General Election year and the Tories are rapidly disappearing.

 General Election year and the Tories are rapidly disappearing.

After 14 years of character assassination, blatant betrayal, lies, double dealing and a good deal of mischievous giggling in the face of hardship, the Conservative party finds itself at a crossroads. In fact the truth is the Tories are in a right old state, in a hole of their own making, burdened by a dire predicament and more or less in tatters. Nobody should jump to any rash conclusions but it does appear that they're doomed, condemned to a life outside 10 Downing Street and feeble opposition to what would seem like a Labour government sometime this year. But then again anything can happen and miracles are possible.

We should have known of course that eventually they'd run out of time or were just treading water desperately. This looks like the most dishevelled mess, a party now torn apart, riven by internal divisions, conflicts of interest, bickering and quarrelling among themselves and wishing that someone would put them out of their misery. Somewhere over the horizon there is a Tory party heading into a grey wilderness.  It almost feels as though the Conservative party are now resigned to defeat in this year's General Election- whenever that is.

Yes folks it's General Election year and, as is normally the case, most of us will be constantly reminded that our vote counts and Second World War soldiers made the ultimate sacrifices with their lives for the right to put our cross on our ballot box piece of paper. But the inescapable fact is that none of us know with any certainty why we are voting, who we're supposed to be voting for and whether it's worth all of that effort and exertion if only because there seems little point.

At the moment Rishi Sunak, the UK Prime Minister, is compiling a dossier of facts, statistics, information, a little humour and convincing evidence which will corroborate his defence of the obvious. Of course the Tories will bring Britain back into the land of honey and gold, enduring prosperity, excellent health, better educated, wiser, happier and entirely satisfied with everything the Tories may have to offer. If you vote for the Conservatives the country will thrive, succeed and hit all the right economic targets. 

If you vote for the Tories you will certainly be able to afford a new house and mortgage, make a decent life for yourselves and just get on with the business of living. The cost of living crisis will become ancient history, the rate of inflation will be kept down to an acceptable level, the NHS will get a huge injection of money while junior and senior doctors will get a fortune. Wages at all levels will, at long last, become commensurate with the rest of the working world and we'll all be living in the lap of luxury.

Britain's long term future will be at its healthiest with greener than ever environmental issues imminently addressed as soon as Sunak returns to 10 Downing Street. Carbon fuel will transform the country's landscape in a way that may take all of us by surprise. And we should never forget the whole tenure of Prime Minister which is sure to come under the closest scrutiny. This is where the fiercest spotlight will fall on any incoming Prime Minister.

When Boris Johnson swept to power as Prime Minister at the end of 2019, most of us were hoping against hope that here would be the man who would ultimately be the answer to our dreams. Sadly though, no sooner than Johnson got his feet under the table then a globally catastrophic virus would ruin his moment of glory. It all seemed to go according to plan but by the end of January 2020, stories emerging from a cruise vessel began to spiral out of  control. People were suffering from some mysterious illness that would turn our lives upside down for the next two and a half years. 

By March, Johnson was huffing and puffing, issuing urgent instructions to the great British public and wondering what on earth was going on around him. It almost felt like a wartime scenario but with several notable differences. Now it was that Covid 19 had been coined as the new term to what would become a fatal illness in the months and years to come. But this was no war because there were no terrorists, and no destruction of property nor human beings by gunfire, bombs or bullets. Johnson was now facing a major health issue and for the most of 2020, looked as though he'd seen a ghost.

Thankfully two years later and two prime ministers down the line Britain now finds itself fathoming the current incumbent Rishi Sunak. The bottom line here is that the Tories have been the government  in residence for 14 years and are now may have passed their sell by date. So perhaps we should all just give them a sharp jab in the ribs and tell them in no uncertain terms that they're surplus to requirements and should just leave by the tradesman's entrance but this time exit immediately. Sunak now looks like one of the last business leaders to leave the conference room, slightly embarrassed and just reduced to tiresome soundbites and pathetic platitudes we must have heard a thousand times.

Sadly most of the collateral damage had been done in the wake of Boris Johnson's departure from 10 Downing Street. After what must have been several lifetimes, Johnson left office amid a whole barrage of scathing and personal criticism. He'd blundered around the whole of Covid 19 unforgivably, grasped at coherent sentences about matters of crucial importance and finally ended up quoting passages from a children's book Peppa The Pig when influential entrepreneurs were gathered to listen to his every word.

Shortly after leaving the premises there was a brief hiatus as busy and diligent ministers all rushed around doing their utmost to make matters considerably worse than they already were. There was scandal after scandal, cheese and wine parties that should have been forbidden at source when Covid 19 had said that such riotous revelry was out of the question and boozy ensembles were at their height in Westminster.

And then there was Liz Truss. Now to say Truss was the worst and most temporary Prime Minister would be a gross understatement. Truss, in one of the most bizarre and amateurish acts of miscalculation and financial mismanagement, announced a proposal that would have probably led to street riots and violent demonstrations had she carried through with it. Within 45 days Truss had gone without so much as a whimper. Truss had left the building and the country just looked at the people who were entrusted with the responsibility of running the UK. Eyes were rubbed in stunned amazement.

Following another period of hostile bloodletting among the Tories, there were raging arguments and counter arguments, serious reflection and a realisation that something had to give. And it did. There was head scratching, a sense of genuine shock and a lengthy session of papering over the cracks. For a while the candidates for Prime Minister were multiplying by the hour and day. So they tossed a coin quite probably, played rock, paper and scissors or just drew lots since none of us knew about the competence and suitability of any replacement for Liz Truss.

There was the terrible disaster who was Theresa May as PM, who was almost destined to fall flat on her face after tearfully accepting her fate when Brexit hadn't quite lived up to her deluded expectations. Of course she was proudly patriotic but most of the nation considered May just wasn't up to the practicalities of dealing with Brexit and she had to leave office quite swiftly. So once again it was that door Theresa. She'd wanted her country back but not on the terms and conditions as stipulated by her colleagues and the public alike.

So here we are months away from a General Election although no date has been fixed as yet. We could be here quite a while and we are now gearing up for the great and earnest debates about Gaza, the Ukraine, the economy, the environment and the dodginess of politicians when asked simple questions. But some of us couldn't possibly comment and impartiality is our current stance. We'll be bombarded with party political broadcasts, carefully engineered campaigns on behalf of all parties and then the door knocking in every community, town, city and village throughout the country. They'll be asking your vote please because that's what it says on our trustworthy manifesto. Of course you can trust them. 

As the days and weeks fly past the cynics and disgruntled radio phone in callers will become more vociferous and controversial. Shortly Sunak and Sir Keir Starmer leader of the Labour party and Ed Davy, the Liberal Democrats leader. Then the lesser known political parties will throw their philosophies into the circus ring. Some of us are hoping that the Monster Ravin Loony party will be at their most articulate and sensible because they quite clearly have the finger on the pulse of the nation.

And finally within a week or two of the General Election, Sunak, Starmer and Davy will be summoned before the TV cameras for a good old fashioned dust up and argy bargy confrontation. It'll be one of the most objectionable, horribly tedious and insufferable spectacle you're ever likely to see.

 They'll spend a wasted evening pointing fingers at each other, accusing of each other of gross incompetence and just talking over the other as you normally would in a civilised world or maybe not. There will be incessant point scoring, facetious comments, childish and insulting comments by the dozen and general unpleasantness. But then again you'd hardly expect anything else from politicians. So buckle up folks and prepare for the General Election. Some of us believe there can only be one result but then again none of us really know. It should be a very interesting year for British politics.

Goodbye Stan Bowles- the last of football's great playmakers.

 Goodbye Stan Bowles- the last of football's great playmakers.

With the death of Stan Bowles and the loss of almost the entire squad of England's 1966 World Cup winning heroes it would be easy to become morbid and morose, even despairing. The fact remains that football has almost lost its entire backbone in recent years and for those of us who grew up with the revered likes of Stan Bowles, Tony Currie, Frank Worthington, Rodney Marsh, the incomparable George Best, Alan Hudson and too many to mention let alone miss, their replacements or like may never be found.

Yesterday though Stan Bowles, a masterful playmaker of the highest quality, died peacefully at the age of 75, a body exhausted by the severities and rigours of smoking, drinking and late night boozy saturnalia. The truth is of course that Bowles burnt the midnight oil and then disobeyed all the laws, rules and regulations that he must have found so oppressively restrictive anyway. Bowles loved the night life and he loved to boogie.

Bowles embraced rebellion and non conformity in the way that most of his aforementioned contemporaries had done so openly. Bowles gained enormous pleasure from innumerable packets of cigarettes, betting on horses quite brazenly before a big match and doing the kind of things off the pitch that the moral majority would have found quite outrageous. He read football programmes when his team were about to take a corner, then resorted to the kind of debauched behaviour that local vicars would have found disgusting and disgraceful.

Firstly at Manchester City and then with much more distinction at Queens Park Rangers, Stan Bowles was the personification of the 1970s misfit, a bad boy who flaunted his flamboyance shamelessly on the pitch and then tried to pretend there was nothing wrong with his off field conduct. He was simply expressing himself quite beautifully and illustrating the game with some of the most attractive designs it had ever seen. Bowles was a natural expressionist, the clown prince, troubadour extraordinaire, the court jester who was convinced that life was to be enjoyed to the full.

At times though Bowles would become unmanageable to such an extent that certain managers simply tolerated his idiosyncrasies, the annoying quirks, the bad habits, the incessant refuelling and then the desperate attempts at reinvention on the pitch. Gordon Jago and Dave Sexton, his patient managers at QPR, must have been tearing their hair out at Bowles complete lack of self restraint, the tomfoolery, the comical confrontations with referees like Pat Partridge, Gordon Hill and Clive Thomas. Bowles must have thought the game was some hilarious joke and laughed at incessantly.

During one unforgettable season at Queens Park Rangers the West London side came agonisingly close to winning the old First Division, the League Championship in 1976. With the final two and three matches left to play in the season, Rangers were still in contention to clinch the trophy for the first time in their history. But then Liverpool, who were almost seasoned campaigners when it came to winning the First Division and League Championship, went to the Molyneux before thrashing Wolves 3-1 with goals from those Kevin Keegan and John Toshack halcyon days of wine and roses.

But Rangers and Bowles were there at the finishing line and almost sampled the most historic moment in the club's history. They finished as runners up to Liverpool but were agonisingly close to an achievement that may have changed everybody's perception of the club. Sadly, the Rangers team of Gerry Francis, a born leader of  men and Dave Thomas winging it with speed and blistering acceleration, were a side of all seasons, always positive and admirably ambitious.

Bowles though became disillusioned with the game and by his mid 30s the trickery and technique was still there but the immaculate ball control had now gone, the first touch deserting him almost alarmingly. He could still open up the opposition with an almost effortless nonchalance, a through ball that left most defenders gasping for breath and wishing they hadn't bothered chasing in the first place. The vision and instinctive awareness of his colleagues had always been in his mind, but the bigger picture was now just blurred and distorted by smoking, boozing, performing as the ultimate playboy and then blowing his wages on the cheap fripperies, the expensive coats, the flared trousers by the dozen and general, unnecessary ephemera.

By the time Bowles had joined Leyton Orient or Orient as they were known at the time, Stan The Man had now become a sad parody of his former self rather like the distinguished actor who just refuses to learn his lines. There was a lingering air of creativity about his game but poor Orient were simply offering Bowles a brief extension to his career and the Os just indulged him. Soon the glamour and grease paint had vanished. Bowles bowed out of the game and into a wilderness from which there would be no return.

In his final years Bowles would be swallowed up by the early stages of Alzheimer's disease which would show every sign of deterioration quite rapidly. In recent years there was the fund raising testimonial at Loftus Road where the great and good paid effusive homage to Stan Bowles. We remember though the wasted talent at international level when Don Revie just thought Bowles was too much of a loose cannon for England and more of a liability. There were five caps for England but most of us had tragically forgotten all about all those appearances.

Brian Clough, perhaps one of football's greatest managers, spotted Bowles unique ability to change the direction of a game with one incisive pass and feet that were sprinkled with stardust. Nottingham Forest would gamble with Bowles rebellious streak but once again Bowles went on his famous wanderings and although added to one of Forest's European Cup squad, never really seized the moment.

And then Bowles, by now handicapped by his now terminal disease, sporadically accepted the invitation to the after dinner circuit of speeches and stories. But the energy had been drained from him and Bowles looked more frail and weaker every time the camera snapped at the wrong time. Yesterday football lost another lovable rogue, a dashing cad and bounder, one of its many charming characters. He may well have been the last since the football room is getting emptier by the week, month and year. Of course we'll miss you Stan Bowles. That goes without saying.

The League Cup Final this weekend

 The League Cup Final this weekend.

This weekend marks the 64th anniversary of the old League Cup and it hardly seems like yesterday since the likes of Rochdale and Norwich City were flavour of the month in football's highest echelons. In the modern incarnation of the Carabao Cup, football now pays homage to Thai energy drinks and corporate greed on quite the most monumental scale of them all. Somehow football has forgotten about its genuine grassroots and those who were overlooked in the relentless pursuit of vast sums of money and even greater quantities of dosh and filthy lucre.

And so we find ourselves casting our minds back to the very inception of the League Cup when an FA old school traditionalist by the name of Alan Hardaker thought it a good idea to create a new competition. This was a time when there were only two TV channels in Britain, a pint of best bitter would probably have set you back a princely sum of a handful of shillings while petrol was so ridiculously cheap that you could probably take a family of four to the seaside without emptying your bank account.

True, Rochdale fitted perfectly the criteria of Hardaker's bold vision, a team languishing in the lowest dungeons of football's dank and dark lower regions. In fact Rochdale were so far removed from the old First Division old boys network that included Liverpool, Arsenal, Chelsea, Manchester United, Everton and Spurs that they may well have been living in modest and respectable semi detached, terraced houses off the East Lancashire Road compared to the penthouse suites of the top flight.

But the club who play their football at Spotland had somehow reached the miraculous heights of football's upper classes. Of course the League Cup was designed for teams completely outside the highest sphere of top class football. It was felt that football had to remember its poorer cousins, accommodating both its close acquaintances lower down the FA pyramid and hoping a red carpet would be rolled out to the honest toilers and less than star struck colleagues.

Over the weekend Mauricio Pochettino's Chelsea will face Jurgen Klopp's Premier League leaders Liverpool in one of the less prestigious Cup Finals of the season. Now for those of us who believe quite rightly that every football team deserves its day in the sun, Chelsea and Liverpool, although perfectly entitled to be at Wembley for the latest edition of the old League Cup Final, may have to be grateful for their lofty positions. Rochdale and Norwich City were indeed the first trailblazers and nobody should ever forget where they've come from.

It was roughly 20 years after its birth that the League Cup suddenly discovered the considerable financial benefits to be gained from just being the first springtime Cup Final of the season. We knew that there were the incentives and profits to be made and a place in the following season's UEFA Cup was no more than ample reward for their endeavours that season.

And then there was the Milk Cup, football just falling for the easy temptation of becoming grand mercenaries and attaching itself to what used to be one of the most favourite drinks of primary school children during an early morning break. Who could ever have predicted that the Milk Marketing Board would have anything to do with football? At the time of course none of us were really aware of the importance of sports sponsorship in relation to football. But by any other name it was still essentially the League Cup only this time football became helpless victims of circumstances. Or maybe this was just a dramatic sea change in the game's rapidly changing evolution.

Come the 1980s the Littlewoods Cup brought football into the world of iconic commerce, now a sport that had suddenly lent itself to a celebrated pools company. At the time nobody seemed to bat an eye lid since by now football had been well and truly overtaken by million pound retail companies and anybody prepared to throw lavish amounts of money into the game. It almost felt as if football had lost its moral bearings according to some but then there was the realisation that the game had to embrace new technologies and new commercial opportunities to keep up with the rest of other sporting institutions. The Littlewoods Cup was just the launch pad for greater things to happen in the game.

Then in more recent times we were confronted with the Rumbelows Cup which in retrospect almost sounds too antiquated for words. Rumbelows went out of business years ago as an electrical and electronic supplier that produced our radios and TVs in huge quantities. But then most of us would now probably regard as Rumbelows as relevant as gobstoppers in any discussion about football today.

During the early 1970s Spurs dominated the opening years of the League Cup. After two victories in early part of the decade over Norwich and Aston Villa, it was then Manchester City who clinched their first piece of silverware for well over a decade. City overcame Newcastle in the 1974 League Cup Final with that spectacular acrobatic bicycle kick from Dennis Tueart winning the trophy for City. It's hard to believe now of course but City were struggling to impose themselves as a top flight club back then so the irony is not lost on any of us.

In the 1980s Liverpool lifted the League Cup on several occasions while in perhaps the most improbable of all scenarios Swansea walked up the Wembley steps to pick up the now coveted League Cup with a comprehensive 5-0 victory over Bradford City. After West Brom had become the last team to win the old League Cup over two legs against West Ham in 1966 another London side, QPR became the first team to win the trophy a year later at Wembley Stadium when Mark Lazarus and a flamboyant showman named Rodney Marsh guided the Loftus Road club to triumph over West Brom again.

And so to the present day. Still the League Cup or the Carabao Cup continues to be regarded with a certain amount of belly laughter and derision. It still has a certain amount of clout and prestige in the eyes of some but this weekend Liverpool will be aiming to add another trophy to their hugely impressive cabinet while Chelsea will be trying to find some kind of momentum and impetus to an otherwise ropy and disjointed season. These two have already met in an FA Cup Final so they certainly have history but the old League Cup is not something to be dismissed as a poor relation to the FA Cup. It still matters to those who believe it to be a passport into Europe. Rochdale, for their part, will never forget it. 

Prescot- a shining jewel.

 Prescot- a shining jewel.

Liverpool is the city where unparalleled greatness was once born. It came out into the world as the bonniest baby you've ever seen and it never stopped believing, retaining the faith, a city where dreams grew up and then flourished in a way that we would never have thought possible after the Second World War and certainly not before the Swinging Sixties or the austerity of Post War Britain. There was also the greyness that surrounded the 1950s, where the Albert Dock must have looked very dull and sorrowful. But then everything was bleak and dreary anyway so the whole of Merseyside had to be forgiven. Hitler and his cronies had left Liverpool in tatters and broken hearted so now was the time for unashamed celebration.

Then there was the explosion of hope, colour, personality, prosperity, pop music and the boy band who were just irrepressible and then became world famous for an entire decade. The 1960s was that seminal point in British history where a city's culture and heritage would undergo a life changing facelift. Music had moved into the neighbourhood and a once severely damaged city flowed with nectar and ambrosia, the sweetest sounds in the world and a powerful message to the rest of the world. 

And suddenly the world had discovered the Beatles, the Fab Four, John, Paul, Ringo and George, a female singer with the most distinctive voice by the name of Cilla Black and a comedian who had hitherto reached the height of his powers. His name was Jimmy Tarbuck and he would dominate the showbusiness fraternity for decades after his first angelic appearance as a young gag teller on Sunday Night at the London Palladium. It was TV entertainment at its finest and the only show where devout Sunday church goers would rush home from prayer and worship after Mass just to watch the television.

Then there was Gerry and the Pacemakers, a band so vibrant, happy-go lucky and infectiously enthusiastic that by the time they came off the stage, their audiences were still smiling, humming, clicking their fingers and cheering from the rafters. Sadly, Gerry Marsden, who had established such a firm stronghold in the nation's hearts, died a couple of years ago so we would never know how far their popularity would take them. Ferry Across the Mersey and You'll Never Walk Alone would become notable achievements in the band's repertoire. Legendary status would be conferred on Gerry and the Pacemakers and they would never look back.

But last week my lovely wife Bev and I paid a flying visit to Prescot, a neat, compact, comfortable and tightly knit community who go about their business in much the way they'd always done so. Prescot is a friendly, welcoming Liverpool suburb and lies in a small pocket of England's rich tapestry. It never bothers, upsets or offends anybody because Prescot is very modest and self deprecating, completely apart from the hectic convulsions and overwhelmingly deafening noises of the big city. Prescot is quiet, simple, unfussy, never troubled or troublesome, just agreeable and working at its own pace.

We were there to see our wonderful son Sam and daughter in law Lucy, our wonderful grandson Arthur in an immensely satisfying week which included a riverboat ferry across the Mersey and the Gerry Marsden Ferry site, so appropriately called. Our journey took us on a round trip of the Mersey, passing the celebrated Liver Birds  building and dockyard sights that were once home to, quite possibly, vast quantities of sugar, tobacco, tea and coffee. The Industrial Revolution had now come and gone and Liverpool would, several decades later, come alive with a magical and melodious vibe. It felt almost too good to be true.

Meanwhile in Prescot we were finding new smells, fresh fragrances and local attractions that somehow belong to Prescot. On one walk we came across Prescot Cables FC, a football club so small that it wouldn't have appeared on any radar had we not known it was there in the first place. But Precot Cables FC was just stupendously charming and just traditionally enchanting. You looked up at these giants of football's Non League pyramid and found that all is well in North West England.

In front of us two beautifully painted doors and turnstiles just stood there proudly and nobly. Next to these stunning pieces of architecture there was a row of terraced houses that reminded you of Premier League newcomers Luton Town, whose snug Kenilworth Road ground can be accessed through back alleys and quaint, quiet roads completely undisturbed by the stampeding footsteps of Manchester City, Arsenal, Chelsea, Spurs, Manchester United and, of course Liverpool.

Prescot's ground sits peacefully next to the most beautiful wall adorned by floral graffiti and bird life. The wall had artistically striking flowers that just took the breath away. Out of the corner of your eye you could see the most delicious illustration of a red ladybird flirting with Mother Nature. A walk through Prescot's shopping centre did come as a shock to the system. On Monday morning it was more or less empty, completely deserted and there were very few people in sight. Admittedly, most of Prescot was at work, school or university so this may have been a totally misleading impression.

Of course there were the familiar Turkish barbers, bakeries galore, nail bars in profusion, bookmakers taking well calculated bets from the public, vegan cafes, cheap Poundland bargain shops and butchers selling chicken, beef and lamb by the lorryload. There was nothing out of the ordinary or surprising about these local retail treasure troves. But despite the rain we all had the grandest of times and back at home we tucked into our meat pies and bread with enormous relish.

At the moment Liverpool is enjoying an immense renown if only because of its historic associations to light entertainment, stars that shone and still shine with a luminescence that may never ever fade from view. The Albert Dock is busy, bustling, the Maritime museum, a building that told the story of Merseyside with a moving eloquence and admirable detail. There were the shops situated on leisurely walk ways that resembled bridges. Then there were the charity shops and homely tea shops with sandwiches and cakes on offer all day and every day or so it seemed.

But Prescot made you laugh and smile, giggle and chuckle. Prescot never hits the news headlines for any particular reason nor does it ever make you feel inferior or inadequate. Prescot is happy to say hello to you without any questions asked. It is both inclusive, patient and understanding, never judgmental or critical because it just feels obliged to be civil. The houses are straight backed and respectable, the people straightforward and practical  while also oozing warm authenticity and politeness by the hour, minute, week, month and year. It is Britain at her prettiest and most uplifting and our family week was now over.

On our final day in Prescot we kissed our gorgeous grandson Arthur and set off to Wigan railway station for the return journey back to London, Euston. Sometimes your faith in humanity is completely restored by the things we tend to take for granted. And then there are the moments when your hearts are captured by the Beatles statue on the Albert Dock, now a tourist magnet that has to be acknowledged because those from distant continents and countries will always be fascinated by the Merseyside beat.

We said farewell to our wonderful son Sam and daughter in law Lucy because they are our family, precious, adored and adorable and how blessed and grateful Bev felt. Prescot had made us feel like royalty and we were utterly appreciative. We'd never heard of Prescot but it almost felt as if we knew it like an old friend or some cheerful uncle who keeps telling the same jokes and probably knows you better than you know yourself. Prescot, thanks for being brilliant.  

  

Ian Lavender dies at 77

 Ivan Lavender dies at 77.

The death of Ian Lavender marks the end of a generation of TV sitcoms the like of which may never be seen again. Lavender, who played Private Pike in the long running, much loved and immensely popular sitcom Dad's Army, was the last of the great and well drawn comedy characters that kept us entranced for so many decades. 

Back in 1968 Jimmy Perry and David Croft were looking for an original take on the life changing and tempestuous events that so completely devastated not only all of Britain but the entire globe. The Second World War would probably have been considered the last subject for a spot of light hearted fun and ridicule but Perry and Croft thought otherwise and Dad's Army was certainly not just a vehicle for cheap jokes about Hitler or Churchill.

But it worked and worked successfully and consistently despite the withering critics and doubters. Private Pike was a simple, wimpish, downtrodden, childish and emotionally vulnerable character who almost felt as if the world seemed to be ganging up against him. But Lavender's beautiful portrayal of a young soldier in Captain Mainwaring's well drilled and disciplined army was a complete joy to behold. Lavender was depicted as  charmingly naive and persistently picked upon by those who dismissed him as some weak, lily livered man with no backbone.

Private Pike frequently sought the approval and validation of John Le Mesurier's often pompous and dispassionate Captain Wilson. Le Mesurier's character was a snobbish, toffee nosed, cold and aloof man who could never quite express his emotions and almost felt quite repressed. Pike loved his uncle though and, with scarf around his neck and a pleasantly engaging manner, just seemed very content and always looking to prove his point in any heated argument.

During the 1970s BBC One produced a similarly gentle and inoffensive comedy hero who just wanted to please people around him and just ingratiate himself  with those who thought of him as a failure in life and buffoon. Michael Crawford's memorable Frank Spencer was just the most endearing of sitcom characters who never seemed to get it right and was always pleading with wife Betty to accept him for who he was. Crawford's mannerisms and protestations of innocence when criticism just seemed to be aimed at him were typical of British comedy at the time. Lavender likewise was just part of the same furniture.

Who of course will ever forget the famous prisoner of war sketch in Dad's Army when Pike, facing Mainwaring - Arthur Lowe, was questioned by a German officer? After a series of interrogations from the Philip Madoc character, Pike launched into a frivolous song about Hitler at which point Mainwaring who had insisted that Pike not reveal his name, accidentally spilled out Pike's name at which point hilarity from the studio audience ensued.

We may never see the likes of Ian Lavender again in a sitcom that captured the hearts of a nation who suddenly began to see the Second World War in a completely new light. And now you suspect, the BBC, in its infinite wisdom, will show yet more repeats of Dad's Army ad infinitum. The irony now though is that from time to time, the Beeb are now showing the early black and white episodes. But the legend of Dad's Army will continue to heighten our consciousness of the most inhumane, violent and destructive period of the 20th century. Pike though was the young squaddie who just wanted to be respected and never excluded by polite company. Ian Lavender- how could we ever forget you? Pike was everybody's friend. 

What to make of the world?

 What to make of the world.

You'd have thought that, after millions of years of civilisation, humanity might have got it right. Maybe in retrospect Eve should have chosen a different kind of fruit when Adam was given that famous apple. We should have known that there was trouble brewing even then but we failed to heed the warnings and now the world looks as though it's heading inexorably towards the land of evil, ruination and complete catastrophe.

This morning we awoke to conflicts in Paris, France, barbaric acid attacks on those people who were simply minding their own business and the USA sending back reprisal attacks on Iran after three soldiers were brutally killed just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. At any other time of the year this would have been considered as just another bad day in the office for mankind but these violations and abominations are now familiar, everyday occurrences and nobody bats an eye lid.

Of course we are not quite in hell in a handcart territory but it does seem at times that we've completely lost any kind of moral compass, remorse, self awareness and are now just resigned to a constant sequence of bloodthirsty murders, inhumane attacks on our civil liberties and war after war. In hindsight this has always been the case so why do we express surprise when thousands of people die day after day and are then stabbed to death repeatedly because they don't like you and this is the only recourse or option left open to us?

One day we may well fling open our curtains or blinds to another day and discover that this whole business of murdering and killing our fellow human being is futile and not worth the bother. The sight of US president Joe Biden standing next to his wife in a grievous state of mourning and loss for the death of three American soldiers is heavy with poignancy and we have seen all of this before so many times throughout the decades. 

For what now seems like an eternity innumerable political figures and leading heads of state have bowed their heads in shame at the despicable loss of life, the unprovoked assaults that have inevitably led to tear stained family funerals. If only they'd stopped bombing us much earlier on in the conflict the outcome could well have been completely different. When Tony Blair was Prime Minister there were the outrages of Afghanistan and Iraq to cope with and understand. So we just looked on with revulsion and just wished it would end as soon as possible.

Further back in time we saw a brave and defiant Margaret Thatcher wrestling desperately with the seemingly insoluble IRA troubles in Northern Ireland. The insufferable deaths, explosions, chronic religious divisions engendered by Protestant and Catholic communities, now feels like ancient history. But the Good Friday agreement eventually flourished beautifully like an early row of spring tulips and Blair eventually got all the deserved credit because he just happened to be Prime Minister at the time.

There were the savage fatalities inflicted in Kosovo and Bosnia during the early 1990s and you could go on but that would only be pouring fuel onto a festering wound. The hurt, endless pain and suffering and tragedy that war brings along with it can never be quantified, nor explained, even justified. We just keep falling into the dark cesspit of personal animosity and then feebly apologise every hundred years or so. And even then we retreat into our shell in shamefaced contrition because war with our neighbours seemed unavoidable.

We never seemed to ask any questions because those long held feuds and disagreements couldn't be settled through any other means. So they loaded up our ammunition, bullets, launched their bombs from different locations and strategic encampments and then turned the gun on the poor unsuspected innocents who just happened to be in the way and are injured fatally at times. Now from where the social and historical commentators stand this is quite the most horrific and painfully harrowing narrative that some of us have ever seen in our lifetimes.

Where are we now? There was Vietnam during the 1960s when thousands of American soldiers perished in the most gruesome, unbearably unnecessary and violent war of them all. The late, great Robin Williams portrayal of a local radio DJ emotionally and physically drawn into the killing fields and explosive battle grounds of Vietnam, is now a cinematic masterpiece. Then there was Tom Hanks extraordinarily brilliant depiction of a kid with severe learning and physical disabilities who emerges from childhood difficulties and then defies all the odds. Forest Gump was a wonderful metaphor for triumph in the face of adversity and none of us will ever forget this epic film.

But then we come back to the present day and try to rationalise with current day events? At times it almost feels as if the human race simply can't control all of that internal aggression that boils up inside us whenever we see injustice or inequality. So we rise up in revolt convinced that our territory has been invaded, lines have been crossed, boundaries broken and therefore we may be left with no alternative. But then we take a deep breath and consider the possibilities. We could exercise self restraint and discipline by holding back, taking stock for a while and just remember where we are.

And yet today it all seems so dreadfully inevitable. We switch on our TVs, radio and electronic screens and everything has an urgency and immediacy to it all, almost a shuddering finality to it. If it isn't a neighbourhood squabble or some vicious sex offender then it's an old warehouse set alight for insurance purposes. A young girl was senselessly murdered recently and the image is now very telling. The motive is beyond our comprehension and maybe we'll never know.

Suddenly the world's Press descended on a quiet street or road in suburbia, the police cordons have gone up, tents erected and a ghastly silence has fallen over Middle England. She was a sweet little girl, caring, kind, understanding, generous, considerate and sensitive. But nobody really cared about such wholesome qualities because somebody had a nasty grudge against her and just wanted some ridiculous revenge.

So here we are at the beginning of February and it may as well be any other month during the calendar year. The fact is that while the world keeps spinning, there will continue to be terrorists at loose and cold hearted and calculated criminals who will stop at nothing to maim, kill, destabilise, disrupt and play havoc with our ordered, serene lives. By the end of the day yet more casualties and loved ones will no longer be allowed to tell their life story because warped minds just had to attack them without thought, feeling or regard.

It is to be hoped and wished that one day that humans will come to senses and just keep the faith if only because even they may not know the reason why they believe. Of course we have our precious and loving families around us but the news agenda is incessantly negative, downbeat, almost programmed to shock, scare, upset and then leave us feeling devastated and heartbroken. It may be too much to expect anything less but some of us are optimistic enough to think that something good and positive may well happen within the next five minutes. 2024 has to be the year for the feelgood factor wherever you are and whatever you're doing. So come on world, it's time to put on a happy face and smile since there's no charge for it, as my lovely dad used to say.