Climate change or not?

 Climate change or not.

The voices have been loud and vociferous, the opinions as blunt and forthright in much the way they've always been. Yes, it's that famous old chestnut- the English weather. Throughout the decades and centuries the same subject has dominated the conversation over millions of breakfast tables. Now let's look out of the window today. Goodness me it's here again and there's a revelation. There is something for everybody on the horizon. It's the weather again doing what it always seems to do, shaping our moods and plans while always reminding us of its ubiquitous presence, here, there and everywhere.

 With bated breath we anticipate the certainties and uncertainties, the thick, dark clouds swelling up over the rooftops and the glorious sunshine ready for our inspection at the crack of dawn, heat, rain, cold, warmth and wind. You name it and there it is. We have here the changing moods, the fluctuations of the British climate, unpredictable by the day although incessant heatwaves are always welcome.

There are those who would insist that we get four seasons in one day here in Blighty. A year ago at this time, Britain and the United Kingdom was still baking and roasting in the most magnificent heatwave the country had ever seen. We knew it had been another exceptional one because we looked at our parks and gardens and it seemed fairly obvious that something was just perfect. In a sense we should have been celebrating from the highest steeple but then we started complaining because this is not supposed to happen and besides we weren't ready for this totally unexpected occurrence. So we closed our eyes, threw our heads back and revelled in idyllic tranquillity. Sun tan creams and sun factors were now essential.

This year things seemed to have turned out in the reverse order. June was rather like last July and never shall the twain meet. Britain is almost spoilt beyond belief since the months of the year tend to merge into each other and there has always been a sense of the inevitable in the order of the seasons. The winter months seemed to unravel like a grey cotton reel that eventually made way for a pleasant and moderately warm spring before a combination of breezy, sunny and then short, sharp torrents of rain encouraged the daffodils, daisies and tulips to come out of hibernation.

In recent weeks there has been an almost operatic intensity to the British climate. There have been the rich, whistling and blustery winds that sounded like the flute, oboe and clarinet you'd normally expect to hear in some elaborate orchestral arrangement or some novelty act at the Proms. And then the squally showers began to fall with some vigour and a good deal of seriousness. Now we must have felt that at some point our umbrellas would have to be folded away sooner rather than later but then the heavens opened and there was another bucket of rain, knocking us off our feet and drenching our socks and shoes.

Meanwhile in the far flung corners of the Mediterranean, tragedy has struck and summer in Spain, Greece and Italy is well and truly on fire. For the last week or so ferocious forest fires have been sweeping across the Med, destroying both fauna and flora, vast acres of bushes and trees while wiping out whole swathes of once lush vegetation and peaceful farmlands. Properties have been razed to the ground and families driven out of their severely damaged houses. It could hardly get any worse and yet it did quite horrifically.

So we look at now disfigured and burnt landscapes that a couple of months ago should have been revealing ripe plantations of fruit. Then there are the healthy looking crops and vegetables that bring so much, quite literally, to the table on our family plates of dinner, tea, breakfast and lunch. But now the Mediterranean has gone up in heart breaking flames and those lovely tourist hot spots for British holidaymakers are totally inaccessible, consumed by an almost unprecedented heatwave that has now soared into over 100 degrees of heat on a daily basis. 

The truth of course is that all of those knowledgeable climate scientists seemed to have got it right. Aren't they the clever clogs? Here we were denying all of the evidence to the contrary and pretending Britain would never be hit by such a meteorological calamity when, quite clearly, everything has been turned on its head. Now we are confronted with the most obvious extremes. While the Mediterranean basks in roasting heat reminiscent of the Sahara desert, here the United Kingdom finds itself with a traditional European summer full of dramatic flashes of lightning. This whole act is  followed by claps of thunder invariably concluded with yet more sporadic bursts of sunshine that then sheepishly hide behind more bubbles of heavy cloud cover. Don't you love the English weather?

We are now weeks away from the end of summer and before we know it, autumnal mists will gather on mountain ranges where the clouds resemble tasty looking marshmallows, hanging tenaciously onto the hills and valleys before melting into the distance. In some art galleries this scenario could remind you of a most attractive landscape painting by John Constable. But this is England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland, all of England's most appealing towns and villages. And that's how it rolls.

For now sadly global weather patterns have become very much set in stone. Britain has now adopted a pleasing air of familiarity with everything going according to plan. We know what we're going to get whether it be sun and rain and we don't mind at all or do we? The fondly romantic would love those eternally warm and seductive summers that we used to experience during the 1950s and 1960s. But then our memories are short because we probably imagined them to be hot. As a child of the 1960s it is hard to form any definitive judgment on any semblance of climate change. But this summer seems to be delivering everything at roughly the same time with regional variations on a theme.

Still, here we are on the threshold of august August, never entirely sure what to expect in the ether because unpredictability is now the recurring theme. So pull on your mackintosh, wellies and one or two layers of woolly jumpers for an evening stroll along a Cotswolds pathway. Then when the sun comes flooding in through your blinds or curtains, dig out the Caribbean T-shirts, beach shorts with that distinctive look of cool about them, a floppy sun hat and then grab a deckchair for good measure. Here is where our hearts go out to our friends in Spain, Greece and Italy. Our thoughts are with you all.  

Trevor Francis passes

 Trevor Francis passes

Football has often provided us with some of most powerful images that sport can offer. They can be touchingly sentimental, memorably evocative of the period and constant pictorial evidence of just how attractive the game can be at any level. In the old days when Press photographers would huddle around the perimeter of all the old First, Second, Third and Fourth Division grounds, that imagery would leave an indelible mark on the game, demonstrating both the vividness of its all action dynamism and its ability to communicate, with just a few pictures, the game in all its splendour and beauty.

During the 1970s and 1980s one player stood head and shoulders above the rest at both club and international level. He always looked fit, athletic, thin as a bamboo stick, clever in possession and a lethal striker up front. At the time we thought he'd become an overnight sensation, an old fashioned centre forward who was destined to win trophies galore, scoring thousands of goals into the bargain. He was never quite the goal scoring machine but he knew where the goal was and he did like to wheel away in celebration with an upraised arm.

Today Trevor Francis, the first million pound footballer in Britain, died at the shockingly young age of 69. It was announced that Francis had suffered a fatal heart attack and some of us were simply stunned at the suddenness and unexpected nature of Francis passing. For, truth be told, Trevor Francis was always one of football's  nice guys, not exactly a paragon of virtue but an exemplary gentleman of  the game, rarely violating football's enduring laws and keeping his nose clean. Francis was softly spoken, never outrageous in his behaviour, always polite and courteous to all outward appearances and never in trouble with referees.

In an age when footballers were party animals, sadly notorious alcoholics and serial nightclub patrons, Francis preferred the home comforts and the stability that family life had given him. He was a man of integrity and principle, impeccably well mannered at all times and never afraid to try the spectacular goal. He was a teenage prodigy with firstly Birmingham City and, under manager Freddie Goodwin, blossomed into one of the most consistently prolific goal scorers the game had ever seen. At 16 Francis was more than fully equipped for the big time, ready to strike like a panther from the undergrowth.

But one lingering image of Trevor Francis leaves a permanent impression on some of us. Francis had just joined Serie A club Sampdoria in Italy. The last time English footballers had ventured into the Italian game they ensured themselves legendary status. Both the late and much missed Jimmy Greaves, John Charles and Gerry Hitchens had left a wonderful legacy in the sultry heat of an Italian afternoon. But Francis admirably followed in the footsteps of these vastly talented forwards.

You can still see a prodigiously fit, slim and well toned Francis pounding the pavements and roads of Italy, running and sweating profusely towards full fitness. Bare chested and shorts dripping with effort, endeavour and exertion, Francis was determined to make his mark on Italian football. To some extent he succeeded but the lure of English football remained as strong as ever.

By the time Francis had got back to England he found a man who couldn't wait to snap up a player who had clearly signposted his lethal goal scoring tendencies. The late Brian Clough was everything football management had admired and perhaps, unforgivably, envied. Clough was outspoken, militant, adamant that he was always right, iconoclastic, according to some self righteous and arrogant but to others just the greatest manager who ever lived. His lifelong ambition was to be a strident trade unionist, expressing views that were never welcome to those who loathed him but always colourful.

However, when Clough presented Trevor Francis as Britain's first million pound footballer in the late 1970s, the world became both sceptical and never entirely sure of Francis worth. Francis had become a Nottingham Forest player and within the space of two seasons had accumulated two European Cup winners medals with Forest, swooping to head home the winner against Malmo of Sweden in 1979 and then making another appearance against Hamburg a year later who would feature Francis England team mate Kevin Keegan.

After an illustrious career at international level for England, Francis began to wind down his playing career. The unforgivably stressful world of football management beckoned for him. Admittedly he did have success at Sheffield Wednesday as a centre forward but when it came time to hang up his boots, football would become both problematic and challenging for the England man. Queens Park Rangers offered him a golden opportunity but one which he could never really grasp the nettle with. 

Then there was a fleeting spell with Glasgow Rangers before retirement from the game seemed his only option. There was  the after dinner speech circuit combined with a passionate interest in the game as an outside observer. But the transition from player to manager didn't really work which, in retrospect, seems a terrible shame. His death today from a heart attack still leaves some of us numb and speechless. But the name of Trevor Francis will always remembered by those who always believed in him. We mourn his passing deeply. Thanks for those memories. You'll never be forgotten.

The Lionesses will roar

 The Lionesses will roar.

This may be the right time for the gentlemen of the world to take a back seat or just drool with admiration. Besides it's taken us 57 years to redress the gender balance and we're still knocking on the same door without finding the key. So it is that with some reluctance and a heavy heart we acknowledge our flaws, weak spots, footballing shortcomings, the demoralising recognition of failure after failure. The men of the football world will sit in their local pubs, homes and sports clubs, silently realising that we just can't crack the code, decipher the indecipherable and work out exactly why the World Cup is just beyond us.

Tomorrow the England women open their World Cup opening group match against Haiti. Our standards are now naturally high and expectations realistic but this has to be England's turn to steal the thunder of their menfolk. We have plumbed the lowest depths of humiliation over the years and we've seen it all happen before fizzling out into dumbstruck disappointment. The men have got so far into tournament football and then tripped over a paving stone at the last and vital hurdle. We should be accustomed to these repetitive setbacks but never do so. We build our hopes up and then get excited about nothing in particular. It's our default mechanism, the way we always do things in England.

But this time it feels like optimism will finally land on the right side for England. England's Dutch manager Sarina Wiegman is now responsible for the toughest gig in world football, converting a team of European champions into the world's best. Her task of course is a daunting one since whereas Europe seemed a more straightforward conquest now the world  has converged on both Australia and New Zealand. World domination is something completely different, the global challenge, powerful continents across the world united with a common purpose and countries with specific agendas and mentalities. It's all very exciting and real.

Last year in the women's Euro tournament England finally broke the men's hoodoo with a collective ethos and togetherness that lasted for ages. For the first time in decades, a sporting team and ensemble promise so much that we just assume that the World Cup will be lifted quite easily and confidently. You could say we've become ever so bold and blase. It has to be our moment in the sun. There is a spirit and cohesion about the England's women team that we simply took for granted, a joie de vivre that has only rarely been in evidence in the men's game up until very recent years when Gareth Southgate changed things radically.

And yet here we are again at the business end of international tournament football. It's all very nail biting and fascinating because we think it's going to be our turn on the winners podium. When Chloe Kelly whipped off her shirt and whirled it above her head for England's winning goal against Germany in last year's Euro final we were witnessing history in the making, the first ever team to win a prestigious international trophy since 1966. So we got out our rattles and scarves and celebrated with an appropriate happiness.

After all the West End of London revelries, the girls lined up in front of the media cameras and danced joyously for what seemed like the rest of the afternoon and deep into the evening. Kiera Walsh had given the ladies a well deserved goal and from that point on, England overwhelmed the Germans with cleverly constructed and patiently measured football that the boys must have wished they could produce more consistently.

Tomorrow though the whole of England will once again camp out at a multitude of bars, fan zones, leisure centres, parks, gardens, at home and even restaurants where football appetites will surely be satisfied. We will drape St George's flags all over our living rooms, hang Union Jacks from every roof and gable conceivable before embarking on a culinary binge of good natured alcohol, pies oozing with patriotic flavours and sandwiches from the finest bakeries. Of course we will be there in our numbers, families, colleagues, friends, neighbours. Oh what England would give for another dose of 1966. The nation has unwavering support for every 90 minutes. Go for it, ladies.

Alcaraz is the man of the moment.

 Alcaraz is the man of the moment.

It almost felt like the end of an empire, a farewell to genius, the passing of the baton and a generation, the way it used to be but no longer is. You looked across Wimbledon's fair and green acres with those grotesque if unavoidable brown scuff marks on both Centre Court baselines and realised that something was in the air, an aura of transition, another exciting development in the evolution of the world's greatest grass court tournament. You had to be there to see it and experience it. Even if you were watching it from a distance you were essentially there in the middle of it all. This was a seminal moment, the opening page of a new era for the loyal Wimbledon fans and patrons who never fail to be enchanted by it all.

For it was yesterday that a young man by the name of Carlos Alvaraz won the men's singles Wimbledon Final in five of the most intoxicating sets SW19 had seen in quite a while. By the end of it all  Alcaraz deposed the old monarchy and Novak Djokovic slowly drifted away from the centre of all that fuss and publicity and took a back seat for once. The now former Wimbledon champion could hardly believe that finally somebody had penetrated his seemingly impregnable armour. No longer could the all conquering Serbian claim proprietorial rights on tennis's victory podium. The crown had been loosened and defeat for Djokovic became a painful reality. He must have known this day would come but was never sure when.

So the 36 year old tennis maestro found that a combination of ageing reflexes and perhaps that crucial edge of stamina had finally betrayed him. But now the party is over at least for now. The bearing is still athletic and agile but that last striving for greatness no longer seemed to be in evidence. That sheer bloody mindedness, the wholehearted willingness to reach new plateaus of achievement and, above all, the natural ability that has never deserted him, were always to the fore. But for the first time in ages, the Djokovic ruthlessness may have been lacking.

We all know about the ego and ferocious drive that has always lifted his game to the highest of levels but suddenly Djokovic looked flawed and vulnerable. There was a fragility and nervousness about the Serbian that only the most neutral observer would have noticed. Of course he was hungry and motivated but while Alcaraz was dragging him so brutally from one side of his baseline to the other there was a moment when the former Wimbledon champion had nothing else to offer in his once extensive repertoire. Even the impossible returns were just beyond the eight time Wimbledon champion. It all began to unravel for the swarthy, well tanned Serbian. The shots became desperate lunges and the power seemingly evaporated.

At roughly tea time Djokovic had reached a critical point in the match when everything Alcaraz had produced was burnished with perfect timing, glorious spontaneity and immaculate wristwork. The Spanish conquistador unfurled his cape and struck the ball with an astonishing clarity of thought and lethal conviction. We have now reached a point where people will begin to draw understandable comparisons to his fellow countryman Rafa Nadal who for a while dominated the Grand Slam circuit.

But the first set for Alcaraz turned into a disastrous horror show. Every passing return of serve and a rickety forehand combined to tie up the Spaniard in knots. The smooth fluency of the whipped forehand was almost invisible and the co-ordination had somehow disappeared into the far flung courts of 14 and 15. The feathery touch had gone beyond the blue yonder somewhere over the hills while both the forehand, backhand and those attractive sliced responses to Djokovic's wonderfully well organised game, were almost swallowed up by a Serbian onslaught. Djokovic won the first set 6-1 with almost effortless ease and Alcaraz was struggling with his own game on a frequent basis.

In the second set though Alcaraz re-established his foothold on the game with shots of liquid delicacy and laced with versatility. The first serve had now become a potent weapon and the brilliant returns were almost breathtakingly executed from nowhere. Now he mixed and matched a vast array of sumptuous drop shots and the occasional artillery of lobs that left Djokovic groping for air. Then he launched those venomous forehand winners that sizzled past the Serbian. Both tramlines became Alcaraz main focus of attack and the shots were spun, clipped and sliced with absolute precision. When Alcaraz swung his racket  with yet greater whip, the ball flew past Djokovic and the crowd sighed with pleasure. The Spaniard clinched the second set after an intriguing tie break 7-6.

Now the Spanish youngster began to assert himself as a positive force in the game and the third set turned into a stately procession. Alcaraz cruised his way almost nonchalantly into a two sets to one lead. The shots were being peppered from all angles, half volleys, audacious chips, cross court marvels that had no right to be reached. There was now a completeness and accomplishment about Alcaraz that had been left behind in the first set. The Number One seed took complete control of the third set and won a comfortable third set 6-1 as if Djokovic had merely been a figment of his imagination.

But once again Djokovic showed all those remarkable powers of resilience and survival that you might have expected from a once great champion. There was something indefinably brilliant about the Serbian's fighting spirit. It almost felt as if defeat was somehow alien to him and he stormed through the fourth set like a man who just didn't care about his age. For a while there was a youthful exuberance about his game that sustained him and then rewarded his efforts with the fourth set, chalking up a 6-3 pummelling.

In the deciding fifth set both players went hammer and tongs for each other, trading blistering end to end shots that could be heard in Southfields. The crack of a Wimbledon yellow ball is so evocative and  summery that you'd be forgiven for thinking that the game was being played  in some kind of fantasy tennis world where the game is just riveting. First Alcaraz forced the issue before Djokovic rallied heroically to stay in the match but you knew that a changing of the guard was about to take place. Forehand was met with backhand and then top spin double fisted return was heavy with deception. It was all very cunning, dramatic and utterly compelling. 

Alcaraz though had too much for the former Wimbledon champion and the greater variety of shots brought the youngster to the threshold of victory. Djokovic was visibly wilting and the conclusive, concussive forehand clump across the Serbian's chest was just too hot to handle. The shots were raining past Djokovic and down the line almost constantly. And then there was match point for Alcaraz which was promptly delivered like the ultimate body blow. The fifth set was much more tightly contested but the Spanish wonder boy came through 6-4 with flying colours. Wimbledon had anointed a new face and a new champion. Wimbledon could hardly have asked for anymore.

Djokovic beats Rublev at Wimbledon

 Djokovic beats Rublev at Wimbledon

This was surely tennis at its finest and purest. Wimbledon has become renowned for producing matches and legends of the highest quality and yesterday was no different to anything we'd seen before. This was tennis at its most beautiful, an aesthetically pleasing spectacle that turned into a spectacular. Even the most cynical and hard bitten would have to admit that the yearly summer bloom at SW19 has never looked so ornate or decorative.

Yesterday we saw four sets of pulsating, thrilling, delightful and astonishing tennis that somehow defied any superlative or description. Sometimes you had to blink in case you were just hallucinating. By the end of the match the crowd found themselves in a ferment of conflict. Do they support Novak Djokovic in his pursuit of even more monumental record breaking or do they heckle him for what appeared just a hint of arrogance and presumption in the Serbian powerhouse?

The Centre Court has often been the perfect gladiatorial amphitheatre, two giants of the game face to face with each other, rackets at their most tightly strung, a thousand glares and grimaces twisting their facial features. It is tennis at its most emotional and demonstrative, a life or death experience where every set point or game counts and matters immensely. Perhaps we should bottle these days in the sporting calendar and use it for general reference whenever we feel the sport is somehow lacking in some indefinable quality.

For Novak Djokovic this was a step closer to another of Wimbledon's august days in July on the occasion of a men's singles final and another title. The 36 year old Serbian could complete a fifth successive men's singles trophy which would emulate the remarkable feat achieved by the equally as extraordinary Swede Bjorn Borg. For it was he who elevated tennis to an art form and, from time to time, was seemingly unbeatable. But Djokovic is now in another Wimbledon semi final and even now it's hard to believe that our very own Andy Murray actually beat Djokovic in a men's Final exactly a decade ago.

There is a notable edge, an abrasive and aggressive side to  Djokovic that many of us have probably never seen at SW19. Maybe he's taken all of the consistent success at one of the most famous tennis tournaments for granted, believing himself to be utterly invincible. Maybe it has come far too easy for him in recent years but what can't be denied is that there are moments when the Serbian finds himself somewhat isolated, yearning for greater acceptance, reaching out for a higher volume of cheering and adulation.

The visible cupping of his ear in response to the ironic applause of the Wimbledon crowd perhaps exposes internal vulnerabilities in his character, a cry for love and approval. Then there are the fist clenches, the amusing grins on his face when he wins a point and the general dissatisfaction expressed when things aren't going his way. Borg used to disguise his displeasure with a gentle ruffle of the fringe of his hair, a blowing on the fingers and the customary twiddle with his racket.

Now though Djokovic is at the very height of his career and therefore immune from any kind of real setback. If John McEnroe were still involved in Grand Slam tournaments you feel sure that he would probably have strangled the umpires even though Hawkeye would have begged to differ. But Djokovic does things rather differently in as much that even the remotest hint of trouble can be dealt with by a stifled grunt or another bunched fist.

After four staggeringly flawless sets the Wimbledon champion finally saw off his Russian opponent and world class junior Andrey Rublev, thoughts turned to Djokovic's ruthlessness, his amazing powers of endurance, the stamina that just kept giving and a brand of tennis that bordered on the miraculous. With Roger Federer now retired and Rafael Nadal biding his time for another tournament, Djokovic was left with the onerous responsibility of providing his sport with the professionalism and virtuosity it has never really needed but welcomed all the same.

In the opening set though all the form books were thrown out of the window. The Wimbledon champion, probably taking his eye off the yellow ball for a while by Rublev's accomplished all round game, had briefly lost his way. There was a grit and dogged determination about Rublev that none of us would have seen coming. There were the powerful forehand returns to Djokovic's booming first serve, the quick witted exchanges at the net, the sliced backhands and dinked drop shots that left the Serbian groping for a plausible answer. Rublev edged the first set 6-4 but this only served to energise Djokovic, sending a surge of electricity through him like a bolt from the blue. It was the ultimate wake up call.

Then the second set dawned and the Wimbledon champion awoke smartly to his task as if an alarm clock had rung resoundingly in his ears. By now the match itself was just a tennis carnival, both players stretching each other from tramline to tramline with a memorable collection of delicate backhands and barnstorming forehands loaded with class, panache and variation. There were lunging volleyed returns that were literally taken with their rackets on the ground. This was sensational and thrilling tennis that never let up for a single moment and you doubted whether you'd seen anything better.

But Djokovic roared into contention with vigorous winning passing forehands that sizzled past Rublev like bullets from a gun. There were explosive sliced backhands heavily laced with top spin and for which the Russian had no answer. Djokovic was here, there and everywhere, throwing himself heroically at shots he had no right to win. The Serbian forehand now became an instrument of destruction, whipped across and past Rublev as if he was invisible. There were the rolled wristy returns that generated such force that Rublev must have thought everything was now completely beyond Djokovic. The Wimbledon champion cleaned up the second set authoritatively 6-1. Game on.

The third set by now was an inevitable second chapter of a book. You knew who'd committed the crime before the misdemeanour had even been committed. Djokovic ran through the third set like a dose of salts, brushing Rublev aside effortlessly and disdainfully rather like a man shrugging off a feather. We knew where this one was going. There was yet another repertoire of impossible returns of serve smashed past Rublev, more backhands of fabulous finesse, more forehands that looked as though Djokovic had just invented them. He was an irresistible force of nature, the complete article, briefly disturbed by a first set defeat but retrieved by years of experience at the topmost echelon of world tennis. Once again Djokovic dominated as if he were meant to do so. It was 6-4 to the Wimbledon champion and game almost over.

In the fourth set Djokovic looked as if the first set had been a phantom. The shots to both tramlines were heavy and lethal, stinging half volleys and volleys, passing shots that flew past his opponent. Suddenly there was a recognition that nobody could stop the Serbian. The express train was hurtling through the countryside at frightening speed and victory for Djokovic was literally minutes away. The backhand was now fully fired up with the intensity of a compulsive winner. The Wimbledon champion wrapped up a semi final appearance.

And so the Wimbledon champion acknowledged the applause of the Wimbledon faithful because that was part of his job description. You wave at the Centre Court crowd, smile benignly at a sea of faces and marvel at the grandeur of it all, Wimbledon's charm, its people, its easy going conviviality, the enduring respect for the game in every global corner and the Pimms, the quintessential Englishness of the fortnight. We've seen it all before but our admiration is unrelenting. Bring on the Wimbledon semi finalists.  

Three Brits fall at Wimbledon

 Three Brits fall at Wimbledon

It almost seemed too good to be true. There we were expecting miracles at Wimbledon and then it all fizzled out in disappointing anti climax. When Andy Murray resumed his encounter against Greek hotshot Stefano Tsitspas yesterday afternoon many of us assumed that this was going to be Britain's day or at least Scotland's day. But then we remembered Murray's chronic injury record, the hip replacements, the bad backs and then sighed with despair.

Still, Murray has been there, seen it and done it. Murray is now twice winner of the men's singles Final title and probably feels as though he has nothing else to prove. But you know what's it like with British sport. We almost feel it's our prerogative to win things at the drop of the hat. We growl and groan when we lose understandably but then realise that we're just as good as the rest of the world and expectations become much more unrealistic.

Yesterday Murray, accompanied by Cameron Norrie and Liam Broady, all bowed out of this year's Wimbledon. We couldn't blame the weather because quite clearly it was boiling hot and besides these are just feeble excuses. British players should be at their fittest, most athletic and agile when the heat is on. Sadly though this was not to be Britain's day and occasionally we do experience bad days at the office. For Norrie, Broady and Carrie the excitement and drama seemed to drain out of the day as soon as Murray fell.

There was a point during the afternoon at SW19 when new kid on the block Cameron Norrie must have been startled by a thousand headlights. Instead he saw a tall, powerful American player called Chris Eubanks and knew it would be curtains sooner rather than later. Norrie was a singularly gracious loser this time but at least he could comfort himself in the knowledge that the better player had won and there was no shame in losing at this stage of his career. But as the years pass by perhaps the pressure will grow and the intensity generated by these games could work in his favour.

For the vast majority of the crowd the hot sunshine and sweltering heat may have taken them back to those halcyon days when Bjorn Borg, Jimmy Connors and John McEnroe were in complete charge on Centre Court and the rest were just making up the numbers. But for Norrie this could turn into a steep learning curve rather than an arduous battle against the odds. You feel sure that Norrie will undoubtedly win Wimbledon one day but, given patience and encouragement, that day could be sooner rather than later.

The South Africa born player who took up brief residence in New Zealand, Cameron Norrie has an insatiable appetite for tennis, striking a tennis ball with ferocious power and accuracy, playing the game as if he were fated to win every shot at his disposal and looking the finished article. Corrie is  hungry for victory, fast across the court and fully endowed with a whole host of perfect shots. He fist pumps with anger and annoyance at himself because standards are impossibly high and when things are going against him he turns on himself with just a hint of frustration and self reproach.

From the opening first set Norrie was simply swept away, totally outclassed and eventually overwhelmed by Eubanks. Norrie started nervously and then found himself blown away by Eubanks and his stunning ammunition. Norrie swept his hair and tugged at his shirt anxiously as if blaming his clothes for his discomfiture. But then Eubanks got to work on the hapless Brit punching away forehands decisively, slicing the ball deceptively with both backhand and forehand and achieving a technical prowess few of us knew he had.

During one game Eubanks hit a cultured and controlled backhand past his British opponent and then there were  perfectly executed  returns delivered with the sweetest timing. Then the American seemed to get stronger and stronger with every passing shot, drilling cross court winners that screamed past Norrie like yellow bullets. Before you could blink for a moment, Eubanks had wrapped up the first set with a display of ruthless aces, astonishing chip and charges to the net and more swooping backhands from ridiculous angles. Eubanks won the first set 6-3 but that was over in the blink of an eye lid.

But then Norrie whipped up the hysterical Wimbledon crowd to fever pitch and launched the most amazing of comebacks. The Norrie backhands and forehands became crisper, meatier and significantly more crucial. His all around game was now firing on all cylinders and another British hopeful began to believe. The shots rained down on Eubanks, pinning the American to the baseline and whistling past him with lacerating speed. Norrie triumphed in a superb second set, swinging his racket with all the conviction of a gunslinger and then sending the fans wild with cunning lobs and drop shots.

Sadly, that was as good as it got for Norrie. Eubanks was in no mood for sympathy and the American's hard hitting, clinical tennis just devoured any of Norrie's resistance. Losing all of the most important service games and break points, Norrie had no answer to Eubanks who was almost cruising to inevitable victory. It had become men against boys and how we knew it. Eubanks blasted Norrie into submission in the third set 6-2, a margin so convincing that you knew the Brit had lost the contest even then.

By the fourth set Cameron Norrie acknowledged his opponent's overall superiority and couldn't really find a definitive solution to Eubanks polished all round game. And yet in a tight, fiercely competitive fourth set, Norrie went for it hammer and tongs, whipping the ball violently from deep  on his baseline and serving as if his life depended on it. It was nip and tuck, both players trading shot for shot, booming forehand shots that defied description. This could have gone either way. Sadly for Britain, Eubanks came through with an almost classical all court intelligence, winning the closest of tie breaks 7-6.

Now the Wimbledon aficionados lifted their voices and cheered from the rafters even though the home fans grudgingly admitted that Norrie had been well beaten. But they knew what they'd just seen and loved what they'd just seen. It had been a beautiful day in this summertime of sport. The strawberries and cream at SW19 may not have been eaten with the same relish but the ivy on the wall still shimmered in the July sunlight and Wimbledon glowed with its daily radiance. It had been another perfect day at the home of British tennis and although it hadn't quite gone according to plan, the tennis feast had been a joy to watch.

NHS at 75

 NHS at 75

How eternally grateful are we to the NHS? Today the National Health Service celebrates a well deserved 75th birthday. It hardly seems possible that we've come so far when it looked as though its future had been threatened by a global virus that seemed to go on indefinitely. But thankfully we knew how to look after ourselves. It could have been so much worse and yet our powers of resilience showed no signs of letting up and we got through it in the end. But the warning signs are still there.

Today the NHS is still teetering on a precarious precipice, wobbling under the severest pressure and still weighed down by rash mismanagement and the kind of po faced bureaucracy that continues to hamper its very existence. And yet it was never like this all those decades ago when a heroic politician by the name of Aneurin Bevan wisely considered the state of the nation's health and felt that there had to be some vital facility for those who were in desperate need of medical attention.

And so it is that we celebrate the culmination of a dream project that was bound to bear fruition and then just rapidly blossomed into the most beautiful flower of them all. Besides, where would we have been without our front line nurses, eminent surgeons, obstetricians, pathologists, doctors, cancer and dementia specialists, mid wives, matrons, paediatric experts and all manner of catering staff, porters and everybody who has played such a fundamental role in its development throughout the decades?

Of course there have been moments of crisis and, sadly, accident and emergency departments have been stretched to breaking point. At the moment the NHS are trying desperately to make up for the monumental loss of Covid 19 patients, and addressing at source the crippling waiting lists for cancer, kidney transplants, dementia cases and all of the ongoing mental health issues that became the aftermath of Covid 19. There must have been a point when everything became overwhelmingly unbearable, a forlorn plea for help that never seemed to be there.

But in 1948 hospitals and doctors surgeries opened up their doors to the sick, the ailing, the infirm, the poorly and those who simply couldn't cope anymore. Suddenly sympathetic doctors with bedside manners smiled solicitously at their local patients or those who'd travelled from afar. In front of us was the kind doctor with a stethoscope wrapped around their neck whose torch would be shone brightly inside your mouth and determined the severity of your illness. We knew we were being cared about almost immediately and there was somebody out there who could appreciate your pain. They were there for you and invariably engaged you in comforting conversation when we were so anxious to hear soothing diagnoses.

But for those cynics who still believe that the NHS are still underperforming and failing to rise to the daunting challenges, maybe we should remember where they were when the global virus first dawned at the end of March 2020. The ambulances were ready, the paramedics on duty and on every Thursday evening we were implored to clap for the men and women who were about to give such unstinting dedication to their profession.

Now though the NHS are still making their presence felt, still the benevolent face of Britain, the caring, understanding and compassionate influence on our everyday lives. For 75 years, day in and day out they have worked unsocial hours, through the night, always available to us whenever the need was at its gravest. We knew they had the vast resources and that nothing would be too much trouble.

For my late and lovely mum, who was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease and suffered so much, the NHS extended the warm hand of tenderness and love. Every day her carers dressed her, delivered meals  on wheels without any complaint or hesitation. My equally as wonderful late dad was similarly attended to with everything they could possibly offer. We tend to take the NHS for granted because they've always been in the background, taking our blood pressures, reaching out to us and talking if that is the therapy we need.

So today let's sing out a million congratulations to the National Health Service. It's time to light the birthday candles for the NHS, acknowledging the huge debt of gratitude we owe this essential service. In our local health centre there is a photo that looks as if it was taken during the 1950s. It shows a smiling mother with her young daughter gazing out of a window, mum pointing out the buildings next to parent and child.

Personal childhood memories of your local doctor abound. There was the venerable and hugely respected Dr Elliot, a no nonsense and ruthless GP who didn't mince his words. On one occasion, mum took her toddler son with a heavy cold only to be dismissed as a malingerer. Well, not exactly a malingerer as such but our medic prescribed the most simple medicine. You were told, in no uncertain terms that all you needed was an Aspirin, an early night and re-assured that you'd have made a complete recovery by the following morning.

Happy Birthday NHS. You've been with us for over 75 years and it's time to don the party hats, eat as much cake as possible and cast your mind into the future. Sometimes we tend to assume that they'll always come to our rescue when our fevers had just become intolerable. But now is the time more than ever when we look to our hospital receptionists, expressing the deepest admiration for those pushing the disabled in wheelchairs and for some of us with fractured fingers. We can never thank you enough NHS. 

National Disco Day.

 National Disco Day.

Now where did that one come from? We had no idea of its existence and if we hadn't been told then we'd have been convinced that somebody had been pulling our leg or just making it up as they went along. In fact it does sound like some barely believable invention or perhaps something that had been dreamt up by some party- going type who loves to remember the good, old days. But then every day is a good one. It does feel like some nostalgic throwback to when our generation just danced the night away.

Today folks it's National Disco Day. You knew that anyway, didn't you? It had to be National Disco Day because a vast majority of the world were recovering from the exertions of a Saturday night when everybody boogied on down and strutted their funky stuff until the point of complete exhaustion. So on the following Sunday morning we all tried to imitate John Travolta and just slung our jacket over our shoulder before embarking on a dizzy sequence of hip swaying and indulging in those slinky body popping movements and whatever your interpretation of disco music was.

Suffice it to say that in the summer of 1977, eminent film producer and impresario par excellence Robert Stigwood came up with the brilliant idea of marrying the music of the time with the disco floors of New York, Los Angeles and California and coming up with the perfect fusion of American funk, the mainstream sound of soul and mixing the whole pot pourri with some of the most delightful music ever heard or seen.

For those who had been subjected to the overbearing, aggressive and disturbingly anarchic sound of punk, this was the perfect antidote to the late 1970s period of pogo dancing with men and women wearing black leather coats and safety pins attached to their noses. It was a wild, uncontrollable, faintly annoying tempo and beat although for those who followed the likes of the Clash, the Sex Pistols, the Undertones and Sham 69 maybe it was an acceptable reminder of music's constant evolution.

But essentially disco music was a triumph of the human soul, a celebration of cool, Manhattan soul, an expression of dance with few inhibitions and no boundaries. Meanwhile Stigwood was busily working away at his most ambitious project of all. Saturday Night Fever, starring the hitherto unheard of John Travolta and now the sadly missed Olivia Newton John, was electrifyingly stunning. None of us could have anticipated that it would become the greatest cinema phenomenon of the summer of 1977. Saturday Night Fever broke all box office records and it was the most attractive adornment to any film archive in years to come.

We waited patiently outside the Barkingside Odeon cinema and the queues snaked all the way around the local high street, teenagers naturally bubbling over with excitement but not really sure what to expect. We'd bought the Saturday Night Fever album and could hardly wait to place it on our record turntable for our further delectation. It was vinyl gold and every track on the album had lived up to all of our expectations.

The Tramps Disco Inferno was a pulsating metaphor for disco music as a specific genre while Yvonne Elliman's equally as uplifting If I Can't Have You defined the structure of disco music. But then we discovered a group of men in sparkly baseball jackets who were born in England but grew up in the Australian outback. The Bee Gees were high falsetto, high pitched and unmistakably soulful. The hits tumbled from the conveyor belt like jars of honey. After years of striving and struggling to make themselves heard with songs like Words during the 1960s and Massachusetts, the Bee Gees were now firmly on the radar of the disco scene that galvanised us to the point of a musical fever pitch.

There were in no particular order Staying Alive, the soundtrack Saturday Night Fever, You Should Be Dancing and the more romantic How Deep Is Your Love. As both a collective and successful franchise these were songs for the ages, the tunes we simply couldn't get out of our heads. We will always remember Saturday Night Fever because it also spawned an artistic gallery of soul practitioners with a lovely feeling for  good time vibes. In turn  that would now take disco music into a whole new dimension.

There were the Detroit Spinners, the Whispers, Tavares, the Stylistics, the evergreen Temptations who were strictly Motown but nobody would ever have objected to their presence. There was the peerless genius of Stevie Wonder, a child prodigy who had learnt all of the finer nuances of the harmonica by the age of 12. Of course Stevie could appeal to the girls and guys who would fill the floors of the remarkable American pop music show Soul Train and the sense of something like a dramatic change was underway.

But now a crystal ball on the ceiling was spinning and a spectacular riot of colour had now flashed away almost incessantly for the entire 1970s decade. And then there was Earth, Wind and Fire, a group so superlatively brilliant that whenever a retro night club dropped the vinyl on the two decks, you were aware that something sensational had gripped the disco floors of the world. September, Fantasy, Boogie Wonderland and In the Stone were so infectiously danceable that many of us thought we had yet to hear anything better.

Sadly, the era of the disco floor is no longer as relevant and accessible as it used to be and Tramps and Stringfellows are no more than some historical music footnote. London is still a  melting pot for soul singers like Gregory Porter but the aforesaid disco pioneers are no longer the force they used to be. It could go down as one of the most memorable styles of music but as Herbie Hancock's ground breaking synths in You Betta Your Love fade from the thumping speakers, you recall the distinctive disco rhythms that we knew so well and wanted to continue for ever. Happy National Disco Day everybody.