Thursday, 30 May 2024

General Election Punch and Judy Show.

 General Election Punch and Judy Show.

So here we are at the beginning of the great, political Punch and Judy show. It's the season of name calling, barbed insults, brinkmanship, one upmanship and quite frankly, childish behaviour. There will be a whole sequence of very personal accusations and counter accusations, mud slinging and fierce criticism from both the Conservative and Labour parties aimed exclusively at each other. It's all designed to humiliate and undermine both the red, blue and yellow corner.

Ladies and Gentlemen. Let me introduce you to the build up to the UK General Election. It's the preamble to the one event held every five years that some of us may quietly dread since none of us can really make up our minds decisively. On July 4th, the good folk of Great Britain will be asked to saunter down to their local voting booths and decide the immediate future of this green and pleasant land. We've always done General Elections with some expertise and competence. Besides, the act of ticking a couple of boxes has never really troubled any of us. We may tolerate our politicians but it's all a bit of a laugh.

This week, all three mainstream parties Labour, Conservative and Lib Dems have been hard at it, clocking up the railway mileage, watching the gorgeous British countryside out of the train windows and wondering what the cows, sheep and lambs must be thinking of when they gaze across at Westminster's finest. All of our ministers will be furiously scribbling notes, reading books and pamphlets relating to their own party and believing that their party are just outstandingly well equipped to govern the country for at least five years.

Already, both Rishi Sunak, Sir Keir Starmer and Ed Davy have all been travelling to all four corners of the UK, hoping to be the most persuasive orators you've ever heard speaking on any subject. They will head for all the local shopping centres in every town, village and city in the whole of England, producing that familiar orange crate and soap box to express their pompous platitudes, those old sayings we must have heard a million times before. The high minded promises and guarantees will, quite obviously, grate, irritate and annoy those who have been accustomed to the same language and bold pledges throughout the decades and centuries.

It will all sound very convincing and grammatically correct perhaps, woolly and mealy mouthed at times but not really pressing home any advantage. According to all the experts, the Labour party are running away with the General Election and hold the most commanding lead over the Tories since records began. Whoever you believe, this could be the most monumental landslide of a victory for Labour since the days of dear Clement Atlee and we all know what happened to Winston Churchill then.

Sometimes you get a feeling for this particular General Election. The mood music at the moment would imply that this contest is so one sided that the Tories would be well advised to just leave the country tomorrow and just hide in a dark cupboard where nobody can see them. Sadly, the Conservative party, who used to be the epitome of reliability and integrity in the eyes of  the middle and upper classes, are now in danger of  descending into complete melt down and oblivion. Rumour has it that Rishi Sunak is planning to jump onto a plane after the election, earning a handsome living on the after dinner speech circuit. Some have suggested that Sunak just wants to escape the rat race with permanent residence in California. Sunak just emphatically denies the rumour but then he would.

Besides, does Sunak really need all of that aggravation and hassle back among the green benches in the House of Commons? For a while now, the Tories have been grasping at the nettle, desperately searching for approval and acceptance, wondering whether anybody who will either forgive them their idiotic misdemeanours or just throw them into the lions den. The last 14 years have been dominated by one calamity after another, a frightening decline into a world of cringeworthy embarrassment.

For those of us who really think that the Conservative party are just covering their backs with one excuse after another, then you'd probably be right. After all, it wasn't their fault governor. They did their utmost at times and really did try to create a favourable impression. It wasn't their fault that Covid 19, that horrific global virus, almost destroyed the entire world. The number of fatalities as a result of Covid 19 may come to haunt Boris Johnson's muddling and blundering government. But then politics can be a cruel body blow to your confidence when things seem to be going fairly well.

This week, the political buses have been out there in some force. The campaigning for your vote probably started months ago since everybody knew the General Election was imminent. But, suddenly the well embroidered patchwork quilt of rural England may find itself drawn back into the most awkward indifference since General Elections began. We love to hate politicians because none of them have ever done any of us any favours and we really don't care about their everyday decisions which may have a vitally important effect on all of us.

Already, devoted Southampton football club supporter Rishi Sunak, Britain's Prime Minister at the moment, has been seen dribbling with the ball both carefully and deliberately around training cones. It all began to look like some cheap public relations exercise. The Prime Minister loves his football and he is one of us. He has his finger on the pulse and just wants to be recognised as a man of the people. Let's hear it for good old Rishi. Come on you Saints, you're a paragon of virtue. And yet it all seems highly unlikely.

Meanwhile, Sir Keir Starmer, our next potential Prime Minister, has also been out and about, smiling for the cameras, a supportive and considerate man who just wants the job he's always craved. He'd give anything just to be liked and admired for who he is rather than the way he may be perceived by others. Recently, Starmer stood on a platform in some Labour heartland and was, by some unfortunate set of circumstances, attacked by a swarm of flies or wasps. At this point, Starmer looked spooked and shocked as if one of the Tories had been up to no good. Karmer frantically swotted away the insects by whipping off his glasses and then composure arrived just in the nick of time.

And then finally there was Ed Davy, leader of the Liberal Democrats. This had to be Davy's first election roadshow assignment. You know what it's like. You're Ed Davy's Press officer and you do have his best interests at heart but how to explain what happened to him yesterday? Davy promptly agrees to get onto a paddle board in Lake Windemere. So here's what follows next.

If you're Ed Davy, you stand on the board and, after a spot of gentle wobbling and balancing, Davy just falls head first into the water, flopping gleefully into the drink. And then he laughed stoically as if the whole thing had been rehearsed over and over again. Well done Ed. You've won the comedy community vote hands down but little else one suspects. For ages now, the Lib Dems or, from another age, the Liberals have been regarded as a seaside end of pier joke, just there to make up the numbers. We had Nick Clegg who once formed a coalition government with Conservative Prime Minister David Cameron but who remembers that?

So there you have it, folks. It's General Election time. A lively democracy is about to go to the Polls, moving very smartly into place for what could be one of the most personal and nastiest battles in General Election history. The loathing and resentment is there for all to see. Sunak can barely hold back his withering contempt while Starmer just wants July 4th to arrive as soon as possible. We have monitored events on the political front and if Sir Keir Starmer hasn't got his feet under the table in 10, Downing Street then we may have completely misjudged everything. Britain is ready for fresh and innovative change. Or maybe Rishi Sunak has got one last trick up his sleeve for the Tories. We very much doubt it but you never know. 


Monday, 27 May 2024

Manchester United win the FA Cup

 Manchester United win the FA Cup

There was a point during Saturday's FA Cup Final between Manchester United and Manchester City when this year's Wembley showpiece bore an uncanny resemblance to last year's confrontation in reverse. Last year, Ilkay Gundogan had fired a rocket of a volleyed shot that opened the scoring within 40 seconds of the kick off. On Saturday though time frames had followed an entirely different patten and how intriguing that would prove.

Now, the renewal of acquaintances between these two Manchester footballing giants had given us another day to remember. Manchester derbies are always highly charged, ferociously fought, unforgiving and unapologetic. But two consecutive FA Cup Finals involving both City and United were bound to be combustible and not for those of a nervous disposition. In fact most of our nerves were frazzled.

Before the game most of us had completely written off  United's chances of even scoring at Wembley on Saturday, let alone one. This time though, the boots were on the other foot, fortunes swaying towards Old Trafford rather than the Etihad. Sometimes football has an innate capacity to catch us off guard. The inevitable is frequently anything but, a perfect example of where things can go wrong even though all the pre-match preparations had been thorough.

Last weekend, City won their record breaking, phenomenal fourth consecutive Premier League title, a colossal achievement that may never be matched or surpassed, certainly in the immediate future. Against a West Ham manager whose manager David Moyes had finally left the club and a team simply treading water at the Etihad, City took full advantage of West Ham's leaking defence again and the result was almost a formality.

Now, City had arrived at Wembley Stadium full of the joys of spring and presuming that all they had to do was to turn up at the national stadium and just sign all of the appropriate forms. Victory against their noisy neighbours Manchester United would just become a straightforward challenge, a feeble obstacle that posed little in the way of any danger. But City, although deeply respectful of United, were never likely to hand out generous gifts to their Manchester Ship Canal neighbours. This was so much tighter a contest than any of us could have predicted. Both Manchester powerhouses meant business this time around or so it seemed.

But Eric Ten Haag, for whom the exit door had probably opened up at Old Trafford, gave his United side one last sharp injection of energy and encouragement. This has not been the season United might have been expecting and for long periods of this year's FA Cup Final, Manchester United seemed to relying on that final boost of adrenaline and, by the end of the day, were by far the hungrier and driven side, a current of electricity running through their team as if refusing to go away from City.

This was yet another FA Cup Final classic and went a considerable way to redressing the balance after last year's Final when United looked like strangers and impostors compared to City's classical students of the game. Once Gundogan had given City the lead there was no way back for their neighbours no matter how hard they must have tried. But Saturday was different, hearteningly possible, as if United had borrowed City's clothes and forgotten to give them back to Pep Guardiola. 

Interviewed after the match, Pep Guardiola maintained that, although he'd won everything the game could possibly offer, there was no way he could be drawn on his future at the club. He made all the right noises, modest and self effacing and suggesting that he'd be at the Etihad come next season. After everything that had gone before him, even the outlandish Malcolm Allison could have never promise the world at City and, before you knew it, Allison was at the Palace familiarising himself with the luxuries and furnishings at Selhurst Park. Watching Crystal Palace would never be anything less than eventful.

The memories of Manchester City and Manchester United were always there just below the surface. In 1948, Johnny Carey's fit and athletic United side had swotted aside Blackpool as if Stanley Matthews hadn't been on the same Wembley pitch. Then, in 1977 the larger than life, colourful Tommy Docherty had provided United with another stunning set of highlights when the Old Trafford club outwitted a Liverpool side who, themselves, were chasing their own Doubles and Trebles. 

During one of their most satisfying and rewarding FA Cup winning days, Norman Whiteside had curled home a stupendous shot after cutting inside from the flanks. United would go on to beat a lacklustre Everton in 1985. During the 1990s there were triumphs against Crystal Palace, Chelsea, Liverpool and an abundance of others too numerous to mention. The FA Cup would prove to be their trusted ally in years to come.

City, for their part, were still shaking their heads in stunned astonishment when Wigan Athletic beat a Manchester City side who must have thought they were hallucinating. Ben Watson's last gasp headed goal from a corner is still regarded as some temporary aberration that had just come out of the blue. That was 11 years ago but for City it must have felt like a rush of the blood to head and would never be allowed to happen again.

Now, City were once again gracing the national stadium for another visit to the Wembley Arch. In 1981, Ricky Villa slalomed his way gracefully through a forest of light  blue Manchester City shirts and brought home the FA Cup to Spurs. For City on Saturday this felt like a paso doble-cum- foxtrot. And then somebody pinched their ballroom shoes and Manchester United were left grimly hanging on for the last dance.

From the first whistle, United showed their gloves to a City side who knew this would be a battle royale but not the one they were expecting. Yet again we were treated to an impromptu chess match where all of United's bishops and knights were confronting the full might of City's castles and pawns. The game was certainly engrossing but for a while it all became very stodgy, cautious and bogged down in stifling caginess. Certainly, for the first twenty minutes or so, the City armada were resorting to thoughtful triangles of passes that looked as if they could just stroll casually through United and score goals at will.

Amazingly City, for all their controlled possession and spider's web of passing and pressing, failed to make the decisive breakthrough and United were still in this one. Then slowly but surely City were rumbled, rocked back on their heels by some of Manchester United's carefully co-ordinated and intelligently constructed attacking movements. It was almost as if somebody had reminded them that FA Cup Finals could be won and particularly against United. Manchester United were daringly constructive, building up clusters of passes in confined areas that threw away the claustrophobia.

At the back for City, normally their strongest card, Kyle Walker was beginning to feel the wear and tear of modern day football, still fast but never comfortable against United. Both Nathan Ake and John Stones were formidable and often impenetrable but there was something lacking about City's otherwise watertight defence. The short, intricate passes were going precisely to feet and then there was a slight momentum but United had all their bases covered. Suddenly Julian Alvarez became a marginal influence without ever threatening to take Manchester City up a couple of gears. Stefan Ortega and Bernardo Silva were still giving City balance and ballast through the middle but even Manuel Akanji could never get anywhere near United on the front foot. Erling Haaland vanished and that was that.

Somehow all the theatricality had gone missing from City's game and all of the attractive one touch football they had entertained us with bore ripe fruit. And so United grew quite rapidly into the game, a side that had re-discovered the quality that had been more or less taken for granted under Sir Alex Ferguson. Their football now flowed freely and fluently, players clearly intent on re-asserting the control that Ferguson had always known they would give to their manager. Premier Leagues had become their divine right and Ferguson never gave up when backs were against walls.

On Saturday, there was a refreshing spirit of independence about Manchester United that some of us thought we'd never see again. True, the days of Beckham, Scholes, Giggs and Butt are no longer the province of the Old Trafford choristers on the Stretford End terraces. There was though, a real air of creativity, a buzz about the place that seemed to get louder as the match progressed. United too, seized the moment as we all privately knew they would. This was too good an opportunity to pass up and Manchester United's defence nullified everything City could throw at them. United were chasing apparently lost causes and determined to make the most of their possession.

With Bruno Fernandes, bustling his way through a flimsy Manchester City's defence, Garnacho always provided an inventive outlet for all of United's brighter and lighter moments. Lisandro Dalot and Raphael Varane were now pushing forward cohesively while Scott McTominay presented the full range of his polished skills. We knew a goal would arrive fairly shortly and United made the breakthrough. 

Uncharacteristically, City were the architects of their downfall. Normally they would attempt to carry the ball out of their goalkeeper and defence with an almost insolent assurance. City love to build and play the game as it was meant to be played. Now Josko Gvardiol, who would have an off day for City, left the ball crucially for City goalkeeper Ederson to come out and collect. There was a brief moment of hesitation and the back pass was far too weak. United, noticing the lapse in concentration, snatched the ball in full flight and Garnacho rolled the ball into the City net for United's opening goal.

Now City simply threw the proverbial kitchen sink at their neighbours United. Varane and McTominay would slice open the City defence with powerful runs into space, outwitting their equally as wealthy opponents with football that had a real splendour and opulence to it. The precociously young Kobbie Mainoo was picking up on City's inadequacies and tussling for every ball. And then it was Mainoo's career defining moment, the goal this teenager would never forget.

Through a whole succession of feet including that Fernandes, McTominay and Dalot, the ball travelled almost too easily for City's liking in a spectacular, multi pass movement that sliced open Manchester City with an almost ridiculous speed of movement. Now Kobbie Mainoo, all 18 years of him, received the cheekiest of passes from Fernandes instep and slipped the ball into the net from close range. Manchester United were working from all angles and all conceivable areas of the pitch. Their job was complete.

City did pull back a consolation goal of sorts four minutes from the end. Jeremy Doku, who might have been a far more fruitful source of goals on the wing, with his jinking and teasing runs outside and inside the United penalty box, finally scored the goal which subsequently proved irrelevant. The game was now up for Manchester City and Fernandes went through now the usual, very modern celebration, shaking the FA Cup gleefully, smiling for the cameras and then jumping up and down with his team mates amid a blizzard of paper and gold confetti.

Oh whatever happened to the traditional lap of honour after an FA Cup Final? Maybe it had been left in a 1950s and 1960s trolley bus or tram. Manchester United will not care a jot. The FA Cup is theirs and Old Trafford is a happy place to be in at the moment. The position of manager may not be quite as clear cut. How we revere Manchester United.

Thursday, 23 May 2024

The General Election.

 The General Election

Yesterday afternoon the heavens opened just in time for tea and one man just stood in the pouring rain. He looked and sounded confident, unreasonably defiant but privately resigned to his fate. He stood there for a while and wondered whether he was being pushed out of his job whether he liked it or not. Sunak may hang around as Prime Minister for another five year stint. But in some eyes he was simply isolated, forlorn, clutching at straws and, above all, he was soaked to the skin, saturated, drenched, not exactly foolish but surely delusional.

It was early evening and the current Prime Minister was staring down the bottom of the barrel, suit, shirt and tie ruined and only a lectern in front of him to offer any kind of consolation. Besides, it wasn't the lectern's fault because quite clearly it was simply there to provide him with a platform for expression, reassuring the great British public that the country was on the way up, manufacturing prosperity was at its height, there was a feelgood factor and everything in the garden was rosy. Who was he kidding, the cynics might have added?

The Prime Minister of the United Kingdom Rishi Sunak yesterday announced a General Election and some of the more impartial observers must have breathed a sigh of relief. It was not before time and finally the nation will be able to exercise their democratic right to vote for the next Prime Minister. Not too much to ask for and the country has never been readier, more prepared, champing at the bit. The timing was immaculate and, now, for the first time in ages, the good people of Britain will take themselves off to their local church hall, village hall or community centre and tick the box for their political party. It will be their preferred choice of a candidate or candidates to lead the country in the right direction but for most of us it'll be just another chapter in the often turbulent history of  British politics.

But what of yesterday's watery spectacle? Poor Rishi Sunak would probably have given anything for a brolley or any kind of umbrella to protect him from the elements. It was chucking it down and for those who felt sorry for him, it was a suitable metaphor for Sunak's state of mind. It was raining in his heart but whatever happens on July 4th, he'll still be there, fighting the good fight, battling manfully for his Great Britain and hoping that he's done more than enough to capture the imagination of everybody around him.

Still, there was Sunak, his lean, wiry frame smartly attired in formal shirt, jacket and tie and wishing the day had been bathed in hot, sweltering sunshine rather than yesterday's rain on his parade. There was, at times, a sadness in his eyes and an obvious recognition of the daunting task in front of him. Of course he'll be busting a gut to win the General Election but something deep within Sunak must have told him that the last train was calling and it was time to pack his bags before regrettably leaving 10, Downing Street. The Tory party he was presiding was still in toxic, fractious mood, grumbling under their breath and just irreparably divided on all the more urgent issues of the day.

For a while now the Tories have been treading water, flapping furiously, getting extremely agitated and dissatisfied with their lot. This has been a long and gruelling journey for the Conservative party and no one knows this to be the case better than Sunak and his colleagues. Now the Cabinet are snapping at Sunak's heels, getting all hot and bothered by what they see as Sunak's complete lack of proper leadership. To be perfectly honest the last year or so has all been about damage limitation and Sunak knows this to be true.

It was rumoured that Sunak would leave the date of the General Election until at least the end of July or quite possibly August but then that would have been delaying the inevitable. So yesterday afternoon his Cabinet ministers looked at their Smart Phones and saw the news they might have been dreading. Yes friends, Sunak was going to the country, waving the white flag of surrender and going to the polls. It's time to vote for your man, woman, eccentric, the quirky element or just the dissenting voices who simply want to be heard. But Sunak is no quitter and this is no time to throw in the towel.

We will gather on the morning of July 4th, across the great cities, towns, villages, hamlets, cottages, churches, synagogues, babbling brooks, the impressive looking waterfalls and streams and all manner of habitations and dwellings. Together we will dutifully troop down to our local voting booths where we'll be greeted by friendly, smiling faces who will ask for your name, address, post code and some might be sufficiently nosy and inquisitive enough to ask for your leg measurements.

You'll be ushered over to have your identities confirmed before moving over to those very private wooden voting booths. You'll pause for breath because, quite frankly, most of us are so disillusioned with mainstream politics that they'd probably vote for some inanimate object such as a chair or table to lead the country. Besides a chair or table is hardly likely to count on our votes so who's to say whether they could do any worse? Those loud, noisy, haranguing, hectoring, judging and pontificating politicians are beginning to get on our nerves so the sooner the General Election is over we can just ignore them for the rest of the year.

Now more than ever you're reminded of the fall of the Roman empire. For 14 long, frequently controversial, contentious and argumentative years, the Conservative party have been at war with both themselves and the public who just wanted them to trust in the Tories. And now we've reached boiling point. The pressure cooker is steaming away and the natives are restless. Short of taking to the streets and marching with placards next to the House of Commons, your personal impression is that there could be a major revolt well before July and stormy riots could be on the cards. The people of Britain are angry and a General Election can't come quickly enough.

For their part Rishi Sunak and his closest allies are defending their corner, hunkering down in the bunker, cowering and trembling but brave and heroic as you'd expect them to be. 14 years in government though is outstaying their welcome, past their sell by date, too long folks. To quote the populist mantra of the moment, it's time to change, making a fresh new start and radically transform the political landscape. The Labour party are just star struck. Suddenly overnight the nation has warmed to them and they're back in the public's good books. How fortunes can swing in your favour when once it looked absolutely hopeless. It's time to look now Sir Keir Starmer your country may need you.

But it's at this time that we look back at the chequered history of political leaders who have been widely praised to the skies or despised rather like the most evil villain. For Tory read Labour. When Harold Wilson, Labour leader and Prime Minister met Edward Heath of the Conservatives, the exchanges were often feisty and explosive. Of course there was a mutual suspicion and then loathing of each other since both came from completely different ideologies and their long term objectives would have been in marked contrast to each other. Heath took us into what became the ill fated Common Market while Wilson was always arguing with trade union movements.

Then came Margaret Thatcher, Britain's first ever female Prime Minister who was still there 11 years after being elected as Prime Minister. Thatcher reluctantly left Downing Street in floods of tears while Neil Kinnock in the red Labour corner could only regret what might have been had he been Prime Minister. Then there was John Major going head to head with Tony Blair in the red Labour corner, Boris Johnson just blowing everybody away with his absurdities, Theresa May who became the second female Prime Minister who just fell by the wayside because of Brexit and Liz Truss who was Prime Minister for roughly five minutes but not before almost bankrupting Britain and rubbing everybody up the wrong way.

And so we find ourselves at a political crossroads. On July 4th, the USA will be celebrating National Independence Day while across the Atlantic pond, Britain will be bracing itself for another Punch and Judy show with an almost political cabaret and burlesque to follow. From early morning when the voting stations open up to late at night the day will be dominated by talking heads, prattling politicians both local and national, graphs, charts, graphics but sadly no Peter Snow BBC swingometers which does seem a shame. Then there will follow the carefully considered analyses, the margins of victory, those incredible swings to the right and the left and yet more detailed discussion. By July 5th we can all come out again because a new Prime Minister will be in situ. Oh what sweet joy. We can hardly wait.

Wednesday, 22 May 2024

International Musical Instrument Day

 International Musical Instrument Day.

We all know that today is International Musical Instrument Day. Of course you did. It was on the tip of your tongue but you were reluctant to admit to any knowledge of the fact. But seriously, jokes aside, today is, quite definitely, International Musical Instrument Day and throughout the globe, people are dusting down their violins and tuning the recorders that were once proudly displayed at infant school concerts.

Your aptitude for playing any kind of musical instrument is second to none and, besides, what can be sweeter than the sound of a tinkling piano accompanying a jazz quartet or a classical piece of film music, embracing an equally as celebrated soundtrack to some legendary trumpeter we might have heard at Ronnie Scott's famous venue where jazz sends out all manner of memorably melodious vibes. Then we might have popped over to the 100 Club in London's Regent Street where the likes of Thelonius Monk, Miles Davis, Dave Brubeck and John Coltrane provided a soothing antidote to the day's stresses.

For some of us our formal introduction to musical instruments came at primary school where, suddenly the piano, violin or the recorder were almost compulsory to the daily rhythms of your life when you were a lad in shorts. You can still see your school assembly hall, floor cleaned meticulously and, - or so it seemed at the time- layered with a thick brown sheen. But around the school hall were vital pieces of furniture including PE ropes, wooden climbing frames and one musical instrument that simply stood out from the rest. 

In the far corner of the assembly there was a piano deployed only for the purpose of morning assemblies or music lessons throughout the day. Amusingly, the said piano was notoriously off key, desperately searching for any kind of musicality and clearly lacking in the right notes at the right time to quote Morecambe and Wise, Britain's greatest comedians. But every morning the children of Newbury Park primary school in Ilford, East London, were lined up in front of yellowing hymn sheet that had last seen action at the time of the Bayeux Tapestry and now we sung our hearts out whole heartedly to timeless religious themes.

But this piano was our formative soundtrack no matter how discordant it must have sounded. Some of the kids at your school fell in love with the piano because one day they thought they'd become an essential part of an orchestra or the next Richard Clayderman. The piano is one of those instruments that has become a permanent feature of any piece of musical composition, whether it be jazz, soul, pop or just easy listening late at night. It can be both light hearted and evocative reminding us of some moment in our lives when a special night or party made us relax and smile reflectively.

And then there was the recorder, where, as a child, you were never quite sure what a recorder was all about. Did it have any kind of significance to us and why did our music teachers regard it as so important to our development and maturity in later life? Surely not. And yet it did. Of course it did. The woodwind instrument known as a recorder blew out sweet and enchanting notes that almost became so familiar to us that it became synonymous with our music lessons.

By the same token there was our very striking record player tucked away discreetly in another corner of our school hall. The record player itself was a big, wooden box with a lid and had nothing to commend itself. The sound quality of the record player was almost negligible, practically non existent and always the source of enormous amusement to a class of children who must have wondered what they had just witnessed.

If memory serves you correctly, the record player was only used on a Friday afternoon. One of our teachers Mrs Cole, a delightfully exuberant woman, would take a country and western record out of its sleeve, plonking it on the turntable and here was a very primitive manifestation of line dancing. But here we were as a kids holding hands with each other boy to girl and trying to fathom out why exactly why were being forced to dosido, skipping gently with a very jaunty air and trying to keep a straight face.

In the outside world, musical instruments can be our spiritual guide, our therapeutic salvation when life gets so tough and awkward although we always cherish and love it. Both the piano and the recorder was the starting point of our lives, our first musical references. Then there's the violin and double bass, the life affirming guitar and the magnificently dramatic drums that resound resonantly and purposefully throughout the land. Music indeed can be the food of love. 

Behind the rest of this vast ensemble of glockenspiels, clarinets, saxophones, trumpets and trombones, are all backing tracks to wherever we happen to be in life. These were the first soundtracks to our lives, the playthings we tended to take for granted but were always available. There was something both uplifting and moving about our introduction to the harp, the bassoon, the castanets or shakers which would always illuminate the yearly school concert involving both children and teachers.

But for most of us the traditional social events of the calendar year always remind us of the rich tones and acoustics of the Last Night of the Proms. The Last Night of Proms remind Britain of Britishness, its patriotic grandeur against the usual summer backdrop of a season devoted to all genres of music. Then there's Kenwood in Hampstead, North London where summer normally brings us some of the most magisterial music and possibly the most unforgettable experience any of us could possibly have asked for.

Twice, it's been my privilege to listen to both outstanding film music, classical and marvellously triumphant TV programme music amid the fading light of a July evening when suddenly darkness fell across Hampstead like the silkiest curtains you could possibly imagine. Suddenly, a thousand blankets are spread across the lush green acres of Kenwood house, the middle classes enjoying some of the most expensive bottles of champagne, hampers of pate, foie gras, cheeses and biscuits, yet more wine, lavish helpings of salad, coleslaw and chicken from Harrods.

Then the violins waft across the North London air, the tinkling of a seductive piano caressing the ear like a butterfly from the nearest beech tree that floats past your cheeks. Then there are the cacophonous drums that roll and rumble resoundingly across the lake. Suddenly those mellifluous birds can be heard quite clearly as if on cue, sitting poised on branches alive with their own song.

And there you have it Ladies and Gentleman. Before finishing this homage to musical instruments it would be remiss of me not to tell you another story about musical instruments. You were roughly 11 when summoned to participate in the yearly Christmas play in our school hall. Sitting on a chair with only a cymbal and string in my possession, you were instructed quite politely to hit the cymbal at a precise moment if only to reinforce the impression that something that resembled the sound of thunder and lightning had just fallen on our discerning ears.

 Unfortunately, timing was never your forte so when it came crashing the cymbal at the right time, there was a distinct lack of synchronicity and you missed your cue as the cymbal flew off the piece of string and somewhere into the playground if memory served you correctly. That may be a gross exaggeration but what fun we had with musical instruments. To this day the choice of either violin or a recorder remains the biggest mystery of them all but how we revelled in the musical moments of our lives when we were children. Happy International Musical Instrument Day everybody.


Sunday, 19 May 2024

Kylian Mbappe

 Kylian Mbappe.

This is the story of the little boy who just wanted to be the greatest footballer the world would ever see. He idolised his boyhood heroes, adored the game with a vehement passion and then fulfilled his ambition to play on some of the grandest stages that football had to offer. He was the official definition of a Roy of the Rovers comic book striker and followed wherever he went amid much acclaim and adulation. He was the best, the most precocious, a child in a man's body, reaching his adolescence years before his team mates, successfully and superlatively.

He knew he'd be famous and celebrated one day because his coaches, family and friends had said as much. They were his contemporaries and peers. Of course they had his best interests at heart and never betrayed him for one moment. He was driven, ambitious, fired up, pumped, self motivated, knowing exactly where he was going, fuelled by naturally human desires, the boy who had to be a man and knew that global celebrity would be his to revel in and cherish well before his voice had broken.

Last night BBC One's excellent documentary on French striker Kylian Mbappe was a revealing insight into a lavishly talented, world class striker who was destined to reach the top. Now, this warmly flattering anecdote about M'bappe wasn't the first time that footballers who were years ahead of their time would be exposed to the dazzling glare of publicity. There are hundreds of examples of players who never quite made the grade, the ones who had put in all the hard yards, trained rigorously, eaten and drunk sensibly and then emerged with flying colours with a permanent first team place every week.

We were reminded once again of the wide ranging spectrum of Mbappe's rags to riches account, the fairy tale, meteoric rise to sensational stardom in the pantheon of world football. Some players, of course, fell flat on their faces when the TV cameras were turned towards them and the rarefied world of social media had cast their critical eyes towards the young Frenchman. The ones who slipped and stumbled, climbing that forbidding ladder to the summit of the game, simply vanished without trace because success had come far too quickly.

But we were told last night about a young player who flourished beautifully before our eyes and would never look back. From his earliest days at Monaco, M'bappe would, quite obviously, stand out from the rest of the crowd. He had lightning pace, peeling off the last defender quite brilliantly and then home in on goal with a confidence and abundant skill that very few had ever seen. He would invade penalty areas like a marauding army, digging for victory, hunting down his full back in opposition and then firing home goals with a purpose, conviction and doggedness that made the world sit up in astonished recognition.

M'bappe will, of course, be at the very heart of France's bid to become European Champions yet again in Germany in a couple of weeks time. To say that he has nothing to prove since he has now a Euro and World Cup winning medal in his capacious pockets would be a gross understatement. He was the one who, with the utmost humility and composure, steered home a penalty in a losing cause, as France sadly came a cropper in one of the most artistically rewarding World Cup Finals of all time against a Lionel Messi inspired Argentina. Qatar 2022 was undoubtedly  the finest World Cup for both Messi and Mbappe.

Ironically Messi, by a country mile, was acknowledged as one of the most majestic of all football talents, a world class gem and it would be Messi who would grab all the headlines and claim the World Cup that had always been so agonisingly elusive. Mbappe had been where Messi would be now but Messi would take the honours. The young Frenchmen though was still a callow youth, impressionable perhaps but still receptive to sage advice from his elders and only too willing to learn and absorb.

At Bondy, where Mbappe had received his formal tuition and his football education, this was essentially a learning curve for him, that developmental home where Mbappe would find common ground with the kind of youngsters who were also desperate to be even half as good as him. Initially Brondy would not become his nursery, more a transitional point between childhood and those formative teenage years.

France had already several generations of outstanding strikers, defenders, midfielders and wingers to gloat over. They were all reared and nurtured by patient and understanding coaches who couldn't wait to discover yet more stars of stage and screen. They rolled off the production line with an almost consistent regularity. There was Thierry Henry, Robert Pires, Lillian Thuram, Emmanuel Petit, Patrick Viera, Zinedine Zidane, Olivier Giroud and a whole host of others who slotted seamlessly into a France side that needed no prompting or encouragement because they knew they were exceptional. In the blink of an eye they would lift European Championship and World Cup trophies.

Throughout yesterday night's illuminating spotlight on Kylian Mbappe there was a sense here that the local boy had made good, that nothing would stop him on his relentless crusade to the very pinnacle to world football. There were the playground games of football on his boyhood council estate where football would be digested and then devoured with a hungry relish. But Mbappe had much more to give to the rest of his friends. He had the element of the spectacular, the poise on the ball that only few could ever aspire to, let alone match and then that instinctive knowledge of where his colleagues were on the pitch with an ability to turn the last defender and then score from ridiculous angles.

The programme also highlighted Clairefontaine, the French academy, fundamentally the place where it had all begun for Mbappe. Deeep in lush forests and shrubbery, Clairefontaine was a footballing hotbed for young French players who probably held a secret admiration for the literary Proust and the painterly Matisse. In 1998 France had won the World Cup with a side that had everything; versatility and adaptability, finesse and flexibility. They had come through the academy with all the technical equipment at their disposal. They had exquisite ball control, vision and the kind of passing range that the likes of Germany and Brazil would inherit in later years.

But as we saw last night Mbappe was never fazed or star struck by all of the fame and wealth that had now become his divine right. Of course there were the slightly arrogant folding of arms to acknowledge one of his many goals and then the slide across the ground  on his knees just to make absolutely sure. But Mbappe has yet to be completely carried away by the excessive praise, the generous comments, the kudos, all of that flannel and fuss that would normally accompany the journey of a young sporting genius.

But between the first and final whistle there has been nothing pretentious or anything of the spoilt prima donna about him. Mbappe still goes home to his family and still finds a comfortable place in their living room, kitchen or garden. There are- or so it would seem- none of the airs or graces that might have led to the downfall of those players who had too much and then threw it all away. The youngster from Monaco has been taught the rudiments of the game the right way and that's the way it should be.

You could be forgiven for thinking that this is the way football in France has always been conducted. You give your youngsters their chance and they'll run with the baton because they love the game and they're grateful for the chance. Some of the more nostalgic types still remember another golden age for French football. They recall Raymond Kopa and Just Fontaine, both lethal goal scorers and creators par excellence, players who elevated the game to a plateau that could hardly get any higher.

Both Kopa and Fontaine belonged to an era when footballers were treated with as much reverence as they are today, regarded as icons, poster boys, the homegrown, the respectable and presentable. Rather like Mbappe, both Kopa and Fontaine did much to capture the spirit of 1950s France. They were made from the most classical stock, goal scorers who simply snapped up goals galore for fun. But the French had already proved their point and they knew that today's kid would probably break more goal scoring records. 

And so we have Kylian Mbappe. In a couple of weeks time the whole of Europe will be watching with some fascination, perhaps realising that they may find it hard to find anybody who will surpass the goal scoring feats of the French child of nature. When a young Pele trapped the ball on his thigh so deliciously in scoring his famous goal against Sweden in the 1958 World Cup Final in Sweden and Maradonna once waltzed through a gasping English defence to score a wondrous solo goal for Argentina, most of us thought we'd seen it all. Maradona would lift the World Cup because this was his time. Mbappe may be thinking that Germany could be his country, his moment in the sun. Euro 2024 awaits breathlessly.

By the time Mbappe signed for Paris Saint Germain, football looked forwards rather than backwards. Mbappe had already been made captain of France and that had been no small feat. With the esteemed likes of Antoine Griezmann now in his veteran years, it is safe to assume that Mbappe is in line to succession for the striker's role. Already the wise football commentators and social history observers are preparing their laptops for the ultimate judgment on Mbappe. This is the right time and place for Kylian Mbappe to find his true worth, to lap up yet more flattery and then, quite possibly, win another trophy. Euro 2024 could be his year and his tournament. We will see.

Friday, 17 May 2024

The final game of the Premier League season

 The final game of the Premier League season.

This Sunday afternoon marks the conclusion of this year's Premier League football season. It also sees the final, exciting end to a season that, for once, has literally gone to the wire, two teams battling it out for the right to lift the Premier League trophy and there's nothing between either Manchester City or Arsenal. What might have seemed a formality over a month ago has now become a thrilling race to the line. The season could be defined by one singular incident, a fatal lapse in concentration, that last minute distraction where either City or Arsenal take their eye off the ball.

For the last three seasons, of course, Manchester City have monopolised the Premier League in a way that their Scottish counterparts Celtic have walked away with the Scottish Premier League on numerous occasions. Sadly any comparison with Celtic may be totally irrelevant since City play in one of the most competitive Leagues in Europe and sadly only Rangers can provide Celtic with anything like the credible opposition that renders the argument pointless.

But on Sunday, the curtain goes down on another Premier League season of wildly fluctuating fortunes at times. Then there is a sudden realisation that the outcome was so predictable that you could have thrown a blanket over both the Premier League winners and those who have been relegated and still come up with the same permutations.

This is not to imply that any Premier League season could ever be described as somehow inevitable but when Manchester City walk out on Sunday to face West Ham we could be in deja vu territory. There are no certainties in football and we have been here before. Remember City's last game of the season under Manuel Pelligrini when City had to beat Queens Park Rangers at the Etihad when everybody thought the home side had blown it. City's charismatic striker Sergio Aguero was in the right place and time to score the decisive goal that secured City their first trophy for decades. The Premier League was theirs.

Of course, the familiar finger nails will be bitten anxiously and nervously, radios may not be quite in evidence to the same degree as they used to be since now we find our football results on different devices these days. But, vast crowds will gather at the Etihad because they always do and always have done so. Some of their more devoted, lifelong supporters will recall that now distant and far off day when City beat Gillingham in a third tier play off at Wembley just to prove the club still existed. Football basements can get pretty dark and dank when the game just forgets who you once were.

The sad reality was that Manchester City were once a basket case, a fallen giant slumbering in the lower Leagues of football's daunting pyramid. And yet fast forward a couple of decades or so and now City find themselves in the remarkably wealthy environment of Arab billionaires who just love to throw their pots of cash about, both freely and brazenly. It hardly seems possible now but City are living the dream, a side so well equipped for the future that world domination may not be that far away.

Gone are the days when City were led by the dynamic duo of Malcolm Allison and Joe Mercer. One was a fedora hatted, cigar smoking extrovert while the other was a lovable, avuncular figure who smiled for the cameras and then just retreated into the background. Malcolm Allison always gave you the impression that he'd be much more comfortable in a nightclub or late night bar surrounded by alcohol and excess.  Mercer was the complete opposite, a private, quietly spoken figure who just wanted to escape from all the noise, commotion and rumpus with a pint of bitter in the corner of a pub.

Allison was a jolly, gregarious opportunist who took enormous pleasure in flaunting the latest fashions and disregarding convention. Mercer just rushed home from City's old Maine Road like one of those men who can't wait to get home to see their family and settle down with a bottle of stout and a plate of egg and chips. Sadly in later years City would experience some of the darkest seasons they'd ever experienced. During the late 1990s, their fall from grace was so shocking that even their most hardened fans simply gave up on them. Crowds of 30,000 though would still follow them loyally down in the lower divisions and all was not quite lost.

This Sunday though, City sit on the verge of history and greatness, a unique achievement so stupendous that even now we could be witnessing one of the most sensational of all spectacles. No team has ever won the Premier League or the old First Division over four consecutive seasons. City's fourth successive Premier League title may be a couple of days away but Arsenal still keep hounding and pestering them with exemplary persistence.

For much of the season, Arsenal looked as if they were racing away with the Premier League and simply in a class of their own. Their football has been immaculate, beautifully executed, precise, hugely intelligent, symmetrical and poetic at times. Their passing has been reminiscent of the the Brazilians at the height of their 1970s powers. Some purists cite the example of France, Germany and Spain in their pomp but then we are talking about different generations. Arsenal though have been accused of over elaboration at times during the season but then that has to be forgivable since football has always been a collective team effort rather than a game played in mid air.

For Arsenal though, it does look as if they might miss out agonisingly on the Premier League title again and just fall short. Miracles do happen and if their London neighbours West Ham have anything to do with it, Arsenal may well acclaim West Ham as the ultimate in benevolent humanitarians. Football is often decided by the thickness of a post or crossbar. Fate though could still deal Arsenal a generous hand and West Ham have now been drawn into another enthralling battle royale.

In 1992, West Ham met Manchester United at their old Upton Park ground and probably wished they hadn't in retrospect. The sight of Sir Alex Ferguson furiously chewing on his fifteenth packet of chewing gum will live long in the memory. At times Ferguson looked like a volcano ready to erupt with molten lava. United were about to win their first domestic Premier League trophy since those halcyon days of the First Division championship when a bar of a chocolate would set you back a princely sum of shillings. So the fans settled down and the managers sat on the edge of their respective dug outs. United could only manage a draw when a win had to be the only requirement of the day. Blackburn Rovers lifted the Premier League trophy and Kenny Dalglish could barely control his joy.

And so we come to the present day and Arsenal are back in the land of 1989. With one game left and all to play for, Arsenal will be re-creating that famous night at Anfield. George Graham's Arsenal only needed two clear goals to clinch their first League Championship in the old First Division for over 25 years. Some of the Highbury patrons must have thought the whole moment of that Shangri La parade had been snatched from the grasp from the team who had hitherto been so outstandingly dominant with almost 20 titles to their credit. But Liverpool were to be denied quite dramatically with minutes to go.

Alan Smith had opened the scoring for Arsenal with a typical poacher's goal, heading home when the Kop thought they must have been imagining things. Then as if destiny had suddenly called, David Seaman, Arsenal and England's superb goalkeeper, threw the ball out to the flanks where Nigel Winterburn and Lee Dixon continued the pincer movement. The ball was eventually floated into Liverpool's penalty box and ultimately threaded into the path of Michael Thomas, who, trapping the ball adroitly and smartly, latched onto the through ball and then dabbed the ball with his foot, chipping it over Bruce Grobelaar, the helpless Liverpool goalkeeper. Arsenal had won the League or the old League Championship again but how late had they left it.

These are the crucial facts and figures. If Arsenal beat Everton which they did on the last day of another season in recent times and Manchester City are beaten or draw with West Ham, Arsenal will be Premier League champions and the whole of North London will be festooned with white and red while an open top bus parade meanders through the back streets of the old Highbury site and City will quietly leave the building with their tails between their legs.

It is too close to call and only a betting man could tell you the result with any kind of accuracy. The pundits and former professionals will insist that City will rack up a sack of goals against West Ham and therefore win the Premier League title with something to spare. But emotional Arsenal fans will be hoping that their East London neighbours have got something special tucked up their sleeve. This could well prove to be a Super Sunday that lives up to its name. But don't tell Rupert Murdoch because he'll probably delay it to Magical Monday live on Sky Sports. There's no way of telling.   

Tuesday, 14 May 2024

Independence Day in Israel. Happy Yom Ha'atzmaut.

 Independence Day in Israel. Happy Yom Ha'atzmaut.

Today in 1948, Israel celebrated their Independence, the symbolic date in the yearly calendar when Jews and Israelis from around the world could finally breathe again, freed finally from the shackles of history and Biblical pain, discomfort. captivity and suffering. On this day 76 years ago to the day, Israel declared its autonomy, its fervent belief that one nation could make its way purposefully in the world without being hounded and restrained from neighbouring countries who just wanted Israel to be denied any modicum of existence, freedom, livelihood, normality and happiness.

Today is Yom Ha'atazmaut aka Independence Day marks a day of national celebrations, a rejoicing in the precious and beautiful gifts of life, extolling the virtues of community, religious tolerance, positive inclusivity and, above all, enduring love for our fellow man, woman and child. For these were the qualities Israel have always held dear, the natural quest and striving for peace, reconciliation and just being at one with each other. We know we have the capacity to reach out and extend the hand of friendship and understanding, to look out for our families, to cherish them with all our heart and just get on with each other.

From the empty wastelands of 1948, there emerged one of the most astonishing countries most of us had ever seen. In the beginning there was nothing, just small clusters of primitive buildings and untapped potential, golden nuggets of promise and an architectural magnificence that would take the breath away. Where before there was nothing, now there would be something tangible, a stunning example of the possible which had grown from the depths of the impossible.

In Israel, this is well and truly Independence Day where the children of the world run around Tel Aviv, Jerusalem, Haifa, Jaffa, Petah Tikva and Eilat as if released from the devastating burdens of war, death, destruction and agonising alienation. We live in a world that cares passionately about Israel but has no idea how to solve this calamitous, ongoing crisis. We cry and weep over death and countless examples of broken families and hearts, the gruesome and bloodthirsty sight of fallen soldiers and despair of Hamas, a vile terrorist network who continue to inflict the most barbaric brutality on the loveliest country of Israel. 

Decades of hatred, vilification, persecution, purgatory and grief have settled on the Middle East for seemingly ages but Israel continues to be seen as the evil villains of the piece. But for how much longer? This should be a day for dancing in the streets, ecstatic parties and street festivals, gathering together to acknowledge a day that should be treasured. Instead, Israel finds itself horribly and psychologically scarred, traumatised and tortured with doubt and fear, longing to just going about their everyday lives without being subjected to the unbearable sound of thumping bombs and explosions, deadly rockets falling unforgivably on the sweet land of honey, Eretz Israel.

We love Israel and always have done so. We simply want the children of the world to be granted the opportunity to just cast aside their inhibitions, playing simply with their inflatable toys and games, running into seas with gleeful relish, playing happily on thick sandy beaches, enjoying those moments of togetherness and harmony and planning for their future positively. You can still see Tel Aviv beach from many years ago overflowing with people from all over the world, sunbathing on comforting towels and tanning their faces for hour upon hour. 

Then there were what now seem those traditional games of beach tennis. Here we had swarthy bodies flinging themselves joyfully at a small black ball and the smallest wooden bat. Throughout another sun kissed summer day, kids and adults would bat the ball to each other just for the sheer fun of it all.  The distinctive crack of ball and bat would be so engaging that you could quite easily have spent all day just listening to this magical sound. It would be the permanent soundtrack of Israel. 

But then you and your family would step onto a sand that was so hot that it just felt too good to be true. And directly outside the back of the hotel there were those monkey bars which would be extensively used by everybody. On every morning without fail you would find yourself stunned by an elderly Israeli gentleman who must have been well into his 80s. Bare chested and nut brown, he would cling onto the bars and proceed to exercise almost constantly for the best part of an hour. He would lift up his whole body, pulling himself up vigorously before going through what looked like the most arduous routine.

Later on in the morning the number of bodies would multiply in their thousands, huge crowds of lively youngsters, teenagers and families soaking up the delights of Independence Day. You would hear Israeli music in the market squares, bustling shopping centres full of life and vitality. Where before there was anguish and uncertainty now there are gleaming smiles and unrestrained enjoyment. Today Israel will do its utmost to blot out the events around them, the people who now remain firmly convinced that Israel are the perpetrators of the crime, the ones who have inflicted so much irreparable damage.

But then there are those who remember the savage atrocities of last October 7th when over a thousand innocent Israelis were ruthlessly murdered, beheaded, condemned to the cruellest deaths and persecuted heartlessly just because they were Jewish. We though looked on at the torturing and raping of babies and the disgraceful killing of Israelis who were killed on Simchat Torah with no explanations or remorse. They went to a music festival and never came back. Israel will make a recovery and it will find justice and they will do so with a steely resilience that has now characterised the nation's DNA. Never underestimate Israel since Independence Day today is just the start of something much better, stronger, fitter and healthier. Our thoughts will of course be with Israel. We Stand By Israel, We Love Israel and We Will Always Believe in Israel. Happy Yom Ha'atzmaut everybody.   

Sunday, 12 May 2024

National Limerick Day

 National Limerick Day.

It is a day devoted to thinking of quirky rhyming couplets, whimsical poetry and the kind of simple, flowing prose that once dominated the school syllabus of many a classroom. Edward Lear, for he it was who once penned the Owl and the Pussycat, was a pleasant example of the way in which language can be utilised effectively and lyrically. We tend to forget those halcyon days when school libraries and municipal libraries always had a full and extensive variety of both Lear's masterpieces and limericks. For today is National Limerick Day. And you'll still be able to discover at least a whole shelf of Lear in your local library.

Ladies and Gentlemen. There you've said it now.  It's National Limerick Day. You're not going to withdraw the remark because limericks are essentially endearing, thought provoking, winningly descriptive and full of light hearted imagery. Most of us think of limericks as corny, cheesy plays on words that are never really remembered for any longer than they need to be. Lear's Runcible Spoon is almost a by word for limericks, runcible being a made up word to enhance the structure of the piece of verse. You either like or dislike it and it may just be an acquired taste for some.

It doesn't have to rhyme because poetry doesn't really require any kind of literary embellishment. You read it from your book of limericks and it's something you'd normally hear in some country pub or folk club when a few of the regulars just think the place could go with a good, old fashioned outburst of hearty laughter. The truth is of course that an evening of limerick telling is no longer as relevant or accessible as it should be particularly since the arrival of fruit machines, one armed bandits, dartboards and of course the snooker table. Limerick is now regarded as some arcane art form that used to be fashionable but only appeals to those lovers of poetry who think their mates will be suitably impressed with your knowledge of limericks. 

And that's very much the case with most poetry, be it classical or modern. It's misunderstood and misinterpreted by those who maintain that any kind of poetry does nothing for them and besides what's the point of limericks, fairy tales, or word pictures on a page that evoke nothing but magic? We may have uttered limericks without so much as a moment of  self awareness. We may have stumbled over some familiar sounding limerick that brought a wry smile to our face and never known why. So that was the reason Edward Lear thought of the Owl and Pussycat. He wanted to do something completely original with the English language and did so both successfully and impressively.

In an age when the written word on an A4 piece of paper has become more or less obsolete, limericks have always remained firmly ensconced on our minds. And yet there are times when the conversation naturally turns away from the subject of limericks because dinner table discourse finds something far more entertaining and important to relate to. Edward Lear was the pioneer of limericks with expressions of simplicity, honesty and infectious humour. 

So if you've got a spare moment or two in your busy schedule on a Sunday afternoon you may want to consult your notebook and jot down a word or two, even several verses of prose that remind you perhaps of your cherishable childhood. We may have casually referred to the Owl and the Pussycat and other literary gems that made you giggle and guffaw under your breath. At times limericks may be metaphors, something precious in our lives such as life itself or something we may have overheard at some festival of literature. Poetic description may have been the ultimate answer to an apparently insurmountable question that may or may not have needed to be solved. But Happy National Limerick Day to you all. Oh yes, the Owl and the Pussycat did go to the sea in a pea green boat.

Wednesday, 8 May 2024

Eurovision Song Contest

 Eurovision Song Contest.

Now admit it you're all looking forward to the yearly Eurovision Song Contest this Saturday evening with both breathless anticipation and the feverish enthusiasm we normally associate with Eurovision. This may sound like the most facetious comment you're ever likely to hear because here in Britain our expectations have become almost as realistic as they always have been in recent years. The fact of the matter is that the UK will probably never win the Eurovision Song Contest again if only because political differences of opinion are now so extreme that, if the nation registers a single point or two, we may be shocked.

For those of us who grew up with the Eurovision Song Contest that resignation to our fate and the obvious sense of gloomy foreboding that normally accompanies the whole farcical show, has now become firmly engrained in British culture for much longer than we thought it would. And yet we watched Eurovision with a weird kind of voyeurism in case we actually won the contest. Sadly, there has been nothing for well over a decade since Katrina and the Waves lit up European stages with a much acclaimed victory and a song called Love Shine A Light.

Since then, of course, humiliation would follow humiliation over and over again. In 1997 some of us had become a proud father for the second time and of course this took priority to any other consideration. Our delightful daughter Rachel was roughly a couple of weeks old when Katrina and the Waves dominated the Eurovision music scene. So in between cradling our beautiful girl in our arms we glanced over the cot and discovered that the UK were hitting the ball all over the park and producing the winning song on the evening.

Even now in retrospect it still seems as though that the rest of Europe was simply giving us the benefit of the doubt or maybe they must have felt desperately sorry for us. The fact was - and there never seemed a plausible explanation- the UK's Eurovision entries were either boring and disappointing or just, to put it simply, rubbish. Europe was never likely to admit as much but every year the UK were just tuneless and unmelodic, worthy and well intentioned but just below par, mediocre and just plain mundane. There was no getting away from it. Britain were just wasting their time and the documentary evidence is there for all to see.

The Eurovision Song Contest, in any context, was always some spectacular light show with the kind of pop music groups, singers, songs and musicianship that beggared belief at times. We must have known that it was a ridiculous charade of a show, an insult to our eyes and ears and, to some, perhaps, gloriously entertaining dross. But we know where we stand with Eurovision. It's just harmless frivolity that does no harm to anybody. Never should it be taken seriously by any aficionado of Euro music because we love to be amused, enlightened and just bewildered.

Any singing contest where all of the countries of Europe suddenly converge on a concert hall just to be heard in a vast auditorium of flags and noisy cheers must have something going for it. Here we gather at roughly this time of the year, as excited fans, wildly animated parties of Eurovision worshippers and just curious observers of the sublime and eccentric go crazy, jumping up and down with untrammelled jubilation. But nobody can give us the right answer. The fact is that the Eurovision Song Contest is light hearted entertainment on a colossal scale. It's frothy candy floss pop that transcends all musical boundaries and never disappoints. We adore it because it's the epitome of fun and we could all do with as much of that as we can possibly get.  

But who were we kidding? The UK could never hold a note let alone anything that could be remotely described as something that was pleasing on the ear, memorable or just very catchy. Eurovision was never designed for the professionals who just spend the rest of their year travelling the world, doing worldwide tours, eating, drinking and sleeping in hotels or constantly on the road. Eurovision was simply aimed at those aspiring band of singers and instrumentalists with stars in their eyes.

When Sandy Shaw, the bare footed singer from Dagenham in Essex, floated across a Eurovision Song Contest set, most of the UK were just flabbergasted and speechless. Do put some shoes on Sandy. It's common courtesy and decorum. You had to be impeccably dressed, properly respectful of Eurovision traditions and besides, that floor must have been extremely cold. But when did that matter? Sandy Shaw was representing the United Kingdom in the 1967 Eurovision Song Contest and that was a good enough reason to smile.

And believe it or not Sandy Shaw promptly won the Eurovision Song Contest for the UK. Beat that France, Germany, Italy, Greece, Turkey, Sweden and Finland. Yes we'd finally announced ourselves as a major superpower in Europe. Finally, Europe had seen sense and passed the most shrewd judgment on a competition that everybody loved to mock and ridicule. This was because the UK were somehow regarded as no hopers. But Sandy Shaw's Puppet on A String won quite impressively and there it was on our honours board.

In the ensuing period Lulu, the lively Scottish chanteuse, offered us Boom Bang a Bang which conformed to every Eurovision stereotype and won for the UK. Most of Britain had convinced itself that it would be a long time before the UK would ever trouble the scoring juries in any Eurovision Song Contest. How wrong we were since the unmistakable voice and presence of one Cliff Richard arrived on the Euro stage with a song called Congratulations and you can probably guess the rest. But no because this time Cliff's uplifting party song finished as runners up and we were robbed.

It took almost a decade for the UK to re-discover its bearings and assert its authority amongst the high society of Eurovision winners. In 1976, the whole of Britain found itself bathing in the most magnificent  heatwave that started at the beginning of the May of that year and eventually ended on an August Bank Holiday when thunder and lightning preceded the heaviest rainfall Britain had ever seen. There were hose pipe bans galore, gardens and parks that looked like concrete bowls and a public who could hardly believe what they were witnessing. But then the rains restored the grass and we could now mow the lawn again.

Earlier on in 1976 a two boys and girls group who called themselves The Brotherhood of Mann trotted onto a Eurovision stage with modest hopes perhaps but privately hoping that there was something about their offering Save All Your Kisses For Me that would light a bulb in European juries minds. In hindsight Save All Your Kisses For Me was just what the UK had been longing to hear for ages. Both boys and girls wore those cute white jackets and berets that just blew everybody away. It was a performance so perfectly choreographed and produced that it just seemed too good to be true. We can all remember the dancing routine because most of Europe had seen it and they were just entranced.

Then of course there were the empty years for the UK, the years where tumbleweed flew across British rooftops and chimney stacks and Eurovision became a by word for resounding failure. Five years after Save All Your Kisses For Me, there appeared another  two girls and boys ensemble. Suddenly it occurred to us that a precedent and pattern had now been set. If you take two men and two women and merge them into a Eurovision Song Contest, miracles could indeed happen and you never know. And so it proved.

A lovely boy and girl combination called Bucks Fizz performed Making Your Mind Up, illuminating Eurovision for reasons that became patently obvious. Half way through their routine Cheryl Baker and Jay Aston whipped off their skirts and there was a sharp intake of breath. For the sake of decency nothing else was revealed and thank goodness for that. You could only have imagined the reaction of one pure and puritanical Mary Whitehouse because disgusted from Didcot would have been penning letters of complaint for the rest of the year. But Making Your Mind Up was a clear, richly deserved Eurovision winner and the UK was back in business.

And yet it would take a further 16 years for the UK to send convulsions throughout Europe again. In 1997 Katrina and the Waves, a hitherto successful band who had already charted with Walking on Sunshine, gave Europe a sharp reminder of  the UK's singing prowess. But now Katrina and the Waves gave us Shine a Light which was somehow life affirming, upbeat, feelgood, optimistic and resonated with a Europe who would become very sceptical in years to come. Shine a Light had everybody up on their feet and prancing the night away regardless of the cynics. It won the Eurovision Song Contest by a continent rather than a mile.

Throughout the Eurovision Song Contest  the distribution of points between neighbouring countries has often been a source of amusement and giggly incredulity. There were the 12 points delivered between Norway and Finland or Sweden which may have suggested that the whole thing had been rigged anyway. We never did discover whether there was any real animosity between either of these Nordic rivals and whether one or more just hated and tolerated each other. There was the imbroglio between Greece, Turkey and Cyprus. To this day, you could never understand the favouritism or petty silliness which saw any of these Mediterranean giants of world music awarding either no points or a grudging one just to keep the peace for a while.

Finally just when we thought we'd cracked this Eurovision malarkey, we were denied a last gasp winner because the country who won it on the night were at war at the time. Poor Ukraine had just clinched a major triumph in the Eurovision Song Contest. But then the horrific realisation dawned on us. The country of Ukraine was being bombed and destroyed by a grizzly bear called Russia. To be more precise Vladimir Putin, their despicable and egregious President, had invaded the Ukraine and all of its surrounding cities, towns, villages, roads and streets. It was Eurovision's darkest moment.

So one Sam Ryder of the UK, bearded and permanently smiling, pushed Ukraine all the way valiantly for the UK but failed by a whisker. Spaceman finished as gallant runners up for the UK but then there was a cultural body blow. The winners from Ukraine won all of the sentimental votes for their country but it was decided that Britain was the only country who could safely hold the Eurovision Song Contest. Tragically there was nothing left standing in Ukraine so good old Britain came to the rescue.

But this Saturday, Eurovision returns to Sweden in Malmo. Sweden was the one country that had left an indelible impression on the Eurovision Song Contest 50 years ago. In Brighton, that sunny English seaside resort, a Swedish boy and girl group again took Europe by storm. Abba had been beaten the previous year at Eurovision in 1973 but persevered undaunted. They knew they had it in them to give us another a pleasant surprise. It would become a self fulfilling prophecy because Abba knew they would win.

Onto the stage leapt the boys Benny and Bjorn and the girls Agnetha and Anni Frid. Soon they would change the landscape of Eurovision for ever more. After winning the 1974 Eurovision Song Contest with Waterloo, Abba became a pop phenomenon, global superstars and a band immediately recognisable wherever they went in the world. Their singles and albums went gold and platinum almost immediately and soon their songs were on everybody's lips. Dancing Queen, Mama Mia, Fernando, Knowing Me Knowing You and of course Waterloo were massive hits and just lodged in our subconscious. Abba is now an immersive experience in the West End of London and their legacy is one that may never ever be forgotten.

So Ladies and Gentlemen prepare yourself for the Eurovision Song Contest. Strap yourself in for this emotional roller coaster and just watch it all with tongue in cheek if you want to have a quiet chuckle. We know Eurovision is all very politically suspicious and, some would say, amateurishly inept. But some of us are just enchanted by those hilarious commentators and the sense of absurdity that has to be admired. We love the Eurovision Song Contest because everybody loves to sing in the shower and besides it is TV at its most amusing, insightful and revealing. Is that 12 points for the UK or was it a figment of our imagination? Step forward Olly Alexander. This could be your evening. Let the show begin.   

Monday, 6 May 2024

Cesar Luis Menotti dies

 Cesar Luis Menotti - former Argentina manager dies

Shortly after his Argentine national side had lifted the 1978 World Cup for the first time, Cesar Luis Menotti must have retreated into the kind of private world that must have haunted Sir Alf Ramsey when Ramsey just sat on the bench at the old Wembley Stadium, repressed and emotionless while always acutely aware that something joyous had taken place. He would never admit it of course but deep within his psyche there must have been some hidden vault of happiness and barely controlled joy that nobody could take away from him.

Yesterday Cesar Luis Menotti died at the age of 84 and the whole of Argentina will deeply mourn the death of a man who looked so tormented with guilt and major misgivings that none of us could adequately explain why. The man with a face that betrayed so many obvious emotions died peacefully yesterday and the memories he'd left behind would never be erased properly. To say that Menotti looked a troubled man with the weight of the world on his shoulders would be a gross understatement. He'd just won the World Cup with his Argentina and rejoicing should have been his trademark emotion but the look of grave concern always seemed to leave us with the impression that he wanted something more.

It hardly seems like 46 years ago but the fact remains Menotti was the centre of attention on that unforgettable July day when Argentina forgot about its military junta, the warlike mutterings of Peron and a country riven with the struggles and threats of a nation totally ill at ease with itself. But then a man named Menotti took out his packet of cigarettes and spent the whole of that 1978 World Cup incessantly chain smoking, body hunched forward in his managerial dug out surrounded by blue and white tendrils of smoke that almost reduced him to some ghostly figure who was there but never clearly visible.

But it was one day at the beginning of July 1978 when the man who looked such a tortured soul and so consumed by his own demanding standards, suddenly abandoned himself to the wild celebrations that would ensue right across Argentina and let down his mask of despondency. Now the self critical and self effacing  Menotti could join in with the rest of his country uninhibitedly. Suddenly Menotti's world had been transformed and all of the exuberant confetti and ticker tape rained down from the huge terraces of a capital city in Buenos Aires still incensed with the bitter disappointment of losing the first ever World Cup Final in 1930 against their fellow South American rivals Uruguay.

Menotti must have felt a slight inferiority complex when facing his Brazilian counterpart, the inspirational Mario Zagalo, the man who gave Brazilian football its essence, soul, vital identity and those vivid flashes of improvisation that have now been hard wired into Brazil. He must have recalled the days of Tele Santana from even further back in time. For Menotti though this must have represented the ultimate challenge since Argentina had always flattered to deceive. Now Argentina had the Latin temperament but were now volatile and petulant into the bargain as well.

Soon Argentina would discover their inner Bossa Nova, their innovative Tango and the Latino. Menotti would introduce us to two of the most charming midfield players the world had ever seen. Osvaldo Ardilles and Ricky Villa were fundamental components in an Argentinian side who flourished beautifully with all the flamboyance and panache that the Brazilians once thought they must have had a monopoly on. Ardilles and Villa would shortly leave their hometown for North London's Spurs. Menotti could hardly believe it but this was happening in front of him. These were heady times for Argentina.

In the 1978 World Cup, Argentina met a Netherlands side who were rightly trumpeted as the next best thing since sliced bread. The Dutch were a fascinating fusion of stylish and intuitive football but without Johan Cruyff, an unparalleled genius who could make a ball sing and talk, manipulating it for all it was worth with the distinctive drag back and step over. But Ruud Krol was in Argentina, all balance and sophisticated technique, Robby Rensenbrink, domineering and controlling throughout the midfield and Johan Neeskens always available for the ball and just making the Dutch tick smoothly with of course Johnny Rep dictating the tempo of the game with delicate touches and a refined skill.

Argentina though had other things up their sleeve, perhaps calling their bluff of the Dutch. They had Leopoldo Luque and Mario Kempes up front and although the Dutch closed down all of Argentina's attacking options for a while the home nation were destined to please their own supporters in Buenos Aires most theatrical environment. Menotti, for his part, kept a low profile throughout the tournament, rarely showing anything that could be construed as surprising. 

Everything that Menotti had presented to the World Cup thus far had almost been expected. There were the glowering features, the misery guts appearance, the morose and lugubrious face that never really hinted at anything. If Menotti had felt anything by now it could hardly be seen. Maybe he was being deliberately understated and humble or just refusing to engage with every tackle, pass and shot that Argentina were producing before him.

Then the final whistle went and Argentina exploded with delirious delight while the Dutch slumped to the ground as if they had just lost their proud inheritance. Was this not the day when Total Football would come to fruition? This was their legacy to the world but this was just a recurring nightmare for the Netherlands since four years earlier West Germany had beaten them in the 1974 World Cup Final in West Germany.

Yesterday though Argentina had lost its most iconic leader, their chairman of the board, the motivational guru par excellence. Cesar Luis Menotti was just there at the right time and place for a country that could have torn itself apart and left to rot and decay. Menotti was the intelligent tactician, the quiet and pensive one, the cold, calculating strategist, the detached analyst who could never express his innermost feelings in case the opposition just happened to be listening into his discreet conversations with his players. But then his immaculate captain Daniel Passarella lifted the World Cup for his Argentina and Menotti must have allowed himself a brief moment of self congratulation. Argentinian football will deeply miss him.

Friday, 3 May 2024

General Election imminent but not yet

 General Election imminent but not yet.

At some point in the immediate future the UK government may find itself staring bleakly down the bottom of a barrel. It could be that they're simply delaying the inevitable and yet it's never over until the impossible becomes highly unlikely. Sadly, the days of alleged Tory mismanagement may be numbered. Besides, the Conservative party have been in charge of the the UK for 14 years and it's all beginning to look a bit jaded and faded. The popular opinion is that the Tories have now outstayed their welcome and passed their sell by date. Cliches can never adequately explain the reasons for the patently obvious.

There is something tired, haggard, withdrawn and forlorn about the Tory government that they almost looks pathetically dated. It's rather like looking at an old chest of drawers in your living room that have been there for so long that you almost feel desperately sorry for them. They've got to be chucked in the local rubbish depot because they're no longer fit for purpose and besides it's just worn looking, antiquated and old fashioned. You look at the scratches on the edges and the generally grubby appearance of the said piece of furniture and it's got to go on the tip.

And this looks increasingly the case with the Conservatives. Even the late and sometimes overpowering Margaret Thatcher didn't know how to accept defeat gracefully and graciously. She simply sat tight, remained stubbornly adamant that she knew best, digging in her heels determinedly and refusing to believe that she was just a self righteous and pompous woman who had to be taken seriously. So after 11 years as Prime Minister she was simply driven out of 10 Downing Street like a female scorned. She wept for a while, tears streaming down her face as the Cabinet colleagues she thought were on her side turned on her and ordered her out of the front door and told her that enough was enough. So she went grudgingly.

Last night there was a furore by the British seaside. No, there were no controversial confrontations between modern day Mods and Rockers gangs. This was not Brighton on a dramatic August Bank Holiday Monday in the mid 1960s. There were no roaring motorbikes and people wearing leather jackets. Instead this was Blackpool and Blackpool South to be more geographically precise. The location was not one suited for an aggressive bust up between two biking rivals but rather an important political by election that could be an encouraging omen for the Labour party.

In fact Labour's convincing victory in a local election that could be the perfect prelude to overall victory in the General Election couldn't have come at a better time for Labour leader Sir Keir Starmer. There is a widespread conviction that the Labour party have now been revitalised, refreshed and plucked from the dank depths of obscurity and the land of wilderness. This time 14 years ago Labour were struggling embarrassingly, treading water and on the verge of dissolution, vanishing without trace and never to be seen again. Gordon Brown had left by the exit door with his doting wife Sarah and closely knit family. Labour were now in distress, attacked by all and sundry and just a busted flush. 

But here we are in General Election year and the mood of the nation is both toxic, inflammatory and, potentially explosive given the frequency of riots and demonstrations in the West End of London. The people are restless, disillusioned, highly critical and not very supportive at all. Prime Minister Rishi Sunak sits in his Downing Street bunker with sandbags and metaphorical barbed wire around him. He can sense that his fate has now been sealed but will just keep going in case the public change their minds and back him because of some misleading rumour that something has gone right for the Tories.

Yesterday marked the arrival of the local elections when all the councillors of their respective parties start pacing around leisure and community centres like lost and wandering souls looking for somebody to talk to because nobody really wants to have a chat with them. So they kicked their heels last night deep into the small hours of the morning, hoping and wishing that their political party will win quite emphatically eventually.

It has now become fairly evident that the Tories are like battered and bruised heavyweight boxers whose eyes are black and blue, swollen beyond recognition and spattered with blood on their shorts. It used to be the case that the Tories could bluff their way out of this dire predicament like those shifty and cunning criminals who are accused of robbing the most famous bank in the world but then simply get away with it. The results of yesterday's elections have yet to filter through but something tells you that this is going to be very grisly and gruesome for the Conservatives. They may have overstepped the mark too many times.

For Sir Keir Starmer, those distant recollections of Tony Blair being declared Prime Minister in 1997 seem like some yellowing parchment from another century. Blair was Britain's last Labour Prime Minister and Starmer must be feeling that this could be his golden age. He remains a highly respected human rights lawyer and makes all the correct noises for an incoming Prime Minister. The words and phrases are perfectly pitched but without any of the legal references that you might have thought he'd resort to but then decided not to.

At the moment, the Labour party have clinched over 150 of all the key strategic seats in the local council election while the Tories can only look in some desperation. If this scenario were to be reproduced at the General Election then the Conservatives may have to wave the white flag of surrender now. Of course they won't be pushed but the writing is on the proverbial wall and even Sunak must have resigned himself to a crushing defeat in the General Election- whenever that may be.

Further proof of what may seem a formality is the almost certain re-election of Sadiq Khan as the Mayor of London. Khan of course pins his colours to the Labour party but is so vilified by those who think he may have achieved little of any note that you begin to think that all is not exactly wine and roses for either Khan or the Labour party. 

Ever since the bad, old days of both Boris Johnson and Ken Livingstone the role of Mayor of London has almost been diminished and undermined by those who bad mouthed both Johnson and Livingstone. But Khan will resume his seemingly stressful duties as soon as possible and some of us will wonder why. Johnson, as we all know, went from one outrageous publicity fiasco to the other while Livingstone just opened his mouth with a barrage of antisemitism that saw him shamed, stigmatised and blasted into orbit. Goodbye Ken.

Today the local election results will trickle in gradually before being completed at some point shortly. There is no such thing as a sure thing. Politics is about to head into a dark tunnel of damaging, slanderous comments, accusations and counter accusations, snide remarks, name calling and vicious vitriol. Already Sunak, Starmer and jolly Ed Davy of the Lib Dems have travelled up and down the country, promising ambitiously, then arriving at hastily costed programmes and projects that can only benefit the country. The financial bean counters have been produced and as usual, we're better than you are and you've ruined the country.

So there you are Ladies and Gentlemen. At the moment the Labour party, for the first time in 14 years will now begin to pinch itself for the comfortable position it finds itself in. Not since the heady days of Tony Blair and, quite possibly, the early, salad days of Harold Wilson have Labour had it so good. And yet that slogan was once coined by another Tory Prime Minister and Harold Macmillan always thought he knew best. General elections are always prone to unpredictability and some just easy to call. But we'll be there on some unspecified Thursday night, disentangling the knotty issues and witnessing yet another political turning point. Your guess is as good as mine but it does seem that Labour are on the verge of something pretty special and not before time as some might add.