The Ryder Cup, Europe and the USA, rivals but friends.

 The Ryder Cup, Europe and the USA, rivals but friends.

Contrary to literary belief golf is far from being a good walk spoiled. Was it Mark Twain who once believed that golf is just a blight on the sporting landscape? Besides, what on earth do golfers hope to achieve by strolling the length and breadth of every conceivable golf course around the world and then claim a massively lucrative prize, an eye popping financial jackpot that we all know can change lives and enhance player profiles no end. Some are millionaires and some are poised to become but there can be no doubt that the golf as a spectacle can still be one of the most enthralling sights in global sport.

This morning the esteemed likes of Rory Mcilroy and captain Luke Donald cleaned up the first of the foursomes in the Ryder Cup. It was quite the most remarkable moment as both Mcilroy and Donald hugged each other movingly and then congratulated each other in a way that English football would like to think a World Cup Final victory will be celebrated. It was a snapshot of sport's at its finest, its most honourable and its most uplifting. They fell into each other's arms as if they'd both won the National Lottery a hundred times over and yet this was golf, a sport so fascinating and magical at times that you sometimes wonder why some of us tend to overlook all its dramatic value and raw excitement.

And yet this morning at the Marco Simone Golf and Country Club in Rome they gathered at the first hole driving range and they played as if the game had just come to them naturally and automatically. Wearing those distinctive caps, comfortable sweaters and snazzy shoes, the gentleman of the USA and Europe stood at their tee, wiggled their hips amusingly, straightened their shoulders, held their driver rather like a mother and father holding their infant baby and addressed the ball with all the anticipation of men meeting up with an old friend. They then swung the ball beautifully, the ball flying off into the Italian air like a missile that travels for ages before eventually ending up in a rough fairway. It is a yearly ritual and golf is in its element.

So this year the Ryder Cup is being staged in Rome, which in itself sounds the most improbable setting for any golf tournament. The Italians love their football and for some of us remain the most baffling choice for inclusion at a Six Nations rugby union tournament but golf and Italy aren't normally as synonymous with each other. But give the Italians a tennis racket or, even to some extent, a prestigious athletics track and they're all over it, grasping at the nettle and buzzing with an exuberance that can only be healthy. 

Still, here we were on the first day of the Ryder Cup and for Europe this means business because there are issues to be resolved, revenge to be won, unfinished business if you like. You see Europe are still looking for a hot streak of devastating form from their players. A couple of years ago the Ryder Cup provided us with some of the ugliest and most unpleasant images you could ever have hoped to see on a golf course. It was the 18th hole and the Americans were poised to win the trophy again. Then there was bedlam. The final putt gave victory to our American friends and the green was swamped with players families pumping aggressive fists at their European counterparts. Up in the watching gallery, feverish American fans cheered, roared and seemingly taunted Europe with what could only be described as provocative behaviour.

This year Rory Mcilroy and Justin Rose, two of Britain's most consistent and conscientious of golfers, will drive off with the support of whole hearted and noisy supporters behind them. They will swivel their hips, adjusting, shifting their body from side to side with an almost genteel movement and then hoping the ball will take them so far down the fairways that it'll seem only a matter of time before impressive birdies will be claimed with almost effortless ease. They will accumulate their triumphant pars for the hole as if by instinct, almost blindfolded.

Then Luke Donald, Tyrrell Hutton, Shane Lowry, Jon Rahm and Sepp Straka will make meaty connections with their golfing irons and clubs hoping against hope that the Americans do have chinks in their armour and vulnerabilities because even the Americans have those. Still, the Americans have chutzpah, cheek, bravado, braggadocio and mischief in those caddy's bags. They still think they have a divine right to win the Ryder Cup because Uncle Sam Ryder thought they were the best thing since sliced bread, superior golf players with strategic approaches and cunning plans. It was all somehow a matter of time before the Ryder Cup trophy would be theirs to hold proudly.

For those of a nostalgic turn, childhood memories take you back to the giants of the game way back then. There were legendary geniuses such as the late and much missed Seve Ballesteros, a master of his craft, Jack Nicklaus, a gorgeous player to watch, surely one of the greatest if not the greatest. Nicklaus had that rare ability to hold his nerve while all round seemed to be losing their head and then proceeded to play golf with an almost regal composure, a stunningly stylish golfer, peerlessly gifted. He chipped out of dense bushes and weeds with a gentlemanly elegance that the sport may never see again. He putted with all the astonishing accuracy of a man who'd been playing since he was a kid.

Then there was Lee Trevino, humourist and wisecracking extraordinaire who simply laughed and joked his away around a golf course as if he were on a chat show with Johnny Carson. The now sadly missed Arnold Palmer was almost the grand master of the game, an immensely talented technician, measuring putts like a chartered surveyor with a theodolite and then pacing himself with an abundance of technique and innate flair.

In Britain we had Nick Faldo, a golfer with an extraordinary repertoire of shots that invariably landed in the right place at the right time. There was Colin Montgomery, moody and, quite possibly, temperamental by his own admission but that was because Montgomery was a passionate perfectionist. From your childhood Tony Jacklin was the golfer who once pocketed a hole in one at the British Open and won the tournament. Jacklin was graceful, well mannered, skilful and vastly knowledgeable on all matters relating to irons, woods and putters in golf.

Today an American contingent including Sam Burns, Patrick Cantley, Wyndham Clark, Rickie Fowler and the often brilliant Brooks Koepka  will join forces with his equally as classy colleague Jordan Speith. Speith has been one of golf's cheerleaders and finest ambassadors, always concentrating, never afraid of variation and innovation. Then Max Homa and Justin Thomas will stride out onto the tee with all the confidence of men who know what they want and will strain every muscle and sinew to get it.

And so we are left with the rather disheartening words of Mark Twain ringing in our ears. Golf is of course undoubtedly a very therapeutic and deeply cathartic walk. It's highly beneficial to both our mental and physical health, keeps us as fit as a fiddle and remains the best exercise. The perception of golf as a game designed just for the wealthy and super rich elite is now quite clearly old school and old hat. Stereotypes of course should always be taken with a pinch of salt and Twain may well have got out of bed on the wrong side.

Golf is open to everybody regardless of social status, class and background and can earn big bucks for you which has to be a good thing. So Samuel Longhorn Clemens golf has never damaged or hurt anybody and today in Rome, the Ryder Cup will be proof in the pudding, justification to all the hardened cynics. But we did enjoy the literary prowess of Mark Twain and Huckleberry Finn would probably have made a superb Ryder Cup captain. As the late BBC golf commentator Peter Alliss might have gently added. Golf is the best and most relaxing of all sports. Few would have argued the point.

PS. So here we are Ladies and Gentlemen. Yours truly has now written my 1,000th blog and it's hard to believe that seven years after my first modest contribution to the world of literature that here is my first notable landmark blog. I will continue to write for pleasure and just continue to derive as much enjoyment from writing as I always have and always will. 

Autumn in Valentines Park

 Autumn in Valentines Park.

So there we were strolling through Valentines Park in Ilford, Essex, dear old England, Essex at its most idyllic and suddenly there was a delightful awareness of autumn. Welcome my friend. How good it is to see you again. We knew you'd be waiting for us. The autumnal splendour of it all had revealed itself like a peacock with all its flamboyant plumage and feathers. Of course the evidence is there for all to see for all to appreciate. The yellowing leaves are burnished with a sepia tinted brownish colour, scudding and scurrying around frantically chasing each other like young primary school children at playtime.

There is always something pleasurable and satisfying about a late September morning because the mornings are quieter than ever, the kids are back at school and their park playgrounds were more or less empty for that reason alone. Valentines Park was the most delectable and ravishing of all parks because it was your childhood and besides you were entitled to your favouritism. With my Jewish Care group we took the opportunity to take in the magic and wonder of this picturesque idyll. Of course there was the heavy scent of nostalgia in the air because you've trodden these pathways a million times and the feeling never leaves you at all.

It's that ineffable emotion that none of us can define because it needs no introduction or reminder. A long, gentle and beautifully meandering stroll around the park took in everything that my late and wonderful mum and dad had once taken me to on so many occasions during my early childhood. There was the inevitable roundabout, the swings and slides that you so joyously embraced over and over again because you were indeed that child of nature. You had no idea of the future that might have been mapped out for you, just a simple experience and one to leave you with indelible memories. Sometimes you didn't want the day to end because you were blissfully content to spend the entire day jumping onto the slides and roundabouts and staying there until midnight.

So you returned to Valentines Park and the overall impression is one that hadn't really been touched by time and remained in the pristine condition that you recalled as a toddler. You must have run freely around the verdant green playing fields for an interminable period, in and out of bushes and trees, watching the club cricketers exchanging cracks of the willow on their handsome bats. Then you vaguely remember the games of hockey, the shouts and whistles of encouragement from the players, the pitch and putt golf course, the boating lakes, one of which had been allowed to resemble an Amazonian jungle and the other still in use, an integral part of the park's sylvan landscape.

Then there were the muddy games of football during the winter when you heard hoarse, masculine voices shouting Man On or On Me 'Ead Son. On Melbourne Fields you remember your childhood friend's dad refereeing endless Sunday matches during the morning. And of course Melbourne Fields was once the concert venue that the legendary soul singer James Brown had chosen to appear at. How you would have loved to be a fly on the wall during discussions between Brown's agents and record producers. What a shrewd and discerning man James Brown was.

Then there was the cafe in Valentines Park, now almost a national treasure since it seems have been there for ever although that's certainly not the case. During the unforgettable summer of 1976 it was the central feature for the leisure and recreation of the local community. Throughout the whole of that sweltering, sizzlingly hot summer, hundreds of families could still be seen queueing up for ice creams, lollies and 99s with vanilla ice cream cones and chocolate flakes.

And of course there was Valentines Park Lido, the outdoor swimming pool, which is shortly to undergo a glorious resurrection next summer. During the 1976 heatwave the lido was the hedonistic choice of fun and enjoyment. How the kids loved nothing better than leaping into freezing cold water that reminded you of just huge blocks of ice, the remnants of the previous winter. And then there was the stream at one end of the park where an old school friend and yours truly once took jam jars to catch fish.

Now of course at another end of the park there is the unmistakable grandeur of Valentines Park Mansion, once owned by the landed gentry and the aristocracy centuries ago but now standing majestically in its very own spot. Tucked away behind are people, drinking and eating in the local cafe, while nearby, sitting discreetly next to another lake, is a tiny alcove where you could just read or eat lunch although this nook is still there. And before we forget there was a bird cage which is sadly not as prominent as it used to be but probably somewhere in the park.

And so we left our footprints on this sacred piece of parkland, the crunching and rustling of the leaves to their own devices. It had been another exquisite day in our lives, September in its richest pomp, an autumnal pageant of colour and activity no longer the tennis or cricket haven of summer but still alive and well with its healthiest complexion. Oh autumn, Valentines Park, the place we called our childhood and to those who treasure the passing of the seasons, it just felt so good. As always.

The Lib Dems in Bournemouth

 The Lib Dems in Bournemouth.

Hold the front page everybody. It's the party political conference season folks. It's that time of the year again. Fresh from their summer holidays, the seaside, the buckets and spades, sandcastles and fish and chips of the local  promenade, the politicians are back on the news agenda. Yes they're that lovable body of men and women who keep pleading for your votes every time there's a General Election. Here are the ladies and gentlemen who keep promising to lead us into the Garden of Eden, Nirvana, sunlit uplands, where the sun always shines and everybody hugs us warmly because everything has turned out for the best. How can they contain themselves?

This week the Liberal Democrats will be quite literally banging the drum for democracy and becoming as liberal and chilled out as it's possible to be. Not a chance, mutter the cynics. There's more chance of the climate change dilemma reaching a resolution, man or woman landing on the Moon again, reality TV turning into a riveting spectacle and Boris Johnson duly re-elected as Prime Minister of the UK again. Be careful what you wish for though. It may just happen. 

Under the shrewd leadership of Ed Davey, the Liberal Democrats are beginning to emerge from their shell, acutely aware of the opposition parties weaknesses and wondering whether this could be their time. And yet who are they kidding or perhaps they're not as delusional as we thought they were. The poor old Lib Dems have always been left in the background on matters of importance so none are really taking them that seriously as a credible political force. They remain in the shadows and margins of public life hovering and loitering with intent but no real threat. 

For as long as any of us can remember the Liberals, as they used to be known and now the Liberal Democrats, have been dismissed as an end of pier joke, ridiculed and lampooned by the comedy script writers, thrown to the lions and then devoured by the hungry hordes who just want to obliterate them from the map. They giggle at their idiosyncrasies, their whimsical quirks, their well intentioned philosophies but then their faults and foibles too numerous to mention according to those who have seen it all before.

Way back then we cast our eyes on the controversial figure of Jeremy Thorpe and then Jo Grimond in charge of a political party who were the butt of a million gags and wisecracks. Who on earth could possibly imagine a country led by the Liberals, laid back to the point of being lethargic and not really posing a major threat to the mainstream parties? The Liberals were always accused of being too prim and puritanical, morally correct but never robust, serious or purposeful as such. 

But this week the party political conference swings back into action, returning perhaps to its spiritual roots. Some of us believed that both the Tories, Labour and Lib Dems always felt at home by the seaside. Every year they all took it into turns to swap around both Bournemouth, Brighton and Blackpool almost alternately. And then there was Margate where you could almost smell the political hot air. But then repetition bordered on the tedious and, in more recent times, Birmingham and Manchester have thrown their hat into the ring as the forums of lively debates.

So here we go again. It's Bournemouth for the Lib Dems and the candy floss is on the house. There will be an air of optimism and they will try to make a vociferous noise. But we'll all think that this will be just an excuse for a good, old fashioned knees up next to the Winter Gardens. They'll be discussing and proposing, chewing the cud, formulating policies but never really convinced that miracles can happen. True the Tories and the Labour parties are both struggling and the Tories are just treading water or seemingly so. But from where we are at the moment, it just looks like a muddled mess 

Tomorrow the serious business will start for the Lib Dems and somebody may remind them that those dreams may come true. In the early 2000s David Cameron of the Conservative party joined forces with Nick Clegg of the Lib Dems. The iconic image of both Cameron and Clegg standing in the garden of 10 Downing Street may come to haunt Clegg. The body language became so strikingly obvious that you could almost feel the tension between the two men. Clegg smiled warmly, chuckled briefly and then looked at Cameron rather like an alien from another planet. Now though it all seems like ancient history.

Then politics became a desolate wasteland for the Lib Dems, a cold, forbidding and dark alleyway where only the fittest survive. At some point the realists and pragmatists will tell the Lib Dems to just get back to their constituencies and surgeries as soon as possible. It just won't happen this time or any time for that matter.  They'll be busy talking and murmuring fond hopes but this is a party with realistically little to offer of any concrete value. But you never know. Stranger things have been known to happen and besides the bigger bullies in the playground are still fighting and there's nothing wrong with having ambitions.

They'll have a wonderful time in Bournemouth, soak up the bracing sea air and then just gaze with admiration at the gulls swooping down on human chips. You'll have a look at the market research polls, congratulating themselves on performing competently at by elections before looking at the bigger picture and just resigning themselves to that grim fate. We'll see you at the General Election next year but we won't be putting money on you at the bookmakers. 

So if you're in town in sunny Bournemouth spare a thought for those wearing a flash of yellow on their rosettes. They may think they know where they're going but this is the one political party that has to be admired for their perseverance since heads banging against brick walls is the only kind of image to be conjured when you think of the Liberal Democrats. In a way you have our best wishes for the week ahead but as Britain prepares to go to the polls next year it may as well be to remember the Gang of Four of Roy Jenkins, Shirley Williams, Bill Rogers and Sir David Steel when the Social Democrats tried to change the direction that British politics seemed to be heading towards. For 1981 read 2023. Oh we do like to beside the seaside. 

A couple of days before Yom Kippur

 A couple of days before Yom Kippur.

If you're Jewish you'll know exactly what's coming next or will be in a couple of days time. For the whole year you've observed the daily rituals of eating, drinking, sleeping and then going about your daily life in the way that you normally lead it. You wake up in the morning, yawning and stretching your arms in gradual stages before proceeding to the bathroom and toilet doing what comes naturally before embarking on the eating and drinking expedition. Now here's the interesting bit. Breakfast for most of course is optional and certainly not compulsory but a cup of coffee or tea accompanied by several slices of toast and jam followed in turn with a bowl of cereal does more than enough to satisfy your ravenous appetite.

But what if somebody told you that you had to go without eating, drinking, watching the TV, listening to the radio or doing anything that might be considered constructive or conducive to your health? You'd tell them that of course this is the most important meal of the day and you wouldn't dream of going without. You would tell them that you can't eat lunch or take several tea breaks during the day nor could you  eat bars of chocolate, contentedly snack on crisps or just polish off several packets of biscuits.

If truth be told Yom Kippur is not a picnic and certainly not metaphorically. In fact Yom Kippur is the day of the yearly Fast which this year begins this forthcoming Sunday evening and eventually finishes at almost 8pm the following Monday evening. No problem, no sweat, a piece of cake also ironically. But then again why? Why does the global Jewish population subject itself to 25 hours of denial, abstinence, discipline, starvation, repentance, physical discomfort and general unpleasantness? There is a sense that we may be experiencing what seems like the most traumatic ordeal that any human can go through. 

There is a feeling here that an air of martyrdom and sacrifice will be hanging over the Jewish population. The implication is that if we go to synagogue( shul) all our sins will be cast into the local lake or pond and everything in the world will be fine and dandy. If we sit in the said shul for the requisite 25 hours bedecked with talit(shawl) and kippa( skull cap) contemplating our gratitude for good health then we'll be cleansed and sanctified, virtuous in the extreme, law abiding and respectable citizens of humanity.

But hold on. Let's consider Yom Kippur in all of its religious beauty. Yom Kippur is essentially all about the intimacy of family life, the close knit harmony of being among our loved ones, singing and chanting those immensely melodious hymns and prayers, the devout worship and the sense that nothing will ever intrude on those special moments of contemplation and reflection. Here we are simply being at one with family and friends while both reminiscing and looking forward to the year ahead.

There are several schools of thinking and learned thoughts from the Torah which answer all of the questions on the subject of Yom Kippur. We devote a wonderfully satisfying day to rejoicing in Judaism. Then again what's the point in just depriving ourselves of the pleasures of the palate when the rest of the Christian, Muslim, Islam, Hinduism, Greek Orthodox and any other denomination simply continues to tuck into three meals a day without a single pang of remorse? Oh questions, questions.

Still, you were told by your lovely, now sadly late and wonderful mum and dad that fasting did no harm at all whatsoever. You were never jeopardising your health and besides it was good for you. Just forget about food, drink, TV, radio or any other activity we blithely take for granted. Just look around the rest of the world and be grateful for who we are and stop thinking about chocolate, chips, crisps, fish and chips, fruit juices, Coca Colas, pizzas, cakes, alcohol and anything else that resembles a cholesterol party. Besides all of that gorging and feasting can't be good for you. Everything in moderation my parents would insist.

So on Sunday evening my wonderful family will once again be converging on Saracens rugby union club for the perennial High Holy Day of Yom Kippur. This is not a day for fripperies or frivolities, no indulgence whatsoever because this is the time for being deeply respectful, serious, solemn, thoughtful with no time for any kind of wit or humour. You may sing to your hearts content but only spiritually. This is 25 hours of self restraint, spartan living, appreciation of the self  and just living our lives in a civilised fashion.

The personal memories of Kol Nidre the night before Yom Kippur are legion. You remember going to your local Kol Nidre service with your wonderful dad with umbrella in one hand and gusts of wind to follow our journey. Suddenly my dad found himself wrestling with the umbrella that seemed to have a mind of its own, blowing vigorously, folding inside out and then just giving up. You simply never forget such glorious moments of family life.

Growing up you were reliably informed that after your Bar mitzvah you would have to Fast every year for the rest of your lives. It was the worst statement you'd ever heard. This was no idle warning but a stern command,  the law of the land, rules and regulations implemented by the great Hebrew scholars, a story told over and over again. Now of course you don't have to fast since if  you've got a long term medical condition which would render any Fast totally forbidden then this is the way it should be.

As a kid you can still hear yourself grumbling your grievances, complaining about the prospect of going without food or drink for 25 hours. But from early adolescence it has become now second nature and if you're well enough on the day of  the Fast there are no objections from yours truly. Going without food and drink for such a remarkably lengthy period of time is now hard wired and conditioned into your soul.

At your childhood local Valentines Park in Ilford, Essex, large groups of families, friends and teenagers would gather outside a cafe, spending the whole afternoon chatting together and exchanging pleasantries. This is supposed to be the one moment of the year when the Jews of the world do penance, casting our transgressions into water but then referring to their grumbling stomachs, headaches and how they'd give anything for a cup of tea. It is ritualistic, traditional and totally understandable.

Meanwhile you'll be settling down at your seat on both Sunday evening and then the whole of Monday and become transported into another world entirely. You will sit with your wonderful family, smiling at rows of the Finchley Reform congregation members, embracing the splendid religious significance and symbolism of  Yom Kippur. It feels as though time will stand still and become suspended for quite a while but then it is only 25 hours after all.

You notice the gorgeous paintings including one depicting a crowd at a rugby union match. Here a father wearing a cap is seen with his son. All around us are uplifting trophy cabinets with the sum total of Saracens glittering trophies. Somewhere there are souvenirs from England's 1966 World Cup Final victory among which is the ball, programme and much else. You pinch yourself for a while and then realise that this is a rugby union club and not a synagogue(shul). There are homages to cricket legends such as Don Bradman and those lasting garlands of victory that sport prides itself on. It is a highly improbable but utterly beautiful setting for a religious service. Fantastic.

So here we are days away from Yom Kippur and the vast magnitude of the occasion will move us deeply because you remember your late and always affectionate parents, the now enduring sadness and mourning that will live in your subconscious, lovely memories from another time of your life. And those emotions will always be uppermost in the minds of all Jewish families. We will shed a tear or two and remember those we have lost but then remember that my lovely wife and I are now grandparents and how proud we are of our family. Well over the Fast everybody.

Roger Whittaker dies

 Roger Whittaker

In a world where war, revolution, outrageously unacceptable behaviour, anarchy, dissent and deceit rules the roost, Roger Whittaker was as honest, law abiding and respectable as it's possible to be. He was a gentleman and warmly lyrical folk singer, totally relaxed and a man who seemed to take enormous pleasure in his work. Whittaker was laid back, utterly contented with life, a TV national treasure, record chart topper and the unlikeliest of pop stars. He never frequented sleazy London nightclubs, very rarely touched alcohol on a consistent basis and never attracted scandal of any description. He was a paragon of virtue and immaculately behaved. He sadly died at the age of 87.

While the rest of the 1970s was rationalising with miners strikes, industrial unrest, power cuts and a general malaise within government circles in Westminster, our Roger was crooning away. It was the age of glam rock, Mud, Sweet, the Reubettes, the Bay City Rollers, tartan clad and hysterical airports, David Cassidy, Van McCoy and a whole multitude of hits that veered from the sublime to the ridiculous. And then there was Roger Whittaker, a quiet, modest and poetic soul with a penchant for uplifting songs about places and nostalgic reflections on the past.

Roger Whittaker once appeared on the Top of the Pops and some of us could hardly believe what we were watching. Of course Whittaker was a consummate musician and wordsmith, a stylist and purist who always believed that songs should always have meaning, feeling and richly redemptive sentiments that most of us could hum and chant in the shower or bath. But Whittaker was the epitome of professionalism, never selling either his fans or anybody else short with a cheap three minute song full of political overtones or controversial content.

Comparisons with his fellow balladeer Val Doonican may seem entirely fitting since both Whittaker and Doonican were never adversely affected by the acclaim and adulation that might have turned lesser stars into pampered prima donnas. The Irish blarney that Doonican offered to Saturday nights on BBC 1 never disappointed any of us because here was a man who just wanted to invite you into his world with heart warming folk ditties, homespun stories and songs that comforted us throughout those long, dark winter nights.

And that's where Roger Whittaker accompanied Doonican, a singer with similar mannerisms and styles. Whittaker was never happier than on the stage, reaching out to his audiences with soft and gently inoffensive anecdotes, songs from the heart, songs designed for uncles, aunties, parents and grandparents and not a hint of vulgar profanity in any of his compositions. He remained without any sign of being star struck, never took drugs, always sure that family came first and foremost and left the politicians to make rash and inexplicable decisions.

The songs were tenderly delivered, appealing in their ability to make us feel good about life and rarely going off on some strange tangent that didn't seem to make any sense. The age of punk rock was in its infancy but Whittaker was never a man for black leather jackets, safety pins in his nose, Doc Martens on his feet or loud displays of wildly aggressive posturing or somebody incensed with the Establishment.

Whittaker, in the summer of 1975, captured our hearts with 'The Last Farewell', a song that would never have been even considered by the Clash or the Sex Pistols. It was a song about ships sailing into a golden sunset and smooth references about dear old England. There was something almost confessional and confidential about Whittaker where everything in the world was good and even when they weren't, they still had the potential to take us into the promised land.

Whittaker never really moved away from his folk roots and the appearance was always one of calm self possession, at ease with his audience and smiling seemingly permanently because he knew how much enjoyment he was deriving from his performances. Then there was a song called 'Durham Town', which graphically described this North Eastern England town. Whittaker may have been brought up in Nairobi, Kenya but there must have been something about Durham which prompted him to create lovely word pictures about County Durham.

And then there was the delightful Skye Boat Song with TV star and singer Des O' Connor, a song that did so much to enhance his status as family entertainer. There were  those of us of who could easily identify with Roger Whittaker. The Skye Boat Song also featured Whittaker whistling to his heart's content. How many of us have caught ourselves whistling a song in the shower without knowing why but happy all the same? Never had the 1970s music scene seen anything quite so enchanting, a class apart from anything in the pop music charts. It reached the number two spot for ages and was about as far removed from anything else on vinyl or tape.

So this morning Britain laments the passing of one of its greatest story tellers, a musician through and through and a man who gave us re-assurance when the world may have looked like falling apart and never forgot his roots. Roger Whittaker deserves all the homages that have now been deservedly extended to him. He leaves behind him a family who must have adored him and a public who will never forget his sterling contribution to the world of both folk and pop music in Britain. RIP Roger Whittaker.

Manchester City still top of the Premier League but the race is very much on.

 Manchester City still top of the Premier League but the race is very much on.

In the old days both Liverpool and Manchester United were the heavyweight giants of the game, the teams who pulled no punches but left substantial collateral damage wherever they went. Liverpool had an overpowering air about them, Anfield was the proverbial fortress and the team were ultimately unbeatable for season upon season. During the 1970s and 1980s they enjoyed the kind of nationwide domination that could never be vanquished. They were the bosses and governors, the leading knights of the realm, football monarchs who became so widely revered and feared that such a remarkable monopoly would never be broken until Manchester City came along.

In the teams fashioned, engineered, carved and sculpted by both the legendary Bill Shankly, Bob Paisley and Joe Fagan there was an invincibility about the Anfield side that most of us could only wonder at awe stricken. Football has always been measured by the outright winners, the successful and outstanding teams who just maintain their consistency for year upon year. Liverpool, with the likes of Terry Mcdermott, Ray Kennedy, Ian Callaghan, Steve Heighway, Kevin Keegan and John Toshack left tantalising tapestries on the pitch, knitting together the kind of attacking movements which very few were prepared to emulate nor surpass.

Then Liverpool continued to exert an even more profound influence on the game when Graham Souness, Ronnie Whelan, Alan Kennedy and Sammy Lee left an enduring hallmark on the game with swift passing and purposeful football that had both simplicity and a measured authority that had no imitators. There was a palpable grace and nobility about Liverpool that was deservedly rewarded with old First Division League Championships seemingly by the dozen and those wonderful European Cups that sat so masterfully in their trophy cabinet.

Then there was firstly Ron Atkinson followed by the inimitable Sir Alex Ferguson who transformed, revolutionised and then converted Manchester United from the prosaic to the perfect. Manchester United, under Ferguson's supervision, steadily and then rose from the ashes of old First Division obscurity to the crowning glory of serial Premier League winners. When David Beckham, Nicky Butt, Ryan Giggs and Paul Scholes gelled together beautifully and skilfully the football world sat up and took immediate notice. Trophies arrived by the lorry load, culminating in that dramatic Champions League Final victory over Bayern Munich in 1999 thus rubber stamping an unforgettable Treble of FA Cup, Premier League and European Cup.

But now we have Manchester City and Arsenal, very much in the same mould as Liverpool and Manchester United. City are now Treble winners as well in the aforesaid competitions. Football has never been so spoilt but then who would have believed that Nottingham Forest, under the iconic and inspirational leadership of the gloriously opinionated Brian Clough would also win both the old First Division in consecutive seasons and two European Cup trophies against both Malmo and Hamburg?

Over the weekend Manchester City won their fifth successive match with a deeply impressive and ultimately overwhelming 3-1 victory at West Ham's London Stadium. Arsenal, breathing down City's necks, also claimed a narrow 1-0 win at Goodison Park where Everton look like an old mahogany desk that hasn't been varnished for years. For both Everton and of course Manchester United these are troubling times, two teams completely lacking in any confidence and wondering if anybody can find the right medicine for them. United were beaten by a delightfully uninhibited and carefree Brighton who, at the moment at least, fear no-one at all and suddenly the picture looks extremely bleak for United's manager Erik Ten Hag.

So this is where football bears relevant comparison to the world of music. Way back in the mists of time most of thought the Beatles would never cease their prolific output of honeyed lyrics, sweet phraseology and unforgettable songs that had a literary quality that resonated throughout the 1960s. We remembered the jazz duopoly of Miles Davis and John Coltrane before casting our eyes across to BB King while always trying to assess the merits of all four without rushing to any hasty judgments. Of course there will always be an aesthetic quality about jazz that can never be categorised by any of the purists but football is another case in point and everything has to be seen in perspective.

Then there was the golden age of photography when David Bailey and Lord Snowdon battled it out for the right to be considered the greatest snapper. Both Bailey and Snowdon were irresistibly attracted to the great and good of the celebrity world and once again greatness is surely subjective. The rarefied worlds of sport, fashion, music and art are always evolving at a frightening speed and football often finds itself in a head on battle with itself when the fans maintain that their team are the best and pre-eminent of all time.

So as another Premier League weekend of football wends its way to another conclusion, both City, Arsenal and Tottenham very much the pace setters. The rest of the field is evenly strung out, puffing and panting somewhat desperately and grasping at valuable three point wins. We would of course predict without any shadow of doubt that all three of the above will keep kicking their legs for a sprint finish towards the end of the season. But football is not athletics although stamina and endurance can often be regarded as vital aids to success come the last weekend of April and the beginning of May.

At the moment all three promoted sides to the Premier League maybe regretting the day when somebody gave them permission to mix with the wealthy and elite. Luton have yet to register a morale boosting victory in any of their first four games of the season and Sheffield United are just lacking in their traditional steel while Burnley have yet to set the world alight with their football. Under Vincent Kompany we felt sure that something startling and momentous would kick start Burnley's season. But the lights are still dim in Lowry country and the old cotton mills look as forlorn and derelict as they always were. Burnley are finding their feet but it looks remarkably like treacle rather than dainty and decisive. 

Wherever you are now with your football heroes, it has to be admitted that at some point Premier League leaders Manchester City will have to be stopped in their tracks. To win the Premier League for the fourth successive time bears echoes with Celtic in the Scottish Premier League where the green and white hoops only had to wake up in the morning to win the title over and over again. Now of course Rangers are back in direct contention with Celtic but to suggest that City could ever be a Celtic or Rangers equivalent in England would be completely inappropriate. Anyway folks enjoy your week and don't forget. The football season is a marathon rather than a gentle stroll down a country lane so let's see where we are in roughly late November and the beginning of the festive season. There's a long way to go yet.

Rosh Hashanah- Jewish New Year

 Rosh Hashanah- Jewish New Year.

So here we are slap bang in the middle of September and wouldn't you know it. It's a Happy, Healthy, Sweet and Peaceful New Year to all of you wherever you may be. There is an air of glorious surrealism about this whole period of the calendar year. While most of the rest of the Christian population are in the middle of that transitional moment between the end of the summer and the beginning of autumn, the global Jewish population are about to sing Auld Lang Syne, linking arms and knocking back the traditional whiskies. They'll also be celebrating a New Year. Indeed it does sound bizarre and incongruous and maybe it should always be that way because this is Judaism at its finest and most uplifting.

This morning millions of Jews around the world will contemplate life and then cherish it for all its worth. At times there will be solemnity and reverence while all around us Rosh Hashanah will be there at the crack of dawn before following us lovingly throughout the day. It is time for praying, ruminating, chanting those utterly evocative hymns and then repenting at leisure. It'll be a time of absolution, sombre reflection, standing up and sitting down, bowing our heads respectfully and thinking, a simple emotion we tend to take for granted.

At various points we'll be serenaded by the blowing of the Shofar or the ram's horn since this ceremony gives Rosh Hashanah its point and purpose, its sense of occasion and a clear resonance of what it means to be Jewish. It gives the day its central focal point, a familiar and recognisable sign that all is well with the world. The sound of the Shofar can probably be heard all over the world simultaneously. It's a touching and moving moment that gets you right here. The first day of Rosh Hashanah is normally the the cue for a fashion parade, comparisons of notes, reminiscences of the year gone by and warm smiles of recognition. 

Rosh Hashanah is the perfect opportunity to share family pleasantries, exchange glad greetings and then wish each L'shana Tova and Chag Semach.  It is a chance to air old jokes, inquiries about each other's work or student experiences at either school or university. It is the one moment when you feel compelled to switch off, relax and just let the whole holiday period wash over you. But across the Jewish global population there is a fervent hope that wonderful Israel will once again enjoy the most peaceful New Year.

And yet for my lovely family this year represented a radical departure from the norm. Under normal circumstances we would have occupied Saracens rugby union club in London. For a number of years now Saracens have kindly availed themselves of the local Finchley Jewish Reform community. But this year Saracens were playing at home in their magnificent Stone X Stadium and of course rugby had to take precedence to religion. It seemed only fair so there were no complaints from the congregation.

So here we were today at the Vue Cinema which acted as an improvised synagogue(shul). To be greeted with huge tubs of sweet or salt popcorn seemed to lend the whole day an air of obvious incredulity. We gathered by the foyer with lanyards and identity cards ready to be taken and Jewish prayer books. We proceeded to one of the main screens which played host to this most unconventional location for a Rosh Hashanah service.

Some of the traditionalists among us were half expecting usherettes with trays of ice cream and Kia Ora orange juice cartons. We then looked up at the screen and might have thought that for a couple of amusing moments that we'd be bombarded with trailers for new films on the cinema circuit. We knew that Pearl and Dean had lost their advertising rights in cinemas but were convinced that the Meerkat family would appear on screen with exhortations to buy cinema tickets. Sadly, this was not the case so we were treated to the usual choirs singing their hearts out on screen and the Jewish blessings and prayers.

And so we settled down to the cinema experience and remembered your much loved grandparents who relished this Jewish holiday with all the enthusiasm that almost seemed to come naturally to them. This is the first day of the Jewish New Year which in itself sounds totally inappropriate in the middle of September. But from a historic point of view this has become a familiar time of the year so there were no disputes or questions asked. The torah scrolls were lifted proudly at the Vue Cinema and that one is a movie sensation. L'shana Tova and Chag Semach. May you all have a Happy, Healthy, Sweet and Peaceful New Year.

England win in in Auld Enemy match against Scotland

 England win in Auld Enemy match against Scotland

To suggest that Scotland's record against England is nothing short of atrocious would be the ultimate understatement. It is in fact quite embarrassing but we should perhaps draw a veil over the patently obvious. England haven't been beaten by Scotland since 1985 and they weren't about to start now. This anniversary match between the two good natured foes was just the latest in a whole sequence of catastrophes for Scotland and by the end of this humiliatingly one sided contest, Scotland were clinging onto the ropes as if they hadn't taken enough punishment.

Admittedly this was merely a friendly but any England football match against Scotland is rarely set against a backdrop of mutual friendship, jolly good banter and bonhomie. In fact if they'd been allowed to metaphorically strangle each other by the throat you wouldn't have been surprised at all. But since November 1872 these two neighbouring countries have been snarling, sneering, sniggering, taunting, tormenting each other, joshing and then just hating each other's guts. It goes a long way back into sporting history but the gunfire and smoke can still be smelt even now.

Throughout the decades and centuries the insults have been exchanged, bitterness maintained, derogatory barbs aimed directly at each other and then comments laced with poisonous undertones. There has truly been no love lost between Scotland and England and they weren't about to build bridges just because the game signified the 150th anniversary of this famous international fixture. You'd have thought they'd let bygones be bygones and just move on but there is still an underlying undercurrent of vengeance, one upmanship and, perhaps childish contempt for each other which brooks no argument.

For the record though England were in such a class of their own that if this had been a proper competitive match then you might have feared the worst even before the game itself. Scotland have spent the last couple of decades trying desperately to sort themselves out and somehow find any key that would have quite clearly opened up the English defence. That they failed miserably probably says all you need to know about the parlous state of Scottish football. 

The Scottish international team have been wandering around the lofty surroundings of the global game desperately searching for both form, a coherent identity and of course goals that win games decisively. Admittedly, their recent form in their Euro 2024 qualifying group has been more or less impeccable and only a 2-1 win for Norway against Georgia last night deprived the Scots of the certain knowledge that next summer they too will be added to the list of European Championship participants. But they're almost there and that probably matters much more to Scotland than some petty defeat by England in a friendly.

But on a Tuesday evening at their spiritual home of Hampden Park, the Scots were once again in boisterous mood, still belting out those humorous Scottish ditties, folk songs galore and barely suppressed imprecations and obscenities at the expense of England. Hampden was jammed solid with vibrant voices, vigorous chanting from the depths of their hearts and patriotism from every corner of the ground. This could have been regarded as somehow too nationalistic and slightly unnerving if you didn't know the Scots were just having a good, old fashioned laugh at the visitors expense.

And so it was that England beat Scotland once again. The visitors 3-1 victory does sound both convincing and comprehensive because quite clearly it was. Gareth Southgate, England's most respectable manager, must have been wondering whether his team had ever experienced such an easy night and to a large extent this was a walk in the Hampden park. England's painful and laborious struggle in Poland, where a 1-1 draw against Ukraine was probably the least they deserved, once again underlined one or two shortcomings in Southgate's England but then no international team was ever perfect.

In isolation though this was the one match you could hardly have dismissed as just an argument over the garden fence. England against Scotland is serious, business like, personal, ya boo sucks, full of raw authenticity, the real thing and the one fixture in international football where the result takes complete precedence to any other consideration. It is not a friendly and it is us against them, battle lines drawn and no prisoners taken. This means something and of course it's a game of vital importance because if either loses then you'd be advised to take the day off school, college, university or work. You may get it in the proverbial neck so be prepared for the flak.

The memories come flooding back. In 1977 seemingly the whole population of Scotland descended on the old Wembley Stadium for the now sadly defunct Home Internationals. What followed was hostile war, fists bunched together, mayhem, carnage, flying debris, utter bedlam. One end of the old Wembley was completely taken over by delighted Scots who must have thought all their birthdays had come at the same time. Not only had they beaten Don Revie's England 2-1 they had conquered the enemy, won another proxy World Cup ten years after their last triumph but they'd put the English in their place.

The sight of cross bars and posts being brutally broken and rejoicing Scots literally destroying Wembley still brings back too many painful memories for anybody's liking. Navy blue shirts and the tartan regalia flooded onto the pitch. Soon the Scots were ripping up divots of grass, sitting on bent cross bars and pretending to be macho and aggressively masculine. In hindsight it now seems rather pathetic and shameful but at the time nobody had seen anything like it.

There are those who still remember England's 9-3 walloping of the Auld Enemy in the early 1960s, a game which saw the incomparable Jimmy Greaves come into his own. Greaves almost took on a helpless Scottish defence singlehandedly, scoring for fun and then smiling like a Cheshire cat. By the end of the game England fans were in almost gallows humour mood, poking fun and ridiculing their opponents almost mercilessly.

Then there was the shameless exhibition of stylish football from an England side under the inspirational guidance of Gerry Francis as captain. In 1975 Francis opened the scoring with a cracking rocket of a shot from outside the penalty area and there followed a torrent of goals. By the hour mark England were three up and dancing around the Scots rather like an early Hogmanay. Goals from Kevin Beattie and Colin Bell were just a selection of the best in a 5-1 victory for England.

In later years the England and Scotland contest has assumed an almost comic book appearance if only because a vast majority of football fans still think of it as playground jollity, coats for goalposts quite literally and make sure that no windows are smashed into the bargain. The burning rivalry between the two is almost too well established but on the night England had far too much streetwise intelligence and far too much cleverness on the ball. They were quicker, sharper, neater, technically brilliant at times and knew exactly how to move the ball around decisively and lethally.

In 1872 the Auld Lang Syne derby had fizzled out into a goal-less draw while England's last encounter with Scotland also met with the same result in Euro 2020. The there was nothing between the two sides and some complained about the nasty snarl up at both ends of the old Wembley. Now though England are almost on the verge of Euro 24 qualification and any visit to Germany reminds England of the two world wars and 1966.

England, for their part, boasted a defence of impassable excellence, ruggedness and dependability. Kyle Walker still plays with the exuberance of youth, galloping, sprinting and going shoulder to shoulder with attackers wherever they go. Lewis Dunk, Brighton's first England player since goodness knows when if it all, was completely composed, unruffled and never remotely threatened by marauding Scotsmen, while new boy Marc Guehi and Kieran Tripper looked as though they'd been playing since at least 1966, so calm and controlled were they in everything they did.

Then there was Arsenal's new signing Declan Rice from West Ham. Rice is beginning to look like a future England captain and all the evidence was there to admire. His self possession and comfortable possession of the ball whenever the Scots did break out sporadically, was a sight to treasure. Rice is taking on so much more responsibility on the pitch that there are definitely leadership qualities that have to be taken seriously. Kalvin Phillips is also highly constructive, surging forward for his national team, reading a game with all the enthusiasm of a literary type perusing a book on football tactics. Phillips is bubbly, bristling with idealism, a model of athleticism and daring dynamism. Manchester City would be foolish to sell Phillips in any transfer window.

And now perhaps there was man of the match Jude Bellingham. Slowly but surely Bellingham is beginning to look England's creative talisman, a magician, genuine playmaker and quite the most remarkable of natural talents. Recently Real Madrid's new signing England must think they've suddenly discovered another Gazza if without the emotional baggage that came from the former Newcastle, Spurs, Rangers and Middlesbrough plotter and midfield genius. Bellingham is now the go to English player, a man years ahead of his tender 20 years, shrewd, far sighted, insightful, perceptive, classy on the ball, wriggling past Scotland shirts as if they weren't there. Oh what a joy.

To complete the England conveyor belt of English talent there is Manchester City's Phil Foden who once again looked full of vim, vitality and admirable energy. Foden looks like one of those players who just live for the game, an obsessive perfectionist but in a good way while also superbly energetic. Foden was in the right place and time for England's opening goal. After an intricate exchange of neat passes with Marcus Rashford and company, Foden casually walked the ball into the net with Scottish defenders on some craggy rock. It all looked so clean, cool and clinical.

After another bout of trickery, sleight of twinkling feet and commendable England attacking approach work, Marcus Rashford, Manchester United's fast thinking and moving striker, gathered hold of the ball before swiftly switching the ball on to Foden, this time found time and space, crossed adeptly and low and Bellingham crashed the ball past Angus Gunn in the Scotland goal. At this point Scotland, now provoked into action, did rally briefly and threatened Aaron Ramsdale in the England goal with some frequency. But this was now an uphill struggle for Scotland and up in the Highlands, desperate Scottish voices were fading into the thin Hampden Park air. 

True, Scotland did score and narrowed the margin but even that effort was the result of an own goal from the much mocked Harry Maguire. Every time the Manchester United defender came anywhere near the ball he was heavily jeered by the Scottish massed hordes in the crowd. It was Maguire who unfortunately found himself almost helpless. A lovely knot of passes between Kieran Tierney of Arsenal and Andy Robertson of Liverpool culminated in Maguire steering the ball into his own English net. An own goal by England might have represented comical value for the Scots but this was not a night for Scottish boasting or braggadocio.

Minutes later Harry Kane, now of Bayern Munich, displayed all of the classical atrributes of the old fashioned centre forward. Kane of course is desperately searching for a trophy in the game of any description and finally ran out with patience with his childhood idols Spurs. Kane has started smoothly with the Bundesliga giants and once again scored an almost regulation goal. Following another moment of stupendous brilliance from Jude Belligham. Bellingham turned his defender inside out as if it was something that came naturally for the Real Madrid man before transferring the ball on for Kane with another inventive touch. Kane ran onto the ball and beautifully steered the ball past the Scotland keeper for a conclusive third.

And so another Scotland- England grudge match had run its course. At the end it didn't seem to really matter to either team and just bragging rights until their next encounter. A faint sound of bagpipes could be heard in those heather clad Scottish mountains. Sadly this was just a plaintive moan and cry of frustration. Gareth Southgate looked over to his managerial counterpart Steve Clarke in his Scottish technical area. It was an utterly respectful smile but for a while longer 1985 will continue to haunt Hampden corridors. Another victory for England had been completed. We must hope that both teams will always have their Germany next summer. Now that would be nice.

England held in a drab 1-1 draw in Euro 2024 qualifier

 England held in a drab 1-1 draw in Euro 2024 qualifier

It had to happen sooner rather than later. There are only so many winning runs in international football that can be sustained over a specific length of time. England can count themselves ever so lucky that the opposition they have faced thus far has neither been testing or severe. Earlier on in these Euro 2024 qualifying round robin of matches England met and matched then just outplayed an Italian side they'd been beaten by in the Euro 2020 Final two years ago at Wembley Stadium. What goes around comes around as they say in the football vernacular.

Last night Ukraine came together in a moving communion, the face of defiance and solidarity that has marked all of their matches in the Euro qualifiers for Germany next summer. As a man and woman and child, their fans huddled together across the vast acres of a Polish ground that couldn't possibly have believed that they would be called upon to host an international football match at a time of grave crisis,  senseless murder of people and its precious property. This would not have been the idyllic setting for any global sporting contest but when needs must Poland lent a warmly sympathetic hand to their neighbours.

And so we witnessed a football match horrifically overshadowed by the tragedy of war, destruction, killing and a thick red mass of blood that has now spread over almost the entire population of Ukraine. The streets and roads are now broken and bereft, estrangement and displacement wherever you look, families irreparably ripped to shreds, a country now just reduced to a charred ruin and refusing to believe that their lives will ever be the same, a once proud nation almost wiped from the map of the world by savagery of the cruellest kind.

But last night there were the first buds of resilience in the heart of Poland because we have to move forward and stick the proverbial two fingers at the scene of the crime, the vicious violence, the continuous sequence of grisly death. And yet tonight was different, totally removed from the scars, wounds and bloodthirsty brutality, the bandages, shotguns, rifles and incessant bombing.

Here was a classic demonstration of a country determined to fight evil, the nefarious nastiness of war, its personal nature, the deep seated grudges and raw resentments. How the Ukrainians would love nothing better than to wake up in the morning and find peace, blissful contentment, a release from the agonising screams from neighbourhoods and communities far and wide. Football matches should never be the platform for a heartbroken nation, a nation expressing desperate pleas for an end to war but this time everybody had to bite their collective tongues.

And so it was that the Wrocklaw Stadium in the heart of Poland provided the backdrop to a game between Ukraine and England that must felt like a temporary home for the Ukrainians, awkward and uncomfortable, not right somehow. In years to come historians will come to look back on the past and wonder how Europe and the rest of the world ever came to terms with global wars, viruses, ailments, afflictions and constant setbacks.

Still it was business in Europe as usual. England boss Gareth Southgate was a beacon of diplomacy, a man with the finger on the pulse of events, weighing his words, assessing latest developments and still full of praise of his players. You'd hardly expect anything else. The groggy period including England's 4-0 thrashing by Hungary in the Nations League and then the eventful 3-3 draw against Germany underlined the cracks and deficiencies in Southgate's team. They are effectively through to next summer's Euro 2024 in Germany barring a total collapse in form. But you have to wonder whether they can reproduce their own brand of grown up and adolescent football on the big stage.

They will know though that last night's 1-1 draw against Ukraine will not be tolerated by the purists, the critical pundits who always expect perfection and those who just want England to win anything in tournament football rather than the catalogue of near misses and failures that have become the underlying narrative of their recent past. We want England to enjoy a Lionesses moment when the girls showed us exactly how to win major international Finals. 

For most of the first half England indulged themselves on the kind of possession football that may be vital should they get to Germany next summer. There was a glut of precise and intelligent passing amongst the England players which would have been regarded as most satisfactory and pleasing to the eye. Sadly though there may have been too much gluttony and gourmandising rather than the killer pass, the clinical finishing touch, the cutting edge, the guillotine's blade rather than the blunt instruments that always seemed to spoil their stunningly attractive approach work.

There was a time when England's football reminded you again of a luggage airport carousel, endless suitcases slowly going around and around until boredom sets in with a vengeance. You just want to get home because your dogs and cats are patiently waiting for you to come home. That was how it must have felt to all the loyal England fans. There were stately processions of passes that were spellbinding to watch but it was all horizontal, vertical, triangular, almost over rehearsed and perhaps contrived at times. Of course England should treat the ball with tenderness and care but this had no end product at all.

At the heart of England's defence the likes of Harry Maguire, Kyle Walker, Ben Chilwell and newcomer Marc Guehi were all still stern and forbidding defensive obstacles but there were the jittery moments during the game when everything became too elaborate and stilted. Walker still plays like the 100 metre Olympian sprinter who will never be beaten for pace. Then there was the elegant and authoritative Declan Rice now in the red of Arsenal, nipping shrewdly in between the yellow and blue Ukrainians and cleverly intercepting the ball as and when needed. Essentially though this was all about England's lacklustre attack.

In the heart of England's midfield, the evergreen Jordan Henderson is still a model of reliability and concentration at all times. His latest venture into the world of Saudi Arabian football was not what any of us were expecting but Henderson can still spray insightful long and diagonal passes into space so he can stay for a while. Then we looked over towards the gorgeous talent of Jude Bellingham, recently a Real Madrid acquisition and a player of such immense skill and craftsmanship that it is hard to believe that he is still in his early 20s. Bellingham was almost unmanageable and untouchable, tricking and playing hotch scotch with Ukraine.

Further forward there was at least the comforting sight of James Maddison a player with some of the most extravagant and silky touches you could ever wish to see in a white England shirt. His days of boyhood at Leicester City are now no more than history. Maddison came to the capital city of London and plies his trade at Spurs. Maddison is always forward thinking, innovative, quick witted and impulsive and last night he knew exactly where his colleagues were.  Bukayo Saka, who plays across the road to Maddison at Arsenal, was sensationally irresistible, fluttering and flitting past his opponents, cutting back sharply inside one helpless defender and then adroitly moving around the pitch like a playful butterfly.

However it was Ukraine who opened the scoring. Yukhym Konoplia, Illa Zalanyi, Vitaly Mykolenko and Arsenal's Oleksander Zinchenko who, in common with all of his yellow and blue shirted colleagues, knew just how much this game meant so much to their country. These were passionate players, sentimental players, tuned into the same wavelength and acutely aware of the game's significance. The goal fashioned by the home side was one to savour. A delightful daisy chain of passes around the edge of the England penalty area carved open Gareth Southgate's team and after a dashing overlap on the right, the ball was flashed across low to Zinchenko who steamed into the box and stroked the ball home ecstatically.

For the rest of the game England laboured, plodded, probed admirably and consistently, their football neatly illustrative, full of pictures and patterns but without the scalpel to cut open a stubborn Ukraine defence. The rest of the game looked as if it was ebbing away from England, all honourable intentions but little in the way of invention. Then England somehow discovered an equalising goal their football hardly deserved. Harry Kane, roving and roaming purposefully all over the pitch, took possession on the half way line. Kane's impeccably measured and long, floated diagonal ball was lofted over to Manchester City's Walker who latched onto the ball before running into the edge of the area and then ramming the ball firmly home for England's equaliser.

And that was really that. A nation that still grieves its dead and distressingly injured, drifted away from this small corner of  Poland, grateful for the escapism that football can still deliver. For as long as this wretched and deplorable war continues the greater the bitterness that must be seeping into the soul of Ukraine. But just for 90 minutes at least football came to their rescue, the perfect antidote to grief and suffering. It may not be much but it is something and the strength of support for the global game was readily apparent. There's something called lasting friendship and last night it extended its warm hand.

A year ago today.

 The first anniversary of Her Majesty the Queen's death.

Exactly a year ago today we mourned the loss of the greatest monarch Britain had ever seen. Today 12 months ago the good people of Great Britain bid farewell to Her Majesty the Queen. She died peacefully with all of her adoring family around her, paying the warmest of homages to the one member of the royal family who had given unstinting dedication to duty to both Britain and the Commonwealth. She provided us with continuity, sacrifice and undying love to all and sundry regardless of class, religion, background or any country who had held her in such high esteem. 

But make no mistake Her Majesty the Queen was quite the most extraordinary of all public figures. For just over 70 years she put the interests of the public before everything else and never flinched from the most demanding tasks. She did so because she was unfailingly polite, courteous, meticulous to the tips of her fingers, rarely forgetful if  somebody had missed an important appointment, punctilious as you would expect of any member of the royal family and of course immensely gracious but that goes without saying.

And so a year after Her Majesty the Queen's passing we still cast our minds back to the day and the memorable news broadcast that first announced the official date of Her Majesty's death. We can still remember switching on the BBC News and finding newsreader Hugh Edwards in formal attire of dark navy suit, immaculately ironed white shirt and tie and then the sad tidings which followed. It would be a day like none other, a notably significant 24 hours that we knew we'd live through but never thought it would take place on this day rather than any other day of the year.

It was a dramatic day, tragic in the extreme, heavily overlaid with gravity and solemnity, a day that would be etched indelibly on our consciousness. And yet there was no great sense of suddenness rather a grim inevitability about it all but then again our emotions had found a safety net, moments of consolation and fond reminiscence. Of course we were heartbroken if only because although we could find no identification with her privileged lifestyle, there was a feeling, affinity, a sentimental attachment to a woman who could fully understood our problems, our troubles, our family and all that came with the human condition.

From the moment Her Majesty died, Britain, the Commonwealth and the whole world converged on Buckingham Palace rather like a visit from the Pope. For at least a week both TV and radio gave us chapter and verse, elaborate detail, information of the most poignant kind and then the moving commentaries from eminent historians or seasoned royal watchers. It was history in the making and the seamless passage of another generation. Hitherto the Prince of Wales was now born to be King and within a couple of hours he would now be referred to King Charles the Third accompanied by his wife Camilla who would be crowned as Queen Camilla.

Now there follows a lengthy period of re-adjustment, rediscovery, reinvention and a certain renaissance because royalty somehow lends itself to periods of transition. For one day last year it felt as if the whole world had lost a much loved and revered member of our family and couldn't quite put into words which would adequately describe our feelings, the legendary legacy Her Majesty had left behind her and the majesty she'd graced us with.

So we queued and filed into Westminster Hall in an orderly fashion and bowed respectfully before Her Majesty's coffin and thought about that gleaming smile that had endorsed Paddington's jar of marmalade. We remembered the easy, gentle and deferential wave at royal weddings, her dignified restraint when the pressure would probably have overwhelmed her had everything  just got too much for her. We acknowledged the huge and sterling contribution she'd made to both the Commonwealth and the world, her enduring respect for the underdogs and downtrodden and admirable sense of humour.

We had seen her horrific struggles with the terrible death of the Princess Diana and the stunned shock that had reduced Her Majesty to silence and almost interminable grief. We saw her precious Windsor Castle burnt to the ground, the frightening disintegration of her family into the darkest of holes. But then we celebrated her Jubilees, both Silver, Diamond and Platinum with back street parties. We admired her dignity and decorum at the yearly Trooping of the Colour, her much loved horses jangling with resplendent gold and silver. And then the stately marching of her regiments and squadrons with busbies and plumed hats, the glitteringly colourful tableau that never disappointed.

But then you tried to imagine what it must have been like on Her Majesty the Queen's Coronation day of June 1953 hard on the heels of Mount Everest's conquest and everything the occasion represented to her doting public. They'd camped out on the streets of the Mall, eaten their rationed sandwiches, drunk from a million Thermos flasks of tea and coffee and could hardly have imagined that 70 years later, a tea and coffee shop called Costa, Nero and Pret A Manger would charge a second mortgage for their daily caffeine taste.

Throughout the decades that followed 1953, the Queen would witness a Britain about to undergo a radical revolution in the world of fashion, a whirlpool of bewildering change, the White Heat of Technology, all four of her children's weddings and then the dramas, the tragedies, the soul destroying calamities that almost led to the downfall of the Royal Family. We didn't think the royal family would ever bounce back from adversity, fully recovering the most painful of all ordeals but they did and so did we.

 But a year later we will think about Her Majesty of the Queen today because Queen Elizabeth the Second was the one Queen who never wavered in her unstinting commitment to her Britain and the Commonwealth, who always believed that anything was possible, a remarkably charming lady who always toasted our health with a glass of something neat and refreshing and the Christmas Day TV speech that was always highly topical and appropriate. Her Royal Majesty the Queen Elizabeth. You will always be in our hearts and minds.

First day at school

 First day at school

Somebody mentioned something about school yesterday and all hell broke loose. Now, let's be honest there is nothing inherently wrong or abhorrent about school. But yesterday was one of those days when you knew that some embarrassing gaffe or clanger had been committed to memory and dwelt upon for the entire day. You know where this is going or maybe not in which case this may be the time to analyse the damage limitation that yesterday's events and commentary left behind them. A Tory politician said some rude words and the obscenities were picked up almost immediately.

Gillian Keegan is the Secretary State of Education and seemingly one of Rishi Sunak's loyal aides who will do anything to make herself look good under any circumstances. She knows she has to toe the party line because if anything unfortunate or unsavoury slips out of her mouth then consequences will inevitably follow. So here's we're at in the bigger picture. You've had a tough and gruelling day in the rarefied world of politics, you just want to get home and close the door behind you. You've had enough of the stinging criticisms, the sharp end of everybody's tongue, the controversy building behind you and the negativity around you is beginning to get on your nerves.

So what do you do? You negotiate one final Spanish inquisition, bluff your way seemingly convincingly through the awkward interrogation and you simply flip. You think nobody can hear you muttering under your breath so you try to pretend that the ear piece has been removed, the microphone is off and you deserve not only a glass of brandy or whisky but a good, old fashioned swear word or words. By the time the aforesaid interview you just want to get out of the building, kick off your heels and just forget about your hectic day.

There was a point during her interview with the media yesterday when Gillian Keegan must have thought her sense of entitlement and exalted position in the House of Commons would let her off the hook, guaranteeing her impunity and making her exempt from withering jibes, put downs and sneering hostility from her Labour counterparts. Sadly, this was not to be the case for Mrs Keegan and she knew it. She didn't get away from it and the hot pokers of anger that were being stamped mercilessly against her back were almost tangible. You could feel Keegan's embarrassment, the self conscious yelp of remorse and the desperate yearning for a hole to swallow her up.

Yesterday marked the first day back at infant, junior, primary and secondary school for the children of the world. After six often challenging weeks for parents up and down the country, the kids who were out for summer are now back behind their classroom desks. For some mums and dads it is the one day of the year when all the boredom and frustration the kids had been experiencing had now been replaced with relief and exultation. Happy Days are here again. The skies are blue. Happy Days are here again. We all know the song. 

But then those in the higher echelons of British education realised quite by chance that there was something dangerous in the air. It was something sinister and quite disturbing. For decades and perhaps a century now the shamefully dilapidated state of our schools had finally hit home. The truths were there to be exposed and revealed to all and sundry. Somebody must have noticed the horrific cracks in the brickwork, the precarious state of buildings that probably hadn't seen a lick of paint for longer than any of us would care to remember.

So we watched the news bulletins and try to put this one into perspective. You do remember your first day at secondary school and you could probably recall your first day at primary school but you'd be forgiven for thinking that the images are now blurred. But you looked up at the walls of your school and you couldn't believe how grubby and ancient they must have looked. You saw the boys entrance to the school assembly hall and there was so much grime and dirt etched almost indelibly on it that you wondered if your health might be compromised because of such deplorable neglect.

Of course you were on safe ground and nothing untoward would happen to you. For all its apparent decrepitude and decay the health and safety inspectors must have given it their thumbs up. But little did we know at the time that the school itself might have had several hidden areas where something didn't really look right. There were cracks in the whole infrastructure of the building and frankly it's a wonder that there wasn't any terrifying subsidence overnight otherwise goodness knows how our parents would have reacted had the school just fallen to the ground.

The reports coming out of yesterday's shock horror news about our children's schools could hardly be registered or believed. There were several high profile primary and secondary schools which will now close down for the foreseeable future. The only reason for these alarming developments can be traced back to years of complacency, criminal negligence, a sense that none could ever be bothered to take any kind of decisive action when it mattered so vitally. Somebody had to rectify ages old problems but of course we were now the laughing stock of the world.

But school were our essential foundation stone of our lives, our fundamental building bricks, our education and introduction to a young world. Now though we make a terrible discovery. Those seemingly impregnable bricks and mortar have been examined quite thoroughly and the bad news is that drastic measures have to be taken. They've probably been since the outbreak of the First World War and in some cases decades before. Yesterday then the penny finally dropped and self awareness set in with a vengeance. Our kids livelihoods are at stake and we all know how important that is.

Above it all though there was Gillian Keegan, a hitherto respectable politician who was just trying to earn a decent crust and then there was an explosion. She responded to a perfectly straightforward question and then assumed that everything had been carried out in a satisfactory fashion. But then a voice in her head which, in retrospect, must have been ignored at source, egged her on and before you could blink or gasp, she broke all of the rules and regulations.

Your memory takes you back to the Labour government under Gordon Brown who had just completed an innocent, heart to heart conversation with a member of the public. Canvassing for votes Brown got back into his car and then started muttering complaints and whispered objections to the way a woman had ruined his day. Brown had been drawn into a trap he couldn't escape from. On the one hand he simply wanted to ingratiate himself to the voting people who were about to vote for him again. Then there were references to ghastly women and disparaging comments about her politics and that was it for another day.

And so it was that Gillian Keegan thought she'd survived yet another intensive grilling from the Press. She took off her microphone, composed herself for a minute or two and then spotted a convenient opening, a chance to achieve fifteen minutes of notoriety. Let's see whether she could make her own headlines for a change and catch everybody off guard. So Keegan sniggered for a moment, took a deep breath and then just spat out the obscenities that are now well documented. We've heard them a million times in any context and conversation but from a politician they sound childishly silly.

Sometimes a week in the House of Commons must be the most uncomfortable bearpit of gossip, heckling, haranguing, disapproval and outright opprobrium. They shout at each other as if the whole afternoon is some vindictive grudge match and then just keep arguing because they just love the sound of their own vocal chords. This turns into a fierce competition that neither the Tories, Labour or Lib Dems can ever win since we can neither make head or tail about what exactly they're ranting about.

But yesterday was a microcosm of a much bigger problem. In her defence Keegan looked thoroughly fed up with the same questions over and over again but then thought she'd give the man from the media the full, no holds barred treatment. She swore and then cursed for just a minute or two, content in the knowledge that there was still just a window of redemption, an opportunity to apologise and say sorry because of course the language had been strong and she'd never do it again.

And so it is that today will dawn for Rishi Sunak, the Prime Minister will sit down with his united Cabinet, rubbing sore heads perhaps and swotting away the troubles of Monday afternoon as just a mild irritant. At the moment the market research men and women who design all of those polls we peruse at our leisure have now reached their latest conclusions. It doesn't really look good for the Conservative Party at all and with a General Election now scheduled for either late or early 2024, Sunak still looks and sounds like a computer science university student.

He smiles winsomely for the cameras and the suit does fit but we have now reached the point when the general consensus is that the Tories are just shooting themselves in their proverbial feet. Their sell by date has now long since gone and the nation is impatient, restless and Middle England is grumbling because they've had enough of the Tories. But nobody here cares one jot because the whole process of a General Election does tend to leave you feeling completely disillusioned. Anybody for Donald the Duck as a credible contender for Prime Minister. He could hardly do any worse than the current incumbent.

The Second World War.

 The Second World War.

On this day 84 years ago the world woke up only to discover that the entire globe was at war. Suddenly the lights went out over London and the rest of the world, the thunderous thud of global conflict blasting out across the tired streets, roads and avenues which would be battered mercilessly and remorselessly by a sound that would provide the most grotesque acoustic ever to be heard anywhere. In retrospect we know it could have been avoided quite easily and yet we were once under the tyrannical rule of a mad and possessed man who became obsessed with death and destruction.

The Second World War was one of the most bloodthirsty and barbaric event of the 20th century. It was instigated by Adolf Hitler and his evil, pernicious machinations. From this day in 1939 the world came to a grinding halt, stunned by the grotesque savagery of war and hardly believing how much irreparable damage it would bring to a helpless world, convinced that it was some minor skirmish that would be over by that Christmas.

And yet we seriously underestimated the power and influence that Hitler could wield over humanity, the cold, calculating nature of the man, the heartless brutality of a man who sent shock waves over the human race and then there were the killing machines he employed without any discrimination whatsoever. Even now the horror stories are still multitudinous, the deafening bombing raids which murdered huge populations of every city, town and village throughout the land, still vivid in our minds. But then we bow our heads and wonder why and how it was allowed to happen without anybody knowing how long it would last for.

When Neville Chamberlain made that sombre, grave radio announcement about the beginning of the Second World War Britain shivered in its beds, trembling with fear and dreading the bleakest of futures. In hindsight those baby boomers who would come to represent the next couple of decades are merely bewildered commentators on today's world and can barely grasp the disgraceful magnitude of both war and the Holocaust.

For those of us who were grandchildren of Holocaust survivors, the gas chambers and concentration camps that provided such a dark backdrop for six continuous years of suffering still leaves us dumbfounded. We will never be able to imagine the tortured bodies, the tormented souls who were totally stripped of their dignity and those who just wept and cried, pleading for salvation and then discovering that by now the damage had been done and nobody could help them. It is undoubtedly one of the most criminal of all acts, mankind and humanity at its worst and an episode from history some of us would prefer to forget but know that we couldn't possibly wipe from our minds because it may still hurt.

On September the third 1939 the first air raid sirens sounded gruesomely across Britain, families across the world now confined to their living room indefinitely and acutely aware of  their fragility and vulnerability. By the time Hitler, Goebbels and Eichmann had woven together their callous conspiracies, dreadful plans and murderous intentions, most of the world knew what was about to happen. So it was that the world would now go into self preservation mode, sleeping in Tube train stations, Anderson shelters and underground bunkers that gave us security.

Then there were the terrifying and heart breaking goodbyes and the mass evacuation of closely knit families to the countryside. Both adults and children were being driven out of their homes because the Nazis had arrived in town and world domination would be theirs in no time at all. With identity lanyards around their necks and coats securely buttoned up, the people were led into a land of anonymity, complete detachment from the outside world and into the fiery pit of hell. 

Even now we look back at these life changing, seismic moments of our lives and can only hang our heads in shame despite being born 17 years after the event. The Second World War scarred then destroyed everything in its wake. It left those who experienced it permanently traumatised, speechless with astonishment and then broken by its severe repercussions. They who witnessed it all can only wonder how grossly disfigured the world would become, how disgusted we would become by something so completely beyond our understanding.

Across the villages and pubs, the lush green meadows and fields of England's green and pleasant land, there is now a pleasant hush, a splendid tranquillity, sanity, peace, normality, reason and common sense. No longer do we have to hide under the bed covers, kitchen tables and those pieces of furniture which would offer relief, comfort and sanctuary from the falling bombs. From the perspective of today we shudder with terror at the senseless futility of the Second World War or any war for that matter. It is just morally unacceptable and for some of us beyond forgiveness.

But we bring up our families in the 21st century and try to mend the shattered pieces in our heart because that generation has more or less vanished. We can only hope that nothing like it will ever visit our shores ever again. No war will ever darken our corridors again because what happened 84 years ago should never ever happen again. The suffering and tragedy of war is still alive in our consciousness. It still leaves its poisonous aura wherever it goes. It reduces the lovely people of Ukraine to a sobbing wreck, a country torn and ravaged by the blistering sound of gunfire and exploding bombs.

Its ghastly legacy may always haunt us. But the Second World War will always give eminent historians and documentary makers enough material to last a lifetime. We must hope that any modern version of Neville Chamberlain's speech will never ever tell us that owing to Nazi intransigence this country is subsequently at war with Germany. We will face today and the future with love in our hearts and lasting optimism for decades and centuries to come. The late and much loved John Lennon certainly knew what he was talking about. Peace should always be prevalent and relevant wherever we go. May it always be with us.

September.

 September

Unlike the legendary Neil Diamond and Earth, Wind and Fire vinyl single, September is not in the record charts, nor is it in a prolific recording studio where stars are born and reputations developed. There are no microphones next to us, old guitars and pianos discreetly hidden away in lofts and attics. There is very little evidence of any bloated ego, delusions of grandeur or contracts to be signed by lucrative record companies. Here in the world all is good and flourishing. Most of Europe is just about holding itself together apart from war torn Ukraine where everything is either flattened, demolished and burnt to the ground. Oh if only the world would stop fighting and killing indiscriminately.

Here in Britain the cost of living crisis is biting deep into our pockets and belts are being tightened like never before. The price of everything is disturbingly astronomical, severe cutbacks are still being implemented and climate change is well and truly here to stay for the duration. You'd have thought the whole world had just fallen apart at the seams and we were just staring into a dark abyss where everything that used to work is now just faulty and defective. So here is the first day of September and summer is waving farewell ever so slowly. It's dropping anchor, floating serenely away into distant horizons and just disappearing into some distant geographical location far away from this sceptred island. You can vaguely see the first outlines and contours of winter but first things first.

Autumn, according to the meteorological department, has now started officially. It may not feel like it but winter will swiftly follow and it'll be here until the end of March. When you were a child every day felt like the first day of spring and then summer. We were oblivious to winter because the seasons just merged into a whole. You went back to school after an another eventful summer holiday and forgot about time. Those wintry mornings must have been bitterly cold but none of us really cared because nobody attached a great deal of importance to winter.

You were somehow conditioned to the everyday pleasures of life because you were cocooned by the warmth of your living room knowing fully well that you were indoors, loved, cared, watered and fed by loving parents. September was the forerunner of the winter darkness at three o clock in the afternoon and everything was just taken for granted. You slung your infant satchel over your shoulder, packed away all the relevant exercise books and those vitally significant reference books that provided us with the basic foundation stones of life; there was education, learning, the English language and the dreaded maths. 

But back then September was still a time for being carefree, footloose and free. You still cried and whimpered like a baby at the daunting prospect of going back to school after a long summer of recreation and play with your friends. But then you realised that the changing of the seasons was rather like the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace. The only difference was that there were never any inquisitive tourists taking photos of you as you embarked on your academic day. You just got on with the business of maturing, understanding and fathoming out who you were, all the while making daily discoveries about life and the environment.

Still here you are September and welcome to the show. September was always synonymous with conkers drenched in vinegar and playground friends accidentally rapping your knuckles. September was about kicking autumn leaves into the air, running through puddles of rain deliberately in case your shoes fancied a good old soaking. There was a palpable air of mischief and impudence as all the kids started running around the playground frantically, wrapping their ties around either their head or waist deliberately in the hope that the teacher and headmaster would pull you up short and reprimand you.

As the years went by the rebellion turned into a mass revolt and before you could blink a loud voice of authority would ring out across the land and the whole playground just froze with fear and trepidation. Of course the rules and regulations had to be obeyed but none of us did although some of us didn't really know how to react because they and not you were just determined to do detention and write thousands of lines of apology. Sorry Sir or Miss you were very repentant and you'd never let off that stink bomb again.

For most of us September was the month represented a complete recharging of batteries, a kind of renewal and regeneration. We are proudly Jewish and the beginning of the New Year aka Rosh Hashanah means the casting of sins into a nearby pond or lake. September is that month of the year that marks the conclusion of summer and autumn throws a couple of logs into the home fire, before turning on the heating ever so reluctantly and tentatively because you were convinced that autumn hadn't quite arrived yet.

At some point September will drop you a reminder of what to expect. The winds are gathering pace and intensity, there are the theatrical claps of thunder and lightning before the rainstorms announce themselves ominously, hammering against your roofs. The weather in the United Kingdom is, you feel sure, has such extremes and contrasts that maybe its unpredictability just keeps us on our toes. Perhaps they should be greeted with a resigned shrug and hearty laughter since this is always the way it's going to be.

So September is here for another 30 days or so and it'll run according to whatever your plan. You may just take it for granted, assuming that it'll never stop arriving at the same time. It is autumn according to some people and yet we look ahead to optimistic moments in our lives that will keep us healthy and happy. We will be blissfully content with our family, our adorable grandson Arthur and for all the wonderful things that life invariably offers us. Life will deliver again and we will be eternally grateful. Happy September everybody and all that follows.