Boxing Day.

 Boxing Day.

Today, the streets of London's West End will become a merchandise paradise, a shopping heaven, millions of feet pounding the pavements of Oxford and Regent Street in their frantic hunt for an abundance of bargains, cheap and cheerful products that would normally have cost a small fortune at any other time of the year. It is the beginning of the sales season in most of those highly prestigious department stores, fashion and retail outlets gleaming with festive cheer and ready to greet those wonderfully excited adults and excitable children who just love this time of the year. 

It's Boxing Day folks which normally means that the whole of the world may still be nursing one massive hangover. Once again, excessive quantities of food and drink have been enthusiastically consumed by vast populations of hungry, turkey eating, mulled wine drinking folks across the globe. Heads will be sore and bewildered families will be surveying the wreckage and debris on the living room floor. The kids will still be lively, scurrying and scampering around their homes and wondering what to do next. 

So we'll wake up this morning, yawning and stretching, bleary eyed, trying desperately to focus on the rest of the human race and deciding there and then to just turn over on our sofas and go back to sleep. Once again, the kids Christmas presents will find themselves in a permanent state of disrepair, batteries no longer working, Smart phones rebelling for no apparent reason and high spirits now dampened because nobody understands them. This should be a day of perfect contentment for the young ones but, sadly, that balloon seems to have burst. 

As usual, there will be a full football fixture list and that 66 goal bonanza in the old First Division on Boxing Day 1963 now seems like some weird fantasy that came true because opposing defences were still on holiday and some mischief maker must have told the players that the matches had been postponed. The truth of course was that football had once again dominated the mainstream cultural agenda on the day after the holiest of days. Yet another gluttonous helping of football had made the back page headlines and how Blackburn Rovers must have wished they could play West Ham every week, having demolished your claret and blue heroes 8-2 at Upton Park. 

But Boxing Day can only mean one thing for those of a certain age. Since time immemorial, pantomimes have held children spellbound and mesmerised, that one day or time of the year when families gather together outside both provincial and city theatres for a good, old fashioned belly laugh, an immensely enjoyable experience that continues to pack them in, all ages included and nobody excluded. It is one of those memorable spectacles that always leave us with a warm glow in our hearts. Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, Jack in the Beanstalk and Dick Whittington are our perennial favourites. 

And yet Boxing Day, after all the organised chaos and preparation for the day before, may leave that familiar feeling of cold anti climax, a sense that perhaps we shouldn't have gone to all that trouble only to feel as though we might have let our uncles, aunties, cousins and nieces down. So what if we'd given them the same cardigan, pullover, bottle of perfume or after shave as we did last year? The gratitude was always fulsome and much appreciated. 

So we slump on our settees for the second day in succession. The supermarkets are open but the rest of the world is probably snoring away, conveniently forgetting that the shops should be on a state of high alert. This is a day though, for sober reflection or we hope it is. The boozy repercussions should have gone through our system and the jolly revelry is now yesterday's news. The roads were deserted and there wasn't a soul in sight apart from the occasional Deliveroo eating delivery service with several boxes of pizzas. 

During your childhood, it was the regular Boxing Day custom to venture out onto the local streets in the hope of finding some evidence of civilisation only to find a hollow emptiness. There was nothing, nobody or anything to prove that humanity had trodden these happy lands. But the buses and trains were in an advanced state of stagnation, stilled and silenced by those boisterous celebrations. There were no cars, lorries or vans not even a procession of cyclists who may have thought nobody had noticed them anyway. 

We returned to our homes distinctly underwhelmed and just content to watch the three TV channels that were available at the time. It is hard to imagine a time when Britain was so deprived of choice when there was so much entertainment on offer elsewhere. In fact, up until 1967, most of us only had BBC One and ITV or Thames TV since BBC Two had yet to arrive on our screens and Channel Four was just wishful thinking which became a scientific experiment and then just landed on our shores. 

But, essentially, Boxing Day was a day for gentle, good-humoured dwelling on the year now about to end. We could never be sure why this was the case because we never knew why one day of the year should be devoted to eating the leftovers, the turkey sandwiches, the rest of those huge tins of biscuits and chocolates. And then there were those mouth watering bottles of alcohol, the grape juice, orange juice, Red Bulls designed to rid ourselves of any residual headaches. 

Then we re-assembled our thought patterns and recovered from those endless karaoke sessions where the same old Christmas songs are repeatedly performed by tired looking souls who try to be funny and succeed emphatically. The kids rip open their reams of wrapping paper with bows and knots, jumping for joy because Apple and Amazon had been so good to them. There isn't a great deal of movement in the main dining room because the whole family have had it up to here with objects and products. 

In the great big, wide world of pampered materialism and hedonism, this is the disposable society, the place where we all spend far too much money during the holidays and then regretting it. Everything is now on our commercial shelves, instantly accessible and about to be sold by persuasive sales people at the drop of a hat. Money is, quite literally, no object and, by the beginning of the New Year, we stare at our bank balances and find ourselves broke, skint and impoverished. 

Traditionally though Boxing Day is all about wallowing in the good vibes and euphoria of Christmas Day and glad that we were all together and united when it all took place. The homeless at Christmas has become that painful reality and mantra from which there can be no escape. We watch the images of the sad and forlorn, the neglected and displaced, those who were just ignored and reluctantly acknowledged. They settle down under the bridges of nearby railway stations, huddling for warmth with moth eaten blankets wrapped around broken bodies, shabby tramps with filthy clothing. 

Still, we remain fortunate to have our families, our extended families in far off countries and locations, the ones we've always loved and respected. We now speak to them on our phones and screens, Skyping and Zooming to our hearts content. We communicate via social media with emojis of bizarre origin and then long to get together some time next year because we haven't seen each other for at least a decade or two. Naturally, we look to the future and crave optimism because that's our comfort blanket.

And then finally we look around at a sometimes fractured and fractious world, a world divided by petty differences of opinion, politicians posturing and pontificating, bickering and quarrelling, presidents and leaders who keep stating the obvious and expecting to be slapped on the back with more praise. Then there are those evil dictators, audacious autocrats, the power crazy figures who just want to take over the world and destroy it into the bargain. 

It's Boxing Day folks and time to slow down again. It's time to hit the pantomimes kids, time to warn each other that somebody is indeed behind you. Historically, it is a day for more window shopping, milling around souvenir kiosks in London's West End, giggling at red Santa hats with unashamed glee and then lugging around masses of bags and boxes, nibbling at roast chestnuts, wandering around Winter Wonderland and then joining in with all the fun of the fair. Oh Christmas and Chanukah. How we love them. 

Oleksander Usyk retains boxing heavyweight title.

 Oleksander Usyk retains boxing heavyweight title.

There was no other way of dressing this one up. The whole of  Ukraine has suffered so much death, loss and  grief, horrifically wasted moments in its history, that it only seemed fair that boxing should come to its rescue. This was redemption on a colossal scale. The sun does indeed shine on the righteous and deep in the sweltering heat of the desert of Riyadh, Saudi Arabia provided the perfect and exotic backdrop to this fascinating, intriguing, ultimately enthralling heavyweight contest between Oleksander Usyk of Ukraine and Tyson Fury of England. Oh to be a fly on the wall of Anthony Joshua, another British prizefighter par excellence. 

And yet for the second time Usyk of Ukraine had far the greater technical range in his pugilistic repertoire and Fury had no answer to the Ukranian's tactical superiority. This time around, Usyk underlined his professionalism in no uncertain terms with the boldest and most dangerous signature. Boxing has often produced champions from poverty stricken, humble backgrounds, boxing that provided the perfect escapism from a life of horrendous crime, the gangland culture, a troubled youth that never seemed to go away. 

Both Usyk and Fury though looked as though a healthy appetite for food had still left its obvious evidence on their well endowed waistlines. Not for a moment should there ever be a suggestion that both men were just paunchy, portly and desperately overweight boxers just out to line their pockets with  several million in their bank balances. But this was an important and critical night for heayweight boxing and money may seem incidental to a generation of boxers who have known nothing but a life of wealth and luxury.  

This was clearly a nice little earner for both men but there can only be one winner and Usyk once again confirmed his overall excellence and boxing virtuosity. For Fury, boxing can be grossly unfair and cruel although even he must have recognised that this is the one that got away from him. When the bell went for the final round, Fury, cheerfully confident of victory, then shook his head dejectedly as the announcement of his defeat boomed out across Saudi Arabia. Even the camels must have privately sympathised with Fury's plight. 

But this was a stirring, compulsive watch and, for lengthy periods of this heavyweight battle royale, you were reminded once again that boxing is not a pretty sight for those of a nervous disposition. Both Usyk and Fury are big units, formidable figures of mighty muscularity and just a couple of pounds of flesh around their respective stomachs. Their torsos may have been wobbling around their midriffs ever so slightly although a boxer's physique has little to do with his expertise in the ring. 

Here were two juggernauts locked together in conflict, crashing into each other's very personal territory and showing little signs of leniency or forgiveness. Both men were ruthless and uncompromising, silent assassins growling and snarling under their breaths, destructive knock outs on their minds and no room for sentiment whatsoever. Their childhood and backgrounds were consigned to some meaningless corner of this fight. You can always see sinister menace on their faces when boxers climb through the ropes of a major contest and this one was no different.

Fury, of course, has always been boastful and arrogant but quietly respectful of his opponent whoever they are. Yesterday, bearded and hirsute, Fury was all mouth and trousers or maybe shorts would be the more appropriate terminology. He talked a good fight, of course and he eye balled his Ukranian counterpart as if he were the devil incarnate. There was no love lost but there never is when boxing gets lost in hype and propaganda. 

Tyson Fury, the man from Styal in Cheshire, never disguises his love of his roots and there were sporadic moments when Fury seemed hell bent on proving his aggressive point. There was a brutal belligerence and hungry intent about the British heavyweight. Fury just charged out of his corner like a man possessed, hunching and crouching, then jabbing almost consistently, feeling out Usyk's emotional and physical resources like a man exploring a dripping cave in the middle of nowhere. 

And for the next 12 rounds the Englishman kept darting in and out of the darkness and then retreating when he could sense a grizzly bear on the horizon. Fury kept moving the Ukranian around the ring, probing for the decisive opening but just provoking Usyk into action and warfare. There were tentative Fury jabs, fleeting body shots that just seemed to scrape Usyk's chest and stomach and then a private acceptance that this wouldn't be his night. 

At first there was caution and calculating aggression from both men, holding each other at arms length with cunning and careful circumspection.  By round four, seven and eight, Fury was struggling under the weight of Usyk's stunning and staggering punches to head that rocked the Cheshire man as if a fatal bullet had just brushed his forehead. Fury was never out on his feet but, for all the world, it looked as though he'd been hit by a bulldozer. At times he looked dazed and horrified at the audacity of the Ukranian's shooting gallery of upper cuts and ferocious assaults. 

With Fury now running out of petrol and purpose and his tank in dire need of being filled, there was a  renewed style and conviction about Usyk that we may have privately feared. By the 12th round, Fury looked as if he was simply and desperately hanging on for survival. The valiant spirit was ebbing away and the Ukranian capitalised on Fury's increasing vulnerability, flinging out hurtful and painful blows that left the British fighter helpless.

To his credit though Fury took this fight all the way to the bitter end. In the end, this was the inevitable conclusion. The fight had to be resolved by the judges and referees and we all knew which way this one would go. It would not be in Fury's favour since fate was not on his side. Usyk was declared the outright winner and Fury could only reach out to his devoted fans and apologise to them. He'd given it his best but that was never going to be good enough. 

For a moment, you recalled the bullish defiance of Frank Bruno and Lennox Lewis, the bravery and endurance of Henry Cooper and even Joe Bugner. But, for the heavyweight powerhouses of Britain, some nights are somehow destined to end in failure. You thought now of Anthony Joshua who may be itching to get back into the ring if only to emphasise his enduring qualities. But Tyson Fury sadly slipped away into the Saudi winter heat and disappeared into the good night. Boxing hadn't betrayed him as such but form deserted him and that must have been a considerable disappointment for him.   

Four sleeps to Christmas and Chanukah.

 Four sleeps to Christmas and Chanukah. 

It may be hard to believe now but, on Christmas Day a long time ago, there was a full football fixture list in the old First Division, Second Division, Third Division, Third Division North and South and, finally the Fourth Division. Much to the amazement of those who witnessed it, the trains and buses were working and there was no let up in the great stampede towards the groaning festive table. It felt as if you were doing our utmost to retain some semblance of normality even though the rest of the country was just blase about it all. 

 And so you woke on Christmas Day, flung back the snow caked windows, threw on our clothes, football scarves, digging out rattles, klaxon horns and oiling our exhausted vocal chords. It was Christmas Day in the workhouse, time to clock on for another day of peeling potatoes, stuffing turkeys, shaking the brussel sprouts out of the bag and then dropping off to sleep after the heaviest of culinary blow outs. Then you stared at your families adoringly, abandoned yourselves to just a brief moment of sentimentality and knocked back several glasses of brandy and malt whisky. 

Then dad, uncle, son and cousin and, quite possibly daughter in those far off days, would jump into the back of the Ford Anglia or the celebrated Red Routemaster bus where the bulbs of light would shine radiantly, the bell chord would be rung several times by excitable kids and the bus conductor would demand that fares would be politely requested. Football was on the menu and the Christmas pudding would have to wait because Arsenal, Liverpool, Spurs, Chelsea, Manchester United and City, Blackburn Rovers, Everton and Fulham constituted the main meal.

So the London underground Tube station would patiently wait its first passengers just after breakfast on Christmas Day and football supporters in London would exchange silly crepe paper hats, laugh uncontrollably at the tinsel and glitter in each other's hair and then walk towards their respective grounds. The fans would tease each other mercilessly about their team's glaring defensive inadequacies and how their opponents would get stuffed and hammered because they'd had far too much to drink before the big day.

Then the trains rumbled and thundered their way out of those ghostly tunnels, football supporters now at full volume and dressed appropriately in Santa Claus red coats and white beards. It all seemed rather silly and pathetic because nobody took football seriously at Christmas time. The Christmas Day fixtures would normally be swiftly followed by a full Boxing Day programme and then another punishing slog a couple of days later. So we indulged ourselves on a hearty feast of high scoring extravaganzas and were rather pleased on Boxing Day 1963 when 66 goals bulged the net in the old First Division. 

Here we are though on the last weekend before football temporarily opens up festive presents, kicks off its shoes, plays endless games of charades and Ker Plunk with the family and then becomes deeply regretful and melancholy, wishing we hadn't quite eaten or drunk too much. Football will always remain subliminally on our minds and this season is no exception. The fierce rivalries will be at their most intense and the local derbies will invariably sort the men from the boys. 

At the top of the Premier League, both Liverpool, Chelsea and Arsenal are bossing proceedings and poor old Manchester City are probably feeling very sorry for themselves. For City, this must feel like a throwback to the days of the old Third Division when everything looked totally beyond repair. When City beat Gillingham in that famous play off Final at Wembley, it marked a significant turning point for City. The rest, as they say, is history with Premier League trophies in quartet succession and Champions League silverware to their name, as now historic reminders of who they were recently as opposed to way back when. 

But we are now approaching the second half of the season and nothing of course is decided on the eve of Slade's timeless festive anthem Merry Christmas Everybody. There are a number of daunting obstacles to be faced in the early months of early January. Some of the Premier League's filthy rich plutocrats will be easily distracted by the FA Cup and managers will be biting their fingernails, hoping that the precarious nature of their profession won't suddenly find them in the local Job Centre.

This morning football will be paying a rightful tribute to George Eastham, a fringe member of Sir Alf Ramsey's 1966 World Cup squad who died today. The England football team will be popping party crackers and blowing whistles before devouring turkeys and feasting on innumerable mince pies. Waiting in the wings will be a German gentleman by the name of Thomas Tuchel, the new England manager and most of us will be hoping for steady improvement, gentle progression and who knows perhaps a World Cup to show off in the USA, Mexico and Canada in two years time but that might be just a daydream at the moment. 

So it's four sleeps to Christmas Day and much jolly revelry. For the benefit of my wonderful Jewish family and friends, it's time to wish you all a happy Chanukah. Go easy on those mouth watering doughnuts and don't forget to enjoy your yearly helpings of salt beef and latkes(potato cakes). This year Chanukah, on its first day of menorah lighting, meets up with its religious friends and family on Christmas Day. It is indeed the most wonderful time of the year. But then every day is beautifully sweet.

BBC Sports Personality of the Year.

 BBC Sports Personality of the Year. 

Every year the BBC, that august broadcasting company who always adhere to their fundamental values of fairness, impartiality, balanced coverage of all events and the edict to educate, inform and entertain, hold their yearly Sports Personality of the Year programme, the one sporting TV retrospective that always lives up to its billing as one of the most moving, poignant and uplifting TV evenings. 

Sport, as we know, should always be acknowledged as a force of good, a natural expression of our innermost thoughts on the playgrounds of our lives, the way we bond together as a collective unit,  generating lifelong friendships and partnerships, establishing our individuality in a way that is both healthy, therapeutic and cathartic. It provides us with daunting challenges and pushes us to the limit of our capabilities and beyond. 

Sport is all about physical activity, sharing mutual celebration of goals, records, personal bests, the length of javelin and discus throws, memorable rugby union tries, the rapid accumulation of wickets, runs, the scoring of hat-tricks and the pinnacle of achievement at Wimbledon. It is that mesmerising battle of wits, that forehand fiesta, those miraculous cross court, angled volleys, the drilled winners, the heavenly drop shots and lobs that somehow defy gravity. And then sport gets all serious and business like, nasty, corrupt, evil and pernicious, dodgy and cynical. 

Last night though, the BBC patted itself on the back again. It indulged in congratulation, the distribution of awards, praise, flattery, those well deserved plaudits and accolades that always seem to coincide with the week before Christmas. And then the prizes were handed out liberally and generously, there were faces lighting up with pleasure when they discovered that this was indeed their year for winning. Sport was at the top of their agenda, their discussion of the moment, their one moment of reflection over the year when nice things are said. 

Years ago, an air of at times stifling formality and grandeur seemed to fall over White City in London when hundreds of sportsmen and women wore their smartest dinner jacket, bow tie and elegant dress for another Sports Personality of the Year. It is a gathering of the great and good, the location where the late and great Bobby Moore lifted the shield and trophy highlighting the exceptional brilliance that Moore had drawn all over the old Wembley Stadium on that special day in July 1966.

In many ways the Sports Personality of the Year award is the genuine recognition of sporting excellence, taking our hats off to those whose achievements may never be surpassed. In one year, Red Rum, one of the most engaging and friendliest horses ever to win the Grand National, trotted onto the big stage and revelled in the human adulation of it all. Sport, of course, crashes through all barriers, frontiers and boundaries to the point where everything seems possible. 

Strong women such as Dame Mary Peters, almost permanently gracious and smiling, Paula Radcliffe, our legendary marathon Olympian, the Princess Royal, Princess Anne, captured all the right headlines. We marvel at the determined and resolute, the gritty and tenacious, the bloody and single minded, the artists and personalities, the hell for leather enthusiasts and those who just love to take part. We admire the dedicated and the courageous, the hugely conscientious and fiercely committed who get up at the crack of dawn on freezing early mornings. 

Surely the highlight of the evening was the award to those who had overcome hardship and adversity, when the bleakest and darkest moments of their lives finally found the light at the end of the tunnel. Dr Mark Prince, who tragically lost his immensely talented son Kai, to a vicious knife attack in West London, spoke both powerfully and eloquently about his loss and torment, grief and personal suffering. Kai Prince was just one of the brightest talents Queens Park Rangers had ever produced. But then the youngster was horrifically murdered and sport could only bow its head. 

This year, the BBC's vast and impressive Media Centre in Salford, was the perfect venue for an awards ceremony, a massive auditorium that had all the acoustics of a major pop concert at full blast. There was an appearance from Barry Mcguigan, a charming Irish boxer who once took on all comers and succeeded convincingly on more than one occasion. Sir Chris Hoy, our inspirational Olympic winner and cyclist, was recently and sadly diagnosed with cancer but now conducted himself with the utmost dignity. 

And then there were the awards themselves. Trevor Painter and Jenny Meadows became the sports coaches of the year and were almost enchantingly modest into the bargain. Then, Swedish pole vaulter Armand Duplantis, a name not commonly known to those who may never have heard of him, picked up the World Star of the Year and the applause was widespread. We knew we were in the presence of the technically gifted, the extraordinary individuals and teams of the year, the ones who were grateful to be in the right time and place and then just going beyond the call of duty with another display that required the stopwatch. 

But this year has been the year of the Olympics in Paris, the football Euros in Germany, another cricket season of impeccable manners and summertime gentility, sport at its most competitive, brutal, happiest and stunningly compelling. There was the bitter anti climax of the Olympic Games opening ceremony where the whole spectacle was transferred to the River Seine and everybody got soaked. The rain in late summer Paris reduced the Olympian spirit to the level of a soggy sweet wrapper. 

Still, the final one, two, three of the BBC Sports Personality of the Year were revealed and too predictable for words. Joe Root,  one of England's most consistent, durable and outstanding of cricketers, was third and in New Zealand on Test duty with England. Root has become another phenomenal record breaker, racking up runs with the kind of easy going enjoyment that should be sport's only priority. 

Then the runner up was a young gentleman who must have been completely overawed by the immensity of the occasion. And yet 17 year old Luke Littler is a man in boys clothing, mature beyond his years, a precocious teenager who should be doing the clubs and bars circuit and embracing adolescence. But Littler is a disciplined darts player and therefore accustomed to vocal audiences and cheering crowds. From the tender age of three, little Luke was chucking arrows at a dart board with freedom and carefree abandon. Now he's earning the kind of money his doting parents could only have fantasised about.

The winner of the BBC Sports Personality of the Year 2024 though could have been forecast in your sleep. Keely Hodgkinson, pig tail flying behind her and legs pumping away like pistons, lengthened her stride  magisterially in the 800metres Final in Paris and then flew for the finishing line as if she'd had everything under control from the starting pistol. We remembered Jessica Ennis Hill in London Olympic year of 2012 and Dame Kelly Holmes performing athleticism of the highest order and thought of Keely putting in her shift and just looking effortless. Hodgkinson was the Sports Personality of the Year and the BBC had given us another pre Christmas feast for the eyes. Well done Keely.   

It's Christmas in the West End of London

It's Christmas in the West End of London

It was another memorable day out in the West End of London. My lovely family were gathered together for the festivities of the year and all around us it was unmistakably atmospheric, cold as the kitchen fridge, deliciously wintry, darkness falling inexplicably at tea time but the cosiness and human warmth of these special moments meant the world to us all. Christmas is ten days away and yet it felt as if the proceedings had started yesterday, the streets of the West End top heavy with glitter, tinsel, baubles and impressive trees. 

Wherever you looked, there was a magnificent resplendence in the air, lights glistening, shining, hanging loosely and freely, liberated from the cares and woes of the world, oblivious to the concerns and troubles that continue to bedevil the whole Christian world. Christmas is, quite obviously uniting, reassuring, inviting, making us all feel a whole lot better about ourselves because the world just seems like some beckoning finger luring us into the happiest party you're ever likely to see. And wow it certainly was.

Yesterday we rushed after a boat we thought and were convinced we were going to miss but just made in the nick of time. We sighed and despaired because the chronic traffic on the London Tube train system and the bus network had deliberately ganged up against us and threatened to render yesterday's event impossible. So we breathed a massive sigh of relief, composed our thoughts, filed onto the boat in orderly fashion and enjoyed the whole occasion immensely. 

It was scheduled as a leisurely and deeply rewarding boat trip on old Father Thames, taking in the sights and sounds of both the river and those wonderfully imposing buildings that sit comfortably by the side of the Thames and have done so for centuries. There were the permanent dockside reminders of Victorian yesteryears when the lighters and container ships containing vast consignments of tobacco, coffee, sugar, spices and every conceivable drink and alcohol would sail up and down this most famous stretch of water serenely, bursting with Eastern promise and delivering to the West without batting an eye lid. 

Then, for the first mile or so of our trip, there were the innumerable wharves, once fertile grounds for industrial activity, bustling with hard working men wearing caps, shirts and waistcoats, hauling, lifting, heaving up and down, shouting, whistling, cheering and generally abandoning themselves to the admirable work ethic of the day. It was reminiscent of the way things used to be but no longer are. Admittedly, the pleasure boats, cruisers and speedboats, still cutting through the foam of the river with power and purpose, were still the River Thames in all its finery and greatness. 

But we were customers, tourists and passengers on our boat. We were lavished with excessive hospitality, an afternoon tea that none of us had experienced on a river before. Smartly dressed members of staff glided between the stately tables and chairs, pots of tea and coffee pouring from designer kettles and then the piece de resistance, the triangular shaped sandwiches, scones with jam and cream and then those mouth wateringly irresistible cakes. It was civilised, somehow quintessentially English and hugely satisfying. 

Our wonderful son Sam, equally as lovely daughter in law Lucy, our beautiful grandson Arthur and always pretty wife Bev looked immaculate. This had been their much appreciated birthday present and this felt like the most perfect surprise. We gazed admiringly at the Christmas tree white as snow by the quayside, the winking cafes and restaurants, the magnificent looking fairground that looked like something out of a Dickens Christmas Carol, blinking yellow and orange lights and, slowly but surely,  those handsome bridges that just seemed to be waiting for humanity to pass under them.

After seeing the River Thames in all his matchless splendour, we climbed off the boat and back onto dry land. You felt like Captain Cook conquering new lands and territories but then realised that you clearly weren't and just smiled at the innocence of it all. So you clambered back onto the pavements, roads and streets, heading excitedly back towards the West End of London where yet more visually spectacular light shows were somehow expecting us. 

Amongst the tidal wave of the human population, surging towards London Tube trains as if this had been the last day before the shops closed and every shelf had been emptied, all was frantic urgency. We made for Trafalgar Square, now a pedestrian rather than pigeon heaven, with its fairy tale fountains, the lion statues  permanent fixtures and the plinth with its mysterious art gallery of faces. It looked like one of those massive Rubik cubes only with small white cubes. Then there were the startling white bulbs of the Christmas market with, presumably, hundreds of turkeys, mince pies, chocolate biscuits and Christmas pullovers and not forgetting more festive paraphernalia.

Grandson Arthur, by now securely strapped into his pushchair in thick coat and clothing, was beaming widely, his face a picture of wonderment and incredulity. Now we were heading into Regent Street, undoubtedly one of the most famous shopping streets in the whole of the globe. Regent Street always looks stunning regardless of the time of the year. Now though it looked a peach. 

You can still remember wandering around Regent Street and Oxford Street during Covid 19, shocked and mortified by the horrendous emptiness and desolation of the West End. But all had changed quite remarkably and splendidly. Once more, thousands and, seemingly millions of people from all four points of the geographical compass, had arrived and converged on the West End of London. They were marching and traipsing around you, power walking, streaming forwards in marauding armies, groups of families, daytrippers, Christmas window shoppers flashing past you in huge processions that seemed relentless. 

Accompanied by our patient and understanding two year old pomapoo Barney we bumped and brushed our way considerately past hundreds and thousands cramming and then filling up completely every available space on the pavements. Then though you looked up at the night skies and although far from a bitter disappointment, the Christmas lights and decorations were ablaze but not quite the ones you were hoping to see. 

Above us, Regent Street was an amazing cornucopia of sparkling white lights, hugely impressive angel's wings in white but little else. The essential colour was sadly missing and not the ones you remembered from childhood. Then your brilliant mum and dad would point at the gleaming Christmas trees with red, green, blue, purple, yellow and orange baubles, bells and lanterns just glowing with festive cheer. There was no tinsel and glitter, no Santas with bristling white beards and sleigh bells with reindeers. 

Still, here we were now at Hamley's, surely the most astonishing toy shop you'd ever witnessed both as a child and now as a proud grandparent. Hamley's is a child's playground, an enormous concentration of thousands of teddy bears, board games, wondrous electronic gadgets, flying planes that resembled drones whizzing around the respective floors of this venerable building. There were dolls, racing tracks, cars and sports cars operated by batteries. There were magicians displaying yet more card tricks, Paddington bears, sweets, shelves that beeped and cackled, laughed and smiled with more kids toys and one teddy bear in a glass cabinet that would have set you back the princely sum of over a thousand pounds. 

And so it was that we began to wend our way back to a bus, surprisingly comfortable after the hustle and bustle of the day. We all exchanged pleasantries and recollections of Christmases long since past and were grateful for everything in life. There was something very heart warming and therapeutic about the whole retail experience. You had to be there to see and believe it. Christmas may have been just over a week away but this was a Saturday to remember and savour. Christmas should never lose its indefinable charm because the families of the world just want it to remain that way. And there can be nothing wrong with that, surely. 

World Cup in 2034 - Saudi Arabia bound.

 World Cup in 2034- Saudi Arabia bound. 

It was a case of history repeating itself which has often happened quite frequently throughout the years. We thought we'd seen it all at the last football World Cup in Qatar. There were powerfully aired concerns over human rights laws being violated, the widespread ban on alcohol, contempt expressed for the global gay community and, of course, the endemic corruption running rampant throughout that part of the world. 

These were disturbing developments at the time and yesterday FIFA seemed to put their foot in it again. The World Cup in 2034 will be held in Saudi Arabia which could have horrendous ramifications for the immediate future of the world game. Two years ago, most of Britain had to get used to the first World Cup to be held during a European winter and that required a major readjustment to the body clock. The World Cup was always held at the end of a long, gruelling season in Britain and most of us were somehow conditioned to looking forward to a summer festival of international football. 

But now there were early morning kick offs, stadiums only half full at times and a radical shift in attitudes and work schedules. In the end Argentina emerged triumphant as World Cup winners over France in one of the most classically enthralling and pulsating World Cup Finals in recent history. The gallant comeback from France, when all seemed lost, was quite the most stunning back story to the Final itself. But Argentina deservedly won the World Cup because Lionel Messi finally rediscovered his love of the big occasion and, despite the advancing years, ultimately lifted the most coveted trophy in the world. 

Yesterday though, FIFA once again came to the conclusion that the Middle East, with its endless supplies of oil, shed loads of money and affluence, were the perfect hosts for yet another World Cup. For those of us who can only dream about a Jules Rimet trophy returning to England and Wembley Stadium, this was another huge blow. Now we sit at home during another England winter and bite our lips in exasperation. That's it! There may never be another iconic 1966 moment in our lives so there is a frustrating resignation to fate. 

If only the generation of the Swinging Sixties baby boomers had known then what they know now, they would have buried their heads in plaintive despair in the local pub, privately cursed under their breath and just cut themselves off from civilisation. They'd have thrown their darts in anger, quite literally shoved their ha'pennies and just refused to play any more games of dominoes. It hardly seems fair but, then, when did FIFA ever care for the welfare of the game in England? We were always overlooked at football summits and just ignored. 

In recent years, we've been to South Africa, USA, Japan and South Korea, Mexico, Russia, France and the footballing community looked in with a warm admiration at those aspirational countries who just wanted their nation to be exposed to the greatest football tournament in the world. But then two years ago, there were rumblings of interest and a fascination with the game on a much larger scale. FIFA stumbled on Qatar, a hitherto unknown nonentity in footballing conversations, who were chosen to hold the World Cup for the very first time.

At the time, the football aficionados were horrified and petrified. This was a complete departure from the norm, an insult to the game's gilded traditions. What possessed the collective minds of FIFA to pick a country so far removed from the game's traditional platforms that they may just as well have been some remote island in the Pacific? So we gathered our thoughts, questioned the conventional wisdom  and gazed at FIFA's headquarters with a combination of contrasting emotions. 

Qatar wasn't a million miles away from vast expanses of desert, sand dunes  and tribes of Bedouins still observing the same customs as they must have done thousands of years ago, covered in white robes. Qatar was probably the first country you thought of when the subject of roaming, wandering camels came up at dinner tables. Qatar, even during the winter, would be hot, stiflingly hot but gloriously appropriate for an exotic football tournament, even a beautiful setting. 

The World Cup of Qatar in 2022 did pass off without any earth shattering incident. In fact it was a moderately successful World Cup groaning under the weight of football of the highest quality. France were unlucky to lose out in the Final to Argentina, the Germans were all thoroughness, Teutonic efficiency and always well prepared, Spain and Italy were off the cuff and instinctive with their crisp, destructive passing, the African nations were naturally entertaining without being threatening and the European nations just performed with both discipline and daring.

And so we have now been told that the Middle East have been summoned to football's most controversial discussion tables. Once again we look at Saudi Arabia and are engulfed with the same doubts, reservations and qualms of conscience. Will the Saudis just use the World Cup as some convenient opportunity to show off their inevitable wealth and gold embossed ostentation? Will this World Cup be played in the richest of football playgrounds surrounded by vast hotels in the sea, tall and solemn, religious minarets soaring into the air and sheikhs with wallets the size of the world.

Football will of course, survive what some might regard as a huge error of misjudgement, the kind of reckless decision making that only FIFA could make. Or maybe not. The thought of engaging with a World Cup at the most important festive period of them all, can only serve to increase our cynicism. We now know the experiment did work but even so, it all seems like the wrong time and the wrong place, some incongruously scheduled event that just doesn't seem right and proper. 

Still we'll all gather together in our pub bars and clubs, watching the unfolding drama and trying hard to understand the morality of a World Cup being hosted by a country whose dubious claims to footballing legitimacy hover over football like a dark cloud. According to those in the know, this could be an accident waiting to happen, the biggest mistake and there have to be immediate investigations. For England, 1966 almost feels like some medieval occurrence. But it's Saudi Arabia 2034 and this could be the time when football has to brace itself for a sharp intake of breath. 

The first end of year review

 The first end of year review.

It would be tempting to look back on the year of 2024 and conclude that nothing of any real noteworthy importance had taken place in the grander scheme of things. This is not to suggest that this year has been the most boring since the beginning of time. There have been plenty of topical distractions and major incidents that may have captured our imagination for a while and then disappeared into the history books never to be heard or seen again. 

For instance during the summer, the political power game took on a radically different dimension, a moment of time that had to be recorded for posterity because it meant a changing of the guard, new ideologies, a fresh injection of different ideas, idealistic mindsets, heartfelt ambitions and, realistically, more of the same. We thought the Tories would never leave the building at any point and that they left 10 Downing Street back in June of this year, remains a testament to their fearsome determination to hang on and their failure to read the minds of the great British public. 

In fact so delusional and obstinate had the Conservative party become before being rudely kicked out of office during the summer, that some of us believed they were simply looking for miracles. Their sell by date had long since passed, their once impregnable popularity had dwindled to its lowest point and even some of their most fervent loyalists were scratching each other's eyes out. In fact, some Tory backbenchers, rabid rebels and riotous renegades were positively mauling their own party into the ground, punching, gouging and ripping each other's ears out. It was an unseemly, ugly and terribly unacceptable spectacle. 

But the truth of the matter is that Sir Keir Starmer is the new Prime Minister of the UK and this one can't be disputed. We may not like what we see but the Labour party are back as leaders of the country once again and if you don't like it, you may have to emigrate to another country which just seems childish and smacks of desperation. Already, disenchantment has set in with a vengeance, a grumbling soundtrack to our lives that simply sounds like a ropy old record single from the 1960s that may have been played too many times so much so that it has now become simply unplayable and keeps getting stuck. 

In recent weeks, Starmer has been desperately trying to keep the boat afloat with a wave of warm reassurances and soothing messages that, in the eyes of some, are just inadequate and not nearly good enough to pacify those who have always suffered anxiety attacks. Politics is probably the last career choice you'd have made at school since only a masochist would fancy their chances of becoming a House of Commons parliamentary force. It's asking for trouble and only the foolhardy would think that they could do any better than Starmer. 

Starmer has been shaking ingratiating hands with climate change ministers, speaking bluntly about the future of the planet with his passionate commitment to cleaner air, an insistent emphasis on the environment's good health for generations to come and a general goodwill to all man and womankind. Then he keeps telling us that the phenomenal tax hikes on the nation's working classes have to be of long term benefit and that magic wands can't be waved because they simply don't exist. 

Then, having travelled half way around the world, he lands back at Heathrow and finds the natives are restless and incensed. The Labour party promised them marmalade trees, vividly coloured rainbows, lands of marshmallow cosiness and comfort before winding up with speeches on satisfaction guaranteed. The numbers and figures are being added up and multiplied as we speak, a balancing act of financial shrewdness that is bound to be felt sooner rather than later. It's all looking like wine and roses. Allegedly, anyway. 

But Starmer is an immensely qualified human rights barrister- cum lawyer who knows his legal onions and the jury are convinced he's not guilty. Not yet, anyway. Give that man a chance, the impartial observers mutter in private. He'll get it right undoubtedly so. That winter fuel allowance crisis may just be a passing phase that just disappears and nobody will get hurt. So this is just a matter of trustworthiness and an unwavering belief that Starmer will emerge as the all conquering hero. 

So here we are a couple of weeks away from festive over indulgence, eating, drinking and being merry, families testing each other's patience to the limit and interesting meetings in France. The Prince of Wales, who will now be identified as the bearded William, bumped into the President elect of the USA Donald Trump and it all looked very cheery, amicable and diplomatic or so it seemed. There were respectful smiles all around although it would have been marvellous to be the proverbial fly on the wall when these discussions got going. 

Then the President of France Emmanuel Macron started grinning at everybody and the air of entente cordiale and friendly conviviality became increasingly obvious. Perhaps Macron was thinking about vineyards and healthy bottles of French wine. You have to keep your global neighbours by your side and the soon to be President Trump must know this better than most. Public relations was never Trump's strong point but business has to be negotiated in a tactful manner although maybe we've underestimated Trump since business is certainly his forte. 

Meanwhile, back at 10 Downing Street, Sir Keir Starmer stood outside the most famous door in Britain and switched on the Christmas tree lights. In Trafalgar Square they were doing exactly the same thing and we all know that Norway have never been a disappointment. It's beginning to a lot like Christmas so the song goes. In the outside world though, politics and royalty have never really seen eye to eye since impartiality has to be the word so in Westminster and Buckingham Palace everything has to be as it is.

We must hope and pray for the continued and complete recoveries from cancer of both King Charles the Third and the delightful Princess of Wales, Kate Middleton. This has not been their year and that has to be the biggest understatement of the past 12 months. For those who embrace the cult of celebrity the dizzy heights of adulation are nothing new. But let's hope our year has been a healthy, happy one and the next year one of unadulterated joyousness. It's over to you Sir Keir Starmer.  

West Ham- in trouble again.

 West Ham - in trouble again. 

At the end of their latest Premier League defeat to Leicester City at the King Power Stadium, West Ham fans roundly booed their Spanish manager Julen Lopetegui, airing their grievances in fairly boisterous fashion and making no secret of their raucous disapproval of a team sliding into a crisis. It began to sound like outright revolt and mutiny on perhaps the most monumental scale since the Sam Allardyce era. 

You remembered an evening match against Hull City when Allardyce's era, the former Hammers manager was surreally heckled and harangued by West Ham's disgusted supporters. On that night, West Ham emerged 2-1 winners in what proved yet another pivotal moment in their Premier League history. But the style of football that Allardyce had advocated for so long was totally at odds with their traditionally fluent and expressive approach to the game which went way back to both Ron Greenwood and John Lyall. 

For long periods of that game, West Ham were plain, mundane, one dimensional, awful at times, atrocious at others, a world away from the stylish and short passing, imaginative side who had brought such pride to English football in 1965 when, under the extraordinary leadership of Bobby Moore, West Ham had brought back the European Cup Winners Cup to England with a 2-0 victory at the old Wembley against German side TSV Munich 1860.

But on Tuesday night, West Ham were back in murky waters again. There was trouble at the mill again and not for the first time. When David Moyes left the club at the end of last season, having decorated their trophy cabinet with its first European trophy since that unforgettable night in 1965, it was widely felt that Moyes had taken the team as far as he could. The UEFA Conference Final victory over Fiorentina two years ago still feels like ancient history but after finishing ninth in the Premier League last season, a shuddering anti climax set in at the London Stadium. 

It was a time for a refreshing change of direction. Former Sevilla, Real Madrid and Wolves manager Julen Lopetegui could call on a modicum of experience in management circles. But a now well publicised goalkeeping howler in Spanish football years ago has now been seen by a modern audience. West Ham began this Premier League season with a distressing sequence of three home defeats by Aston Villa on the opening day followed by a now struggling Manchester City and then Chelsea who must have thought all their birthdays had come at once. The first wounds had been exposed and then things got progressively worse. 

Another crushing 4-1 defeat to London rivals Spurs at the Tottenham Hotspur Stadium left even more painful psychological scars which have never really healed. And then, last week, Spurs long suffering neighbours Arsenal, arrived at the London Stadium and inflicted yet more capital damage on West Ham. After a commendable Champions League victory in Portugal and excellent form back in the Premier League, Arsenal carried out their customary execution over the Hammers with an incredible 5-2 win at the London Stadium, all seven goals coming in a bizarre first half. 

And now Lopetegui finds himself in a nightmarish downward spiral. Patience may be a virtue but the Spaniard finds himself like a matador facing a stubborn bull. The toreador in Lopetegui looked totally drained and washed out after the Leicester game, a haunted, drawn and haggard looking man who looked as if he'd committed the most unforgivable criminal offence of all time. How long has this friendly if slightly confused man got? The world of management is unforgiving, unrepentant and totally without remorse. Nobody feels sorry for the man with the biggest responsibility of them all. 

Your mind also went back to those other temporary occupants of the managerial hot seat at West Ham. Lou Macari and Billy Bonds, the club's courageous hero and captain, lasted as long as their probationary period allowed. It was almost over before it had even started. Macari, regrettably but clearly, was never management material and now does a wonderful job with a local shelter for the homeless. Bonds was adored and revered by the club but although he had Harry Redknapp as assistant boss, the chemical formula never seemed right. 

Today though Julen Lopetegui has been given the benefit of the doubt, a man still facing the gallows but yet to be the condemned man the West Ham faithful think he should be. Lying in 14th place in the Premier League, West Ham are once again standing on the trapdoor to another relegation ordeal. For much of the game at Leicester, West Ham had a lion's share of the possession and almost dominated it for long periods. But Leicester were ruthless and demonstrated the goal scoring art to perfection. Three goals were like a punch to the ribs of Lopetegui. His solar plexus had never been more severely struck.

Next Monday evening, West Ham entertain fellow toilers Wolves whose manager Gary O'Neill once played in the claret and blue of West Ham. It should be considered as a make or break, critical game for the East London side since nothing less than a convincing victory will be enough to save Lopetegui his job. Oh for the agonies and ecstasies of football management, the trials and tribulations of the man in the firing line. It was never easy and for West Ham the next batch of Premier League conflicts, could represent a long, hard and demanding winter for the team once known as Thames Ironworks. Some of us will be closing our eyes and ears before hiding behind the sofa. Football was meant to be stressful. Come on you Irons.  

The festive season.

 The festive season.

Depending on your faith, religious point of view or simply your inclination and interest, Christmas normally means everything to you or simply an excuse to embrace commercialism, the whole concept of Christmas and all of its ritualistic trappings. For, if truth be told, we do the same thing every year at the end of the calendar year, looking forward to Christmas with enormous anticipation because the kids love it, the family can't get enough of it and those supermarkets are just consumed with its festive delights. 

For those who don't follow the historical references and the frantic paraphernalia that surrounds Christmas, the next couple of weeks could be very disconcerting and unnerving. Some of us began to dread the bombardment of Christmas related TV advertising campaigns because we all knew what to expect. It was the traditional reminder of the great family feast on Christmas Day, the endless merriment and mirth while mum and dad scurried around the home tidying up the carnage their kids had left behind them on Christmas Eve. 

It all felt so hurried and urgent, chaotic and disorganised at times. You'd prepared for the big day and yet however much you thought you'd done everything to plan for this time of the year, it was never enough. The great planning operation had been both thorough and meticulous but for what? It was, after all, a couple of days of riotous revelry, eating and drinking almost incessantly, being jolly and jovial to the whole world because Jesus Christ was born on Christmas Day and we all needed something light hearted, fun and frivolous to make us feel good. 

But then you realised - as if we hadn't become patently aware of what this festival is all about- that this entire emotional engagement in the last dying embers of December may not be all that it's cracked up to be. In the days and weeks leading up to Christmas Day, most of us rush around our local supermarkets stocking up on vast quantities of turkeys, hundreds of bags of potatoes, brussel sprouts, massive tins of chocolates, biscuits in wondrous flavours and varieties, mince pies, party hats, the essential trees and everything we thought we'd forgotten. 

This time of the year, of course. is a time for nostalgia, looking back wistfully and fondly on Christmases from long ago and moving reminiscence. Some of us simply can't help but cast our minds back to our childhood and schooldays, the first and formative years of our lives. Although you were proudly Jewish, your school wasn't Jewish and therefore you had to obey the letter of the law and simply conform to the stereotypes. 

Ironically, school assemblies crossed all religious spectrums but the sight of that ancient, yellowing parchment sheet with hymns written across it, jogs some amusing memories. You can still remember standing respectfully and dutifully at the said document on the wall and gazing up at Good King Wenceslas and I Saw Three Ships Go Sailing By on Christmas Day in the Morning. You felt a mixture of wonderment, confusion and stunned amazement. You knew you were Jewish and there was something called the Jewish room but the options were always open. But, at the time, this was a major revelation. 

Then, weeks before the tinsel and glitter event of the year, your teachers would give you chapter and verse on the importance of Christmas, the essence of this memorable family gathering and what we were supposed to be doing. So here were our taxing assignments. All academic lessons would be ceased forthwith and every day would stick to the consistent and classical patterns we would all grow accustomed to. Just get cracking on those decorations and don't stop until we tell you to. 

Now in our school, most of the daily lessons would be conducted in very functional huts outside in the playground. We were now expected to carry out what must have seemed the most military of operations. At roughly this time, several teachers would bark out informative details on that subject. Right, you know what to do class so here's the itinerary so look bright and lively. 

Before we knew it,  six -year- olds, with little knowledge of what exactly was going around them, would be presented with copious pots of glue, colourful crepe paper, safe scissors and staple guns and yet more equipment that would hasten along the process. Then we would go across to our table, giggling mischievously and questioning the necessity for this ridiculous activity. 

Now the fun would promptly begin. Most of us would start cutting up the aforesaid crepe paper, elegantly designing orange lanterns with curls, then silver baubles and bell shaped creations that would all fit nicely into place on the ornate Christmas tree. Within seconds, all of the kids were standing on the table, tying ourselves into ever-increasing knots, desperately trying to hang up these festive adornments, bending and twisting our bodies in all manner of awkward angles. 

Finally, much to the relief of us, the lanterns would be firmly attached to the ceiling and walls so painstakingly that none of us knew the size of our achievements. We just seemed to celebrate the completion of the jobs required of us and downed tools. Then we would proceed to the main hall where a forest of yet more tinsel, glitter, fairies and multi coloured strips of paper would be spread out across the wide expanse of PE pommel horses, climbing frames and an old piano once used by Mrs Mills. 

Lest we forget, there would be the exciting end of term Christmas party. This would be the yearly treat to all these hard working, conscientious pupils still wrestling with the alphabet and the multiplication table. All of the kids were encouraged en masse to bring in our toys and games and that really was something to be looked forward to. You can still recall lugging into our classrooms, groaning packets of crisps, biscuits, sweets and cakes with potentially damaging consequences to our young waistlines. 

So folks it's almost Christmas time. You've no need to panic yet because the supermarkets and shops are bound to be open until roughly midnight and that may be no exaggeration. Retail department stores and shopping malls will reach bursting point at some stage and people wearing red Santa huts and cosy pullovers with reindeers and sleds will be bobbing in and out of Marks and Spencer, John Lewis, Selfridges and those vast emporiums containing presents for our respective families. 

And of course we'll all be subjected to that marvellously therapeutic and rousing sound of festive choirs singing Christmas carols accompanied by those powerful trombones and trumpets. Once again, Regent and Oxford Street will be a blaze of colour, incorporating all of those quaint traditions such as the glittering lights flashing triumphantly across the West End of London.The kids will nag mum and dad silly to get into Hamley's toy shop as soon as possible and Santa Claus will be poised to tumble down chimneys yet again. Ah yes, we can all sense Christmas in our bones. But this year the first day of Chanukah coincides with the first day of Christmas Day so doughnuts by the ready everybody. We're all set.  

St Andrews Day.

 St Andrews Day.

With Christmas and Chanukah now weeks away and the glad tidings of the season already upon us, it is hard to imagine where the time has gone. The ageing process should be a graceful one and undoubtedly this is the case but how time flies indeed. The year of 2024 has been rather like any other year in decades long since gone but perspective is a special thing and this year has of course been eventful, dramatic certainly, traumatic at times but joyful and then disappointing for some if not others.

We all wish we'd had enough time to occupy our hours much more constructively than we were hoping we would. There are formidable tasks that were carried out, there were friends and family we saw briefly but happily but then there were enemies we'll never regret ditching and dumping unceremoniously. We might have missed out on important deadlines, reached for the stars one moment, fulfilled those elusive ambitions but then discovered it just wasn't good enough. We'd have to do better but still, we did try and nobody could possibly have accused of us anything but dedication to the cause.  

And so to the end of this year and what have we done. Another year over to quote the masterful lyricist John Lennon. Tomorrow marks the beginning of, traditionally, the busiest month of the calendar year. December brings with it yet more shorter days when darkness falls over Britain at tea time and the mind is deluded into thinking that it's time for some shut eye and a good night's sleep. The first frost and ice has now arrived on our doorstep, vast quantities of snow have been predicted by the Daily Express for the umpteenth time since July and before you know it, we'll all be preparing for Easter.

Christmas seems to get earlier and earlier, a time of the year when spectacular TV advertising campaigns for all those prestigious British supermarkets become more elaborate with every passing year. They invariably involve gallons of bottled wine, huge helpings of turkeys the size of your dining room, chocolates to damage your waistline for seemingly an eternity and brussel sprouts that are rarely eaten at any other time of the year. 

So today seems as good a time as any other to remind you that it's St Andrews Day. You remember St Andrews Day. It's that day in bonny Scotland where the good, honest and law abiding folk of Glasgow, Edinburgh, Dundee, Aberdeen, the Grampians  and the often turbulent islands up North, let themselves go, shaking off their inhibitions and celebrating life in all its rich diversity. The Scots really do know how to have a good time because every Hogmany and New Year's Eve, they remind you of how to party the night away unashamedly.  

Although not quite the jolly knees up and boozy bacchanalia of New Year's Eve, the whisky distilleries are still plundered and the beer flows like a thousand waterfalls. The whole of Scotland will retire to its local watering hole and high street pub in anticipation of the one event of the year when the drunken delights of the evening culminate in jigging around swords, flinging the tartan kilts around with blissful abandon and, of course, blowing on the bagpipes. Now this has been going on for so many centuries in Scotland that maybe we've taken St Andrews Day for granted. 

Every August, Edinburgh welcomes its vast populations into its street theatres, comedy clubs, bars and then onto its many stages. The Edinburgh Fringe Festival is that yearly homage to British art and culture. It's been going on since time immemorial, a magical exposition of everything zany, eclectic, creative and bohemian. It shouts out the virtues of literature, the craft of comedy at its most refined, music of all genres and performances from all and sundry. 

Today Scotland will remember high summer on the final day of autumn because that's what the Scots do with enormous relish. They sing the praises of Rabbie Burns, Scotland's greatest poet and Sir Walter Scott, Scotland's most literate and outstanding of novelists. They remember the great shipyards of Glasgow, staring mournfully at those once beautiful tenements that are now shopping malls and then long for a time when those grand old Scotsmen and women once walked in the hallowed footsteps of Bonny Prince Charlie and William Wallace. 

Recently, Scotland lost one of its most controversial of politicians. Sir Alex Salmond was a feisty, gritty and combative politician who became the First Minister of Scotland and did rub up his critics the wrong way but then changed opinions when Salmond did something that met with their approval. You would have thought Salmon would have thoroughly enjoyed today because the patriotic inside him would have been mightily proud of Scotland's notable achievements. 

Devolution and independence have always been bones of contention in Scotland. The Scottish assembly continues to be their jewel in their crown. But Scotland has never made any secret of its utter contempt and detestation for England, the Sassenachs, those folk across Hadrian's Wall who just get on their nerves. But today is different or Scotland hope it will be. They'll get drunk tonight and then sing at the tops of their voices because that karaoke is such a splendid idea. 

Then they'll think of the once gifted folk singer and guitarist who became one of the finest and most delightful of all comedians. Billy Connolly is a national treasure, the man who lit up the comic landscape of not only Scotland but the rest of the world with those colourful profanities, the bawdy jokes that shook us to the foundations but has now kept us heaving with delicious laughter for years and years. Connolly's telling observations on society, childhood and his life as a docker in his younger days, filled the halls, clubs and pubs of Britain with blustery gales of hilarity.

But then Connolly conquered Hollywood and converted the Americans overnight with those vulgar witticisms and endless stories about the rich tapestry of life. He appeared in films, late night chat shows and typified the indomitable spirit of Scotland. In fact, Connolly is now regarded as a master of his craft, a wonderful exponent of the graphic and physical sketch where all of the taboo subjects are just repeated over and over again.

And so it is that Scotland will resort to Connolly's saucy sense of humour, those vinegary gags that have kept most of us rolling in the aisles and tickled every bone in our body. Scotland will just be doing what Scotland do best, raising a pint or hundred to the underdog, the football team who always flatter to deceive and then achieve the impossible when the odds are so heavily stacked against them. 

Down South in North London, we will be acknowledging St Andrews Day with a pint of Tennents or two. We'll Take the High Road, blurt out or verse or two of Auld Lang's Syne even if it's almost exactly a month before we should. We shall imagine the mist-shrouded mountains in the Highlands, the drifting snows that begin as sleet but then settle on the summit. We shall think of everything symbolically Scottish, the glens and lochs, the stirring anecdotes about Loch Lomond and Loch Ness, the kings and queens from another age and then St Andrews Day itself. It's time to puff out your chest, Scotland. This is your day. Oh for the swelling pride.  

Thank goodness for peace

 Thank goodness for peace.

It may not be set in stone but all the signs are pointing in the right direction. The news filtering through from the Middle East is that Israel has declared a ceasefire in the war against Lebanon and Hezbollah. Now the truth is that at the moment the longevity of any peace settlement between Israel and its adversaries is always fraught with uncertainty such is the nature of the long standing hatred that still exists in some of the territories. 

But after a long and torturous conflict, often explosive and deadly, Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, so heavily criticised and maligned by those who can barely tolerate him any longer, has made the boldest and bravest decision of his life. Over a year after the first outrageous and hideous attack on Israel on Hamas, Israel has decided that the main enemies have been eliminated and the leaders of both Hamas and Hezbollah are dead and no can longer cause any widespread pain and torment. 

These are encouraging developments since Jews across the globe have been patiently waiting and hoping that one day both Hamas and Hezbollah would come to their senses. Somebody had to knock something into their collective brains because nothing else seemed to be working. War will always leave collateral damage on all humanity and the enduring images of the last year or so have not made for edifying viewing. To the outside observers, it has been the continuous horror show that must have left most of us cold and stunned. There have been attacks and counter- attacks, reprisals and counter- reprisals. 

And yet finally the monumental death toll has been considered more than sufficient for peace in our time. The casualties and fatalities were bloody, distressing, almost too much for the mind to take in. But then we remembered the children, the innocent ones, the next generation who were never consulted over a year ago and the almost silent minority who were helplessly caught up in the unadulterated violence and murder.

So we clasped our hands together in blessed relief, looked to a place deep within us and begged for a permanent truce, a peaceful and amicable solution to this sorry, terrible war of words and minds. And yet scepticism continues to live in our innermost thoughts because we have been here before on innumerable occasions. Hamas promises never to lift another finger in anger because, suddenly, they've been cast as the victims of circumstances, the relentless punch bag for some battle that they must have felt had nothing to do with them. How foolish and delusional they must have been. 

But the evidence was there for all to see. Last year, on October 7th, huge consignments of arms, guns, bombs and abundant ammunition to last several years, were stocked together by Hamas. It was the sacred Jewish festival of Simchat Torah and evil was brewing. Mass squadrons of Hamas terrorists and soldiers prepared themselves for the most disgraceful attack on Israel and civil liberties. What followed was a despicable violation of any law in the land. 

After leaving the Nova music Festival in Israel, thousands of Israeli youngsters streamed away happily, euphoric and full of joy. Suddenly, terrorism reared its ugly head. Turning around in their cars, they panicked and then screamed with agony. Shots were fired indiscriminately at concert goers who were just there to share the beauty of togetherness and happiness. The bullets and bombs were dropping in massive clusters and over 1,500 Israelis died because they were Jewish and had to be wiped out, obliterated from existence. 

To say this was the most shameful and reprehensible act of murderous brutality the Israelis had witnessed for quite a while would be a gross understatement. A recent TV documentary showed the depressing aftermath of that one day. Teenagers were weeping, desperately crying for mercy. They ran for their lives, jumping into building skips, behind shelters, cowering with naked fear and understandably petrified. And then we saw the less fortunate ones, the ones who didn't escape, lying lifeless on the ground, killed because they adhered to the wrong religious principles. In other words, they were Jewish and Hamas just wanted to get rid of the global Jewish population. 

We have now become, more or less desensitised to war, conditioned to its senseless bloodshed and incomprehensible savageries. We look at the evening news now through closed eyes, heads held in shame and speechless since words have become superfluous. But yesterday and the day before, it felt good to be a human being, relieved of the necessity to worry and sympathise and we could sleep easy in our beds knowing that, for the time being, the Middle East is quiet and slowly returning to normality. 

For some of us the Yom Kippur War in 1973 and the Six Day War in 1967 are still firmly lodged in our subconscious or quite clearly in others. We remember the dramatic news broadcast from legendary sports presenter David Coleman when Coleman skilfully described the frightening events of the 1972 Munich Olympic Games. One morning, 11 Israeli athletes were taken hostage in the Olympic village and killed without any provocation. Or maybe they were murdered because they were Jewish. 

To all Jews who have suffered such unforgivable persecution and vilification over the years, it never gets any easier. We now have a cessation of hostilities, a recognition that enough is enough. There is a feeling that eventually some modicum of commonsense will penetrate the minds and combined forces of Hamas and Hezbollah.

We have now assurances from US President Joe Biden that civilised debate will ensue, that intelligence will intervene and a welcome reconciliation will be thrashed out over a hearty lunch.There are vitally important issues of trust and confidence to be negotiated. We must believe in the sometimes mealy mouthed rhetoric from Hamas and Hezbollah but surely there has to be a realisation that too many lives have now been lost and any more lethal ammunition of any description would be asking for more trouble. 

So the world, although comforted by the knowledge that one war has now been seemingly settled, another theatre is still watching another pointless drama. In Ukraine, lives are still being lost as Russian tyrant and dicator Vladimir Putin continues to create hellish havoc with neighbours he simply detests. This is one nasty, dirty and catastrophic war, laced with poison and revulsion of the enemy. But Putin keeps losing his temper, eyes blazing with fury and determined to get his way. We can only hope that one day he plucks up the courage and apologises but we hardly think this is possible in anybody's lifetime. 

But in the Middle East this morning, the vast plumes of mushrooming smoke pouring from demolished homes and buildings, are now clearing. Beirut is still a gory battleground and, in retrospect, always has been while Gaza clears the smoke from their faces and shovels away the devastation. It may be ages before a full recovery is complete although time, as we know, is still a great healer. 

We will once again pray for lasting harmony and goodwill. We still believe in the goodness and humanity of the human race because this is the only way. In Israel this morning, they'll be toasting this ceasefire with a stirring rendition of Hava Negilla, a celebration to last a lifetime. This Shabbat and sabbath weekend, they'll be gathering by the Wall in Jerusalem and singing to life to life L'Chayim.   

Andy Murray - the coach

 Andy Murray- the coach

Now that Andy Murray's vintage days as two- time Wimbledon champion have now passed into the illustrious history books, it would have been safe to assume that memories of his greatness will always be fondly preserved. Besides, Britain had to wait several lifetimes before acknowledging Murray's special and natural talent. We'd more or less given up any hope of re-capturing that iconic moment at SW19 but good things happen to those who wait patiently and never stop believing. 

It had been over 75 years since Britain last acclaimed a men's singles champion at Wimbledon so the man from Dunblane, Scotland deserves every credit. The years have been long and embarrassing at times. But our patience was rewarded in both the Olympic year of 2012 and not once but twice as richly deserved Wimbledon champion. So Murray drove himself to the limit of his renowned endurance and just gritted his teeth. He lifted the famous Wimbledon trophy, showing it off unashamedly and never forgetting the sterling contribution that his mum Judy had made in his maturity and development as a player.

But now Murray's now highly regarded career on the major tennis courts of the world is glorious history. Over the weekend, Murray announced his intention of becoming a coach to one of the greatest modern- day tennis stars of the global community. It was a decision that may have been reached with the heaviest of hearts since Murray must have gone throughout his entire playing career without ever considering the prospect of guiding, encouraging or inspiring his colleagues in later life. 

Now Murray is the official coach to his greatest rival but, still, closest friend Novak Djokovic. Now this seems the unlikeliest of partnerships because both men were dedicated to winning Grand Slams and accumulating so much prize money into the bargain that Murray, as a coach, almost felt like wishful thinking. But the Scotsman has now accepted that his dancing days as a fabulous sportsman and ambassador were something to be treasured and realistically belonged to another golden age. 

After a career often blighted and ruined by incessant injuries, you'd have been forgiven for thinking that Murray would just throw his racket into a nearby bin and never swing another cross court volley, mesmerising forehand winner or stunning backhand. The back problems and various, debilitating niggles, strains and bodily stresses began to mount up quite disturbingly and the temptation to pack it all in always seemed an enticing one. 

But Murray summoned all of those fighting qualities that we've all come to know and love. Murray had stubbornness, gutsy defiance, bucketloads of perseverance, courage in spades and remembered that no match was ever lost until that final, thrilling five set epic. The boy from Dunblane had already experienced some of life's toughest and most harrowing of ordeals. Murray saw all the horrors of a barbaric attack from a vile murderer who terrorised a local school and left a trail of carnage and destruction behind him. So he became conditioned to the harder and unsavoury side of life and soldiered on bravely. 

The boy served his apprenticeship as a fledgling tennis player and worked his way through the youth ranks. He struggled to bury the past at first but then emerged triumphantly in both 2013 and then three years later in 2016. We could barely have imagined that somehow,  from the depths of disaster, one British tennis player could so dramatically transform the fortunes of British tennis. Fred Perry had done the trick back in the 1930s but that was way back in TV's infancy and nobody saw it apart from the Centre Court gathering present at the time. 

Yesterday, the talk among tennis aficionados was of Andy Murray as the motivational guru, the influential coaching figure, the man who made others tick and function properly. What we weren't expecting was an Andy Murray instilling shrewd advice into a man who probably thinks he's unbeatable anyway. Novak Djokovic is not a man to be argued with nor any more likely to respond to those who could only have dreamt of emulating the Serbian's colossal achievements. He does things his way and 

Murray of course was the man who had to follow the intelligent guidance of one Ivan Lendl. Now Lendl was never the most emotional and demonstrative of men and lost a succession of Wimbledon Finals because he was just unlucky on grass. But Murray responded to Lendl and invariably got the most out of the Scot. Lendl instilled bloody-minded aggression and bullish determination into Murray's mind and Murray bust a gut to prove to the world that he was no submissive defeatist with nothing more to give when it mattered. Murray won Wimbledon twice because he was driven, almost possessed at times, pumped up to the highest degree and just devil may care. He had the right kind of attitude, though.  

Now though Murray is the figure behind the scenes and Djokovic will receive the full benefit of Murray's ruthless tongue although the Serb may believe this to be unnecessary. Djokovic is a fiercely independent spirit who follows his instincts rather than others. During Covid 19, Djokovic was adamant in his refusal to take the vaccines before the Australian Open. He was the one who took a militant stand when those who knew him best should have been much firmer with him. 

So it is now Murray's responsibility to take Djokovic under his wing and ram some home truths into the sassy and feisty Serb. Recently, some of us may have noticed a worrying arrogance about the man who has now dominated the Grand Slam era with so many victories that we may have lost count. There is a sense of vanity and ego about him that manifests itself in aggressive fist -pumping, sneering at hecklers in the crowd and simply snarling with a disdainful growl at the now growing list of critics. 

But there is something of an indefinable quality about Murray that once blossomed on Centre Court. Murray has a no nonsense, hard- as- nails belligerence about him that must come with all the right recommendations from both fellow coaches and players in the current generation. Murray is still softly spoken but always positive, never negative, ready to take on the world. This is Murray's ultimate challenge because both men are completely at ease with each other, hearteningly familiar with every stroke and knowing everything there is to know about their body language. 

The epic images of Murray's legendary win over Djokovic in 2013 followed by another Wimbledon Final winning trophy against Canadian Milos Raonic three years later still leaves a warm glow in the hearts of his eternally admiring followers. And now Murray is the inspirational coach, the one who cracks the whip, who watches and studies all of Djokovic's mannerisms, his sometimes moody and temperamental outbursts with an admirable tolerance and forbearance that could be vitally important in their relationship on court. 

This is the next chapter in the career of Andy Murray, a man in complete control of his feelings while trying desperately to hold onto those of his buddy, buddy contemporary. It is a fascinating combination, a friendship that could be tested to the full. So let's hear it for Andy Murray the coach, coaxing from the sidelines, the man with the track suit top equipped with the kind of knowledge that Djokovic may be in need of even if he doesn't think he does. Tennis looks forward to its new power behind the throne. 

International Men's Day.

 International Men's Day. 

You do know what day it is today or maybe you don't. Every so often we need to be reminded of the significance of today in case it's both overlooked and forgotten. Yes folks, it's that day of the year when the men of the global population re-establish their identity because somehow the gentlemen of the world may be feeling alienated and marginalised, lost in a world that may have left them in a private room, unseen, invisible at times perhaps and never really given the recognition they probably deserve.

For as long as humanity has existed since the beginning of time, sexual conditioning has always been a complex issue. It's the men who used to leave their home at the crack of dawn, wiping the frost and ice from their frozen cars before returning to their domestic kith and kin for breakfast with their loving wife and children. Then, with briefcase or bag in their hands, newspaper next to him and a rolled umbrella if they worked in the City, they'd run towards the railway stations, jump onto a Tube or overhead train for another day at the grindstone, working themselves into the ground and toiling away frantically for hour after hour, week after week, month by month and year upon year and another year.

Today folks, it's time to celebrate International Men's Day, a ringing endorsement for masculinity, male bonding, male solidarity, vigorous virility, beating chests with manly pride and pretending that there is a place for men despite any adverse publicity to the contrary. The battle of the sexes is probably as old as time but wherever you may look, the female population will have to take a back seat today. Sorry ladies, it's time for the gentlemen of the world to become assertive again and shout it from the rooftops. 

Now there is a misconception that all men are the same, lazy, lethargic and lackadaisical creatures who go to work in the morning and then come home and expect to have their dinner on the table now, pronto. They fall into the dining room, complaining and discontented, disagreeable and objectionable. Then they collapse onto the sofa, shirt, tie and trousers protesting loudly, kicking off their shoes, moaning incessantly about the total inadequacies of the train network, the endless delays on draughty platforms, the trains that were cancelled for the umpteenth time and then the annoying wait for the aforesaid train. 

It was once said that men were just male chauvinist pigs who did nothing around the home and expected their doting, permanently affectionate wife to do all the dirty work after them. Women fulfilled the function of cooking, cleaning, doing the shopping and rearing children. Women were the ones responsible for watering, feeding and caring for their men folk and children. Women were the unsung heroes who deserve a medal just for tolerating men's eccentricities, their innumerable faults, their unusual habits and just doing the kind of things designed to drive women completely mad.

So now it's time for the men of the global habitation to strike back with a vengeance. The stereotypical man is the one who spends every Sunday morning, washing, polishing and scrubbing his car with meticulous attention to detail and a gleam of tenderness in their eyes. Then their mates converge on them from all directions and demand they get a move on. It's football on the marshes, parks and recreation grounds of Britain, respectable men, growling, shouting, laughing, joking with each other on muddy quagmires during all winters. 

They pull on their multi coloured football shirts, struggle to fit their feet into the same boots they've been wearing for the last 30 years and then releasing a huge bag of footballs onto a million pitches.They slam the car boot vehemently, chuckling sadistically at each other's stomachs, be they of the ironing board variety or paunchy, portly figures that may have eaten too many pizzas during the week. Football is the definitive theme of a man's life unless they can't stand the game. Football reinforces a man's sense of worth, his striving for acceptance and validation from the rest of society. Football used to be a man's game but has now found gender equality with the advent of the hugely popular Women's Super League. 

But men and cars have now become synonymous with each other not so much obviously linked to each other but a homogenous whole where men have carved their initials on other pursuits. Men now take themselves off to river banks where, for hours at a time, they indulge in the ultimate male pursuit of fishing. Mostly in isolation, they escape from the female demands and exhortations. Rather than mowing the grass in the garden or painting the kitchen yet again or fixing another set of shelves on the wall, men throw nets into hundreds of cod, trout and haddock communities, pipes in mouths and bottles of lager to keep them company. 

Oh but of course men drink lager because alcohol is one of their more frivolous preoccupations. It is the only way of winding down after a gruelling day at the work furnace. Drink is that mentally satisfying hobby where nobody minds if they swallow as many pints of ale in record time. Alcohol used to be that working class guilty pleasure that men embraced because it relieved the presssure, slowed down the reflexes and just made them laugh once the threshold had been broken. Then lager and ale conspired to affect their everyday behaviour, muddying their senses before reducing men to quivering wrecks. 

Some of the more macho of men just attach themselves to activities that may seem rather less than conventional. They buy huge chrome motor bikes, investing in sartorially correct leather jackets, growing thick beards and then applying glorious tattoos to their arms and shoulders. Male grooming of course is a much more recent innovation and something to be acknowledged as a proper expression of their real selves. Bottles of hair gel, genuine shavers, innumerable choices of after shave lotions and bottles of anti-perspirants provide a comforting accompaniment to the male with perhaps hidden insecurities. 

Then for all of the men of the global mass, there are the dedicated lorry drivers whose massive articulated vehicles roar up and down the motorways, freeways and autobahns of the universe with unwavering commitment. Male lorry drivers are tireless creatures who power their way past the heaviest traffic jams before dropping into motorway services for several plates of everything with mountains of chips. They roll up their sleeves, eat yet more chocolate bars and then hold onto their steering wheel with a steely tenacity as if refusing to accept that they may be knackered and exhausted. 

But as a male member of the human race, you begin to wonder if perceptions will ever change. To the impartial observer, they remain downtrodden, determined to create the right and favourable impression but often failing miserably. They then resume their role as pub-drinking builders with muscles the size of rocks, industrious painters and decorators who love nothing better than a good, old fashioned perusal of Page Three of the Sun. This may come as something of a major disappointment to them because semi naked young girls are a dwindling species if not entirely non existent. 

So Happy International Men's Day both Ladies and Gentlemen. For obvious reasons, your adorable and wonderful late dad always remains firmly on your mind and will never be forgotten. My dad was the epitome of male elegance and propriety. My dad dressed immaculately at all times, well tailored jackets, suits and blazers always to the fore. In fact he insisted on sartorial perfection because if there was no tie to hand and a handkerchief in his breast pocket, then my dad just felt incomplete. My dad used to wear a naval blazer for the seaside and no trip to either Southend or Westcliff was without the crisp shirt or a leisurely Fred Perry T-Shirt. He was always smartness personified but although never a drinker, loved smoking to his hearts content. 

Way back in the early 20th century most of the male Hollywood leading lights, blockbuster household names and distinguished film luminaries were never without a cigarette either dangling from their lips or a fashionable lighter with boxes of matches in their possession. Both  my lovely mum and dad were regular smokers but my dad had to have a packet of Senior Service cigarettes at his disposal. Bogart was addicted to his nicotine habit and you feel sure that my dad responded to Bogart's daily routines. 

And so men once again, it's time to stand up and announce yourself proudly to all and sundry. This is not a time for being ashamed of who we are or apologetic in any way for any of our faults. Men may be portrayed as strong, muscular, ambitious, commonly athletic and just setting the right exemplary role model to both their wives, sons and daughters. But, above all, this is the day when men should be rightly proud of being fathers, boys, men, friends, uncles, cousins, teenage adolescents who just want to be the best husbands imaginable. Let's hear it for the boys and men.   

   

England are promoted to group A of the UEFA Nations League.

 England are promoted to group A of the UEFA Nations League.

England have been promoted to group A of the UEFA Nations League. That's official and unquestionable. In bold lettering. All over the country, advertising hoardings will be emblazoned with the news. Every high street, suburban and urban shopping centre, road, street and avenue will be announcing perhaps one of the most underwhelming pieces of information in the sporting history of Britain and the Commonwealth. Or will it be? This could be one of the greatest days in England's chequered history. You somehow think not. 

 Maybe we're underestimating the momentousness of England's achievement in the highest echelons of international football. But now is not the time for being facetious because the England football team are back at the top table of world football and it's time to get out the street bunting, dozens of sandwiches, crisps, cakes and biscuits and tables heaving with celebratory food and drink. Yes folks, England are through to the latter stages of the UEFA Champions League and you can pinch yourself now.  

They are through to Group A of the UEFA Champions League. Yesterday, the vicars and congregation of every Sunday church across the country were chanting homages to the England football team. Every rhapsodic hymn, including Jerusalem, floated across the lush meadows, the well manicured fields, while also giving thanks to the gushing rivers and streams that dot the timelessly majestic landscape of the British countryside. Brass bands and jazz quartets, orchestras and theatres could hardly contain their excitement. England are back among the main contenders. And the Republic of Ireland could do nothing about it. 

For a country that rejoices in its grand literary heritage and Guinness drinking culture, this was not the best of nights for the Republic of Ireland football team. In fact, it could hardly have gone any worse for Southern Ireland since Finland couldn't do them any favours against Greece and Irish luck was completely out. In the bars and taverns of Dublin they must have been drowning their sorrows and you could almost hear their ancestors weeping into tankards of inconsolable booze. Maybe the likes of Oscar Wilde, William Yeats and Seamus Heaney may have been somewhere in the ether, sobbing bitterly but we doubt it. 

This was an awful and disastrous evening for the Republic of Ireland who must have thought they'd held out quite creditably against an England side who probably thought they'd done enough anyway even before last night's contest. Wembley was reasonably jammed solid but not exactly bursting at the seams with pleasure. When both the Republic and England met at the Aviva, the Irish were swept away in a white tidal wave of pressure and English domination. Euro 2024 had been forgotten and this was a new slate, new time and place and another tournament. What could go wrong?

The only blot on England's horizon was the horrific 2-1 defeat by Greece at Wembley and, judging by the nerves and apprehension gripping the English fans before the match against Eire, you feared that something could malfunction and, for a while, England reminded you of a hall of fretful school students studying for their A Levels. Their heads were down, creased with anxiety and full of worse case permutations. What would have happened had they drawn a blank on their logarithms and algorithms, their algebra, their graphs and rock formations, their extensive knowledge of the capitals of the world? It doesn't bear thinking about. 

But Lee Carsley, their temporary boss, bowed out with an emphatic 5-0 victory and confirmation that things had gone well for him. It all looked a bit dodgy and worrying at times but there was never any need to panic. England were on solid ground last night and everything looked safe and secure, then oozing with confidence because somebody had pulled the right levers and switched on the right lights. By the time that an hour of the match had gone, England were sailing serenely away with happiness and out of sight. The England cruise vessel looked in stately command, untroubled by raging storms that might have impeded their progress. No problem and no sweat for Lee Carsley's men.

After an even and tightly contested first half in which the bulk of England's possession seemed to be going nowhere, the large green contingent of noisy and high spirited Irish fans were in full voice. The Irish were moderately threatening at times but this was never going to be their night. There were no goals in their tank and, at times, you wondered what the magical feet and vision of Liam Brady would have made of last night's mish mash of a Republic team. You tried to imagine what the likes of Don Givens, Tony Grealish, Ray Houghton and Frank Stapleton would have done to turn around the fortunes of this current Republic of Ireland team. 

The days of the unforgettable managerial reign of Jack Charlton are no longer relevant. The legendary 1966 England World Cup winner would have seen the delicious irony of this painful defeat for the Irish. But then Charlton would probably have pointed to that other memorable confrontation in the 1988 European Championship when Houghton's guided header flew past Peter Shilton in the England goal for the winning goal in the group stages. 

But this made for nasty and uncomfortable viewing for the Irish, an evening for hiding behind sofas and cowering away shamefully in Irish pubs. Their football looked distinctly pleasing and well constructed but there was little cutting edge and nothing to upset the English apple cart. So England gradually gathered themselves for an imminent cavalry charge and then the second half arrived. One defining and match- changing moment left the Irish busted and broken.

Minutes into the second half, Liam Scales launched into a reckless tackle for the Irish, having already been booked earlier on in the game. It was as if somebody had knocked over their king in a game of chess. The Irish were floored and bereft, desolate and desperate. A hitherto well organised green defence tumbled to the ground. England gorged themselves hungrily on a banquet of goals. It became all too easy. The Irish were horribly exposed and even England's permanently optimistic supporters could hardly believe what they were seeing, a calamitous Irish defensive collapse. 

Harry Kane, dropped for the game against Greece in Athens, was back in the team. It was Kane's delightfully perceptive and well weighted pass into the path of Jude Bellingham that left the first cut in the Irish wounds. Bellingham was tripped blatantly in the penalty area, Kane stuttered before drilling the penalty into the back of the Eire net. 

Then Tino Livramento, another surprise choice for Lee Carsley's squad, surged to the by line purposefully, cutting the ball back sharply with a low cross that arced over Irish heads and into the onrushing Anthony Gordon. The Newcastle winger is slowly developing the instincts of a Tom Finney although that may be a gross exaggeration. But Gordon came steaming into the six yard box at full pelt and clipped the ball firmly into the net for what now looked a decisive second goal for England. 

England were now definitely in control of a game that never looked in doubt after England doubled their lead. This was the cue for the appearance of the increasingly impressive West Ham striker Jarrod Bowen to add even more punch and bite to England's flourishing attack. Within minutes of Bowen jogging onto the pitch as a substitute, England were awarded a free kick from out on the right. A precise ball to Bowen's feet worked like a dream and the Hammers striker whipped a well struck shot confidently past the Liverpool goalkeeper Caoimhin Kellener. It was the fruition of a training ground routine and Bowen had notched his debut goal for England. 

A game that had looked so nicely balanced at the start of the second half, now fell by the wayside for the Republic of Ireland. England added a now obvious fourth goal following a well delivered corner. Marc Guehi, the steady and reassuring Crystal Palace defender, nodded the ball on with his head. Conor Gallagher, who now looks a much happier player since his move to Spain, prodded the ball over the line after a momentary consultation with VAR. The goal was given and England were on cloud nine.

And finally to add insult to injury for the Republic, a fifth goal must have seemed like the ultimate kick in the ribs. For the green shirts worn by Nathan Collins, Mark Mcguinness, Michael Johnson, former West Ham player Josh Cullen and Kasey McAteer, this was a night to wipe from their memories almost immediately. So it proved. Bellingham was once again here, there and everywhere and his beautifully angled ball into the penalty area found Southampton's emerging talent Taylor Harwood Bellis who thundered his header into the back of the net for another England goal. 

So what happens now? At the beginning of next year, former Chelsea manager Thomas Tuchel will take over as England manager and the lively discussions will begin. Will Tuchel have a World Cup qualifying campaign at the back of his mind or the more pressing issue of a UEFA Nations League trophy dominating his thoughts? Some of us would like to think that Tuchel will be prioritising  what might be another World Cup trophy for England. There can be no other consideration unless you're an England supporter who would give anything for a trophy of any description.

It'll be exactly 60 years since that iconic and wonderfully exhilarating July afternoon when London stopped on its axis. Sir Alf Ramsey just sat expressionless and hardly moved when he discovered that England had just won the World Cup. Surely even the most passionate of England's loyal followers will hardly give the UEFA Nations League another thought if the Jules Rimet Cup suddenly pops up on their radar. We await with our customary expectations.