Wimbledon - anybody for tennis?

 Wimbledon- anybody for tennis?

We all know about Wimbledon's sporting significance and most of us believe it to be one of the most satisfying and rewarding summer spectacles of them all. Apart from the first day of a Lord's cricket Test Match or the Henley Regatta, it is still up there with the best. In many ways Wimbledon is quintessentially English, as synonymous with Middle England and the capital city of London as afternoon tea with scones, jam and cream, an invigorating walk in the Lake District and then a swift half of warm beer next to a thatched cottage.

We've always done Wimbledon with a very British sense of style and impeccable sense of occasion.  We dress up in all our finery or simply casually with loose, possibly patriotic T- shirts, natty Panama hats, with hampers crammed full of middle class pate, smoked salmon, a tupperware box of cheese and pickle sandwiches, a couple of bottles of Pimms and of course the obligatory strawberries and cream, punnets of them. Oh, and don't forget the essential bottles of water in case the sweltering heat gets to us. We nod respectfully as the sets and games unfold, clap thunderously when the rallies are at their most mesmerising and then gasp with amazement when tie breaks look as though they could be drawn out until midnight.

So it is that Wimbledon is woven into the fabric of England's heritage. It always makes it in time for the last week in June and this year at the beginning of July so if you're ready we'll begin on Monday again. It's that hardy perennial that always looks pretty. You'd hardly expect anything else. The ivy clad walls outside the grounds of Wimbledon are being pruned to perfection, multitudes of flower boxes will decorate most of the main courts while on the outer courts there will be a constant buzz and hum. Here the young British hopefuls will limber up optimistically and then realistically when they discover they may have to wait for a while before approaching anything remotely resembling world class and world beating form.

In recent years Britain has finally found in its ranks one of the most precocious talents it had ever seen. He came from the sleepy Scottish town of Dunblane and his name was Andy Murray. We didn't expect a great deal of Murray at the time because we knew the last time a Brit had won at Wimbledon, some of the flappers had just conquered the dance floor with their twinkle toed Charleston and the social classes had accepted Fred Perry as one of the finest tennis players any of them had ever seen. But it had been roughly 75 years since Britain had unearthed its very own lustrous gem. And finally their patience had been rewarded.

Murray has reeled off two men's singles titles at SW19 and even now it seems as if we might have been imagining it. The Brits have always either failed miserably at Wimbledon or just surrendered when they were just agonisingly close to victory. The sight of Tim Henman bowing out in a semi final anti climax against Goran Ivanisevic on Centre Court must be one of the most harrowing sights ever known to any Wimbledon enthusiast. It was the Wimbledon where rain stopped play and with Henman poised to win, the umbrellas went up and the following day, Henman trooped disconsolately off Centre Court like a man who had been deprived of all his important belongings. 

It is now 51 years ago since another Englishman and proud Yorkshireman Roger Taylor almost reached a Wimbledon Final but then stumbled at the final hurdle. And therein lies the inherent frustration that has often come between a British tennis player and a Wimbledon final. True Virginia Wade did become the first English woman to win at SW19 in the late and much loved Queen's Silver Jubilee in 1977. A Dutch player by the name of Betty Stove was beaten on that gold tinted day for British tennis by Wade, the first English lady to curtsey before royalty wearing a mauve cardigan and then accepting her winning trophy.

But here we are once again and the towering presence of one Novak Djokovic looms ominously over Wimbledon as if he'd always been there and never left the building. This could be his eighth Wimbledon men's singles Final title and at this rate he could be in line for a knighthood or some very fitting accolade to acknowledge his remarkable achievements in the game. We may never see the like of Djokovic ever again but then we must have said exactly the same when Bjorn Borg, Jimmy Connors and John McEnroe were at the height of their careers.

When Borg chalked up five Wimbledon men singles titles there was probably an understandable assumption that nobody would ever emulate such a stunning feat. We can still the Swede blowing gently on his racket and fingers, composing himself almost constantly and twiddling his racket for good measure at least five or six times but none of us seemed to mind at all.

Then there was Jimmy Connors, the American gunslinger, brave, heroic, determined, stubborn at times, perhaps unnecessarily childish and petulant when he couldn't get his own way. Connors proceeded to go through that familiar ritual. He would yell at the top of his voice, growl and snap just to make sure that everybody could hear him and then severely reprimand himself  for not maintaining his absurdly high standards. There were the shouts, the noisy bellowing noises, the fruity language and the kind of behaviour reminiscent of a toddler at their second birthday party.

Then there was John McEnroe. Now if McEnroe had still been around today there is a real possibility that he wouldn't have lasted five minutes within the hallowed corridors of SW19. McEnroe was the ultimate revolutionary, a man who loved an argument, an insurrectionist of the worst kind, always kicking off, sounding off, blowing his top, insulting umpires, testing the emotional reflexes of everybody, rubbing everybody up the wrong way. Umpires were just a convenient excuse for McEnroe to let off steam, a rebellious non conformist who refused to listen to all and sundry. He was quarrelsome and troublesome,  spluttering his fury at an umpire who hadn't seen the chalk on a Wimbledon tramline.

So it is that we reach the present day generation of Wimbledon wonderkids, experienced veterans and the ones with massive potential. In the age of Rafa Nadal,  Djokovic and the latest big hitters Wimbledon will continue to hold us in thrall for perhaps for ever. The crowds will always converge on Wimbledon, queuing for ages outside, flasks of coffee or tea at the ready. The manners, etiquette and protocol will always follow the tournament wherever it happens to go. Wimbledon's quirky mannerisms and theatrical histrionics will never desert it because that's the reason they keep coming back year after year.

For some of us Wimbledon will always be remembered for the lengthening shadows that will fall over Centre Court at roughly 5pm in the afternoon when the punters were at their most relaxed and those who were taking their seat after work were always ready to cheer themselves hoarse. Then in the twilight of the evening and the onset of darkness all you could hear was the distinctive clatter of the old wooden racket. Suddenly a red light would appear on the electronic scoreboard and some of us were just looking forward to the nine o'clock news without worrying about the welfare of Bjorn Borg. 

So the nets will be tightened, the umpires chair adjusted accordingly, the lawn mower rollers heaved back to their right and proper place. The tramlines will look immaculate, the grass shimmering in the summer heat and the players will look at their fittest. Wimbledon has spanned all the decades seamlessly without wondering why it appeals to so many millions around the world, why it holds that enchanting fascination to those who just love tennis. Game, Set and Match, Wimbledon. You're guaranteed five star entertainment. Enjoy everybody.   

Elton John at Glastonbury.

 Elton John at Glastonbury.

The sun was setting over the rural heartlands of Somerset. Away in the distance, bright, amber coloured clouds settled on the hills of cider country and the birds flew off to explore yet more pristine fields of green. The English countryside had never looked more picturesque, pictorial or prettier. Then, as if by magic, a legendary 76 year old musician and immensely gifted singer and songwriter was doing what he's always done best. This was the right setting at the right time. We applauded him rapturously because we knew we'd been in the presence of greatness, excellence and an extraordinary talent who just happened to be retiring from the world of pop music.

It is hard to believe that Sir Elton John is now calling it a day, gracefully withdrawing from a life of celebrity, unfortunate notoriety at times but still giving it all for one last, massive gig. The life and times of Sir Elton John have been extensively well chronicled since Sir Elton has never shied away from the dazzling glare of publicity, a man of style, delightful flamboyance, hilarious glasses, a whole wardrobe of outlandish clothes and an image that was unmistakable in its uniqueness.

Last night John or Reg Dwight as his parents and close family must have called him, went for the burn, a face radiating enthusiasm and huge enjoyment, the happiest of smiles playing almost constantly around his mouth and eyes. Elton John may have been dreading this moment but there was nothing at all to worry about since he was in good, wildly appreciative company and besides he didn't have to get up at the crack of dawn anymore and the memories would keep him warm for an eternity.

After an extensive tour of the world and his final farewell to those fiercely devoted fans around the globe it was time to take it easy for this spectacular entertainer, a witty and humorous but at times quite serious and business like man who cherishes the privacy of his family and no little solitude. By his own admission he has been on one of the most gruelling and demanding of roads since a teenager and his body could no longer take any more. Sometimes genius can manifest itself almost immediately and Elton must have known that as soon as he sat down at the piano as a kid, the song writing was on the wall.

We all now remember the biopic film of Elton John. Rocket Man was a splendid and revealing insight into the life of a man who must have appealed to all demographics and classes. For a moment or two you wonder what he must have made of punk rock, that loudly anarchic movement who disapproved of everything from royalty to the British government. But John rose above the chaos and mayhem of the Sex Pistols, the Clash, Sham 69 and the Undertones with a grace and acceptance of the inevitable that lifted the soul no end. 

The film Rocket Man of course highlighted all of the career highs and lows of a life lived in the fast lane with a generous helping of sex, drugs and rock and roll just as an aperitif. The main course, as we all know, was one of  furious arguments, the tormented sexuality, the disclosure of a gay man inside of a persona who we must have thought  was perfectly straight but was nothing of the sort. Nowadays of course homophobia has become a virulent disease that none of us should ever tolerate. But for Sir Elton John, the recognition of who he really was may well have been doing far more damage to him than he could possibly have imagined.

His life has embraced the whole spectrum of emotions ranging from frustration, heartache, bewilderment, tragedy and delirious delight when the all night parties were in full flow. Of course there were the celebrations, the shameless hedonism and debauchery, the flaming rows with John Reid, the man whose very public relationship with Elton John became headline news. Then there was Bernie Taupin, the man who penned most of his lyrics. Taupin would become his closest of friends, a kindred spirit John would always confide in and trust when things were hurtling out of control. Taupin was John's chief creative, the inspiration behind everything John would turn his hands to and still is.

And so last night was very much an effusive celebration of Sir Elton John, his mastery of the well crafted song, his homage to everything he valued above everything. When the darkness finally fell at Worthy Farm in Glastonbury we knew we'd rubbed shoulders with craftsmanship, a natural adroitness with the written word on the page, a man in complete control of all human feelings and a very real identification of what mattered to him most on the night. The fans were almost idolatrous at times and the appreciation was so mutual that everybody seemed to be singing from the same hymn sheet.

Yes the Glastonbury crowds, the ocean of faces, the hundreds and thousands quite possibly thousands more who just couldn't quite get onto the sprawling fields. All had gathered to acknowledge star quality, now a seasoned trooper but quite the most stunning talent. There were the outrageous glasses, the heart shaped glasses and then innumerable rows of people wearing glasses who were just swept away by the immensity of the occasion. You often felt as if you were watching some record breaking cultural event, an iconic spectacle, perhaps religious in its intensity but quite astonishing to behold.

So Sir Elton John sat down respectfully at his Yamaha piano, the piano that had almost become an integral part of his personality, faithfully following him around the world, the piano that had turned into a reliable friend. Then he found a comfortable seat and the red tinted glasses gazed across admiringly to the rest of his illustrious band. This was a much more sober, more mellow and reflective Elton John, a far cry from those crazy days of relentless orgies and showbusiness parties.

You remembered for a while the mid 1970s when life was all about those giant American stadiums where John would stride onto stage wearing quite the most amazing baseball gear complete with cap. Then there were the massive platform shoes and boots glittering in the mid day sun. Who could ever forget the wonderfully camp dresses with feathers and frills, yet more glasses that were so hard to believe that if you didn't know it was Elton John you could have sworn he was about to join the greatest fancy dress party of all time?

Then there were the years of social conscience when John, who had formed a close bond with the late Princess Diana, would display an even kinder and more compassionate side to his nature. There was the Aids Foundation that he would become enduringly associated with and his commitment to that cause would almost define his character. The 1980s would become a decade to pause for breath, a time of personal introspection, a chance to slow down and ponder his life most thoughtfully.

And so the songs came thick and fast. John opened with the instantly recognisable Pinball Wizard, a song so rousing and stirring that you had to remember the film from which the song came. Here was a hard driving, punchy rock number that you could still see the Pinner born maestro, complete with glasses and shoes, flicking a silver ball around a pinball machine like the kid at the seaside who just doesn't want the day to end.

This was followed swiftly by The Bitch is Back, which as the title would suggest, hasn't the highest opinion of women. Still, this was another rollocking, rocking almost infectiously catchy number that reminded us why we were so emotionally swept away by this larger than life showman. The song is gossipy, emphatic and adamant. In many ways the song was almost self explanatory but perhaps he just wanted to create a stir. Most of us could recognise where he was going to so it didn't really come as a surprise.

Benny and the Jets was another honky tonk, plinkety  plonk, piano related song oozing gallons of charm and character, the kind of a song you'd listen to over and over again in your local pub and never tire of hearing. We were never told who Benny was nor did we ever question the reference to the Jets but this was another classic that although released as a single, never quite reached the giddy heights. Still, it was a wonderfully enjoyable set and one we could sing along to in the shower for quite a while.

Next up was the engaging sentimentality of Daniel, a song so warm and reassuring that you almost felt as if you knew who Daniel was and where he came from. Daniel is an enchanting story about a man travelling the highways and byways in a Chevrolet with the sun roof down and looking out for new adventures. Somehow you believed that he would find his destination because here was a man with purpose and self motivation.

Then there was the ultimate and somehow quintessential Elton John, a song written for the ages and a song that had a golden hallmark on it, a song of such touching simplicity that it was almost timeless. Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, the title of the album, was a magnificent nod to the nostalgia and reminiscence we all indulge in from time to time. Goodbye Yellow Brick Road sounds like some affectionate tribute to the way life used to be and his heartfelt farewell to the old.

Moving forward rapidly to the 1980s Elton gave us I Guess That's Why They Called Blues. Perhaps the distinctive harmonica in the song represented his transition to another phase of his life. You can well imagine the blues element and the rich discovery of something else rather than hard rock. Still, there is a delightful innocence about the track that makes you want to hum it over and over again. But decades later the ditty still tells you everything you need to know about Sir Elton John.

In Philadelphia Freedom, as Sir Elton so eloquently described it last night, here is a song about his Philadelphia years during the 1970s. Here he introduces a funkier, more soulful beat, the smooth cadences of Philly where John finds complete liberation of the soul. This was the first genuinely American sounding track and although still heavily layered with rock there is something very sophisticated and life affirming about Philadelphia Freedom.

At roughly the same time as Philadelphia Freedom, John would release another song that bore striking similarities to the aforesaid song. Are You Ready For Love lay dormant for decades in a draw and although you might have vaguely heard of it, the recent re- release of the song was immortalised in a TV advert several years ago. Once again there is that instantly recognisable Philly sound, a fusion of cool orchestrations and rhythmic verses.

Sad Songs (Says So Much) is a reflection of the way John must have felt about bittersweet and melancholy tunes which can be so uplifting when your day has been stressful in the extreme. In many ways sadness has accompanied much of his journey although light has always been at the end of tunnel. But it still sounds as fresh and original as the day of its release and for that reason, holds up beautifully to the discerning ear. 

Someone Saved My Life Tonight, from the award winning Captain Fantastic, was another exemplary composition that pretty much says what it does on the tin. While the world was falling apart around him and the drug parties became progressively wilder and worse, there was Bernie Taupin who read the riot act to him in Rocket Man. While Elton was recklessly throwing himself into champagne filled baths and then sticking two fingers up at convention, Taupin was always there to catch John in the safety net.

Your Song is simply a gorgeous ballad that flows from the pen of the one and only Reg Dwight. It might have been a love letter to a girlfriend which might have written on a train heading to New York. It is a classy, straightforward song that might have come to him late at night when the coffee pot was boiling and the piano was tinkling its ivories.

Candle in the Wind assumed a much greater poignancy twice over for Sir Elton. His first recording of the song was his way of expressing a long held admiration of  Marilyn Monroe, the Hollywood icon, who would perish at the hands of domineering film producers and directors. Monroe was simply exploited for all she was worth. Candle in the Wind is all about the fragility of fame and its preciousness. When Princess Diana tragically lost her life it re-discovered a new lease of life.

Tiny Dancer is another film related song that purrs along admirably, sweetly phrased and joyously rewarding for those who love a good, old fashioned sing song. The title would imply that Elton John must have known a dancer from whom he would derive great inspiration. But it is cleverly written and thought provoking, instantly likeable and something to treasure on a long car journey.

In the long and hot summer of 1976 when the mercury soared and temperatures reached a record high, Elton John teamed up with Kiki Dee to record Don't Go Breaking Heart, the number one hit of the summer which dominated the charts. Last night Sir Elton was joined by Rina Sawayama one of the many modern voices John seemed to be championing quite successfully last night. Once again Don't Go Breaking My Heart took you right back to your teenage years and adolescence when the summer of 1976 appeared to last for ever. It had to reach number one and did so for some time.

Crocodile Rock sounds like the kind of record that Sir Elton John when the good times were rolling and eccentricity began to take over. It is another stylish rock number that sounds ridiculous but then becomes much clearer when you realise that in another distant past there was the Bunny Hop. It was music at its funniest and carefree, happy and jolly, a perfect excuse for a bop and another party.

As the concert drew to its climax, Elton began to thank both the band, his husband David Furnish and children, the cherishable friends and family with acknowledgments to everybody who had made life so complete. Out there on Worthy Farm, the vast droves of adoring fans wore their glasses with pride, girlfriends bouncing up and down on boyfriends shoulders and the flags fluttering gently in the Somerset breeze.

Saturday Night is Alright for Fighting is another highly energetic, red blooded and fully charged rock track that was both amusingly irreverent and perhaps Elton's take on pub brawls on a Saturday night. Here was a musician and stylist at the top of his game ready to milk the applause over and over again. Suddenly we were taken back to 1970 something and we were transported back to an era where everybody felt that anything was possible.

Back in the 1980s I'm Still Standing was the most defiant of all statements, a message about negotiating all the setbacks and disappointments of our younger years and still smelling of roses. In the video of I'm Still Standing Sir Elton marches proudly along sun kissed promenades and seaside beaches with a boater hat on his head. Elton remains undefeated and unscathed by the critics and the cynics. It is almost his redemptive song.

The penultimate song of the night showed the legend that he is. Once again referring back to his appreciation of youth, Sir Elton sung Cold Heart, a variation on a theme of  Sacrifice another hit from another time but still impeccably delivered rather like a birthday present to a member of your family. This was Sir Elton John at his most humane, generous and benevolent, a striking reminder to all of his admirers that Elton could still belt out a song.

Don't Let the Sun Go Down was another emotional trip down memory lane for the Pinner maestro. For a moment you thought the tears would flood out of his eyes but then Sir Elton composed himself. He thought for a minute or two about his late friend George Michael and their duo collaboration on the song. He may well have dedicated the song to Michael and if so you could hardly have blamed him.

And then the finale. Rocket Man was such a highly accomplished piece of song writing that it may well have been designed just for him. Rocket Man was quite possibly a throwback to a time when Elton John was still hugely ambitious and idealistic, when the stars could still be reached. It suddenly occurs to you that it might have appealed to the astronaut in him, looking to conquer new territories.

And that was that for Glastonbury just for another year. The tents were dismantled, sleeping bags thrown gleefully into the back of the car, flags presumably preserved for next year. We remembered the incomparable Cat Stevens, who sent out his political anthems about peace and love, a thankyou to the NHS and a whole variety of noble causes. There was Blondie aka Debbie Harry who is now 70 something but still capable of blasting out her back catalogue of punk hits with a flirtatious relish. All in all it was Glastonbury to fondly recall so it'll see you next year at roughly the same time and same place.

Glastonbury again.

 Glastonbury again

It's that time of the year again. June is blossoming and summer has arrived. The sweltering heat and warmth of the sunshine gladdens the heart with immense delight. Britain is basking and in 30 degrees of sunshine. It almost feels as if the warm summers we were accustomed to during the mid 1970s have now returned. Now the beauty and splendour of the flora and fauna has made us all very humble and grateful for both our mental and physical health.

Across the wide expanses of Somerset's most fertile farmlands an English hardy perennial is tuning up its inimitable rock guitars, its magical keyboards, vibrant violins and those precious pianos with their flawless chords. This can only mean one thing. Every summer Glastonbury makes a regular return to its huge variety of stages and the preparations are well under way for the big stars, the music covering every conceivable genre, a national treasure that never disappoints and always lives up to its celebrated reputation. It's been here for well over 50 years now and we'd wonder why it wasn't there on this weekend of weekends.

Memories of Glastonbury past have to be savoured if only for the esoteric nature of the acts who were asked to appear. Several summers ago Shirley Bassey enjoyed a completely unexpected reinvention and a sudden renaissance that none of us saw coming. Bassey frequently featured in her own BBC Saturday night TV shows during the early 1970s and then progressed almost naturally into the world of James Bond and the cinema. Diamonds Are Forever was a gutsy and powerful production that catapulted her towards ever greater heights of global popularity.

But then Bassey was summoned by the owner of Glastonbury, Michael Eavis who, for the best part of five decades, has consistently produced a gallery of the great and good from both the commercial mainstream to the much misunderstood sound of folk. It was a lovely combination of the obscure and arcane, the kind of music that would never have been publicised or exposed to a much wider public.

Throughout the ages we've had synth pop, cellos in all their angelic perfection, glockenspiels sharing the same company as double basses, country and western, indie music in intimate little garden arbours and heavy metal meeting American soul and jazz at its most exquisite. There was the day when Shirley Bassey captured the hearts of both young and old alike while her beaming smile encapsulated the whole of the early 2000s period. The Welsh chanteuse, with a voice to remember, forever lit up Somerset that evening.

Then there was the Electric Light Orchestra, surely one of the most captivating and brilliantly visual of all groups. The ELO were wondrously imaginative, and still are, years ahead of their time, futuristic, experimental and stunningly effective. The accompanying violins, double basses, Bev Bevan's pounding, purposeful drums and all manner of sound effects propelled the band into all kinds of diverse directions. Jeff Lynne's ingenious arrangements of the seminal and unforgettable Mr Blue Sky, The Diary of Horace Wimp, Turn to Stone and the superb All Over the World were given the five star treatment at Glastonbury.

And so it is that the headline act on Sunday evening goes to the one and only Sir Elton John. John recently announced his retirement from the concert circuit. Almost touchingly he admitted that he'd had enough after a gruelling and physically punishing career that had begun when he was only 17. Now 76, Sir Elton John will wrap up his star studded and legendary life on the road with Glastonbury on Sunday, a venue that had never been at the forefront of his mind at any point in the past.

For most of us the most intriguing story of Glastonbury can be found in its first year in 1970. Without any real idea of just how remarkably successful Glasto would become Michael Eavis came up with his first catering proposals. Since Glastonbury was situated in the middle of England's most decorative countryside Eavis thought it a good idea to sell cheap bottles of milk and some light snacks. Now though Glastonbury is a British phenomenon as much a part of  Britan's heritage as red pillar post boxes and warm beer in timber wood snug pubs with roaring log fires. Let's hear it for Glastonbury.

England pile the pressure on Australia.

 England pile the pressure on Australia.

Edgbaston had never seen anything like it. It was the first day of the first Ashes Test and the Barmy Army were in full voice. A hazy morning sunshine sat softly and beautifully on the Birmingham horizon and England opening batter Zak Crawley awaited the first ball patiently and enthusiastically. This was a special moment. Cricket's most adoring fans could hardly believe what they were watching. It was almost as if this day had been preordained and prepared, strapped in for the roller coaster ride.

So the Aussie's fearsome bowling attack launched their artillery directly into Crawley's face and Crawley slashed the most outstanding cover drive to the boundary before most of the crowd had settled for the day's proceedings. The runs flowed like a silvery stream and England were set fair for their invigorating day of golden marquee shots that eventually resulted in the most remarkable England declaration for 393 for 8. Most of the big crowd were still wiping the bread crumbs from their lunch and fastening the lid on their Thermos flask of tea and coffee.

Now there followed the most spectacular day of cricket ever seen on the first day. It was a breathtaking exhibition, a cornucopia of astonishing shots, a glorious variation on a thousand themes and the kind of sporting excellence that will rarely be matched. Crawley lashed out with a giddy succession of ruthless cover drives and delightful placement strokes that were swept off the back foot with flawless timing. At last summer had arrived at Edgbaston and you could only have imagined what the great wordsmiths and vocabulary bon vivants would have made of it.

Years after their deaths now you can still hear the heavenly Hampshire burr of John Arlott adjusting his verbs, adjectives and pronouns with that unique brand of poetic lyricism and perfect observation. Next to Arlott would have been another incomparable painter of pictures with words. Neville Cardus, who left school with no qualifications and who had just emerged from school to become a pavement artist, had at his disposal the most beautiful language and descriptions that were so vividly artistic that even now they feel like perfection on a newspaper page.

After a short burst of handsome straight driving and a marvellously designed innings Zak Crawley  was out for 61. But nobody inside Edgbaston panicked because we knew that this immensely resourceful England side  would break into the fastest sprint. Then Ben Duckett tried to assert himself as a cricketer that England could feel so proud of in years to come. Sadly Duckett fatally edged a ball that swung viciously while Duckett could only manage the faintest of touches to the wicket keeper and was out for a disappointingly meagre 12.

Then Ollie Pope, from whom much was expected, patted his bat purposefully onto his crease and a lengthy occupancy was always on Pope's mind. Sir Geoff Boycott would have taken out squatting rights on the day itself. But Pope, although determined to make his mark, always looked slightly vulnerable. There was a nervous and jittery side to Pope's batting that very few could have anticipated. And so it was that Pope was out for 31 and Edgbaston sighed with disappointment and exasperation.

England, who at first, had raced away quite confidently with a whole variety of decisive cricket, staggered to lunch at 124 for 3, clinging desperately onto the knowledge that the rest of the innings certainly had a substantial amount of runs in its locker. England must have known that the world was their oyster and anything was still possible. But further wickets fell quite rapidly once the Aussies had found England's weak spot.

Then Yorkshire powerhouse Joe Root went about the business of the day like a lawyer setting out their documents ready for another gruelling day in court. He braced himself for what proved a voyage of discovery and off he went. The lofted drives, scintillating pulls and cuts were married wonderfully to a steady, equable temperament. Then Root blasted and punched his square cuts through mid wicket with a liberal sprinkling of sixes and stunningly original reverse sweeps that were scooped accurately and cleanly into a permanently lively crowd. Root was anchored to the innings not out with a century and nothing had been given. But then the faut lines in England's cricket were exposed and it was downhill.

Newcomer Harry Brook, who still looked like a sixth form and then college student, then crafted an innings like a potter moulding his clay. It was all very businesslike and determined, a new boy on his first day determined to be the head boy and prefect. For a while Brook displayed his peacock plumage and the runs began to accumulate. Then Brook became tentative, looked startled in the headlights and just lifted his bat awkwardly at a rising ball before allowing the ball to drop helplessly onto his wicket and the bails just fell meekly onto the ground. Brook was out for 32 and it all looked very uncomfortable. 175- 4 looked like a solid foundation but then the wheels came off for England.

Cue captain of the hour Ben Stokes, the all conquering hero. Stokes was the one who flung his hands ecstatically into the air when England had won the World Cup in that enthralling, nail biting finish to the World Cup Final against New Zealand. Once again Stokes, once in looked as if he meant business, rolling up the proverbial sleeves and leading by example. And then somebody dropped the script. Stokes, always ambitious and always ready to attempt the impossible, swiped a horrific reverse sweep and was out for a single.

Now followed the most dramatic disintegration of them all. England fell apart like a broken toy, the batteries had gone and Stokes men were in complete disarray. It was 176 for 5 but it must have felt like the end of England's innings full stop. Moeen Ali, serious and threatening for a while, eventually capitulated for 18 and England were now in trouble. It was just as well that Root was still there because without him England would have been a boat without its sail and rudder.

And then came Johnny Bairstow. Bairstow was gladiatorial, a formidable batter not to be messed with at any point. Rather like one of his Yorkshire predecessors, Sir Geoff Boycott, he was in the mood for destruction, annihilation, complete obliteration. When Bairstow arrived at the crease Australia must have trembled and shivered with fear. This was Johnny Bairstow, a man for all seasons and a man to be respected and never taken liberties with.

Bairstow struck out with a resounding series of thumping fours and shots of savagery, primal power, almost barbaric in their execution. He clumped the ball emphatically across the on and offside, driving, cutting and then guiding the ball delicately beyond the slip cordons. Finally Bairstow ran out of energy and stamina and at a creditable 78 had increased England's run rate exponentially. At 78 he was out but England had once again found their saviour.

Now the tail of England's batting to wag quite distressingly. Stuart Broad went for 16 but Root was still there at the crease stubbornly and obstinately. He reached his century with effortless aplomb, grinding his way at times but then powerfully and authoritatively, the shots humming and whistling across the greenery of Edgbaston.

Suddenly there was a bolt out of the blue With Root and his fellow batsman still hanging around for a while, there was the most unexpected moment of the day. Deep in the England dressing room, a bearded Ben Stokes started wagging his finger at Root and company. It was the most dramatic gesture of them all. Stokes was beckoning his batters into the pavilion and England declared at 393-8. This was surely completely unprecedented and nobody knew why. Day two would follow and Australia would now face the batting music and the notes of the first day would leave pleasant memories for quite a while.

The Ashes

 The Ashes

So it is that summer has peeped its head out of the hedgerows bursting with colour and personality and a sporting summer greets the arrival of one of its most fiercely competitive rivalries. Amid the bees, wasps and butterflies that always seem to be on their best behaviour, cricket grounds around the country will be alive with feverish anticipation, ritualistic decorum, the gentle hum of lively conversation and every so often punctuated with loud laughs, guffaws, giggles and a good deal of cheerful banter.

There comes a time during the year when sport loves to abandon itself to sport at its finest and purest, sport at its most gentle and dignified, sport at its well mannered and courteous while next to cricket's boundaries and pavilions, cricket announces itself quite boldly and vigorously. Football has now departed the sporting landscape and in its place is quite the most fiery, red blooded, volatile, hostile and antagonistic contest of them all.

This morning at Edgbaston, the Ashes, that age old argument between England and Australia, fires its first guns, blows a gasket, roars into action, all guns blazing, foes and enemies but then good buddy drinking partners when the day is over. Then the  blackbirds at mid wicket will finally finish an animated discussion about the old days when Ian Botham, Graham Dilley Mike Brearley, Graham Gooch, Mike Gatting, Peter Willey, Geoff Boycott, David Gower and Chris Old would always deliver cricket from the heavens. They stared at each other in awe and wonderment because those were the days when cricket seemed to go on forever from mid May until deep into September.

Today the white flannelled men of England will discard their spring pullovers, polish that famous red ball almost incessantly and then venture into the green fields that are forever England. So it's the Ashes 2023 but to the nostalgic community it could be any Ashes series if we close our eyes and cast our minds back to the way things used to be. This is no ordinary Ashes since this England- Australia battle royale has never been boring, always controversial, invariably personal and packed with incident, pivotal turning points and then the players themselves.

For the fact is where would we be without the players? At the beginning of the 1930's none of us knew what to expect but then discovered that cricket meant something much more disturbing and sinister than was first thought. The now notorious Bodyline Tour was quite the most grotesque spectacle any of the watching public and media would ever witness. One Harold Larwood took it upon himself to inflict raw violence and aggression on a series that would become progressively more dangerous with every single Test match.

Larwood, Nottingham's most fearsome of England's fast bowlers would hurl down what can only be described as missiles from an arm loaded with menace. conviction and a sniper's intent. Larwood desperately wanted Australia's blood and would stop at nothing to make life for the Aussies as uncomfortable as possible. The bouncers then came thick and fast, of course bordering on illegitimacy and quite prohibitive at times. How did Larwood get away with it, you may ask  yourself? But anything went way back then and although we winced with horror and shock, the general impression was that this was England against Australia and nothing was held back. Are we ready? So let's go.

But in the now epic year of 1953 England and Australia were at good natured loggerheads for entirely different reasons. The much beloved and now deeply missed Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth the Second serenely awaited her Coronation, Sir Gordon Richards galloped home to victory in the Epsom Derby and a couple of intrepid explorers reached the summit of Mount Everest. It was a year unlike any other and it just happened to be the year of the Ashes where everything was at stake and emotions of course were running high.

This was the year of immense cricketing feats, broken sporting records and a gentleman by the name of Jim Laker. Laker was a slow, cunning leg spinner, gentle, a modest and totally unobtrusive figure, amiable by nature and a cricketer with authenticity coursing through his veins. When his shirt was billowing with the sweat of high conflict, Laker breezed throughout a day's play with barely a flutter of unrest or agitation. Nothing bothered him apart from the taking of wickets and that he did with bountiful abundance, carefree abandon rather like picking apples from a Kentish orchard.

But Laker once took 19 wickets and 10 in an innings at Old Trafford. When the legendary Len Hutton tossed the ball to his frontline fast quickie bowler, very few of us had any inkling of how damage, wreckage or carnage Laker could do and yet it was almost clinically effective. Laker wrapped his fingers around the ball, applied the appropriate spit and polish and the Australians fell like skittles in a bowling alley. 

In 1953 the brilliantly thoughtful Alec Bedser accompanied by the wise and analytical Trevor Bailey would conspire together in plotting the downfall of an Australian team who still felt they had the bragging rights over England. That summer Laker, Bedser and Bailey were always prominent and visible, cricketers with subtle strategies, master craftsmen who were never short of mischief and guile. They were England during 1953, the men who dominated English cricket's public domains, the fashionable men of the early 1950s, the best dressed cricketers of the day and permanently influential throughout the 1953 Ashes series.

Then 28 years later Ian Botham, that most masculine of all England cricketers, demolished an Australian side who must have been convinced that the Ashes had been theirs once again without even trying. With the Test series between England and Australia finely poised all focus was on Headingley, the home of Yorkshire cricket but now the sole property of a man from Somerset. Botham was like a whirling dervish, a bowling and batting demon, uncontrollable, all conquering, masterful, a sweeping statement of intent, a blustery gale force wind and, ultimately destroyer, tormentor in chief of everything Australian.

With the ever studious and professorial Mike Brearley offering academic advice to Botham and Geoff Boycott settling into a long tenancy at the batting crease, England in 1981 were almost beginning to despair of ever winning the Ashes again after so long without. But Brearley, Botham, Willis, Dilley, Old, and the majestic David Gower were hitting destructive form on the pitch. And so it was that Botham dragged England out of the mire into the land of fantasy, fortunes turning astonishingly in England's favour and they were the ones who won the Ashes for England.

In 2005 Michael Vaughan, Freddie Flintoff, Jimmy Anderson, Matthew Hoggard and the marvellous Kevin Pietersen were the principal architects of another Aussie meltdown. The image of a drunken Flintoff staggering around Trafalgar Square and then the rest of that celebrated team standing outside 10 Downing Street will never surely be forgotten. 

But then we come right up to modern times. In 2018 the England guided by the charismatic Ben Stokes took complete charge of an Ashes series in a way that we'd probably only seen with Botham. There was  Stuart Broad and Jimmy Anderson charging in with bowling of the highest quality, Joe Root, bright and instantly likeable as leader of the pack, Johnny Bairstow breathing fire and natural flair, Jos Buttler keeping wicket with concentrated efficiency and Jason Roy, capable and dedicated to the cause. The series sadly for England was drawn and therefore the Aussies brought back the urn of Ashes back to Australia.

So to the present day, England expects of today's generation. This morning the warm and blue skies of Nottingham awoke to find tragedy and murder on its doorstep. But for some cricket will embrace the Ashes as if it had never been away for so long. And England will welcome back lush green outfields, brown batting strips, creases that refuse to do as they're told, pavilions with delicious buffets of sandwiches, cold and soft drinks, snacks for all tastes and cricket will find itself with satisfied appetites.

The county championships has changed very little over the years, apart from the clothing, the colourful clothing, helmets, sponsors names on their shirts and the shorter game. It's cricket of the T20 Blast slogfest and limited overs cricket- which has never really been away for any length of time. But now cricket enjoys the novel pleasures of night and day cricket as floodlights flicker on at supper time. Then there's the Hundred which is difficult to categorise because therein lies cricket's evolution and rapidly expanding commercialism. Oh for the crack of red ball and willow. Cricket- oh how enjoyable it is.

Manchester City complete the treble.

 Manchester City complete the treble

It couldn't have happened to a nicer team. Metaphorically this was the icing on the cake for Manchester City but we've known this for quite a while. City have been the team of the ages, an evolving life force that just became irresistible. They were the ones who always hid behind Manchester United's shadow, almost destined to fail on all occasions and yet here they were as European Champions on this night of all nights.

If somebody had told that the City of over 25 years ago that the current incarnation would be lapping up the celebrations accompanying their first ever European trophy since 1971, you'd have probably been laughing all the way to a Saudi bank. City used to be end of pier seaside entertainment material, an easy target for good natured jibes, withering put downs, downright derision, circus clowns who kept ending up with custard pies in their faces.

But on a night of sweltering night by the Bosphorus, City came to Istanbul and produced the sweetest Turkish delight of them all. It was never going to be easy and even City must have recognised the difficulties that would face them. And that's how it proved. Their opponents Inter Milan are of course the legendary giants of the game and have been since time immemorial. Italian football teams love to be awkward, problematic and challenging. They love to defend en masse when the going gets tough and on Saturday night the barbed wire was erected, the locks were tightly bolted on and Manchester City were simply going nowhere.

There was a time when a City of the past would have immediately panicked, squandered possession repeatedly, caved in meekly to incessant passing around them and just surrendered. On Saturday evening City must have had flashbacks to a previous Champions League Final and wondered whether it was worth all the fuss. That they weathered the storm is more a testament to their fighting spirit, stoicism, doughty determination and then picking the right moment to pounce when even Inter weren't looking.

After clinching their third successive Premier League and polishing off neighbours Manchester United in the FA Cup Final at Wembley, City were looking for the Treble that United had achieved so memorably and deservedly. If Pep Guardiola was thinking about Sir Alex Ferguson's seemingly unstoppable Manchester United and their hat-trick of Cups and trophies then you could hardly have blamed him. City were going flat out to emulate their Moss Side rivals and you'd better believe it. We did and how stunningly impressive they were. When your back is against the wall, you keep pushing back the frontiers until you find the gleaming diamond.

For the ennobled Pep Guardiola this was his second time in the Champions League trophy room. Guardiola had performed the same act for his beloved Barcelona and this time City benefited from the man's formidably shrewd investments, his outstanding coaching prowess and those admirable judgements of character. He may have the available cash to spare, the assistance of vast Saudi wealth but a team is only as good as its players. City won the Champions League because they knew one day it would all come good on the day.

Realistically this was no masterpiece from City and when the referee blew the final whistle, City puffed out their cheeks with obvious relief, thanked their lucky stars and hoped that nobody had noticed. This was a City facing an Inter Milan side who had done rigorous homework on their opponents, stopped them from playing altogether at times and just blotted out City's landscape. This was a true measure of City's resilience, their rarely shown ability to find a way of scoring even when it looks highly unlikely. We've seen it before but not on this colossal scale.

Throughout the Premier League season City were once again a startling revelation, a team of almost electrical impulses when the ball is either with them or indeed without. City instinctively move the ball at speed around the pitch in a bewildering blur of astonishingly correct and precise passing. It's one touch, two touch, strategic movements, intuitive thought patterns and, to quote the popular vernacular, the high press, that moment when City just surround you, pinching the ball back for keeps. Then the ball spins around the pitch with dizzying alacrity, fast moving, deliciously skilful and a wonder to behold.

Then City explode from the starting blocks and then give their impression of graphic designers. It's football that oozes class and originality, a picture book that becomes more colourful every time they step onto a football pitch. It was the kind of football that Joe Mercer and Malcolm Allison tried to fashion at the end of the 1960s but didn't quite find the right material. But City just got on with it, never shirking their sense of duty and there was always an obligation to get it right on the night. Finally the engine was working like a dream, there was petrol in the tank and there was a renewed vibrancy and vivacity about City's football that they might have thought they'd left behind in the dressing room.

For Inter Milan this represented an unwanted distinction for three Italian clubs in European competition. Last Thursday West Ham had won the Europa Conference League Final in a palpitating Prague against a Fiorentina side who must have thought that all they had to do was just turn up on the night and just pass West Ham off the park. But then Fiorentina kept bumping into a white and orange wall and found an unforgiving West Ham team who just wanted to enjoy themselves but then forgot the last minute or so.  Jarred Bowen was discovered in acres of space from a Lucas Paqueta's delightful slide rule through pass and Bowen drilled home his shot for West Ham's winner.

Then in the Europa League Final Sevilla had beaten Roma in a bad tempered Final where Jose Mourinho once again went off the deep end, threw foul four letter expletives at the referee before shaming the game with deplorable behaviour. So for every English club striving for trophies there were Italian operatic voices who were just hoping that nobody could hear theirs. For those who follow the Premier League this probably felt like revenge for the Euro 2020 Final where Gareth Southgate's England just vanished without trace in the second half against Roberto Mancini's cunning Italy side.

But this was City's night. This was a night when John Stones represented all singing, all dancing versatility and adaptability, durability from start to finish and then Stones was given permission to roam into midfield, an area of the pitch Inter had perhaps overlooked. While Stones roamed and wandered with perfect freedom, Inter seemed to take their eye off the ball. Then there was the eternally enterprising and smooth running Bernardo Silva, venturing with intent, searching for space diligently and then passing the ball with effortless ease, the cleverest of ball players.

With Manuel Akanji, Ruben Dias and eventually the wondrously athletic Kyle Walker all concentrating on the task at hand with intensity and vigilance, City were besieged but far from demoralised. They held Inter at bay quite strikingly at times and then at arms length. Suddenly there was a noticeable sea change in the game. Inter seemed to run out of attractive options in their vast repertoire of short passing and then City began to work up a head of steam.

Midway through the second half Manchester City came alive against the run of play. A break down the flank was carefully thought out. From a sweeping overlap into the Inter penalty area, an excellent low ball across the Italian's stubborn defence found Manuel Akanji on the edge of the area. Akanji, who had been here, there and everywhere for City, laid the ball back for the onrushing Rodri and, with perfect balance, he curled a powerful shot into the roof of the Inter net. It had been the only goal of the match but it had meant everything to both Pep Guardiola and Manchester City.

With Jack Grealish once again shifting the ball from one foot to the other with wonderful technique and imperious close ball control City were now floating forward serenely as if all their art work in the Premier League had finally come to fruition. Grealish was all dainty delicacy, playing with defenders as if they were children in a nursery. Then there were the darting runs outside and inside full backs, the pin point passes to colleagues in close proximity. 

Then there was the Kevin De Bruyne, a player so essential to the functioning of a City at their best that his name is invariably the first on the team sheet. In Istanbul though De Bruyne once again hobbled off the pitch with a nasty looking injury. De Bruyne must have been privately cursing under his breath. On Saturday night though none could deny his easy going temperament, his varied passing range and that inimitable street wisdom, that experienced savvy. But perversely even when De Bruyne came off City just seemed to go through the gears, game management for them the easiest of accomplishments.

And so Manchester City are the new Champions League European Champions. They follow the sainted likes of Liverpool, Chelsea, Manchester United, Aston Villa and Nottingham Forest. You feel sure that the managerial genius of Bill Shankly, Bob Paisley, Sir Matt Busby, Sir Alex Ferguson, Tony Barton and Ron Saunders and of course Brian Clough would have been immensely flattered to keep the same company as Pep Guardiola. The champagne corks were popping joyfully in Salford and Manchester City are indeed one of English football's finest. We salute you again.

Boris Johnson- We wish you well.

 Boris Johnson - We wish you well.

History will never look kindly upon Boris Johnson. Sometimes you begin to wonder whether things will ever turn out right for the blond one from Uxbridge and Eton public school. You look back at his recent tales of woe and disaster and can never find anything that looks remotely like salvation or redemption. It was always likely to end in tears, bitterness, grudges and bad blood. Besides, what to make of a man who used to be Prime Minister and then found himself directly drawn into a hellish nightmare, a dystopian vision of a world that had now been lost in the most horrendous spiral of death and suffering? It could have been saved at the last possible moment but then fate intervened and we all know what happened next.

Yesterday Johnson emerged from the scrum of media attention and didn't quite know which way to turn or look. Boris Johnson resigned from his current position of party politics and slowly drifted away into the misty wilderness of complete obscurity. Now this is a first for Boris Johnson because, for the last two decades, Johnson has become public property, desperately seeking the front page headlines and almost obsessively clinging onto the belief that he was simply the persecuted one. He was then  hounded out of office and left to skulk in a lonely doorway, licking his wounds and braving the elements once again.

On a glorious day in early June, Boris Johnson quit the House of Commons, bruised and damaged by all the people who simply misunderstood him and then tore him to pieces when it all looked distinctly promising.  Besides, from the moment he was elected as Prime Minister way back when everything in the garden was rosy. He'd taken us out of the messy wreckage that was the European Union, stamped his assertive feet firmly on the ground and for a moment must have felt like his noble predecessor Sir Winston Churchill. 

And now then there was the dizzying complexity that was the Customs House union and the ever increasing circles of the now deepening uncertainty that was Brexit. Johnson hadn't a clue which way he was going. Are we in or out of Europe? What about the financial implications, the tariff charges on specific borders of Europe and just look at the industrial strife that Johnson had now left Rishi Sunak, the current Prime Minister, to clear up. All of that emotional energy spent on something that in theory, looked so simple.

So Boris Johnson looked around him and found that he was trapped in the middle of an insoluble predicament. The political quicksand was dragging him deep into yet more humiliation. His time was up and there seemed no plausible alternative. So Johnson, blond hair now on the point of anarchic rebellion, growled and snarled with utter contempt and loathing for his erstwhile colleagues. Of course he'd broken lockdown laws, of course he'd partied excessively while the rest of his beloved Britain was simply stuck at home, bemused by a terrifying virus-cum disease known as Covid 19. But what else could he have done?

At the beginning of the 21st century Johnson was still an effective presence and orator. He was editor of the Spectator, a magazine so admired by both politicians and intellectual thinkers that our Boris must have thought he'd won the Lottery several times. Johnson now had the perfect literary platform to air his innermost thoughts and controversial opinions. Then the Daily Telegraph came calling and once again put all of his cards on the table, announcing yet more punchy and polemical views on all manner of subjects. It was going so well until the Johnson ego began to believe that this bright new career had obvious potential.

So his head began to expand quite painfully, the critics became camp followers and Johnson discovered the rarefied air of politics. His column in the Daily Telegraph, became almost a holy scripture and then the Tories reached out for him, drawing him warmly into their very Conservative fold. Somebody must have told him about a vacancy left by Ken Livingstone as Mayor of London. The rest of course is well chronicled and printed. 

For almost as long as anybody can remember Boris Johnson was always regarded as fanatically ambitious and aspirational. He'd studied the giants, the Macmillans, the Churchills, the Heaths and latterly the Thatchers. He'd concluded that anything they could do he could do better. So he was appointed Mayor of London and everything which followed on from that point now seems barely believable. He promised things that very rarely come to fruition. The critics knew he was just a bumbling buffoon and it all became totally 

But on a memorable day in the summer of 2005, Britain was chosen to host the Olympic Games for the first time since 1948. It was at this point that Johnson experienced delusions of grandeur. He was the one who confidently predicted that one day Great Britain would become the centre of global attention. In the years that followed the 2012 Olympics in London, Johnson literally went from the sublime to the ridiculous, from rugby tackling young children to the famous zip wire across the skies of London. 

Then on another day of the sweetest fragrance, Johnson was elected as a leader of his Tory constituencies of both Henley and more recently Uxbridge. But power had now gone to his head completely and the job as Mayor of London had become tiresome and repetitive. So he upped the ante, saw that Theresa May had now left 10 Downing Street and thought he could do the job of Prime Minister so much more skilfully than anybody else.

So when it came to the crunch Johnson threw his hat into the ring and thought somebody had given him the most beautifully packaged birthday present when his Labour counterpart put forward his credentials. After the briefest of spells as a Foreign Secretary, Johnson was now up against the Labour challenge of Jeremy Corbyn. Johnson licked his lips with delight at the easiest of goals from close range.

But then came Covid 19, the wild parties behind the scenes in Downing Street, the laws that were flagrantly broken, the unforgivable misdemeanours, the accidental trips to far away relatives in castles, the indefinite round of the Hokey Cokey, cheese and wine gatherings. All of these outrages had come in complete contravention of everything the Tories had told us to do. You had to stay in doors at all times and should never venture out in case the Covid 19 virus suddenly spread to all four corners of the globe- which it did anyway. You had to stand yards apart from your family and friends while at your local chemist a remarkable queue had formed and in your local park. Meanwhile a park ranger's truck with a tannoy did a passable impersonation of Winston Smith from George Orwell's dark but gripping novel 1984. Go for your exercise and then go home immediately. It was vaguely unnerving but you knew exactly what you had to do.

And finally there were the daily medical bulletins from 10 Downing Street, a sight that became so ingrained in our consciousness that some of us thought it would go on for much longer than it did. It was bizarrely fascinating, one Prime Minister flanked by two eminent scientists and doctors who did their utmost to explain a virus that went completely over our heads. They kept pointing at graphs, delivered the worst of all statistics, the fatalities and the new casualties while Boris Johnson must have been longing to hide in a dark room.

But Johnson came through, one of the horrific thousands upon thousands of those were infected with Covid 19 and then walked out from hospital as if it were some minor affliction. And then Johnson was rumbled, caught out, the perpetrator of heinous crimes that just engulfed him at the end. The dam broke and the fingers were firmly pointed out at a man so naive and vulnerable that even his closest friends must have been concerned at his fragile mental health state.

Yesterday then Boris Johnson said that he'd had enough and couldn't take the heat in the kitchen. Brexit will remain one of Johnson's redeeming positives. But even that old chestnut is beginning to wear thin  and it's hard to know where we stand in relation to Europe. Still, he does like his morning run but with rucksack on his shoulders, it all looked very uncomfortable. He may well write his memoir, almost certainly launch onto the after dinner speech circuit expressing yet another selection of forthright opinions on anything in particular. It may not be pleasant or complimentary but the familiar voice, the dishevelled appearance and the lovable eccentricity will never change. Boris Johnson. We wish you well wherever you go.

West Ham win the Europa Conference League Final

West Ham win the Europa Conference League Final.

For those of us of a sentimental disposition you could hardly contain your elation. Nights such as last night were never supposed to happen. You would go through all the motions of the season, reflect on a most horrendous Premier League season and hope to come through unscathed. Never in a million years did it ever occur to you that the season had the most pleasantly surprising twist of all time. You endured the trials and tribulations of a season briefly haunted by the spectre of relegation from the Premier League but forgot about the Europa Conference League competition.

So after 58 years of footballing drought and famine West Ham United have finally won something of real substance and clout, something to boast about to friends and families gatherings. Football got you right here, under the skin, that visceral, inexplicable thrill you get when something good happens to your team. You explode with joy because this is just about the most irrational reaction you can find when your lifelong allegiance to West Ham is finally rewarded. Sometimes you think you deserve to be in the place where you are because this is your turn to win a Cup or trophy after so long without.

And then it came to pass that West Ham won the Europa League  Conference Trophy, perhaps one of the most ridiculed UEFA creations for many years. It was, you suspect, one of the many consolation prizes for those who couldn't quite make the grade to the slightly superior Europa League. It was meant to assuage and pacify all of those supporters who thought they were truly robbed of a place in Europe. So this time it was West Ham's turn, a club who must have been grateful for small mercies after finishing seventh in the Premier League last season.

So last night West Ham and their Italian opponents Fiorentina played out a moderately absorbing Euro Conference Final although there was a sloppy slovenliness about West Ham which rendered this game a miracle to the club who play at the London Stadium. In fact for much of last night's encounter there was a genuine air of battle fatigue with both teams guilty of misplaced passes that could have penetrated both side's defences at various points throughout the game. But we were in the results business here and nobody can now deny the magnitude of West Ham's extraordinary achievement.

For West Ham of course their season has proven to be one of the most embarrassing shambles in recent history. Back in March the club were hovering over the relegation trapdoor, defensively naive, spineless, insipid in attack and simply incapable of stringing together any sequence of victories that might have made the season tolerable. There were the single goal defeats at both Liverpool and Manchester United earlier on in the season. And towards the end of a long, gruelling domestic season, there was the 5-1 humiliation at home to Newcastle as well as the craziest match of them all, a 4-3 defeat to Roy Hodgson's Crystal Palace.

All in all this has been an instantly forgettable Premier League season for West Ham but last night by way of redemption, it all began to fit together like the perfectly executed plan. West Ham had almost swaggered through their European campaign without flinching or batting an eye lid. They remained undefeated and even narrow defeats at the hands of a once great Anderlecht side and a strong, compact AZ Alkmaar of Holland in the Euro Conference semi final couldn't disturb the balance of this well organised and well drilled West Ham team.

Some with fond, nostalgic recollections of years gone by still remember quite painfully of the last time West Ham reached a European Final. It was the 1976 European Cup Winners Cup Final and Anderlecht were West Ham's opponents in the futuristic looking Heysel Stadium. With the Belgian side featuring the cream of the Dutch crop of Rob Rensenbrink and Aarie Haan and their own lustrous Belgian gem Francois Van Der Elst, West Ham could never overcome their nerves and lost the Final 4-2.

But last night the defensive powerhouses of Kurt Zouma, Naif Aguerd, the joyously overlapping Emerson and the sturdy Vladimir Coufal often found themselves desperately scurrying around to repel the rapier like thrusts of Fiorentina's beautiful passing game. At times it was all hands to the pump for the East London club as the team from Florence moved the ball among themselves so delicately and easily that at times West Ham were just gasping for oxygen.

In a city of Renaissance art and historic architecture, Florence has become a culturally uplifting city of varied charms and memorable tourist attractions. But this was not a night of Italian operatic renditions and footballing ingenuity. True, Fiorentina were technically superior for well over an hour and their passing had a World Cup quality about it. But their finishing foundered on a rock of mediocrity and the Italians were restricted to a couple of shots and the occasionally dangerous break into West Ham's well protected defence.

Then the tall and commanding Tomas Soucek joined forces with the magnificently assured Declan Rice, West Ham skipper for the night and still the subject of transfer speculation. Both Rice, Soucek provided an effective buffer between defence and attack, controlling and supervising at the back while Said Benrahma and Jarrod Bowen tried gallantly to turn Fiorentina's defence inside out with a combination of direct and aggressive running.

Then there was the opening goal minutes into the second half. A ball in the Fiorentina penalty area found Bowen charging onto a loose ball, hustling and bustling after the ball but then the ball seemed to bobble up to an Italian's fingers or what looked to be unintentional handball. Bowen's determined burst into the Fiorentina penalty area was rewarded with an unlikely penalty for West Ham. Benrahma, one of West Ham's most consistently impressive forwards, placed a powerful penalty into the net.

At this point Fiorentina although now hot, bothered and perhaps offended at the effrontery of West Ham's opening goal, began to resort to all the tactics of the acting profession, throwing and diving their bodies over quite theatrically and pretending that a sniper had sent them toppling to the ground. But then Fiorentina equalised almost seconds later after West Ham's goal. For all the world it looked as though West Ham would now disintegrate like one of those old chimneys that had to be blown up to make way for more modern developments.

And yet with a minute or two left and then the game inexorably heading for extra time, West Ham suddenly found a second wind. Of course Fiorentina had enjoyed the lion's share of possession and almost passed West Ham off the pitch. But there was nothing left in the Italian side's tank. Now West Ham launched one last concerted bid to snatch the winner against all the odds.

Lucas Pacqueta, finally discovering the Brazilian blend of cultured cunning and the most stunning repertoire of flicks, step overs and delightful footwork at close quarters, stamped his final contribution. Receiving the ball just over the half way, Pacqueta threaded the ball through the eye of a needle with a measured slide rule pass for Jarrod Bowen run onto. With only the Italian goalkeeper to beat in a one on one, Bowen fired the ball home for a winning goal that sent a claret and blue forest of fans into a wild state of celebration and delirium. West Ham had finally conquered Europe and a trophy finally adorns their forlorn looking trophy cabinet. Europa League, here we go again next season.

Manchester City win the FA Cup at the expense of their neighbours United.

 Manchester City win the FA Cup at the expense of their neighbours United.

It's funny how things always seem to work out for the best. Manchester City may well have won the FA Cup but United have also achieved their personal objective this season. It could all have been so different had Manchester United decided to persevere with the respective managerial expertise of Louis Van Gaal or the deeply offensive Jose Mourinho. In a sense this was a moral victory for United since only the wildly optimistic among us could have confidently predicted that United would win anything this season. But then United claimed the Carabao Cup and all was well at Old Trafford.

And yet at three o' clock on a Saturday afternoon it came to pass that an FA Cup Final began and the traditionalists smiled warmly as if a certain justice had been done. Time was when everything about the compelling spectacle that is an FA Cup Final would take top billing, when Abide With Me was the most uplifting anthem before the game itself, banners and flags would be proudly emblazoned across the light green grass of the old Wembley towers and an FA Cup Final would become a metaphor for everything that was good  about the game.

The first all derby Manchester FA Cup Final in all its splendour and glory, eventually took a predictable route and when Pep Guardiola, City's always diplomatic manager, stared across this vast and spacious stadium he must have thought life could hardly get any better. Now Guardiola finds himself on the threshold of a stunning achievement, one that noisy neighbours Manchester United thought they had a monopoly on for ever. The Treble is now blissfully attainable and only Inter Milan stand between City and a hat-trick of trophies for the team from the Etihad Stadium.

This Saturday Manchester City face Inter Milan in the Champions League Final and for Teddy Sheringham, Roy Keane and Ole Gunnar Solskjaer, read Kevin De Bruyne, Ilkay Gundogan and Jack Grealish for today's Manchester City. In 1999 Solskjaer was the one man responsible for Manchester United's winner on what proved to be United's finest of all nights, European Cup victory against Bayern Munich with almost the last kick of the evening.

First things first though. This was the first all Manchester derby FA Cup Final and therefore the most eagerly anticipated since both United and City had booked their place at Wembley. But who on earth could have imagined that the game itself would begin in such dramatic and explosive style? After a record breaking 12 seconds of the kick off, City would launch their opening assault on the United goal. From Stefan Ortega's long goal kick the ball fell kindly from a header and flick that landed so invitingly at the feet of Ilkay Gundogan, City's tormentor in chief all afternoon that even he must have been pleasantly surprised.

In 2009 Louis Saha had scored Everton's opening goal against Chelsea in that year's FA Cup Final. 25 seconds had elapsed for that goal to be acknowledged in the Cup's very literary pages of history. For Gundogan this was a goal unlike any he will probably score at any point in his career. The German playmaker just lifted his leg and then with the smoothest trajectory, blasted quite the most astonishing volley that whistled past David De Gea for City's opening goal.

United looked shell shocked, faces aghast, clearly disbelieving the evidence of their eyes. So they gathered their thoughts and senses, tried to remember where they were, convinced that this was a bolt from the blue they could never have bargained for. The majestic Casemiro, a Brazilian ball playing artist, waved United forward, while the cultured likes of Christian Eriksen, an experienced veteran was still capable of  bringing tranquillity to chaos. Then the excellent Bruno Fernandes, always a man for all seasons at United, picked up the ball as if United had just been reunited with it.

Slowly but surely they rallied and recovered and once the ball became their exclusive property, United were showing signs of  life. The passes were singing together, movement and rotation of the ball something that had now become longed for since the first whistle. On the bench Eric Ten Haag, United's clever and thoughtful boss, looked on anxiously but still privately hopeful that the tide would turn in their favour. Ten Haag has transformed United's fortunes this season and although the Red Devils will have to content themselves with the Carabao Cup and third place in the Premier League, you felt as if Manchester United were still a work in progress.

For a minute or two you remembered that iconic moment when City beat Gillingham in a Second Division play off final at Wembley when the boys from the Etihad were lost in a desolate wilderness. A Champions League final may well have greeted with derisory laughter at the time but now Manchester City are just unstoppable, a passing masterclass for all occasions and completely transformed. It all seems as if City have been through a genuine revolution, a cultural shift that none of us could have foreseen.

But on Saturday afternoon United began to feel their way into the match after an electric shock to the system. Their football now had accuracy, structure, distinctive thought patterns, a rounded personality, purpose and precision. Suddenly Casemiro, Fred, Bruno Fernandes, Victor Lindelof and the supremely confident Jadon Sancho, Raphael Varane and Luke Shaw were all united, collegiate, spirited, quite literally patient, cohesive, and the model of fluency. There was something very real about United, a side back in control.

Then completely against the run of play United found a way back into the match. After United had worked themselves into a lather with a series of well constructed attacks and counter attacks, the Cup  was beginning to show signs of leniency. United were now left off the hook. A rare attack into the City half ended up in the light blue half of City's penalty area. It was almost as if time had stopped for a minute or two but for United it was a way back into the game.

 Jack Grealish, one of England's most influential players since the heady days of Paul Gascoigne, tussled with his United counterpart. The ball reared up in front of Grealish's hands but nowhere even remotely close to an infringement. Much to everybody's amazement, the ball had clipped Grealish's fingernails by complete accident. After VAR deliberation, the referee drew that familiar square in the air and a penalty it was. United were level quite unexpectedly and surprisingly. Surely an equaliser had come completely against the run of play.

In the second half City came out of the starting blocks as if somebody had electrified them into action. The ball travelled from light blue feet to feet with whirlwind speed and perfect execution. Now both Grealish, De Bruyne, Rodrigo, Bernardo Silva at his foraging best, Manuel Akaji forced the pace of the match with sweetly flowing combinations within close proximity of each other. There was a technical excellence and purity about City's passing game that the Premier League has been so accustomed to for the last nine months or so.

Inevitably something had to give and it did. United had been lulled into a false sense of security and had been chloroformed by City. Following another City corner, the ball floated over towards the far side of the penalty area. The ball once again fell conveniently at the feet of Ilkay Gundogan once again. In an almost identical re-run to City's opening goal Gundogan adjusted his feet and position. This time he drove the ball low and hard into the ground on the volley, the ball bobbling over David De Gea, the hapless United keeper and into the net.

And that's how the score remained. Despite gallant attempts by Marcus Rashford and Jadon Sancho, this was not the day Manchester United were hoping for. Up in the royal box Sir Alex Ferguson looked distinctly ill at ease, awkward and slightly self conscious. When United levelled the game Ferguson's face temporarily perked up and, underneath Ferguson, Sir David Beckham, the former Manchester United idol threw his hands into the air with delight when United thought they had City where they wanted them. But footballing royalty would have to be overlooked on this occasion and even Sir Alex would have to accept defeat graciously.

When the final whistle went Pep Guardiola's face seemed to explode into smiles and and an expression of happiness that you would have been hard pressed to find anywhere in football. City were just beside themselves and the joy was almost spiritual. The players danced around the pitch, hugging each other tightly and then strolling around Wembley as if they'd undergone a religious conversion. Then City lifted the FA Cup for the seventh time in their history and all tension had been released. You began to understand just how much the FA Cup means to so many around the world. The emotion was universal, indefinable, the kind of feeling you get when everything goes your way.