FA Cup Final and end of Premier League season.

 FA Cup Final and end of Premier League season.

They finally clocked off at the factory gates yesterday evening and we had just witnessed the longest and most gruelling Premier League season of all time. In fact the whole season seemed to go on indefinitely without catching its breath at any point during the proceedings. Last November the whole of British football hung up its boots on the domestic front and concentrated on the World Cup in Qatar. Here was a temporary break, a logical pause, football delayed for a perfectly good reason and yet some of us knew that the sense of continuity inherent in any normal football season had been disrupted by a side show but was still a pleasant distraction.

But by the time all the final mathematics had been compiled and tears shed on heartbroken terraces around all the Premier League grounds, the survivors were still in excessive party mode and all had become abundantly clear. For a while the last game of a Premier League season is always accompanied by the grinding of nails on transistor radios , faces twisted with tension and anxiety while on the other side of town or at the other end of the country, the victors were dancing the bossa nova and the conga.

Of course Arsenal have played some of the most exquisite and breath taking football for all but the last month of the season. The fact they fell agonisingly short of winning the Premier League is more a testament to just how impressive they've been so consistently. Arsenal have just been a breath of  fresh air, a side of pretty and ornate designs, picturesque passing patterns and the kind of forward momentum that at times carved open opposition defences quite brutally and ruthlessly.

The mind goes back to the magisterial era of Arsene Wenger when new templates and mentalities were installed and training ground methods revolutionised in quite the most astonishing fashion. Suddenly the likes of Tony Adams, Steve Bould, Lee Dixon, Alan Smith, Ian Wright, the late and much missed David Rocastle were taught about completely different refuelling methods with a notable emphasis on rigorous dietary regimes, wine instead of lager for lunch or dinner and a whole assortment of healthy snacks.

But this season Mikel Arteta, once one of Arsenal's most elegant practitioners of the game as a player, has made the transition to management with almost delicious ease. Arsenal have seen off most of the opposition this season and in a sense were unlucky to blow up at the final furlongs of the season when it all looked as if this could have been one of Arsenal's greatest seasons in recent years. Then Pep Guardiola came along with Manchester City's familiar mechanics and dynamics. City won their third consecutive Premier League season, completing a notable hat-trick and reminding us of their impeccable pedigree.

So it is that we move forward to the first ever FA Cup Final to be held at the beginning of June. For some of us this feels sacrilege since we can already see the first begonias and nasturtiums, hydrangeas, red and white roses, verbenas and violets and a splash of colour in our gardens and parks. Today is the first Bank Holiday of the year and it's hard to believe that the final whistle has just been blown on the last day of the English football season.

This Saturday marks another first in the most prestigious Cup competition in the world. After a series of all London FA Cup Finals, Merseyside Finals and a liberal sprinkling of North West and East England Finals, this year sees the first meeting of the two Manchester giants in an FA Cup Final. Manchester United will be playing their noisy neighbours Manchester City at Wembley this Saturday afternoon.

It does have the feel of an Industrial Revolution about it since Manchester is still mightily proud of its Ship Canal, the commercial products that continue to roll off its production line and a Victorian heritage which is still evident throughout the city. Undoubtedly Manchester is still thriving and vibrant. It now houses the National Football Museum and the Trafford Centre remains its most attractive feature on its high streets. The National Football Museum is still immensely popular and when the city wakes up on Saturday morning thoughts will naturally turn to its legends, Sir Matt Busby, Sir Alex Ferguson, the unforgettable genius of George Best, Denis Law, Sir Bobby Charlton on the red side while Pep Guardiola, Malcolm Allison, Joe Mercer, Francis Lee, Rodney Marsh and Colin Bell will evoke all the lovely memories from the light blue side of the city.

The week leading up to any FA Cup Final is always tinged with joy, sadness, passion, belief, a sense that this is your turn to win the Cup again rather than your neighbour's team. You've invested all those emotional sensibilities into one weekend of the football year and this is it. It's our turn to win it for a change and yet for both City and United this must feel deja vu on the most spellbinding scale. They know exactly where Wembley way and need no directions whatsoever.

Of course the only difference this time is that City and United will now come face to face underneath the Wembley Arch and a strange sense of novelty will pervade North London. The whole of Manchester will descend on the West End of London in their vocal multitudes, swapping banter and bonhomie all the way into the stadium, jokes, wisecracks, salty vulgarities, witty one liners and the inevitable gallows humour. City don't like United and vice versa. The feelings are mutual, a fiercely competitive, crunch Manchester derby, hatred, animosity and loathing with every bite of their hot dogs and burgers.

Some of us will still be lamenting the loss of the traditional TV coverage of the FA Cup Final. 50 years ago we were treated to both of the main terrestrial stations from just after breakfast until late into the gloaming of evening when bottles of celebratory milk were drunk by the winning team. Grandstand on BBC One and World of Sport. It was always a warm homage to football, an explosion of colour on the Wembley terraces, the two Cup Final teams travelling to the national stadium on their coaches and then being interviewed while playing cards or putting a harmless flutter on the horses, a gamble to remember.

This year of course is the 50th anniversary of the FA Cup Final between Don Revie's all conquering Leeds United and old Second Division Sunderland. Unfairly it could be said that Leeds resembled chameleons in as much as that you never knew what you were going to get with them. They seemed to change colour with every single match and were at times almost a contradiction in terms. One minute they were hard tackling, cynical and, quite possibly, self destructive while the next they were joyful and beautiful on the eye.

Then there was Sunderland unfancied, unglamorous, no frills and just outsiders, supposedly Leeds social inferiors. Who were they to swan all the way down to Wembley in the FA Cup Final. But when the referee blew the final whistle on the 1973 FA Cup Final even Basil Brush, a regular BBC TV Saturday fixture of the time, would have been highly amused at the final score. Sunderland had beaten high flying Leeds. The sight of Sunderland boss Bob Stokoe racing onto the pitch to hug Sunderland goalkeeper Jim Montgomery lives long and warmly in the memory bank. The FA Cup had been won by Sunderland, a team outside the top division but never daunted or flustered. Leeds looked like dejected third year schoolchildren who had just been told to write a thousand lines by way of a suitable punishment.

And so we find ourselves days away from one of English football's most highly coveted prize, a gleaming Cup with what have always been one of the most distinctive of shapes. For the old school traditionalists the FA Cup will never be the same as it used to be but that might have something to do with the march of progress. Whatever happened to the lap of honour given by the winning side in a Cup Final, what happened to the captain being carried on the players shoulder after the game? Why does the game kick off at closer to 5.30pm rather than the customary 3pm and whatever happened to the stunning formalities, the rendition of Abide With Me on a proper platform and not forgetting the brass bands?

Still here we are in 2023 and if you do happen to be living outside the UK, you may think it highly unlikely that the Seychelles will have live coverage of the FA Cup Final. But the game is now very much a global commodity so all you'll have to do is switch on your I Pad, Tablet or Laptop and there it'll be at your disposal immediately. No aerials will have to be shifted about to the kitchen or garden and rather than press the buttons on your telly one remote control will cut out all the aggravation and hassle.

So here's the plan for this Saturday afternoon. You draw the curtains or blinds in your living room, invite the neighbourhood into your home and then just savour the occasion with family and friends. It's a Manchester derby and anything can and probably will happen. Something tells me that this could be the year Manchester City could triumph again but then we all know what happened in 2013 when Wigan Athletic beat City in the 2013 FA Cup Final and Ben Watson scored the winner for Wigan in the final minutes. Manchester United are simply Manchester United, serial winners of the old First Division and Premier League, Champions League and European Cup winners and a household name across the world. Our mouths are watering and we can hardly wait. Bring on the gladiators.

Tina Turner dies

 Tina Turner dies

One of her most famous hit singles can be directly related back to her birthplace. She was the woman with a monumental voice, a woman who delivered from the mid riff ,up towards the throat before blasting out songs that would last a lifetime. Her voice had the power and authority of a local county court judge and nobody dared question it because it was her trademark and she invented it. Nobody could take that away from her and that's how it remained for most of an illustrious career at the summit of modern day pop music.

Her name was Tina Turner and yesterday the world mourned a talent of mighty magnificence, a woman who, once released from the shackles of her dressing room, would strut across the stage like a proud peacock before thumping out her songs rather like the heavyweight blows of a celebrated boxer. Tina Turner may have died at the age of 83 but her legacy is indeed unforgettable. Her music floated across the globe with all the majesty of a cruise liner and how she captured our imagination.

Tina Turner was born in Nutbush, Tennessee and, in one glorious moment of art imitating life, Turner would sit down in a recording studio during the 1960s and pay homage to the place she grew up in and then immortalised on vinyl. 'Nutbush City' is a rocky, electronic synth anthem that speeds along like a Ferrari and was years ahead of its time. It was Tina Turner at her most vocal and identifiable. It is Tina at her loudest, proudest and emphatic, a voice of conviction and truth at all times.

But at the beginning of her career surely there must have been doubts and insecurities and yet here was a girl with a ruthless and uncompromising voice, one that brooked no argument. While most of the USA was glorying in the daring sensuality and hip swaying of Elvis Presley, here was a woman with guts, a dogged determination to succeed and a presence that would never be forgotten. She was feisty, fearless, grabbing a hold of a microphone and milking the rapturous applause from her devoted fans for all it was worth.

During the 1960s of course the juke boxes, bars and clubs that would play most of Turner's finest compositions do give a revealing insight of just how much influence Tina Turner had on the world of music. For America of course racism was still rampant and at the height of the segregation crisis Turner must have felt completely rejected and ostracised from the mainstream. It was enough that Rosa Parks had already fallen victim to race hatred and vile discrimination. The whole ugly episode of being turfed off a bus for being black must have infuriated Turner. 

And yet Tina Turner will always be remembered for her violent and tempestuous relationship with her husband Ike, a man so horribly controlling and temperamental that it was a wonder Turner didn't crack sooner rather than later. But then Ike and Tina got together as husband and wife and recorded 'River Deep Mountain High' and the rest is well chronicled history. In many ways it was the most definitive of all Turner's records because it was the sound that made America sit up and take notice of her. It had a grandeur and epic quality that epitomised quite clearly Ike and Tina's mindset.

But in the years that followed there were toxic bust ups, arguments almost ad infinitum, power struggles on a huge scale and incessant tension throughout their marriage. They quite clearly didn't get on at all and when everything became ridiculously violent and abusive, Tina Turner would announce that she'd had enough. She told Ike to take a hike and the couple went their separate ways. It was a time for a radical change, a chance to recharge batteries and reclaim her crown as Queen of Soul.

Now the 1970s and 80s dawned and Turner completed her reinvention as a solo artist in her own right. She began cutting her own records, her own singles and albums without the hindrance of a man who probably didn't care for Tina in the first place. Now Turner carved out her own niche of  powerfully executed rock songs tinged with an overlay of soul. She now wore leather jackets on stage, tinted her hair with streaks of blonde and boldly stepped forward with her very own message of independence.

The chart singles were astonishingly successful. 'What's Love Got to Do With It', 'Simply the Best' Private Dancer, We Don't Need Another Hero followed in quick succession. This was Tina Turner at her most gleefully positive and defiant, an outstanding singer who, in one of her videos, swaggers around the mean streets of America as if she owned the country. Thunderdome was Turner's only venture into the world of movies and once again she proved that you can't keep a good woman down even when it looked as if the rest of the world had fallen by the wayside.

After the demise of her marriage of Ike, Tina Turner turned her attentions to writing her songs at her own leisure without feeling pressurised by Ike or agents who just wanted to exploit her. She would find love again in recent times but then her health deteriorated and she would retreat back into the sanctuary of her family home. 

For the last couple of years she would become both reclusive but still aware of the almost regal reverence with which she was still regarded by fans and colleagues in the business. Sadly Turner was diagnosed with both cancer, a severe stroke and kidney transplant. Things rapidly went downhill from that point and we could only reflect on the good times, the high points, the zenith of her career, the moments of magic to treasure.

About 10 years or so my wife and I went to see a musical called Motown which prominently featured some of the back catalogue of Tina's best songs. Then the West End produced another blockbusting musical called Tina, the story of Tina Turner which, you can imagine, must have been equally as electrifying. Yesterday though the world lost its most potent of soul voices, tigerish and tenacious in its delivery but one that felt as if it was a fabulous statement of intent. We will certainly miss Tina Turner.

Ain't Too Proud- The Temptations

 Ain't Too Proud- The Temptations.

There must have come a point during the career of Berry Gordy when life couldn't have got any sweeter. The Temptations were at the height of their popularity, the Motown label was at its most prosperous and the sound of rhythm and blues combined with finger clicking soul music resonated so beautifully across the world that you had to be there to see it and believe it. But then again all was well in the land of Detroit and the funk factory was about to blossom within just a decade. The 1960s had already given us Stevie Wonder, Diana Ross and the Supremes, Junior and the All Stars, Smokey Robinson and the Miracles, the Detroit Spinners and a prodigious amount of musical excellence.

Last night my lovely wife and I celebrated our 30th wedding anniversary in some style in the heart of the West End of London with a star spangled West End musical about the life story of Motown's finest, The Temptations at the Prince Edward Theatre. We had already seen something akin to music heaven in the Jersey Boys, a musical homage to the stunning Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons, the Kinks Sunny Afternoon and Carole King's Beautiful. We were truly privileged. 

During the 1960s Detroit was still looking for its next generation of music royalty, an all boy band from the country who would stop the world on its axis, capturing the imagination and breaking yet more barriers. Of course there were the painful obstacles of racism, intolerance and segregation to overcome. The Temptations of course were black and that in itself seemed unforgivably to prove a toxic concept for much of those who still remained in a permanent state of ignorance.

But as was clearly documented throughout 'Ain't Too Proud', the name of the Temptations musical, there was a real story to be told, a back story that was a salutary example of what happens when things go wrong but then redeem themselves when fortunes change dramatically for the better. For here were four guys from the country who'd come down to Detroit seeking fame, celebrity and sell out audiences at every concert stadium throughout both the USA and the rest of the world.

Of course the Temptations knew that they had to stamp their very special identity on the music business and they were surrounded by formidable competition. Smokey Robinson had already caressed the ears of the American public with 'Tears of A Clown', Marvin Gaye had just made inroads into the soul market with his sultry love themes, Stevie Wonder was the child prodigy who played the harmonica with effortless aplomb and Motown had suddenly found itself at the forefront of soul music genius.

After those first early years of development and maturity, the Temptations moved from the club and bar circuit before emerging chrysalis like into a fully fledged soul band. But as events were to prove, here were four powerful singers with giant and inflated egos, distinctive personalities and charisma dripping from their sassy grey suits and grey trousers. Soon there were the arguments, the clashes, the volatility, slanging matches, jealousies and deep rooted resentments. What we had here was a classic case of four men with rampant ambitions who couldn't quite hold it together but then kissed and made up.

And here was Berry Gordy asserting himself as the dominant force in the Temptations rise to fame. Gordy explained in no uncertain terms that if the boys wanted to be successful they had to keep their personal feelings to themselves rather than fall out with each other big time. When one of the former members quit the band at a very early stage, Gordy discovered David Ruffin. 

Brother of the equally as celebrated Jimmy, a solo singer who would make his way successfully into the American Billboard charts with his very own mellifluous voice, David announced himself. Soon David Ruffin and the Temptations would become inseparable. Ruffin was bold, brash and quite possibly conceited, convinced that nobody could match his magnificent voice. Soon he would become a disruptive force, demanding centre stage and most of the credit for the band's burgeoning success.

Before you could blink Ruffin and the rest of the band were at war with each other, complete loggerheads, feuding over artistic differences and then everything seemed to get too complicated. The hits would pour out from the Temptations songbook in uncontrolled profusion. The singles would multiply, the albums more platinum plated than ever before and live TV performances throughout America guaranteed at the prompting of Berry Gordy.

Then the Temptations found that they had Diana Ross and the Supremes breathing down their collective necks. Smokey Robinson was still confronting Berry Gordy in his office and almost bathing in his own glory. We knew that Motown had become a significant voice in its own right. It had become a major cultural institution throughout the States, a sound so unmistakable that you could almost hum the first couple of bars to all their songs.

The songs of course were destined to burst into our consciousness. There was initially 'Shout', covered by Scottish chanteuse Lulu during the 1960s. There were the breath taking sequences of dancing, bopping, eye catching athleticism on stage, beautifully choreographed routines that made you gasp with amazement. But very shortly there would be yet more bust ups, argy bargy altercations, Tammi Terrell's tragically early death at 24 and David Ruffin's explosive relationship with Terrell.

This would prove to be a recurring backdrop to American life. We knew at once that the presence of Dr Martin Luther King as one of the country's most vocal of political activists would come to dominate  proceedings back in Motown's now prolific recording studios. When King was shot dead most of the boys in the band would stop for a moment and consider everything that had gone before. By now Ruffin had left the Temptations but the purple suited Temptations were still going strong.

The Temptations repertoire of smooth soul would be unceasing. 'Can't Get Used to You', ' Please Don't Leave Me Now, the memorably iconic 'My Girl' and countless others would propel the group into the highest stratosphere although privately there was still bad blood. There were record contracts to be negotiated, another premature death of one of the members of the 'Temps' as they were to be affectionately to be referred to and more eyeball confrontations.

By now 'Get Heavy' and 'Just My Imagination' and ultimately 'Papa Was A Rolling Stones' were tripping off the tongues of the devoted fans. The boys were swaying their hips, moving across  stages with silky grace and boogying on down as if joined at the hip. It could have all so horribly wrong for the Temptations but somehow the good times were destined to be restored. 

The Temptations would continue to be the pioneers for those who would follow. 'If you don't know me by now' would be resurrected quite confidently and expertly by Simply Red and Mick Hucknall. The good ole boys from the country would remain undaunted and although no longer the recognisable name of today one of Motown's legends mean quite a lot to some of us. If you fancy a night of Motown music, pick up your tickets at the Prince Edward Theatre and just give into the Temptations. You'll never regret your decision. 

West Ham reach Euro Conference Final.

 West Ham reach Euro Conference Final.

For a minute or two you had to pinch yourself. Clearly this was never meant to be. Maybe we'd wake up the following morning and find that it was a genuine, bona fide dream, an exaggeration and distortion, a fallacy beyond belief, something that happened in some made up sentence, almost a plagiarism of the true facts. But it did, you know. You weren't kidding and it is going ahead on June 9th whether you like it or not.

Your lifelong football allegiance West Ham United are in the Euro Conference Final in Prague, Czechia against Fiorentina of Italy. Now in the grander scheme of things a trophy in some allegedly third class European football Final may seem a touch odd and bizarre but after a 47 year drought, you'll take anything as long as fits in a club trophy cabinet. There was a time when you must have despaired of ever getting even remotely close to winning anything ever again. But your football team have done it, cracked the code and will now contest one of the newest European club tournaments in a Final.

West Ham, in an enthralling and absorbing Euro Conference semi final against Dutch pass masters AZ Alkmaar, beat their Dutch counterparts and find themselves in completely alien territory. This is not forbidden territory since a trophy may be long overdue. But this is a facetious comment since West Ham have always been regarded as pathetic outsiders in any competition, no hopers, believers and dreamers but once again they are now challenging for a trophy that must have seemed as elusive as some fondly held ambition.

On Thursday evening the stars were aligned, the moon roughly in the right position and fate may be wearing claret and blue shirts. For long periods of their semi final against Alkmaar, West Ham were passed into oblivion by the flying Dutchmen. There were moments when you could almost hear and see the fleet footed Johan Cruyff and Johan Neeskens in everything Alkmaar tried to execute. The Dutch footballing mentality is of course the official template of how football should be played. It is Total Football with all the seasonings and sauces, textures and tonalities you could wish for.

And yet for all their possession and domination of the game, AZ Alkmaar failed to ram home their overall superiority on the night. West Ham, of course, were just grateful for small mercies since their domestic season has been so awfully wretched that a European club competition that none of us have really taken seriously seemed no more than a smokescreen to West Ham's often perilous Premier League plight. But West Ham have pulled off the most incredible achievement against a grim backdrop of a relegation struggle.

At Sunday lunchtime West Ham face a Leeds side in roughly the same position as themselves. But this time they face a team managed by a man whose footballing principles at Upton Park attracted so much hatred and opprobrium that you wondered if West Ham fans could ever forgive the club. Sam Allardyce has been hired as a temporary firefighter at Leeds United and with the domestic Premier League season a week away from conclusion, both Allardyce and West Ham will stare across the London Stadium tomorrow and wonder what on earth had happened to both West Ham and Leeds United.

Mathematically West Ham can still be relegated to the Championship but you can only hope the sun will shine on the righteous and ensure another Premier League season at the London Stadium. For now their thoughts and hearts are still firmly lodged in what promises to be one of the biggest nights of European football. For various reasons their domestic season has been into some chaotic turmoil and finger nails are being bitten with some trepidation. But West Ham against Fiorentina in a European club final sounds almost too good to be true.

However, on Thursday night the small knot of faithful West Ham fans were still shouting the odds even when it looked as if it might all fall apart at the seams. Declan Rice was still organising, marshalling, directing, gesturing and reprimanding if necessary at the heart of his defence as captain of the club. Rice is vitally important to West Ham, a considerable influence, spreading assurance and smooth command as a defensive and attacking midfielder but his mind may have been completely preoccupied by transfer talk.

With Kurt Zouma, Aaron Cresswell, Vladimir Coufal all combining supremely and intelligently at the back for West Ham there was an air of togetherness and authenticity to some of their blocks and interceptions. West Ham were singing from the song book, marching forward in unison and firmly believing that something special was in the air. But once again the tremulous vulnerability and fragility was always there for everybody to see. Alkmaar were impeccably patient and dangerous whenever they had the ball and it just looked as if all the hard work West Ham had done in the games leading up to this one, would be undone sooner rather than later.

But then Rice and Tomas Soucek stepped up to the plate, holding a defiant line before switching the ball quickly and incisively to overlapping wingers. Now Jarred Bowen and Said Benrahma acknowledged each other as an attacking force, scurrying, scampering and scavenging into wide acres of space. West Ham's football had an urgency and almost gravitas that almost turned this match into a play by Chekhov. The claret and blue battalions were at their most disciplined and had to be under the circumstances.

In the first half West Ham threatened spasmodically to extend their 2-1 lead over AZ Alkmaar from the first leg at the London Stadium. But with the dogged Michal Antonio now desperately trying to outmuscle his Dutch defender, it felt as if an elastic band had been stretched across the whole of an equally as valiant West Ham defence.

However in the second half Alkmaar nimbly and cleverly tiptoed their way through a petrified claret and blue wall. There were a whole sequence of delightful one twos, simple and breathless passes between the home side and you almost felt as if an equaliser from the home side was almost inevitable. Thankfully for those of a West Ham persuasion, nothing seemed to stick for Alkmaar. They were good but not that good.

With the game in its final minutes the pace was non stop and relentless and we sensed the worst case scenario for the Hammers. Then, as if on cue, West Ham picked up a loose ball on the half way line and a final flourish came to joyous fruition. Pablo Fornals broke away decisively and without hesitation, ran confidently towards goal before drilling the ball into the back of the net for West Ham, a well deserved winner. It's Prague from here but Fiorentina await in the Euro Conference Final. What a season and what a team.

Alaska - just stunning.

 Alaska- just stunning.

We all have a rough idea of what we're looking for in a holiday. It must have a luxurious hotel, the loveliest beach in the world, a landscape and backdrop that ticks all of the relevant boxes, food that is just exquisitely palatable, a cocktail bar, alcohol in vast quantities, hospitable guests from all over the world and sociable people who just love to talk about everything and anything. 

To those who just can't wait to book their place by the hotel swimming pool after a healthy breakfast, this is the one time in the year or maybe the second and third that inhibitions can be thrown away without any feelings of shame and guilt. You work hard throughout the year and you feel as though you've done more than enough to spend a couple of weeks on sun kissed and exotic island in the middle of somewhere private where nobody can find you.

 So you drape your towels over your personal choice of sun lounger, smear yourself with several bottles of sun factor 60 in the hope that the roasting heat will varnish you with the perfect tan to show off to friends and family when your holiday is over for another year. Holidays were meant to be fun, immensely enjoyable and something to reflect on with pleasure when the darker winter nights draw in. But in recent times you were reminded of the alternative holiday, the one designed to take away all the hassle and aggravation of that famous battleground we call an airport.

A lifelong friend had been telling me for ages that cruising on a boat, ship, vessel represented everything that could rightly be described as positively and richly opulent. He went into raptures about the excessive amounts of food and drink on offer whenever your stomach began to rumble. He waxed lyrical about the outstanding entertainment every night and of course he was right. He said that you were meant to feel like royalty and the most important member of the human race. There was never a dull moment and this floating city would provide you with everything your heart could possibly desire.

So it was that my lovely wife Bev booked what must have been our fifth or sixth cruise in the enchanted lands where leisurely siestas are taken at the height of the day and nights given over to music, music and yet more music from varying areas of the cruise vessel. In fact there was entertainment on board wherever you went on the Princess Discovery. Once again there were fascinating lectures on subjects ranging from climate change to a whole host of talks about other cruises that took you to different countries or those who were quite happy to take you around the world.

Our first port of call was the sleepy Canadian town of Bamf which reminded you of some ancient Wild West Hollywood movie set where not a great deal of any significance seemed to be going on. There were no cowboys wearing stetson hats or fast moving guns in their holsters and no hint of potentially violent saloon bars where glasses of bourbon were freely drunk until the wee small hours of morning.

We did though notice that in both Calgary and Bamf that all of the shops were clearly signposted in much the way they might have been during those halcyon days when John Wayne rode boldly into town all guns blazing with a palpable air of authority about him.We spent most of our holiday doing all the things a majority of tourists; asking for directions, looking at maps and admiring the scenery around them.

We now moved on to pay a flying visit to the American state of Seattle, a place so vast and sprawling that we simply didn't have enough time to take in its seductive charms. Setting off on a walk that seemed to last an eternity but was well worth the experience your overriding impression of Seattle is that it's bewilderingly hilly. Seen from a distance the hills were such a dominant feature of Seattle that you wondered whether you'd need a rope and crampons to climb up and down the roads. There were steep, undulating hills in between roads and streets that must have been reminiscent of San Francisco.

We then gravitated towards the ferry port and requested a one hour trip that took you across Seattle which guided you around historic old warehouses and buildings that had stood the test of time. But the homeward journey back to our hotel represented the ultimate test of endurance and stamina. Suddenly we found ourselves wandering around endlessly looking for the right directions back to our hotel. We gritted our teeth heroically, putting our best feet forward and eventually reached our destination.

Now though it was time to head towards Alaska where we were reliably informed that the weather would be terrifyingly cold, freezing and the sidewalks would be knee deep in snow. We packed the appropriate layers of pullovers, gloves, sweat shirts and coats perhaps wary of returning home with stinking colds and symptoms of flu. And yet we were pleasantly surprised because Alaska was gloriously warm although never hot with temperatures nudging the low 70s rather than the shivering minus 20s.

Our first point of Juneau, the capital of Alaska and here was the moment when good boots or shoes were a prerequisite for taking in all of the sights and sounds. After a light lunch we set off for a walk along the rushing, racing, gushing waterfalls where all we could hear were torrents of water accompanying our journey. We must have walked for at least a couple of miles surrounded by stately woodland, tall, upright fir and spruce trees soaring commandingly over us. It was all very mentally and physically stimulating and invigorating, as the pathway seemed to get longer and longer. 

But we were rather hoping to see some of Alaska's traditionally wild animals and they chose not to make their presence felt. We were hoping to see baby cub bears bounding playfully on the edge of silvery streams, caribous casually minding their own business and deers in the most inquisitive mood. Sadly these hopes were not to come to fruition since perhaps they just weren't up for confrontations with the human race.

After negotiating countless steps towards some point where we might have seen something, we headed back home disappointed but determined to capture the image of some grizzly bear out on its constitutional. Sadly there was nothing. Perhaps another time. So we settled back into our first nights on board the Princess Discovery. After a series of excellent singers and magicians while not forgetting a reproduction of a West End musical, we sat down in a jazz music lounge listening to a jazz ensemble called Take Five, a tribute to the jazz standard and classic by Dave Brubeck. Here the superb Ian Bacon trio introduced us to the greats such a Miles Davis, Latin jazz, salsa jazz and smooth as silk arrangements on piano, late night keyboard, a wonderful looking double bass and those magnificent drums soothing and mesmerisingly magical to the ears.

Now it was off to Ketchikan, the kind of place where good, old fashioned cowboys swirl lassoes and horses are allowed to roam across the prairies for as long as they wanted to. At times it almost felt as if you'd been transported back to the days of lawlessness, drinking illegal moonshine for hours on end and watching lively games of cards in equally as animated saloon bars. Such outrageous behaviour would invariably end up in aggressive fights, brawling and tooting and shooting from the hip. 

By the time we reached Skagway everything that had happened to us at Ketichikan had now been savoured and cherished. Whereas Ketichikan had given us a revealing insight into the world of lumberjacks and wood chopping, Skagway gave us ladies of the night, sex and sleaziness. In a splendidly informative and enlightening tour of one of the debauched members of Skagway, we were informed that the seamstresses who used to work their fingers to the bones also obliged the men folk with explicit displays and the kind of blatant prostitution that some of us thought had been the sole preserve of Soho in London and Amsterdam in Holland. This though had been an entirely different kind of red light district.

After two more relaxing days at sea, we gradually spent our last couple of hours of this thoroughly enjoyable holiday we went back towards a little known corner of Canada called Victoria. Now for those of us who were expecting a full day of touring this quaint suburb the realisation that it was just a night tour along dark and deserted back streets did come as a culture shock but still it was a new experience and one that would remain in the memory for many years to come.

Our last day was spent back on board our ship. It was Saturday afternoon under bright, blue skies, warmth and heat coating our faces with the most welcome of arrivals. Then the giant TV screen tuned into perhaps the most delightful, humorous and unfairly maligned of all shows. The Eurovision Song Contest, broadcast live from Liverpool had been beamed across the oceans and we were just transfixed with happiness, wonder and incredulity. What a day, the most unusual and unconventional of days but just joyful as we always knew it would be. Sweden won the Eurovision Song Contest almost 40 years since Abba had exploded into our consciousness with Waterloo. How we love cruises with our loved one. It was a privilege and honour to be there with my wonderfully loving and supportive wife Bev. Unforgettable.  

May Bank Holiday Monday.

 May Bank Holiday Monday.

The West End of London looked absolutely sensational. But then it always did. It was in the rudest of health and quite the most astonishingly colourful sight. Your heart was swelling, the capital city had never disappointed and for a while you almost felt as though you'd stepped back into your 1960s childhood when everything in London looked fabulous, spectacular, a meeting point of multi culturalism. The West End is still an irresistible tourist magnet where our friends from the Far East still line up their families in the centre of Trafalgar Square and just take an endless supply of photographs surrounded by thousands of pigeons.

But today was the May Bank Holiday Monday, a day of rest and recreation for Britain and as usual my wife and I were just entranced by the magic spell London town was once again casting over us. The pavements and streets were once again heaving and throbbing with people, transient observers and passers by, intrigued by the spellbinding spectacle that was the Mall, Green Park, Trafalgar Square and everything that is synonymous with the West End. 

London is the place where theatreland met mesmerising rows of souvenir shops, restaurants old and new, cafes both vegan and non vegan, Tube railway stations with incredible looking art installations and ageless museums that have to be visited because London is the home of history, both modern and medieval. It's a city that still retains that an indefinable vibrancy and vivacity very few cities can either match or surpass.

In the middle of Trafalgar Square we were reminded once again that not even Bank Holidays are immune from politics, noisy demonstrations and vocally raucous protests. You'd have thought the protestors and the angry mob would have saved their energies for any other day of the year since this was the day reserved for peace and leisure. What we saw was a small cross section of Britain at its most furious, incensed, anguished and desperate to be heard. At times you begin to wonder whether anybody is actually listening to this murmuring majority of the ignored and persistently overlooked.

You may have gathered that the combined masses of both the teaching and nursing community, a thriving body of men and women, have taken a terrible battering in recent weeks. They've been alienated, taken for granted and, it could be said, rendered invisible. They're poorly paid, exploited by the powers that be and then expected to work unreasonably long hours for a pittance. But you've probably heard this story a million times so it should hardly come as any surprise. Today was simply the culmination of weeks and months of frustration, teeth clenching exasperation and being taken for fools by a government that somehow expects them to just get on with it.

Near the lions and fountains of Trafalgar Square there were lively groups of little red teaching union flags milling around listlessly but somehow purposefully. Trafalgar Square was also serenaded by music and good natured activists yelling at the tops of their voices, blaring, bellowing, blasting the London air with sarcastic chants, challenges to those in authority and a general pleading for recognition of their existence. But who on earth could ever value the vital contribution made by the wonderful NHS and the dedicated teachers who are convinced that nobody understands them? Then there are those essential nurses who give such unstinting devotion to duty to their profession without any of the commensurate financial rewards.

For a while you saw the banners and the flags, the people sitting languidly at the bottom of Nelson's Column and imagined that this how London must have felt when the distinguished likes of the great Tony Benn would shout into a microphone and spout those homespun political rants and philosophies. The West End of London always likes to think of itself as the spiritual home of democracy where any subject is open for discussion and  a place where you can just get things off your chest without any repercussions. 

In front of us there was a banner that implored us to 'Jump Aboard the Strike Train' and you couldn't help but think that this was perfectly self explanatory. In broad rainbow colours the notice was wrapped around the base of a lion with all the ferocity and vehemence of the aforesaid animal. But how we love lions so this was forgivable. The civilised voices continued to make themselves heard but to all intents and purposes it must have felt as if they were crying out into the darkness.

We proceeded to walk down towards Green Park and noticed that the people with dogs had much the same idea as us. In the Mall itself and everywhere around us were vivid reminders that next weekend the new King Charles the third and Queen Camilla will become very much part of the Coronation celebrations. Along the whole of the Mall, the Union Jack, that sadly misunderstood flag that represents everything good in Great Britain, dominated the whole of the thoroughfare as if we'd done the whole ceremony repeatedly. There were TV cameras from some part of the globe and a souvenir shop called 'Cool Britannia' that was doing a roaring trade in King Charles the third and Queen Camilla plates, cups, mugs, towels, tins of royal biscuits and biscuit tins, crockery and cutlery paying warm homages to the new monarchy.

So the teachers, the nurses and the dissenting men and women trooped wearily into the late afternoon, still fuming and seething you expect but glad that they still had a platform to air their grievances. We made our way to the railway station with our adorable dog Barney and reflected that all in the world is beautiful if only those who are hell bent on damaging that beauty could just get on with each other. London though is still living, breathing, smiling, chatting, exchanging pleasantries, looking forward to the Coronation of a new King and Queen and still capable of goodwill. Thank you London. You're still behaving impeccably.