The Boat Race

 The Boat Race.

There are few more compelling spectacles in sport than the yearly Boat Race between Oxford and Cambridge university. We know this to be the case because it happens at roughly this time of the year every year. Outside, the cherry blossom is beginning to make its presence felt, spring is officially here and, tomorrow, in the early morning hours, the clocks go forward. Suddenly the world is a much brighter and lighter place than it might have been over a month ago. Winter has now departed our shores, the skiing slopes are not as heavily populated as they used to be and spring is now back and here to stay for at least a while. The sun is out. Life is wonderful and precious. Quite definitely.

Meanwhile down by old Father Thames, or to be more geographically correct Putney, Mortlake and Hammersmith Bridge, fascinated tourists and intrigued passers by along the banks of the River Thames will gather in their droves to witness one of those quintessential British sporting rituals. They will hold up their phones, suddenly producing selfie sticks, still wearing their winter clothes and privately hoping that their choice of university will heave their way to the finishing line, arms akimbo and rowing oars flailing desperately if only because they're just exhausted and it was time to hug each other in unashamed celebration.

Since 1829 two of our most famous and highly distinguished of universities have converged on the Thames rather like old friends who have always kept in touch but only get round to catching up with each other on one Saturday at the end of March. Of course there are the post graduates, dons, undergraduates and potential captains of industry, professionals, scientists, lawyers, solicitors, engineers, accountants and, from time to time, politicians who may not to be our liking. But the Boat Race still panders to the whims of the middle classes, the dinner party set who have lengthy discussions about stocks, shares and the parlous state of the British economy.

The Boat Race will once again provide us with some of those time honoured rituals that England holds so dear. Every year we are subjected to one of those familiar sights by London's loveliest river. In the late 1970s, Cambridge, half the way through this gruelling confrontation between these fiercely competitive Oxford rivals, capsized, their boat slowly sinking but still in high spirits since thankfully nobody was hurt. It is hard to believe that this great and much treasured sporting event is still packing in the crowds almost 160 years later. And yet curiosity beckons them back every year in case the Boat Race finishes in a dead heat and nobody is declared an outright winner.

Comedians and satirists have always wondered why the same two universities are always involved in the Boat Race. Surely there are hundreds of other halls of learning and scholarship who could put forward their candidacy as contenders for this one event. What about Nottingham Trent university, Manchester university, Huddersfield, or the Open university? Surely consideration could be given on behalf of these equally as highly esteemed groves of academia, advanced education and those universities who never seem to get the recognition they deserve.

And so the Light Blues of Cambridge will face the Dark Blues in one of those invigorating displays of  a rowing excellence like none other. You are never quite sure which university will have the upper hand over the other although in certain years, form normally gives us the strongest indication of that year's likeliest winner. Both Oxford and Cambridge seem to go through purple patches where either could win it and then establish themselves as the dominant force. But it remains to see what will happen this year.

So they'll ease their way into the respective boats, slapping each other's hands by way of motivation and then depending heavily on the cox who acts as a kind of megaphone. The cox is the most vocal and vociferous of voices throughout the race. They'll holler and shout, blasting each other's ears with the most rousing of exhortations. The high pitched cries of encouragement seem to get louder as the Boat Race ploughs through the water and under London's most historic bridges. And then either Cambridge or Oxford will make their most emphatic statements of intent that can probably be heard in Kensington or Fiji. 

The truth is that the Boat Race is as synonymous with England as fish and chips, an essential part of its social fabric, etched onto the sporting calendar and always celebrated as one of those enthralling, head to head contests that never disappoint. Oars thrashing wearily into the river's placid waters, both head out confidently and then find that one or the other will inevitably take advantage of their superior strength and  physical resources. Sport loves those with both endless reserves of energy and stamina, those who can make the obvious difference. Firstly it's Oxford to hit the front followed by Cambridge within the length of an oar before Oxford inch their way heroically beside them, just a hairs breadth between the two.

And then distances will increase, either university seizing the initiative by pulling clear. It'll be nip and tuck, oar for oar, straining faces, twisted, contorted faces, grins and grimaces, agonising yelps, cries of anguish, pain written on their foreheads and cheeks. Finally, at Putney and then Hammersmith Bridge they drive their oars deeper into the water for one last push. Oxford and Cambridge are the most familiar sounding of all universities and everybody knows about its proud and gilded history throughout the ages but the Boat Race keeps delivering every single year, its raw excitements almost guaranteed.

Today though either one will emerge as victors if only because there are no replays, no VAR checks that seem to last for ever and no aggressive tackles that lead to the red card. My late and lovely dad always had a passing interest in Cambridge for reasons that never became abundantly clear. Some of us still think of Cambridge as one of the most stunningly beautiful cities in Britain and would like to follow in my dad's footsteps with the same prediction. Still, here's to you Oxford and Cambridge, the River Thames is yours.

England held to a 2-2 draw against Belgium in friendly

 England held to a 2-2 draw against Belgium in friendly.

After two of the most taxing assignments England will face in the foreseeable future, last night's friendly against Belgium almost left most England fans questioning and doubting England's prospects in the forthcoming Euros in Germany during the summer. Of course all international sides go through sticky periods when things never go according to plan. But for England familiarity seemed on the point of breeding contempt. In the end it all ended up happily ever after for Gareth Southgate's men but the atmosphere on the referee's final whistle was somewhat muted and reflective. It could have gone better for England on the night against Belgium but at the end England had to be grateful for small mercies.

On Saturday evening Brazil, surely football's most attractive of all practitioners in the world game, just did what always seems to come naturally to them, passing and passing over and again, in small, tightly knit clusters, triangles, rectangles and neat little cameos that left England chasing not only shadows but silhouettes. At times England found themselves imitating the South Americans but then found this to be a totally futile exercise since they weren't really achieving anything with the abundance of possession they had.

Last night England faced a difficult and technically comfortable Belgium side who occasionally resemble their neighbours Holland but can never quite replicate their style of play. For much of last night's fair and honourable 2-2 friendly draw, Belgium were nimbler, quicker and by far the more skilful team and, deep into injury time, were still ahead in the game. But then they saw the eyes of Jude Bellingham and almost rolled out the red carpet for the Real Madrid midfield maestro. Bellingham sized up the opportunity and fired home England's last gasp equaliser with an unstoppable shot.

In the bigger picture this was hardly the most disappointing result for England. Recent games for Gareth Southgate's men have been slippery banana skins but a mini crisis has been safely avoided. For a while England were staring down the barrel of two consecutive defeats within a couple of days. Brazil were always likely to provide England with stern and troublesome opposition but last night they redressed the balance. But Belgium almost poured salt onto slightly painful wounds although no collateral damage had been inflicted.

Most of us will regard a famous World Cup group stage match against Belgium as one of England's finest of hours. In 1990 Sir Bobby Robson's England left us desperately yearning for any kind of victory against their Belgian opponents. With the match in its final minute or so, a beautifully floated free kick fell perfectly for David Platt at the far post who swivelled balletically, wrapping his foot around the ball and volleying the winner for Robson's England. It was night in Italy that was almost as operatic as a Pavarotti masterclass.

So last night the circumstances may have been completely different but there were similarities. Had it not been for Bellingham's late, late equaliser, the inquests and heated discussions would have been quite toxic. Sometimes England can never seem to strike a happy medium with their critics and kind hearts. When you qualify for either a Euro or World Cup competition, you're immediately fancied as overwhelming favourites to win either. But then the lines become blurred and form just abandons England unforgivably. It's the end of the world and the harbingers of doom and gloom always seem to despair.

England once again began slowly and lethargically. Their football, though, was both uplifting and easy on the eye but although admirably constructive, never really threatened to go any further than the edge of their opposition's 18-yard box. For the first ten minutes or so, England established an impressive stranglehold on the game with passing both short and long of the highest quality. But then we noticed leaky holes in England's otherwise watertight defence. Before long, we were lamenting the half chances they'd created and then watched them wiping the egg off their collective faces. 

Jordan Pickford, Everton's goalkeeper, has generally looked reliable and capable in recent times. But then disaster struck and the embarrassing flaws that have always haunted England keepers over the years became self fulfilling prophecies. Rushing out to clear the ball from a regulation goal kick, Pickford completely lost his bearings and only succeeded in finding a Belgium player. A short ball found Aston Villa's Youri Tielemans who simply drilled the ball into an unguarded net for Belgium's opening goal.

For a while England looked slightly shell shocked and unnerved by a moment of defensive madness. Maybe Pickford shouldn't have been quite as hasty in retrospect but this simply sparked England back into life. The delightful dribbling at speed of Manchester City's Phil Foden was sweet as nectar and when the young Manchester United Kobbie Mainoo began to dart and weave his way between tangled Belgian legs, England looked the finished article. Then Jude Bellingham displayed the stunning playmaking gifts that can only prove of long lasting, beneficial value to England's future.

As Ben Chilwell and Joe Gomez began to find wide open spaces on the wings for England, an equaliser seemed an odds on certainty. Debutant striker Ivan Toney of Brentford became something of a handful for the Belgium defence while Jarrod Bowen, West Ham's free scoring striker, once again looked the part, running purposefully at the Belgians and finding his appropriate range.

Then England re-discovered the creative one and two touch football that almost left  Brazil uncharacteristically out of sorts at the back. From a superb sequence of quickfire passes between Bellingham and Mainoo, Belgium creaked open. Mainoo's pass was shrewdly judged, slipping past the last Belgium defender for Ivan Toney. Toney raced thrillingly into the penalty area before being blatantly upended. Toney's accurately taken penalties have been a feature of Brentford's season and once again he planted the ball  high into the net. No problem, never in doubt.

But this proved to be of no deterrent to Belgium. Leandro Trossard and Youri Tielemans looked both smooth and streamlined in midfield. They simply regained control of the ball and looked as measured and dangerous as the rest of their team. Shortly before half time, Belgium were back in front courtesy of another England defensive blunder. Lewis Dunk, the Brighton defender and captain, had dealt quite adequately with everything Belgium could throw at him. 

Then Belgium lofted a long, high ball towards the edge of England's penalty area. Dunk, completely flat footed for a fatal second or two, lunged out for a tackle that was never likely to be successful. Former Chelsea striker Romelu Lukaku bent a lovely cross with the outside of his boot and Tielemans, seizing his chance, headed smartly past Pickford. This was not on the menu for England's always enthusiastic supporters and what we had to be content with were scraps and agonising near misses.

And for the rest of the game, England continued to surge forward in unison, a cohesive unit full of imaginative touches in attack but somehow lacking the cutting edge up front. Then frustration began to eat away at Gareth Southgate's determined, doughty men. It all began to look lopsided at times and pedestrian for the home side. Wembley looked downcast and forlorn. Chances were snatched and there was a haphazard air about England's football.

Then, with the game ebbing away from England, the Three Lions roared vociferously one more time. After a series of wildly hopeful attacks, there was one more chance. Deep into injury time, which will certainly take us up until midnight at some point, James Maddison, Spurs excellent midfield player, picked up the ball from a flurry of short passes between England's brightest players.

Maddison laid the ball back to Jude Bellingham who hopped and skipped past his opponents as if they simply weren't there. Bellingham then drove firmly and accurately past Belgium goalkeeper Matz Sels. And that was that. A 2-2 draw may have saved England's blushes but this wasn't quite the performance their fans may have been hoping for.

At the end a noisy and cheerful contingent of Belgium fans thought they'd accomplished a moral victory. The amber colours were in full evidence and you suspected they may have been heading straight to the local pubs for just a drop of their famous beer. But still they remain unrewarded for their visits to Wembley. England boss Gareth Southgate puffed out his cheeks with relief but has to be concerned with a defence that seemed to desert him on the night. Still, onwards and upwards England.

The boys from Brazil beat England in friendly at Wembley

 The boys from Brazil beat England in friendly at Wembley.

Many of us have followed the Brazilian football team for as long as we can remember. We do so because it is both an enormous privilege and honour, an experience that transcends anything else you'd care to think of. Brazil, as we all know, are the most stunning, satisfying, magical and beautiful side in the world, an international assembly of the sublime, football at its dazzling and dizzying best, a force of nature, supernatural at times, almost too good to be true. There can be none like them on their day, a peerless sporting spectacle who almost defy superlatives, pronouns, verbs and metaphors.

Last night at Wembley Brazil arrived at Wembley rather like learned university lecturers who always seem to derive great delight on passing on vast sums of knowledge to their attentive students. For Brazil, football is much more than an art form, more of a science, an intriguing exposition of the very best techniques and styles that the game has to offer. Once again we saw a Brazilian team at their most exquisite, expressive, natural and spontaneous, a dreamlike sequence of the easy going and free flowing.

For the first time in 20 matches England were finally beaten by opponents for whom the daunting prospect of playing at Wembley might have proved too much. Admittedly, the quality of the opposition has hardly been intimidating in recent years. The relatively simple act of qualifying for this summer's European Championships in Germany must surely come under the closest scrutiny since, apart from Italy, the rest of England's group bore an uncanny resemblance to a class of infant school children about to be faced with a multiplication table or the alphabet.

When Gareth Southgate leads out his England side to face Serbia in their opening group game we will begin to recognise the outline of a team who may be fancied as one of the favourites to win Euro 2024. Then England are matched up with Denmark, who once beat Sir Bobby Robson's England in Robson's first ever game where the Danes shocked Wembley with a 1-0 win. Then there was a hugely convincing 3-0 victory in a World Cup group stage victory in 2002 where Japan and South Korea were genial hosts. But the Danes have always been a tough nut to crack for England teams over the years and this is no different.

Finally England will meet Slovenia and by then we should know whether the Three Lions have made either comfortable or awkward progress into the last 16 of another Euros. The chances are that most of us will be biting our nails, clenching our teeth and just hiding behind the sofa. We are talking about the England football team here and nerves are bound to be frazzled, mountains will be made out of molehills and blood pressures will be at their highest. This is not going to be straightforward because it never is and besides England love to be challenging and laborious when it should be just simple and logical.

On the first spring evening at Wembley, Gareth Southgate returned to the business of complicating matters although it was Brazil and this was no leisurely picnic. This may have been a friendly but you often get the impression that England just like to present themselves with insuperable obstacles. Brazil of course are still one of the purest and most aesthetically pleasing to the eye team in the world. They caress a football, treating it with all the affectionate tenderness of a parent telling their child a comforting bedtime story. The ball is a pleasant object of idolatry, something to be passed around so many times that it almost feels like some communal or spiritual act. It is something to be admired.

Not for nothing are Brazil are five times winners of the Jules Rimet Cup and, although not at their most unbeatable in 1974, 1978 or quite possibly 1982 and then 1986, there were moments when you sighed with stunned admiration at some of the football that is still hard wired into them from birth. The 1970 World Cup class of joy and magnificence will probably never be seen or matched ever again. Pele was at his most incomparable and the likes of Gerson, Tostao, Rivelino and Carlos Alberto sound like the sweetest musical you're ever likely to hear in a West End theatre, a side perfectly proportioned, impeccably well mannered, balanced as a pair of scales, gorgeously imaginative with passing patterns from heaven.  

As for England the defence that will have to be at their most vigilant and ultra cautious during Euro 2024 did look reasonably secure and sturdy. Harry Maguire still has rushes of blood to his head when he thinks an attacker couldn't possibly threaten his equilibrium. Maguire is one of those compact and commanding central defenders who occasionally reminds you of former Manchester City and Sunderland centre half Dave Watson. John Stones, the Manchester City central pivot, still looks very worldly and enlightened as a ball carrying defender doing the right things at the right time. Ben Chilwell joined the England attack commendably and consistently but even he seemed to be star struck by the Brazilians.

And then there was that hard core of England's attacking line up that Gareth Southgate will be trusting enough to begin the first Euro 2024 opening group stage against Serbia. The new boy Anthony Gordon,  Newcastle's quick footed winger, grasped his England debut with some relish, gingerly breezing past defenders, dropping his shoulders audaciously every so often before losing possession in vital areas. Gordon is one of those willowy and sinewy footballers, cunning and deception on his mind but still learning the ropes of international football.

It was heartening and uplifting to see Phil Foden, one of Pep Guardiola's reliable men, flicking the ball impudently past opponents and then cleverly moving into space for the sumptuous pass for either Gordon or Jude Bellingham to run into. Foden is clearly besotted with the game's finer points and technicalities and when both he, Gordon, Bellingham and Ollie Watkins tried to open up Brazilian's watertight defence with subtle intricacies outside their opponents penalty area it reminded you of a group of men desperately trying to find the right code for a bank vault.

With England captain Harry Kane out injured for both the game against Brazil and Tuesday's evening friendly against Belgium, England looked leg weary, too over elaborate at times and counting down the days to Germany during the summer. Jude Bellingham is of course one of England's most remarkable talents and the one Southgate must be hoping will have the same dramatic impact that Paul Gascoigne had during Euro 96 in England. Bellingham is stylish, debonair, effortlessly instinctive and Real Madrid can hardly believe what a priceless commodity they may have in their ranks.

The Chelsea playmaker Conor Gallagher looks as though he may have the necessary qualities to act as a buffer to the once again authoritative Declan Rice. But there were times when Gallagher, although always progressive and proactive, didn't quite have the wherewithal to pick out a white shirt in the right position. Gallagher may start England's first group stage match against Serbia but then you're reminded that there is still competition for his place in the side.

As for Brazil, this was more or less an exhibition match for the team who once took the game to an altogether more exotic dimension when Pele scored one of those astonishing goals that propelled him as a 17 year old to Olympian heights. The South Americans of course blew away Sweden contemptuously in the 1958 World Cup Final. Admittedly there aren't any more Garrinchas, Va Vas or Didis, Socrates, Zico or more latterly Ronaldos and Ronaldinos in the composition of a Brazilian side but that would have been asking for too much.

But we did have Vinicius Junior, Lucas Paqueta, West Ham's voluptuous midfield playmaker, a player of refinement and breeding, floating and flitting with menacing authority in the middle of the pitch. Then there was Bruno Guimaraes, shrewd, elegant and always visionary, probing and prompting Brazil with perception and foresight. Both Wendell, Rodrygo, Bremer and the brilliantly intelligent wing play of Raphinha who once graced a Leeds United shirt, all shifted around the white shirts of England with a smoothness and dainty dexterity that we've come to expect from a Brazil team.

The only goal of the game came almost unexpectedly for Brazil. The game itself seemed to be drifting aimlessly towards a goal-less draw. But then a series of quickfire passes on the half way line ended up  with a nicely judged through ball from Vinicius Junior. Brazil had already made a substitution and how inspired that was. Another precocious 17 year old Endrick latched onto the ball and the ball took a sharp rebound. Somewhat fortuitously, Endrick, barely out of football's baby teething age, slotted the ball into an empty net although a brief interlude for VAR and offside showed that legality was on Endrick's side.

And so it is that we proceed to Belgium on Tuesday evening for another England dress rehearsal. Here we have world football's classic underachievers. Belgium have always been dark horses rather than victorious thoroughbreds. They still have Kevin De Bruyne and some of football's greatest technicians but Belgian flair and fantasy never seem to flourish on the biggest stage. Of course they'll be in Germany during the summer for Euro 2024 but the chances are that some of football's more superior powerhouses will inevitably be doing their utmost to steal Belgium's thunder.

Brazil, for their part, will be enjoying their first victory over England for quite a while. A small knot of yellow and green flags were fluttering joyously in one corner of Wembley's vast open spaces. It was a night for samba, flamenco if the mood took them. The man in a long, dark coat stood impassively by his technical dug out. Gareth Southgate, England's modest and self deprecating manager, just took it on the chin. World Cups and Euros have almost given way to memorable nights but yesterday evening perhaps he might have been thinking about what might have been. A penny for your thoughts Gareth.

My books

 My books

Yes folks it's that time of the year again. It's time for a spot of book plugging, a  shameless promotion of a couple of books that were written by yours truly. You may have read about my ventures into the fiercely competitive world of publishing and here we go again. It could be described as literary spring cleaning because those delightful daffodils are out on show yet again and that really is a reason to be celebrating life in all its richness and splendour. 

Next week the clocks go forward and there is a lovely perfume of spring in the air. The birds can still be heard serenading the world population at roughly tea time and from next Sunday morning you'll all be able to enjoy those splendidly uplifting longer days of light without worrying about what might be considered those long, dark wintry nights. In fact they're just  a logical extension of late autumn. It's time to look forward rather than back. So open up those curtains and blinds and let spring wrap a crocus designed blanket around you.

Before that though let me give you another reminder of my books. My book of football poetry Football's Poetic Licence is now available at Amazon, e-bay, Waterstones online and Waterstones bookshops, Foyles online, Hatchards and Barnes and Noble online in the USA. To all book enthusiasts across the Atlantic I wax lyrical about the FA Cup, Premier League, Champions League, my late and wonderful mum and dad, there's a warm eulogy to my lovely dad, grandpa Jack, the World Cup, England, USA, Euro 2020, Europa League, the Carabao Cup, football or soccer grounds and Ilford FC, my local football or soccer team growing up. 

On the other hand you may also like to indulge in a little nostalgia which most of us like to do from time to time. Now you could be accused of dwelling on the past or living in decades long since past. But my life story No Joe Bloggs might change your mind. Some of us believe that you have to think back to your childhood because that was your foundation, your starting point in life, the moment you awoke to the realisation that life is indeed beautiful and the gradual discovery of nature, your environment, your maturity and the personality that shaped the person you are now. 

No Joe Bloggs is available at Amazon, Waterstones online, Foyles online, Hatchards online and Barnes and Noble online. In my life story No Joe Bloggs I once again wax lyrical about my childhood, my parents and grandparents and the rich tapestry of life. I'm a grandson of a Holocaust survivor so my book is my effusive homage to the people who loved and nurtured me through to the adult that I am. I feel blessed to have a wonderfully loving and supportive wife Bev, two wonderful children Sam and Rachel and all of my brilliant family are my rock.

In No Joe Bloggs I describe my childhood home Ilford, Essex and growing up in that salubrious suburb of Essex, there are loving descriptions of the West End of London, the East End of London, my wonderful mum and dad, my favourite music, bands, singers, artists from the 1970s, my favourite TV celebrities from that era, topical news events from the Seventies, football or soccer pen portraits of the leading lights of the old First Division of the time such as Arsenal, Liverpool, Chelsea, Aston Villa, Manchester United and Manchester City, Everton, Spurs, Wolves, Ipswich Town and Leeds United.

So there you are. If you feel like a read about this humble blogger from London then here are all the details and if you feel like treating yourself to both an Easter egg and a book may I heartily recommend my books. Whatever your choice of book, happy reading everybody.

International Day of Happiness

 International Day of Happiness

As the sun sets on this beautiful spring day in London town and most of Southern England, you're tempted to think that on the day before the official spring equinox, life couldn't get any better or indeed sweeter. But it is undoubtedly sweet and always will be regardless of the sinister distractions around the rest of the world. We are still surrounded by war, discord, suffering, pain, hatred and those with a bitter resentment of the land they claim, nay less insist, is theirs by historical territorial right.

For Ukraine and Russia read Hamas and Israel. It is time to lay down the law to Hamas. Your evil and nefarious misdeeds and brutal atrocities have to be eliminated at all costs immediately. Withdraw your arms and ammunition and leave the rest of the world alone. For Russia and Vladimir Putin cut it out. The ugly soundtrack of incessant gun fire and wholesale destruction has to stop pronto before civilised voices have to shout out quite vehemently. Enough is enough. And this is where today makes its welcome presence felt across the world.

Ladies and Gentlemen today is the International Day of Happiness and it's time to remind us of the essential virtues of happiness, smiling, laughing, giggling, celebrating life, kindness and generosity. This may sound like one of the statements of the obvious from those who believe quite strongly that there's no charge for happiness, it's free and it's a natural function requiring no effort whatsoever. It's just a state of mind that should be uplifting, positive, cheerful and just being in the moment if you're having one of those days at work where everything seemed to go wrong as soon as the boss walked into the office.

So let's pretend that the company you're employed by has never been in a healthier financial state for years. Just look at those highly impressive sales figures, the massively encouraging profit margins compared to last year and the accounts department look as though they'd quite happily dance around their desks every day given half the chance. It's time to forget about the past and look to the future. Your family are the best in the world, your friends have never been less than amicable and there can be nothing to complain about.

And of course we should never forget about tomorrow because hope will spring eternal, the air of renewal and regeneration can almost be smelt, felt and touched. Spring means so much to so many people. On Sunday the clocks go forward once again indicating that now may be the time to acknowledge happiness as the simplest emotion of all. The days will become longer, the cuckoos are composing their most glorious melodies and the dulcet tones of spring will be heard in every neighbourhood throughout the world. What is there not to like about the International Day of Happiness?

Ideally every day should be devoted to unrelenting happiness, deliriously happy vibes, shaking each other's hand firmly, switching on the most unforgettable smile, laughing your head off unashamedly and just indulging in the kind of activities that just make you feel it's good to be alive. And yet we tend to take our everyday lives for granted, we expose ourselves to our vulnerabilities, dwell on the past for much longer than we should and then fall into a despondent slump because we haven't met our own impossibly lofty expectations.

So this is the point when perhaps we look out across the window on the world and wonder if we could achieve a permanent happiness if we set our minds to it. Of course everyday living is a gift and should always be appreciated and recognised as such. Undoubtedly, here in Britain, we live in  the most privileged and comfortable world. The world of work has always been problematic and challenging, pressures and deadlines almost excruciatingly unbearable. Bills have to be paid, children properly schooled, educated, clothed, fed and watered. But then you remember about the fundamental importance of happiness.

You suddenly recall those blissful moments of contentment when the world is about street festivals, colourful carnivals, those wonderful gospel singers who always make the world a special place in local Sunday churches. You remember the family parties from long ago when the fragrant smell of burgers at barbecues brought everybody together, the groaning tables of food and drink, the kids constantly running in and out of the kitchen before embarking on another expedition into the living room.

You look back to idyllic childhood when you were allowed to play out on the local back roads for the duration of your school summer holidays. You cast your minds back to that lovely old lime green bike with stabilisers, hurtling around at top speed before just dropping said bicycle onto the ground with a perfect sense of exhilaration. It was a time of your life which you must have thought would last forever because you were kid and everything was just fantastic. And so it was and always should be.

It's easy to assume that happiness is just a state of mind because we tend to forget about the simplicities of every day living, the fact that maybe we can detach ourselves from the depressing narratives we're always subjected to on the daily news agenda. We see bloodshed and murder, genocide and barbarism on every killing field and can't help but be deeply affected and moved by the lurid imagery, appalled by the sickening sensation in the pit of our stomach when it happens over and over again.

So today was International Day of Happiness because we should have sought light relief from such horrendous atrocities. There has to be a mental escape from a troubled world, an opportunity to just watch our favourite comedian, comedienne, our all time best TV comedy shows for hour upon hour and just become liberated from tragedy once and for all. Go on let yourself go. Just laugh because you know you should. It's the finest medicine of them all, the antidote that costs nothing. Be happy because your favourite music on the radio has just been launched for the rest of your life and that's just irresistible.

We can do happiness. We know we can because it  should come naturally to you. You were born with chuckle muscles to quote a famous old comedian from Liverpool called Ken Dodd. You were happy when you passed your driving test, ecstatic when your university exams were revealed and you could finally do the kind of job that would guarantee monied security indefinitely. You were just glad to be there on the day when the first crocuses, tulips and daffodils popped out of their winter hibernation and just loved those stunning blue skies and warm sunshine which were just around the corner.

International Day of Happiness has to be acknowledged because it is the best of all feelings, that outpouring of delight when a new baby is born or when somebody tells you that you have the most wonderful grandson and you're a grandpa for the first time. You are blessed by good health, a wonderfully loving and supportive family and wife who will always be your source of inspiration. So go on have a good, old fashioned belly laugh, seize every day, celebrate it with an event that leaves you with a warm glow of satisfaction and always remember that we all have that innate capacity to laugh.

The semi finals of the FA Cup.

 The semi finals of the FA Cup.

And then there were four. Football's oldest and most treasured of all Cup competitions the FA Cup now almost reaches its full flowering with the prospect of the same opponents as last year and the very real possibility of yet another identical FA Cup Final from years gone by.  Over the weekend we discovered the four remaining teams left in this year's competition and tried to imagine a time when history hadn't repeated itself because that would have been a blissful relief since repetition can be ever so slightly tiresome.

So it is that Manchester United, Manchester City, Coventry and Chelsea all lock horns to determine the identity of this year's FA Cup finalists. The logical and realistic choice would be either another Manchester derby hot on the heels of last year's contest or another stirring rendition of the 1994 FA Cup Final when Eric Cantona emerged as the most instrumental figure in United's convincing 4-0 victory over Chelsea. It now seems a lifetime ago but the cultural references remain just as relevant now as they were back then.

In those days Cantona was one of the most skilful forwards in football's top flight. Now the rebel with a cause has just diversified into the world of pop music and his new album is a crooner's delight. There was a brief flirtation with the world of arthouse films, but Cantona was just unplayable against Chelsea side simply counting down the minutes until the final whistle. The Cantona vinyl repertoire has to be a source of much intrigue but then we always knew the Frenchman was channelling his inner Charles Aznavour.

The truth is though that either we'll see vivid reflections of 1994 again or just a straightforward rerun of last year's FA Cup Final. Manchester United's fabulously pulsating 4-3 victory over Liverpool, Chelsea's equally as intoxicating 4-2 win over Championship side Leicester City at Stamford Bridge and Manchester City's almost regulation 2-0 triumph over Newcastle United were rather like several carnivals of attacking football rolled into one.

For some of us the once traditional venues for both FA Cup semi finals are almost historical artefacts. It used to be either Villa Park, Hillsborough, Stamford Bridge and not forgetting Highbury. Highbury of course was the setting for that famous bloodbath when Brian Talbot finished the FA Cup semi final for Ipswich Town with a blood soaked bandage on his forehead while poor West Bromwich Albion, Ipswich's opponents 46 years ago, could only lick their defeated wounds.

In 1964 West Ham, facing the most formidable  quartet of George Best, Bobby Charlton, Denis Law and Nobby Stiles trudged through the treacly mud of Hillsborough and then opened up a Manchester United defence that would become one of the most respected in the old First Division with a 3-1 victory. West Ham would go on to beat Preston in a five goal thriller in the FA Cup Final winner with a last minute header from Ronnie Boyce.

Without a hint of bias your team from East London also figured prominently in the 1980 FA Cup semi final against Everton. West Ham were temporary residents in the old Second Division at the time and nobody gave them the remotest chance against the Goodison Park side. The height and upper body strength of burly striker Bob Latchford equalised for Everton in the replay at Elland Road, almost overpowering West Ham. But then both an Alan Devonshire goal after a delightful one two and then Frank Lampard senior lunged heroically forward to direct a dramatic diving header high into the net, a goal that sent the Hammers to Wembley. Here they beat favourites Arsenal to win the FA Cup at the old Wembley. It may prove to be West Ham's last and only contribution to FA Cup history.

And so we return to this year's semi final where Wembley will once hold top billing. The traditionalists amongst us will yearn for the good, old days when an FA Cup semi final had to be played on a neutral ground. We were just conditioned to its springtime arrival rather like the cuckoo at the crack of dawn. But fear not the two Manchesters, Chelsea and Coventry are champing at the bit and anything could happen but probably won't because we know how football very rarely rewards giant killers and besides this is not 1987 and not Spurs. Coventry may think otherwise and we know everything there is to know about the unpredictability of FA Cup Final day. David and Goliath? You bet.

West Ham through to the quarter finals of the Europa League

 West Ham through to the quarter finals of the Europa League

Football has a strange habit of drawing you into its inner circle, its private conversations, its fascinating emotional contrasts, the ups and downs of the game clearly encapsulated in 90 minutes of certainty and then uncertainty. It veers from the sublime to the ridiculous but we know everything there is to know about those swinging pendulums, those intriguing sub plots, the suspension of belief and then the wild vicissitudes where the game just seems to adopt a mind of its own. It's unpredictable and gloriously exciting and we wouldn't have it any other way. The result can never be predicted and that's how it should be.

Last night your claret and blue team from the East End of London wandered into alien territory and found themselves lost in a world of triumphant elation that can never be measured and assessed in the heat of the moment. We thought we may have been imagining this unfolding scenario where football does indeed become a theatrical production where tension and drama merge into one and the leading actors love to keep you guessing.

West Ham United reached their third consecutive quarter finals of a major and highly prestigious European competition and some of us were simply pinching ourselves in case it was just an illusion or some phantom event that never really happened. Last Sunday West Ham could only salvage a point from their Premier League fixture against relegation haunted Burnley who are now stuck in a rut and rapidly going nowhere. They're now basement dwellers at the bottom of the Premier League who should be enjoying a much healthier season back in the top flight but are now consigned to a grisly fate that even they couldn't have anticipated.

Four days though after a London Stadium painstaking struggle, West Ham were back on home ground again and after trailing to a first leg goal in Germany last week, the Hammers were almost electrified, transformed, revived and re-energised. It almost felt as if somebody had flicked a switch and sparked them back into life again. Sometimes following West Ham can often seem like Chinese water torture, an unbearable ordeal that has to be negotiated and endured because this is just their default mechanism. 

What we saw from West Ham was a side who had forgotten who they were last week, determined to prove to hardened cynics that their powers of resilience hadn't deserted them in their moment of need. Against the Germans of Freiberg the London Stadium team hit back strongly at their opponents as if a thousand wasps had stung them and there was a natural obligation to give their supporters a night to remember. Within the space of an opening 45 minutes, Freiberg were blown away, wiped out, completely overwhelmed.

This season the home team had veered from the awful and mediocre, to joyously entertaining and thrillingly fluent. This is not to suggest that a split personality should be the diagnosis but there has been an air of a team stumbling around in the dark before emerging into the clear light of day. You almost feel as if West Ham should be rudely disturbed from their sleep at the beginning of any game. At some point they are shaken from their torpor and somebody reminds of them where they are in the context of a season.

The severe and ruthless 6-0 mauling by Arsenal at the London Stadium a couple of weeks ago left even the most devoted West Ham fan dumbfounded and speechless. Then Nottingham Forest rubbed salt into festering wounds with a 2-0 victory over the East London side at the City Ground. By then things had become fairly toxic in the East End of London and the natives were restless. Thankfully West Ham have now put safe distance from the normally impending threat of relegation so there was no need for panic stations. But last night seemed to mark another pivotal point in West Ham's season of volatility for a while and then sheer exhilaration in the next breath.

Once again the central defensive pairing of Kurt Zouma and Konstotinas Mavropanos buttressed their home side's defence with stubborn resistance on the rare occasion that Freiberg threatened West Ham's equilibrium, figures of reassuring balance and poise. From the moment the referee blew the whistle at the start of the game, West Ham came flying out of the blocks like men on a mission. The tall and imposing midfield assurance of Tomas Soucek and Edson Alvarez joined forces with positivity and streetwise intelligence while the powerful attacking trio of Michal Antonio, the ever improving Jarred Bowen and the classical bravado of Mohammed Kudus ensured the game was up for Freiberg after half an hour.

West Ham were quick witted, fleet footed, sharper in the transitions between defence and attack and economical in their choice of passing. This may not have been the kind of football that West Ham supporters would have taken to their heart and might have been accustomed to under John Lyall and Ron Greenwood over 40 years ago but the same kind of narratives could now convert the fans. Arsenal, who joined West Ham in their advancement to the quarter final of a European competition with a last eight place in the Champions League, have set a most exquisite template with their delectable one touch football. But then again West Ham will always be West Ham and familiarity could work in their favour.

Brazilian midfield magician Lucas Paqueta, who would be substituted in the second half much to his annoyance, popped up at the far post to prod home West Ham's first and equalising corner  and then the goals flowed like dripping honey for West Ham. Aaron Cresswell, now a long serving stalwart at the London Stadium, finished off a stunning break and exchange of passes with a low, firmly struck shot from just outside the penalty area. A third goal had now put the game well beyond the Germans reach and then there emerged the goal of the night.

Muhammed Kudus, quite the most inspired signing West Ham manager David Moyes has ever made from Ajax, scored the most sensational goal ever seen at the London Stadium. He picked up the ball on the centre circle and then just glided beautifully past a whole series of Freiberg's legs, dribbling the ball past opponent after opponent as if they were just apparitions, slotting the ball into the net as if he'd performed that amusing party piece wherever he'd gone.

And so it is that some of us began to believe in the impossible. It is almost a year after West Ham's by now celebrated victory in the Euro Conference League Final in Prague and although you may be inclined towards wishful thinking, there remains a possibility that the once famous underachievers in world football may now be within only two matches away from another European Final. The chances are that the highly esteemed likes of Liverpool, Roma, Benfica and Marseille may have something to say about that. But for at least one night in the middle of March, hope could spring eternal. Watch this space even if sober perspective has to be kept at all times.

Rain

 Rain

If you've woken up in parts of England this morning you've probably noticed something. It does make frequent and, from time to time, fleeting visits to Blighty. Usually it comes in the form of heavy showers then develops into torrential downpours. Ladies and Gentlemen it's raining and, at the moment, it looks as though it's here for the day. But who cares? Let's just go with the flow.

Rain is like a charming old uncle, cousin or auntie who invariably jokes and laughs their way through the day at incompetent politicians or Hollywood celebrities who insist on having plastic surgery just to preserve their ego. We can never escape from any conversation relating to the British weather and then when we do we become obsessed with it, continually complaining about its inevitability and wondering whether it'll ever stop because we've just put the washing out on the line or clothes horse while then questioning the necessity to take out an umbrella to the theatre or open air concert. It has to be done otherwise we'll get soaked, saturated and we're bound to get a cold or some mysterious illness nobody has ever heard of. 

Rain though is British, quintessentially British, as synonymous with the United Kingdom as the Last Night of the Proms, red post boxes, lager and warm beer or so we're led to believe. Rain has been celebrated and immortalised in song and poetry, mordant humour, that agonising moment during a cricket Test match when the dark clouds subside and of course it stops play for goodness knows how long. But hey ho. No long lasting damage and harm has come our way and we can still get out the chess board  or Scrabble. Salvation is on its way.

We're still living and breathing, walking and talking and it has yet to have a detrimental impact on either our mental or physical health. It hasn't ruined our day because the likelihood is that in a couple of months, hot sunshine will burst through the clouds and we'll all feel infinitely better than we might have been because we knew it would brighten up quite noticeably. You'll see. It will. We know it does and judging by the meteorological patterns established over the last century or so the chances are that the rain will stop since it always has and always will. No need to panic.

You're reminded of the classical authors from the 20th century who simply couldn't get enough of the rain. William Somerset Maugham once wrote a beautiful short story about the rain and it was so poetic and simple that you were convinced even he knew when it was going to rain. George Orwell, Britain's greatest political commentator, social observer, essayist, novelist and controversial writer on the Spanish Civil War, referred to the fact that 'it always seemed to rain in Norway', which could never be proved conclusively because very few people could  measure its quantity during the Second World War. There were far more urgent issues to address.

But here in Britain we love to dwell on the frustrations that some of us may have to endure as a result of the rain. When are we going to get in the car  complete with picnic and hamper, laying out a sheet on a soft field of fresh green grass heated by the mid-day sun? So we stare out of the living room window mournfully and desperately, cursing under our breath quite audibly and then just watching the raindrops trickling down from the heavens as if it's definitely somebody's else fault and never ours. This evolves into a pointless blame game. You knew it was going to rain didn't you? You saw it on the weather forecast yesterday. Don't deny it.

So we all look up at the skies and rain becomes that self fulfilling prophecy. We knew it would rain and so it has. Then we resign ourselves to our fate. We simply throw up our hands in horror and spend the rest of the day fuming and seething. What's the point in going for a run or going for a long walk in the country with thick raincoats and hoods over our heads? It doesn't matter though. We've still got our health.

It then occurs to you that this whole gloom and doom narrative, this inherent pessimism which grips us whenever we see dark, glowering rain clouds, is just an excuse to tell us something we've known about for ages. It wasn't entirely unexpected. We are, after all, on the threshold of spring and you know what that means in April. We'll all be inundated with the wet staff. We can see it sweeping in from the Atlantic, thick clusters of mushroom coloured clouds with huge bands of rain about to crash down onto our pavements, veritable monsoons of rain that have just now taken up permanent residence in our neighbourhood.

But hold on. This is no end of the world scenario. This is not reminiscent of a scene of a disaster movie where the world and civilisation does quite literally come to an end. Rain is a temporary manifestation that will eventually pass sooner rather than later. We will keep Singing in the Rain because Gene Kelly, with that cute hat and umbrella, told us not to worry. The Move, a 1960s hippie, rock band sung about Flowers in the Rain almost welcoming the rain in all its glory and splendour. So of course rain has its redeeming features. 

So let's keep smiling and just be grateful for the rain because as somebody once reminded you rain is good for farmers agricultural harvest of crops. And of course most of us laughed uncontrollably whenever it used to rain heavily at Glastonbury, the yearly pop music concert venue in the middle of a field in Somerset. Years ago plucky and fearless Glastonbury concert regulars would turn up in their thousands, wellington boots and galoshes on their feet and acres of mud engulfing them right up to their ankles. Thick mud would accompany them every time they went out to buy food and drink and then growing in thick clumps inside their tightly secured tents.

It's time to just adjust our mindset and just recognise that rain is here for our foreseeable future and isn't about to go away anytime shortly. Winter, spring, summer and autumn will always witness varying amounts of rain in a quite arbitrary fashion whenever the mood takes it. So Ladies and Gentleman let's give rain the benefit of the doubt. Rain is our closest friend even if we don't think it is. We breathe a sigh of relief when a long, hot summer of droughts and hosepipes is broken by a good, old fashioned rainstorm complete with thunder and lightning. So let's hear it for the rain. It's good for the soul.

Anthony Joshua retains heavyweight boxing title

 Anthony Joshua retains heavyweight boxing title

In a matter of minutes the lights had gone out on Francis Ngannou of Cameroon and the world of heavyweight boxing once again acknowledged and then reminded us of the brilliance of Britain's most fearsome heavyweight boxer Anthony Joshua. Boxing had reached the desert dunes of Riyadh in Saudi Arabia and for a while we were rubbing our eyes with stunned bewilderment. This was probably the most improbable location for a boxing match of any description but then it hardly seemed to matter.

Amid a remarkably colourful backdrop of Arab sheikhs sitting almost dutifully in the front row, it almost felt as if TE Lawrence would have been welcomed as a special guest. This was not Lawrence of Arabia territory but in the fiercely competitive world of  pugilism this was as good as it gets. And yet the strange brevity of this contest meant this was all over before most of boxing's most discerning faithful had had time to take their seats.

Any kind of sporting mismatch is normally dismissed out of hand as some freak show, a farcical caricature of a boxing match where you can almost sense that something just isn't right. This was not entirely anybody's fault since the organisers and promoters of last night's battle royale must have known what they were getting into months before hand. But when Joshua skipped and bounced up and down into the ring last night the body language became patently obvious. The arrogance is perfectly understandable since Joshua could only have dealt with what had been placed in front of him. He knew he'd win easily and decisively and this became the easiest formality of them all. Just turn up and beat your opponent. Now.

Joshua's record is now well documented, a model of extraordinary muscularity, machismo, flashy postures and moves and well honed athleticism. There is a clear air of brazen triumphalism and effortless grace about Joshua that borders on balletic elegance. The shoulders look like boulders, the upper body chest and rib cage, a glowing tribute to hours, weeks and months spent sparring in the gym and incessant road running at the crack of dawn. The stomach resembles an ironing board, the legs and thighs like stone ridges and walls, bulging with energy and ruggedness.

But Joshua is beginning to knock on the door of potential all time greatness, the amalgam of ruthless punching power and earthy savagery reminding us of how lucky Britain is to have somebody like Joshua in its midst. Of course the ego is functioning with frightening efficiency because boxers love to think of themselves as the best in the business. There is though something hearteningly grounded about Joshua since he knows where he came from and he knew where he was going and would never be beaten by anybody.

Last night in Saudi Arabia witnessed Joshua at his most devastating, destructive, conclusive and concussive. From the moment he stepped into the ring you knew that he was just desperate for an early night and had no intention of being detained for any length of time. Besides there is the small matter of Tyson Fury to be addressed as quickly as possible if Joshua has anything to do with it. Boxing adores its cocky protagonists, those ridiculously over confident exhibitionists who dance around boxing rings as if they own them.

And then the bell rang for the first round. Repeatedly Joshua sent out ominous warnings about the distance this bout would take. In fact he must have set his very own stopwatch since Ngannou just toppled to the canvas like a precious porcelain vase that falls helplessly from a mantelpiece. Several times Joshua said good night to his opponent and it was the only intervention of a merciful referee in the second round that sent the Cameroonian off to sleep.

It did seem a shame that this contest was so grotesquely one sided because, to the impartial observer, it really does seem as if  Joshua is being confronted with a whole sequence of rag dolls. From the ring of the first round bell, Joshua went straight for his opponent's head and midriff, with tentative jabs and rights that left Ngannou gasping for breath. But then the rights to the Cameroonian's head just left him wobbling and precariously protected. Then the blows came raining in hard and fast, occasional upper cuts that left us wondering what on earth possessed the promoters to even contemplate matching up these two. By the second round it was all over. Joshua had won by a country mile emphatically.

During the first round Ngannou spent more time lying flat out on the canvas than he did upright. Joshua waded in with almost barbaric ferocity, a man now intent on finishing this one off in time for an early night. With wild, swinging arms and hostile blows that would have been the envy of the likes of Chris Eubank, Joshua was in mood to compromise, clubbing his short hooks painfully into his opponent's body and crashing in wonderfully accurate knock out punches with rapid intensity. Eubank knew a thing or two about lightning quick conclusions to fights and you suspect he might have been an exemplary role model to Joshua.

But now Joshua finds himself with the ultimate challenge of Tyson Fury. There has been unashamed, open malice and animosity between the two. Neither had made no secret of harbouring outright hatred. They will continue to throw verbal grenades at each other, taunting and chastising, threatening in no uncertain terms to administer the lethal knock out punch in no time at all. 

Modern day boxing of course is still the box office commodity it's always been. The legendary Muhammad Ali, George Foreman, Rocky Marciano and Joe Frazer always lent the sport a unique place in the sporting pantheon. But then again we always knew it would. Of course there is a gruesome fascination about watching one man or woman trying desperately to send either into an Accident and Emergency hospital ward. And that's when the health and safety objections grow louder by the week.

At some point Joshua will find himself in the privileged position of being possibly the greatest British boxer of all time. Henry Cooper always fancied he'd be the one to be anointed with heavyweight belts. Then there was Joe Bugner who everybody seriously underestimated and laughed at because he may have been wasting his time. In more recent times the admirably lovable and engaging Frank Bruno had all the physical resources before somebody called Mike Tyson squared up to Tyson and that signalled the end of Bruno's career. But then Britain now has another splendidly ambitious fighter by the name of Anthony Joshua and the future of British boxing remains in safe and capable hands.

National Book Day

National Book Day

Back in the days of pen, quill and ink, writing was the one activity we always associated with Victorian authors who would spend countless hours hunched over their davenport desk, carefully inscribing their pearls of wisdom and insight onto pristine pieces of paper and thinking nothing of eventually producing classical masterpieces that would last for ever. Thus, we now have World Book Day. Logical thinking really when you think about it. Today we recognise the sterling efforts of all those eminent letter writers, novelists, short story writers and above all the people who entertained us with memorable pieces of literature that can never be forgotten.

World Book Day is a fully deserved homage to all of those bookish and learned types who love nothing better than the first feel of pages, the leather binding, the fragrant smell of a book and the hypnotic fascination that a book can induce on picking it up from either your local library or a grand old bookshop that has probably been in the same place and the same position on your high street since time immemorial.

Books are our complete escapism into a magical world if you're a child and you just want to stop climbing trees or gallivanting about on your bike which are perfectly acceptable alternatives to reading. But the truth is that books can open up all kinds of mystical worlds that just intrigue and enchant us. When you were a child reading was somehow anathema, a horrible and totally disagreeable pastime from which no good would ever come.

Libraries of course are our first ports of call, marvellously educational and intellectually stimulating buildings where silence is demanded and respect taken for granted. Besides how often are we told to keep quiet at all times because there are people reading important documents, heavy reference books on whatever subject and then perhaps writing down notes or even chapters of their own book? Needless to say they are places of quiet contemplation, thinking and mulling over private thoughts about the world around us, homework for school children perhaps or just browsing curiously the hundreds of shelves in the library itself.

For some of us though reading became something of an infuriating chore, your mum desperately imploring you to go to the library and reading as much as you could because it was good for you, beneficial to your developing mind and all knowledge was vital. Books had compelling stories, tales of derring do, adventure, happy ever tales that would send you off to sleep with a warm glow. Books transported you some fabulous palace where rich emperors lived, romantic lands where parakeets sung from tropical and exotic hibiscus bushes and where jasmine scented corners of stunning gardens could be found far away.

And yet it seemed to take ages to acknowledge the importance of reading if only because as kids we have the kind of boredom threshold that leads to mind wander over all the place. We know it's good to read words and sentences since of course they are our essential passport into locations where reality can be suspended harmlessly and the imagination given full rein. If only we'd listened to the shrewd advice of our parents then surely we'd be grateful. But we did eventually so perhaps it was a case of better late than never.

After emerging from secondary school with nothing to equip myself for the outside world you found yourself at a complete loss. You knew that English at school had always been your favourite subject and even then you thought you were pretty much a dab hand at it. It was the spoken and written word that held you enthralled from an early age. We used to read Thomas Hardy's love poems as a class and the Lord of the Flies as a class. At the time it just felt as if part of the lesson's standard procedures. By hearing and listening to other kids reading from the book, we too could learn about the pleasures of reading for fun.

It was only by chance that you found yourself to my local library in Ilford, Essex. At first tentatively you quietly went about your business of looking at the classics, sport and history sections. You flicked through the pages desultorily, wondering what on earth you were doing. Then, as if in idle curiosity, you pulled out a thick volume of works by the great author Thomas Mann who had written the celebrated Death in Venice, a novel that would make the easy transition to the cinema screen.

Having finished Thomas Mann you became entranced by the descriptive words on the page, the quality of the writing, the development of complex plots, dialogue, nouns, pronouns, verbs and adverbs. You marvelled at the inimitable Charles Dickens, the greatest novelist and story teller of all time and the way Dickens classic tomes would occupy almost the entire length of a shelf. It was the finest learning curve you could ever have hoped for.

In years to come you would discover the conventional rags to riches story that had underpinned Dicken's rise to literary greatness. You were told that Dickens father John had been sent to prison, that his son Charles had bailed him out of prison, that as a very early writer, Dickens would walk the streets of Covent Garden at midnight, absorbing the flavours, the aromas, the sights and sounds of London. He would notice the last of the costermongers and barrow boys yelling across to their mates. He would note quirks, mannerisms, changes of mood and weather, the people shuffling and then running back to home for a quick hot toddy drink and then sleep.

Dickens taught me subconsciously how to write but not to write to like him. You knew you could never  aspire to emulate his brilliant prose, the warmly lyrical stories and characters that just seemed to reach the surface of his mind before spilling out onto the written page quite organically. But the novels seeped into my head and the images would multiply prolifically. Eventually you would complete most of the big novels such as David Copperfield, the Pickwick Papers, Dombey and Son, Martin Chuzzlewit, a Tale Of Two Cities, Oliver Twist, Hard Times and Barnaby Rudge. It was one of your most exciting journeys to the Olympic heights of literary excellence.

And then there was Thomas Hardy. Now Thomas Hardy was a life changing moment for yours truly, a wondrous, a beautifully descriptive wordsmith who would conjure up some of the most glorious illustrations of the English countryside, painting pictures with words which sung quite melodiously, the contours of his native Dorset farmland, the tragedies and hardships of those people for whom everyday was a continuous struggle to put food and drink on the table.

For somebody who had little or nothing of any academic value or significance to show any prospective employer this did feel like a constructive way of spending huge swathes of unemployed time. You immersed yourself in Charles Dickens and Thomas Hardy, Franz Kafka and Joseph Conrad, Marcel Proust, Leo Tolstoy, Henry James, CS Forrester's Hornblower, George Orwell and DH Lawrence, William Faulkner, Ernest Hemingway, Mark Twain, Alistair Mclean, Anthony Trollope's political novels, HG Wells and too many others to mention that may escape me for the moment.

In recent years you have caught with F. Scott Fitzgerald and GK Chesterton and of course the innumerable sports books that remain an enduring interest. You have suddenly begun to realise that although reading may not be essential for some, it can still grip your attention, it can still be thought provoking and you can become emotionally involved in stories you wouldn't normally have expected to find or hear about in your everyday life. So go on pick up a book. It may just be just your hour or two, an opportunity to explore some nuggets of information that might make you laugh, smile or giggle. Happy World Book Day everybody.

National Sons Day

 National Sons Day.

It is one of those days in your lives when you remember just how good it felt to be the adoring son who always looked up to his father and just stood there, filled with love and admiration for his dad. You couldn't have been anymore than roughly seven or eight and I can recall it as if it were yesterday. It was one of those moments of discovery and revelation that I can hardly describe but know will live with me forever. My dad was and will always remain the best. He was kind, affectionate, unconditionally loving, warm hearted and a man with an immense generosity of spirit that I will certainly never forget.

Ladies and Gentlemen. This is National Sons Day, a day we reserve for fond recollections of my wonderfully loving, kind and compassionate dad. In the USA sons play baseball in the yard, kitting themselves out in huge, protective  American helmets,  and throwing the ball huge distances in a way that here in Britain we may understand but still regard as essentially  American football, something America does exceptionally well at.

But during the childhood my dad would always invite me up to watch something that may have seemed perfectly normal but something I couldn't properly understand since I was far too young to appreciate it.This was my first introduction to male grooming, a time honoured ritual that remains firmly secure in my book of family reminiscences. It was something my dad did on a daily basis but just seemed incomprehensible at the time but it now feels like the right and accepted norm for a growing son.

Shaving belonged in a world of rugged masculinity, a fascinating routine that to this day always resonates me with since I'd never seen anything like it before. And that's where the first seeds of a father and son relationship are initially planted because this was something I would have to do everyday in later life. At some point in my adolescence I would become aware of a bristly stubble on my chin that I couldn't explain or describe properly because when you're that age, you know very little about the big, wide world. 

But every evening my dad would come home from his job as a wonderfully accomplished menswear salesman, sit down for the family evening meal, fall back into our sofa and watch that evening's TV entertainment. He would reluctantly take off his smart and elegant jacket, shirt and tie because my dad loved to look at his best on all occasions. He would then spend the next four or perhaps more hours watching our indefatigable TV that just kept going on and on tirelessly for years and years before abandoning himself to the joyous Tommy Cooper, delirious laughter echoing throughout the family home.

But shaving was the one activity that only males re-enacted every time they came from their work. As a family we would gather in our kitchen for supper before my dad got ready for his brush up and shave. Sons and fathers always look for some identifiable theme, a kindred spirit, common ground, a chemistry if you like. For years my lovely dad would walk upstairs to our beautiful bathroom and toilet and engage in what looked like a very delicate operation.

There was something very emotional, deep seated and poignant about that first interaction with my dad that of course can never be erased from your consciousness or memory. It isn't a rites of passage moment just the realisation that here was a man who loved not only his first son but the family around him and those who just wanted to reach out for him when he wasn't well. Let me make it abundantly clear. My dad was the greatest, loveliest and finest gentleman in the world. He sacrificed his mental health just to make sure that his doting sons would be happy, healthy and just care for him.

Sons of course always take a passionate interest in their dad's hobbies and interests. They can hardly wait to pass their driving test and then invest in that first memorable car that, after a number of years,  finds itself with too many miles on the clock, the worse for wear at times and slightly faded looking. You then open up that crucial discussion and ask how the chassis is, the carburettor is shaping up and, above all the engine. You should be full of enthusiasm and counting the days down until that first stylish piece of engineering officially becomes your property.

You drive said car out of the showroom and into the big, wide world and just marvel at the impeccable bodywork, the upholstery, the always comfortable seats and then you set off.  You take it on a quick spin around the local neighbourhood before venturing out into that rarefied world of motorways, hard shoulders, junctions, traffic lights, intolerable traffic and motorways that seemingly go on forever. You think you're a fully grown up adult which indeed you are. As a son you look to your dad and thank him profusely for just being there when you needed a shoulder to cry or just there for jocular banter, a laugh that could quite easily be heard in another part of Essex.

Regrettably though this is the story of the first son that, although idyllic for that embryonic part of your childhood, just lost its way. Of course my dad was in a class of its own, an exemplary role model. He was the one who would suddenly appear at the bottom of our road with a cigarette in his mouth and delight in his heart. His day of toil and drudgery seemed to written all over his face. It was a face of exhaustion, relief to be at home, a man just happy to relax and immerse himself in that comforting sanctuary of TV and family, the ultimate escapism from an often troubled world.

But as a son at the time I can simply recall those shaving moments. Painstakingly, he would smother his cheeks and forehead with white foam, spreading it quite carefully all over his face. Then the shaving stick would be produced, much to my amazement and then he would thoroughly scrape all the shaving cream from his face with the sharpest blade. Soon his face and chin would be a mass of red blood oozing wildly from every pore of his skin. And yet my lovely dad never panicked and from nowhere, or so it seemed, small tissues of paper would be cautiously applied to bloodied stains by now on the way to his neck before proceeding to the sink and washing away the remnants of hairs on his face.

Then finally there was that glorious moment when the first son received one of his first birthday presents. Now this was the first moment when my gorgeous mum knew she had to take a back seat just for a while. So here I was excitement pumping through my childish veins as mum and dad handed over a train set but not some ordinary train set. This was a Hornby's train set, a highly reputable model that even now sends an unforgettable tingle down your spine and gives you goose bumps whenever I think about.

There was my dad and I trying to connect fragile looking pieces of railway track and sprawled out on the carpet and just revelling in the simple joys of being the best dad in the world. For hours we would wind up both the tiny trains and launch them on their now familiar journey in ever increasing circles. Occasionally they would fly away into some mysterious corner of our living room before then returning back to the main platform which was somewhere in close proximity of our oval shaped glass dining room table.

But for all the sons out there and there are million upon millions of you scattered around the globe, your dad is your first male buddy, somebody you can confide in quite happily without fear of being snubbed or told to go back out of the house and play with your friends. He was your confidant, your friend in perpetuity, the one who told you that despite all the cuts and bruises of your burgeoning years as a child, the man who told you that one day you'd occupy the same role and how right he was. He tucked you up into bed with your beautiful mum and sent out powerful messages of reassurance. He was always there for you and never disappointed. So everybody it's National Sons Day so make sure that you'll never stop loving him and you'll always be available for a sympathetic hug when you need it. Thanks dad. Nobody did it better and I'm proud to call you my dad. And of course mum. I'll always love you both.

Chelsea knock out Leeds in FA Cup five goal thriller.

 Chelsea knock out Leeds in FA Cup five goal thriller

In the mind's eye, you can still see Ian Hutchinson's long throw soaring into a congested Leeds United penalty box. And then from another corner of your vision you could see David Webb waiting for the missile to be launched into the danger zone. Suddenly Chelsea would reach a seventh heaven. The trajectory of the ball was such that Webb found himself  leaping up at the far post before heading Chelsea's late winner against Leeds United in the 1970 FA Cup Final replay at Old Trafford.

At the time both Chelsea and Leeds United were situated at the centre of football's universe, gripping our attention with the kind of free flowing and expansive football that would take another 50 years to come to full fruition in the modern day Premier League. Back then football had a dull functionalism, a dreary dependence on the long ball from full back to centre forward. It was one dimensional at times, predictable but could be, when the mood took it, immensely entertaining. 

But at the beginning of the 1970s Chelsea were at the artistic cutting edge of the game, avant garde, swish, swashbuckling, always a compulsive watch and far from being boring. There was Peter Osgood, Hutchinson himself, Charlie Cooke, Ron Harris, Peter Houseman, Peter Bonetti and of course Dave Webb, a towering influence on the Chelsea of the 1970s. Chelsea were carefree and expressive showmen, full of wit and instinct, fluency from back to front and totally without inhibition.

Then there were the lean, bleak and traumatic years when the club found itself perilously perched on the precipice, clinging on to the metaphorical cliff face. Had it not been for their former chairman and colourful character in his own right Ken Bates then Chelsea would have folded like a pack of cards. Poised on the trapdoor of the old Third Division, Chelsea mercifully hauled themselves back into contention for another chance again. Bates invested one pound into the coffers and  most of the late 1970s and early 80s were spent fighting off insolvency and bankruptcy.

There was the glowering sight of bulldozers and diligent builders demolishing the remnants of the old Shed and rebuilding the most ambitious project of all time. Stamford Bridge had come back to life with a vengeance and eventually it all came right for the West London club. It wasn't long before the late and much missed Ray Wilkins matured into one of the club's classiest and most creative midfield players and Wilkins became symbolic of the club's renaissance.

It wasn't long before Chelsea were rubbing shoulders with both the old and new aristocracy. Millionaire Russian businessman Roman Abramovich quite literally resuscitated the club in the early 21st century. Soon the acquisition of Frank Lampard from West Ham would become the central axis from which strikers like Didier Drogba and defender John Terry would become the main source of the club's inspiration. Then in a dramatic change of fortune, Chelsea won two successive Premier League titles and then, astonishingly, the Champions League winning trophy. The mission had been accomplished. Chelsea were the complete article.

On Wednesday evening though it was the current incarnation of Chelsea who were on parade for a Chelsea crowd who may have become spoilt by the club's recent successes. This season has become extremely uncomfortable, cumbersome, awkward, inconsistent certainly but their 4-2 victory against Leeds in the FA Cup fifth round was a pleasant throwback to Premier League wine and roses. Some of their football on the night was easy on the eye, poetically symmetrical and gorgeously extrovert at times. The passes were short, sharp, well co-ordinated and highly intelligent. Their movements on and off the ball were almost programmed to perfection. The intricate triangles, circles and rectangles of smooth passing from defence to attack reminded you of Chelsea at their very best.

Under the midweek floodlights Stamford Bridge still had a palatial air of the five star hotel with plenty of restaurants, clubs and bars within walking distance of the ground. The harbour and village are now flourishing and the immense affluence that has been rapidly generated from souvenirs and merchandise are the club's shining financial salvation. But against Leeds the fans were back in voice, good humoured and boisterous, loud and proud. Their Premier League season hasn't really taken off and the chances are that they may have to be content with a European Conference League place for their efforts.

Still, when the likes of Enzo Fernandez, Levi Colwell, a young and hungry Englishman named Alfie Gilchrist, Malo Gusto, the always lively and fleet and fast feet of Raheem Sterling and Nicolas Jackson beat defenders for fun, Chelsea were irresistible, cavalier, full of themselves, oozing brazen confidence, at times bordering on arrogance when the time was right.

Then Moises Caceido gave Chelsea their exotic and cosmopolitan look, simply stylish and always looking for the delicious through ball. Both Noni Madueke and Alex Disai were models of sophistication and joie de vivre while Mykhailo Mudryk was perhaps the most outstanding player on the night, swerving past defenders with effortless ease and then darting in and out of Leeds defensive low block with old fashioned wing play before cutting inside his opponent to explode into action.

Soon Chelsea had opened the scoring. After a delightful exchange of passes that was almost spellbinding, Niklas Jackson, now a Stamford Bridge poster boy, fired home low into the Leeds net as if he'd studied the Peter Osgood manual of the centre forward's art. Then Matheo Joseph, who had looked so impressive for Leeds up until then, promptly equalised when Chelsea got themselves into a terrible tangle at the back. The slow, deliberate build up from the back now rebounded on them. Joseph hurtled into the Chelsea penalty area like a man who finds that the children's game of Pass the Parcel had worked in his favour. Joseph scored quite gleefully and Leeds were level pegging.

Shortly afterwards though Chelsea discovered another treasure trove of quick, quick, slow slow staccato passes. Caseido found Raheem Sterling picked up the ball again, ran dangerously into space and his low cut back found Mykahalo Mudryk who stepped up to the plate with a firmly drilled shot that beat Leeds keeper Ilian Meslier who was nowhere near the ball.

But Leeds were far from out and beaten. Their football had now achieved a much higher plateau and their equally as eye catching passing suggested that they were far from out of this game. It was fluid and intuitive with Cysci Summerville, Ethan Mpadu, busy and industrious, Joe Rondon bristling with energy and invention and Connor Roberts shutting up Chelsea's forward momentum. Archie Gray of course comes from the best family pedigree while Eddie looked on with righteous admiration. 

Once again Leeds sprung forward like greyhounds out of the trap, players swarming forward in unison like an orchestra responding to the conductor instantly. From the loveliest of crossfield passes and the classic diagonal overload, a high, steepling cross from Jaidon Anthony landed conveniently at the feet at the lethal Joseph who did the same trick with a marvellous poacher's goal. Leeds were level.

In a fascinating climax to this game, Chelsea found their most assertive attacking edge once again. It was a second wind that maybe they hadn't thought they were capable of producing. A superbly measured through ball from Chelsea's now resourceful midfield, sent through substitute Conor Gallagher who latched onto the ball, running confidently into the Leeds penalty area and confidently slotting home Chelsea's late, late winner.

For the departing Leeds fans this may well have reminded them of the way things used to be. Under Marco Bielsa it was all very gung ho, reckless and gallantly adventurous with no consideration for defensive duties. Leeds are fighting back from the Championship but this was not the Leeds of Billy Bremner, Peter Lorimer, Mick Bates, Mick Jones, Norman Hunter or Jack Charlton. Besides, Don Revie would have had kittens had he seen this Leeds defence on Wednesday evening. So it's Chelsea who are through to the last eight of the FA Cup and Leeds who return to domestic toil in the Championship. Football is just scintillating and never disappointing.