball some natural evolution and their distribution simply too handsome to be regarded as anything but brilliant and superlative. City play with the opposition like rag dolls while their opponents Sheffield United reminded you of unwelcome impostors at a party who forget to bring a bottle. It was a no contest well before the end of the game.

For a while the experienced John Egan, George Baldock, Anel Ahmedhodzic, Oliver Norwood, Max Lowe did provide a platform from the back that was steady but always likely to subside under the weight of Manchester City's technical powerhouse of a team. For a while at least Sander Berge, John Fleck, Jack Robinson and Daniel Jebbison did see the lights of City's eyes with sporadic but half hearted attacks that just fizzled out into oblivion.

And so it was that Manchester City eased their way magisterially into their opponents half with exquisitely constructed attacking movements that were woven together with the finest fabrics. Their passing is simply out of this world, a fusion of delicious craftsmanship and draughtsmanship, expansive football that pulled and stretched the Brammall Lane side like huge red and white elastic bands. City's movements on both flanks and their players delicate interaction with each other were a joy to behold. Then there were the subtleties and intricacies, that priceless ability to move the ball around with almost breathless ease which had to be admired because you simply had to.

The element of doubt about the Riyad Mahrez penalty which gave Manchester City the lead must have been only a brief moment of uncertainty. A defensive clip of Mahrez feet sent the City attacker tumbling. The referee pointed promptly to the spot and Mahrez steered the ball into the net as if he'd be doing the same thing since a wee nipper in shorts.

By the end of the first half it was all plain sailing for City, a case of men against boys. Sheffield United were huffing and puffing, gasping and grasping, toiling conscientiously but never ever remotely close to City's house of aristocracy. Ilkay Gundogan was always busy and inventive, while the energetic Phil Foden was a force of nature.Then Jack Grealish began to form an engaging friendship with the ball, dribbling with the ball with that low centre of gravity that makes him almost impossible to stop. At times Grealish was unstoppable and unsurpassable, wriggling irresistibly past City defenders as if they weren't there.

Then there was the faultless and flawless Aymeric Laporte who alongside the likes of the excellent Bernardo Silva, produced wave after wave of mesmeric City attacks. City, inevitably extended their lead and their opponents were just left flummoxed by the sheer speed and accuracy of City's approach work. Mahrez, who by now was just tormenting Sheffield United at will, picked up a ball in the centre circle from a loose ball, and ran single- handedly at the United defence and simply walked his way through the Blades hapless defenders. It was wonderfully audacious and a goal to remember for ever.

When Grealish once again to play havoc with Sheffield United's now leaking defence you could almost feel that the game had long gone for the Yorkshire side. It was like watching a kitchen colander just seeping water. City were pulling strings, toying with their Yorkshire opponents like children at a birthday party. Another cat's cradle of fast and furious passes across the hallowed acres of Wembley Stadium ended up at Grealish who dragged his defender every way imaginable, feeding Mahrez in space once again who slammed home City's third. Match over and the mouth watering possibility of the first ever all Manchester derby FA Cup Final became so real that none could quite rule it out.

All the fun of the fair.

 All that fun of the fair.

It's that time of the year again. You must have noticed it by now. Springtime, in all her pomp and pageantry, has kicked off her heels again, loosened her hair, thrust her face into the air with a contented smile and just inhaled very deeply and thoughtfully. The daisies are dancing, the cherry blossom is heavy with the scent of loveliness and just glad to be alive. The tulips are still there, lingering, admiring the scenery while all around us is humanity. And that's where we find ourselves now. It's the middle of April, the traditional showers are of course temporary but nevertheless taking turns with intermittent bursts of sunshine and, when all is said and done, the British climate in all its splendour.

Across the road from here Finsbury Park, in the heart of North London, is just besides itself with enthusiasm. The joggers are still jogging which is heartening, the strollers are taking their leisurely time, boy and girl friends are in love, smiling and giggling but occasionally argumentative which is par for the course. They agree to disagree and then just keep walking. Then there are the basketball courts clearly enjoying themselves with groups of youngsters just bouncing the ball freely and openly. Around the park there are the ageless trees, tall, immovable, impregnable, a majority now covered with green leaves. 

From where you happen to be standing this is how things are supposed to be in any local park. The vocal and vociferous ducks are making their presence felt with their boisterous quacking, marching together out of small areas of the park where nobody can see them. Then they gather together by quiet ponds, gathering for their familiar ritual of lunchtime feasting, thousands of bread crumbs and all manner of culinary goodies.

It is life as it should be and there is a sense now that winter is now ancient history. Those long, dark days of January, February and March have taken their seasonal belongings with them. All is light, bright and early evening tea time feels very much like lunchtime. It's time to move forwards with confidence, creativity, energy, an insatiable desire and appetite for summertime picnics with the family, outdoor pop concerts, the healthy, invigorating air of summer. But that's a given isn't it? Life is very special and always will be but now it is spring again and how welcome does that feel?

In a far off corner Finsbury Park is alive and well, a pulsating spectacle, our childhood revisited and a joy to behold. Once again the fun fair has come to town and you can see it quite clearly and spectacularly. Shortly my wife and yours truly will become first time grandparents so this feels like a new generation simply can't wait to get out there to explore new territories, conquer impressive looking worlds and generally embrace everything around them with feeling and tenderness.

But the funfair is currently situated at Finsbury Park and it really feels as though we've been here thousands of times. The kids are on their half term Easter Holiday break, proud and obliging parents are dutifully taking their kith and kin on all of those hugely enjoyable rides while the rest of the park just gets on with the business of life. The funfair though is the one attraction that holds your attention for a while because even as a 60 plus adult there is an amusing fascination about it that may never leave you. 

Spread across most of one specific area of Finsbury Park, the pathway leading up to the site, hitherto deserted during the day, is now full to bursting point. There is a huge marquee type building that looks like a circus tent but isn't a circus tent. Maybe it's just masquerading as a circus but you can't be sure. Then there is the fun fair. There are flashing, flickering red light bulbs, heavy machinery, screaming children who just sound overjoyed, squealing with happiness and several bags of gold fishes in their hands.

It is like this every year, both spring, summer but never winter because nobody really feels like going on a carousel during the winter. But then who are we to question them even if they do decide to hold a funfair on an early day in January? It may be cold outside but in my heart it's spring to quote an old song. Life is for the living, being in the here and now. So the soundtrack of spring has never sounded sweeter.

Suddenly there is an explosion of activity. Great, hulking pieces of metal and machinery go through the motions. There are the rides with wildly swinging arms, soaring joyfully into the air for seemingly seconds and then plunging back down to the ground like some massive metronome. There are the rides that go whirling, spinning rapidly around in ever increasing circles, swooping like a bird then rising powerfully back into the sky.

Now we can hear sharp blasts of music, the latest dance tunes, the contemporary sounds which to some of us feel alien to our ears if only because we are now the parents or just the adults who used to be young. Then you notice the sign Bumper Cars and really do feel as though somebody has turned the clock back to your junior self. Are the Bumper Cars the fairground rides that used to be called the Dodgems or are they just the modes of transport where toy cars would whizz around for the best part of ten minutes? So many questions but it hardly seems to matter. You now see  young children with their parents crashing into other Dodgems delightedly, grabbing hold of the steering wheel again then laughing deliriously without a care in the world. 

In the middle of all this maelstrom of innocent joy, there are yet more rides in abundance. You may not be able to see them but you would imagine that there are those hilarious spinning tea cups that are being pulled by hydraulic mechanisms, in and out, taking your stomach with you into the bargain. There are the mini amusement arcades with one armed bandits, hundreds of small silver and gold coins and the stall where you can win anything from gold fishes or footballs if you happen to strike lucky. Then there are the carousel horses that seemed to rise and fall, rise and fall quite mesmerically. This is Britain in thrall to the fun fair, where you can always re-capture your youth in a nostalgic haze. If you want to.

Then there are presumably the mini roller coasters that may not form an integral part of the local fun fair but still going strong after all these decades and years, an unchanging part of the landscape. For some of us roller coasters have never been remotely exciting, simply some extraordinary experience that looks and feels distinctly underwhelming and not at all physically rewarding. But then we're all entitled to our opinion because we all live in a democracy and free speech costs nothing. Anything that leaves you feeling as though your whole body has gone on some frightening journey has nothing to commend it. But of course that may not be the case in which case you're definitely right. Roller coasters are brilliant.

So there we are folks. It's the fun fair season and time to abandon ourselves to childlike emotions that we may have thought we'd forgotten all about. Summertime may feel like a while off to some but Finsbury Park has reminded us of who we were once and may be again. Some maintain that we're all children of nature, still going on treasure hunts in the park, hiding and seeking, licking thousands of ice creams, pleading with mum and dad for candy floss, fish and chips and then staring around us enthralled, captivated by the wonder of it all.  Anyone for the coconut shy or the fruit machines? Oh absolutely yes.

Mary Quant passes

Mary Quant passes

For those who remember her as a fashion icon and pioneer of everything that was stylish and outrageous, the passing of Mary Quant may be some significant chapter of our lives but barely registered in others. While some of us were trying to understand the rudiments of grammar, language, verbs, tenses and words, the presence of a radical fashion designer at the very cutting edge of the 1960s zeitgeist seems almost reassuring. This was a Britain and London at its most creative, thinking ahead, revolutionary, innovative, using the richest fabrics and materials at its disposal and just looking good.

In the heart of New Bond Street, Bond Street and Oxford Street, those huge shopping emporiums were opening up some of the classiest stores with everything a young girl or woman could hope to find. The 1960s was the decade when London switched on a whole kaleidoscope of colours and enjoyed the best of all times, making fun its only objective and just showing off in vivid, vibrant patterns, fashions that broke all boundaries and didn't care for a minute what the rest of the world thought of it. There was almost a heady, dizzy, giddy acceptance of the unconventional and how London loved to be the centre of attention.

Mary Quant of course was deeply and emotionally involved in all of those bewildering evolutions, the weird and the unusual, the bizarre yet funky, the ludicrous and inexplicable. Quant was the leading force, the driving force, the one whose dresses, skirts, trousers, mini skirts, hot pants, silky scarves, pashminas, the perfectly symmetrical looks and then the androgynous seemed to work perfectly. It was bold and beautiful, measured to perfection. The arrival of Mary Quant had taken the world of fashion into an entirely new dimension.

Suddenly the heart of the West End of London had been transformed by one woman whose scissors, tape measures and staple guns would provide all of those wonderfully smooth  and flowing frills to some of the most feminine of  clothes. Quant was unashamedly original, always striving to be one step ahead of her contemporaries, never afraid to indulge in the cool, original and ostentatious. Her name always dominated the pages of Cosmopolitan, Tatler's and Vanity Fair. Quant dared to be different, challenged the Establishment and at times derived enormous pleasure from the criticism, snide comments and the negative and derogatory barbs. It was just Mary Quant being Mary Quant, controversial and provocative.

There was a point during recent decades when her rivalries with the likes of Vivien Westwood and Zandra Rhodes provided an entertaining diversion from the more serious news agenda of the day. While the rest of the world was struggling to understand the explosive terrorist outrages of the IRA, Quant was far more concerned with glittering fashion catwalks followed by champagne and canapes. Quant was celebrating that year's mail order catalogue, smiling for the cameras, always designing, never slowing down and permanently looking for the outfit that would stop us all in our tracks.

At all of the West End's most celebrated fashion venues such as Carnaby Street and the Kings Road, a light will go out in homage to this most avant- garde  fashionista. You found yourself wondering what exactly will be going through the minds of Naomi Campbell, Kate Moss and Jemma Kidd. The models  of the 1960s, 70s, 80s, 90s and now the 21st century will wipe a reflective tear for the woman who made it all possible. The world of fashion will gather in a collective state of mourning. Mary Quant always did have class.

Coronation of a King

 Coronation of a King

It hardly seems like 70 years ago but time does indeed fly. In 1953 the late and much beloved Her Majesty the Queen was royally crowned as Queen of the United Kingdom and the Commonwealth. Then Britain was still emerging from the most horrendous conflict it had ever known. The memories were still bitter and of course painful but we got through it all and our powers of resilience knew no bounds. The Second World War had traumatised us so much that maybe we didn't think we could do it but we did with flying colours.

Roll forward 70 years and the then Prince of Wales will now become King the George third in a couple of weeks time and the merry month of May will have the sweetest resonance of them all. King Charles the third will be accompanied by the Queen Consort Camilla. But royal protocol will insist that she be referred to as Queen Camilla and none of us would dare question this highly contentious issue. It'll be a glorious day, the sun will shine incessantly and we'll become very patriotic again. Besides, we could do with a boisterous knees up and street party.

All we do know is that come the beginning of May a new King will sit on his regal throne and his wife Camilla will be known as Queen and this is the way it's going to be. Yesterday details were revealed of the glittering golden carriage that will transport the future King and Queen. It'll be a notably different carriage in as much that it'll be far more comfortable than the Queen's carriage 70 years ago. It'll still be luxurious and splendid to look at but this time, or so we've been told, it'll have air conditioning and may be a substantial improvement on Her Majesty's mode of transport. This is not to say that Her Majesty hated the journey down the Mall and around the streets of London but the King will enjoy the whole day immensely.

So where will you be on this most historic of all days. For some of us it will be one of those once in a lifetime experiences that we knew we'd be a part of at some point in our lives. Sadly the Coronation of a King was the one day we could never have imagined and yet shortly it will come to fruition. After all, most of thought our noble Queen was invincible, that she'd reign supreme indefinitely, that one day Charles would become King but not yet anyway.

But here we are weeks away from one of those momentous, scarcely believable days that will take place. We may wake up the following morning after the Coronation convinced that we'd seen perhaps the most spectacular display of pomp and pageantry ever seen in modern royal history. Of course there were the royal weddings, the Queen's wedding to Prince Philip, sister Margaret and her nuptials, the Silver, Diamond and more recently the Platinum anniversaries because let's face it, they were pretty cool weren't they? You had to be there in order to appreciate or just swept up in the elegant euphoria of it all.

And yet here we are weeks away from another singular chapter in the lives of our royal family, another page in the illustrious history of a family who still divide opinion but for some, are there, easily identifiable, privileged and astonishingly wealthy but we don't think we'd have it any other way. Their lives have been so well documented that perhaps we know too much about them, that all of those by now familiar details of their every movement have become almost common knowledge.

We've all heard about the invasions of their privacy throughout the decades, that whole voyeuristic, nosey parker nonsense that gives us a revealing insight into the royals. We love a bit of gossip when it comes to the royal family but the fascination is surely a morbid one. They may be famous but how we adore the tittle tattle, the salacious Buckingham Palace rumours? Now may be the opportunity to stop this silly speculation immediately since the Royal Family are still the most revered and deservedly loved of any other Royal Family around the globe.

Charles, as has become widely apparent, has led an often colourful and tempestuous life in the full glare of the TV cameras and the whole panoply of the media spotlight. His marriage to the late Princess Diana has assumed Greek tragedy proportions now but the dust has thankfully settled and we can all get on with the business of recognising him as King shortly. When Her Majesty the Queen made him the Prince of Wales in 1969 there was a school of thought that the future for the next King could only be a rosy complexioned one. 

Those who treasure happy ever after stories thought he'd one day get married to the love of his life and they'd both be happy ever after without any complications or troubles. Well, yes he did get married and to all appearances the match was a compatible one - at least for a while. Then we discovered that Lady Diana, as she was formerly known, wasn't the girl we thought she'd turn out to be. The cynics sneered. They thought it had been an arranged marriage and Diana was just a shy young lady who wanted nothing to do with the media. They were proven right but at the time none of us knew the whole story.

To this day most of us remember those horribly intrusive images of Diana rushing out of a nursery, hair wind swept, ducking into her car, smiling awkwardly and wishing people would just go away and never come back. The bombardment of questions about her relationship with the Prince of Wales are now etched into our memory banks. From that point the joining together of Charles and Diana would seem inevitable but full of warning signs and caveats. She was too young and he just wanted to settle down with his wife and children. It did though seem a bit too hurried, rash and not particularly well thought out.

Then on July 29th 1981 millions of people from around the world converged on Buckingham Palace and St Paul's Cathedral, adoring, idolising, lionising, wishing and hoping. The Prince of Wales would be marrying Lady Diana Spencer who would now become Princess Diana. It was the quintessential fairy tale marriage but somebody obviously forgot to tell us. Behind the scenes and now privately, the rumours about serial affairs and infidelities would circulate like a spinning top. Charles only had eyes for Camilla, Diana was simply overcome by blanket coverage of the royal wedding and, although on the surface, blissfully happy, may have wanted the whole day to be over as quickly as possible.

The tragic car crash which claimed Princess Diana's life still leaves a bitter taste in the mouths years after the event. Paris 1997 will not be a date to recall with any pleasure at all since that was the day when the Queen of Hearts died suddenly and unexpectedly in heartbreaking circumstances. The procession which saw Charles, the Queen and Prince Philip, William and Harry bow their heads in unutterable grief and sorrow, can never ever be forgotten.

Charles though has now though happily re-married the very woman we knew she should have married in the first place and on May the sixth, will become King Charles the third. Yesterday he walked among the public on Easter Monday as if everything in the world was just perfect. Queen Camilla, as the King would like his wife to be known as, held her husband's hands tenderly and it felt as though a whole new generation had just been ushered in. Briefly, he put one of his by now characteristic hands in his suit pocket, smiled warmly and pondered on tomorrow, next week, month and year. It had all turned out for the best as we always knew it would. 

Donald Trump- back in the news again

 Donald Trump- back in the news again.

The man who used to be president of the USA sat sombrely in an American high court and tried to pretend that he really wasn't watching or listening to the charges that had been so cruelly levelled against him. Besides it wasn't his fault, not me governor. He wasn't at the scene of the crime and this was quite clearly a travesty of justice, a total miscarriage of justice. How dare the American judiciary imply for a minute that he'd been up to no good and he was just a model of integrity and probity.

Donald Trump, the former president of the USA, had been victimised and singled out for improper treatment and conduct when most of us know that Trump was one of the most farcical, ridiculous and preposterous President that America had ever had. From the moment he'd put his feet under the desk at the heart of American politics, Trump had committed all manner of blunders. The man was just insufferably arrogant, full of pumped up pomposity. Or so we were led to believe.

At the Oval office, Trump joked his way through his term of office rather like an end of seaside pier clown in a circus. Now though things have come to a dramatic head and the man with the distinctive hairstyle is being interrogated by countless numbers of high ranking officials, legal aficionados, barrack room lawyers and those who just want Trump locked up in a prison cell for the rest of his life.

Trump just sat there with a sullen glare and menacing scowl as if he quite obviously hadn't a clue what all the fuss was all about. The beautifully combed, quiffed hair looked as though it was on its best behaviour and for a moment or two you were reminded of a sea wave rolling onto a Florida beach. For a minute you half expected an athletic looking surfer on their board swooping down from a great height. But then you realised that this was no ordinary politician if that was ever the case anyway. It was Donald Trump. Yes the man who will never be forgotten by the American public if only for all the wrong reasons. 

But yesterday once the most famous man in the world  couldn't quite believe what was happening to him and, let's be honest, nor could we. The celebrated hotel owner and multi million dollar man had been nabbed by the cops. Donald Trump was arrested by the authorities and the list of his duplicitous activities were laid bare to the American public who were either flabbergasted or just pleased that what goes around comes around. The charges and allegations followed by the ultimate indictment were there in front of Trump and his cronies. Of course he denied all of the well documented misdemeanours that had been committed but then he would.

Yesterday that esteemed body of men and women who make up the Congress in Washington, rattled off a whole sequence of felonies including the falsifying of important business documents throughout his much mocked administration and, alarmingly, a good deal worse. We were then reminded of those violent riots in Washington where the enraged and the outraged, the incensed and fuming, broke into the White House and the Capitol building, ransacking everything in their path, wrecking the furniture, scrawling graffiti across the walls and generally behaving like those wretched hooligans who once disfigured English football during the 1970s.

Meanwhile Donald Trump had already been smuggled out of office by then. He was no longer President of the United States and how a majority of Americans breathed a sigh of relief. For the rest of last year Trump seemed to have disappeared almost completely only to re-emerge recently. The vanishing act had worked to perfection. But you didn't think he'd get off that lightly. Trump was in the background with protestations of innocence as his only defence. It is hard to believe that he could have got away with it for so long but now he becomes the centre of attention again, a convicted criminal who probably won't go to prison but can only sheepishly admit that he might have been ever so slightly responsible.

Sadly Trump now cuts a pathetic and forlorn figure. Of course the books have been cooked, accounts have been tampered with and there is a dark cloud of illegitimacy hanging over him. There was the so called 'bullying' of the Scottish government, the undermining of trade relations with China and a whole host of vile violations and potty mouthed statements that were so incomprehensible that even he couldn't quite understand them.

And so to the present day. Even now some of us can only believe that a man so self centred and self possessed, so vain, narcissistic, misogynistic and controlling had just spent the best part of two and a half  years polarising opinion, dragging the USA down to the lowest common denominator but convinced that he was the best thing since sliced bread. Trump was the greatest of them all, the finest, a man with all the relevant credentials for entering the American Hall of Fame. Nobody could deny that everything he'd done had been perfect, flawless, transforming the country's fortunes overnight.

However, we could all see this for the sham it was, perjury of the worst kind. He told us to drink bleach as the perfect antidote for Covid 19. He would rant almost indefinitely on subjects for which he had no prior knowledge. He would verbally attack the media, TV, radio, newspapers and of course notably so, social media giant Twitter, pointing the fingers of blame at people he'd never met. He would single out members of the assembled Press and then blast their ear drums with the most powerful rhetoric, language none of us could make head or tail of.

Still, Trump is in court in quite the most unprecedented fashion. He knows where he might have gone wrong but his air of untouchable superiority continues to look a very bad fit. The damage though has quite obviously been done and there can no be way back from the precipice. At the moment there is something very toxic and explosive about this unquestionable political scandal. The gossip factory is in full spate and Trump knows that at some point something will have to give.

So we look on from a far distant country and your observations on this intriguing news story are probably reflected by the rest of the world. Every time we become subjected to one of many skeletons in the Trump wardrobe, we think back to the tearful and hugely emotional Richard Nixon who cried buckets in front of Sir David Frost, the legendary TV broadcaster. Watergate had sunk Nixon and left him humiliated. When Bill Clinton became president of the United States way back in the past, we were soon to discover that Clinton's turbulent private life would take precedence to anything he would do as President.

Today Donald Trump will search his conscience for some kind of salvation. He will roll his eyes across a courtroom, stare vacantly into the middle distance and then accept his punishment since final decisions have to be made and around him the chattering classes will rub their hands with sadistic glee. Donald Trump has now been rumbled, mercilessly exposed for who he is and the jury will make their decisive judgments. The cynics will insist that this is just a cheap publicity stunt and a battle Trump is bound to win. Whatever we may think him, Trump will always be regarded as one of the more unorthodox of American presidents. The important reminder here though is that a bottle of bleach to cure deadly viruses is not to be recommended. Keep smiling Mr Trump. Things may get better.  

Pesach- Passover, the Jewish spring festival.

 Pesach- Passover, the Jewish spring festival

If you're Jewish then please don't let me stop you. On Wednesday  evening Jews across the globe will be marking that traditional springtime festival. Yes folks it's Pesach again as it has been for so many decades and centuries that time has almost seemed immaterial. Pesach or Passover is that moment of the year when we all converge on matzot, matza, unleavened bread like famished people who haven't seen matza since at least the day after the first day of Pesach. Or it's that very meaningful first seder night when the world grows silent and reflective and starts talking about the great Exodus from Egypt. And then it begins.

On Wednesday evening a hushed reverence will descend on Barnet as my wonderful brother in law Jon, his equally as lovely sister in law Jo-ann and their family will welcome Pesach into their homes with all the warmth and cordiality that only family can bring to such extraordinary moments in our lives. We'll gather together in their living room, complete with pristine white tablecloths, beautiful candlesticks in the middle of the table and the seder plate with bitter herbs, egg, maror and the familiar shankbone, all heavy with stunning symbolism.

There are times when you can't help but feel good about being Jewish, the feeling you get when Judaism brings everything together to the table so to speak. There are the shy, young but eager small children who sit at the table attentively, giggling uncontrollably at the boxes of matzos scattered all over their homes, the bottles of Palwin wine placed strategically well away from their inquisitive hands and then the plates, crockery and cutlery quite possibly from Jerusalem or Tel Aviv. This happens every year so therefore it's the most spiritually uplifting event you can ever hope to experience as a Jew.

So here we are again at Pesach and the fond childhood reminiscences tumble freely from your mind rather like tiny gems from jewellery boxes. They are the Pesach occasions you couldn't possibly forget quite simply because they meant so much to you. They defined that special, unique set of nights that stand out from the rest because everybody feels so appreciative of each other's company, so delighted to see you around the seder table, so loving and mutually affectionate within the family circle. In fact it's a great excuse to scoff as many matzos in such huge profusion that by the time you start your meal you've no idea where you're going to fit all of those vast quantities of food that now follow.

But your childhood was such an idyllic one that it almost seems too good to be true. You dig into your memory like those dedicated archaeologists who just remain permanently fascinated with history. Pesach had to be my wonderful grandparents favourite time of the year. My dear, lovely grandpa, a learned Hebrew scholar of the highest distinction, survived the Holocaust heroically and admirably. He would sit there, mind locked in a horrific solitude, quietly and gravely chanting the prayers and blessings but satisfied nonetheless that his family and grandchildren were there to see it all. Pesach again, every year.

By the early 1970s there were no more questions to be asked, no reasons why the Holocaust happened but simply a recognition of the way that things were fated to turn out. The inquests, post mortems, explanations, documentaries, harrowing accounts of six million Jews dying so unnecessarily in the gas chambers just seemed like statements of the obvious, tragic death and destruction that should never be allowed to repeat itself ever again. The sobering reality of course was that it did unfold quite horrendously and life for my beautiful grandma Rachel and her equally as lovely husband Jack would never seem quite the same.

The bitterness and resentment would eat away at both my grandparents for most of their lives and maybe this is the right time to dwell on the happier side of Pesach, the cup of Elijah that my loving grandma and grandpa would always insist had been sipped. The wine had been drunk quite satisfyingly regardless of all the evidence in front of the eyes of my brother and yours truly. But we were then told to look at the ripple of wind that hovered over the cup which would have suggested otherwise. So we looked and looked and trusted that our grandparents were perfectly right even though we knew they must have been teasing us quite jovially.

The stories though were endless. You can never be sure about dates or years but you must have been very young. For what must have been the second seder night, my grandparents returned the compliment after the first night had been spent in the salubrious Essex suburb of Gants Hill. My dad, who will always have a special place in the hearts of my brother Mark and yours truly, stood up at the table and waited for all the excitement to subside. Half way through one of the many blessings for wine my lovely dad, without any prior knowledge and completely unexpectedly, found that, much to his and our own amusement, his trousers were falling from his waist, thus revealing nothing more than his modesty. Down the said trousers fell and we simply fell about with irresistible laughter.

Then at my grandma and grandpa as a child of roughly five or six, we had just finished the main meal of the evening and dessert would be promptly served by my adorable grandma. It consisted of prunes and custard but little did she know that the first grandson she'd so unfailingly doted on, had somewhat naively assumed that the stones in the prunes had to be eaten as well. So after eating goodness knows how many prunes my family, shocked at such innocent foolishness, rushed number one grandson and son, accompanied with much younger brother, to the Accident and Emergency in the local hospital where your stones were pumped out of your system.

And finally there were the seder nights themselves. After an intensive session of munching, eating, biting, savouring, salivating and enjoying the lavish feast you would survey the utter carnage on the table. Everywhere there were wine stained Haggadahs, yellow and red prayer books almost transformed, table cloths a thick purple vision of messy mayhem. There were matza crumbs everywhere, scattered quite liberally over beautifully stitched Hebrew lettering along with remnants of chicken bones and paper serviettes that had also been dabbed in liberal sprinklings of wine. You were also presented with several hardback classic books including Robinson Crusoe, Treasure Island, Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn by your uncle David.

Looking back on those formative years of your childhood you could hardly imagine which direction your life would take. You felt enormously privileged to be part of a Pesach ceremony that would become such an integral part of your life. To this day you could never quite understand why your grandpa thought nothing of racing through all the prayers and blessings in such record time, a sequence of muttering and mumbling the words but at the same time, immersing himself in Judaism, smiling at me tenderly. Oh for the sweet joys of Pesach. Happy Pesach everybody. Chag Pesach Semach to you all.