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 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.   

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.   

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.

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.   

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.

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.