US Election just weeks away.

 US Election just weeks away

We are now just weeks away from what could be an era defining election in the United States of America. Next month the USA has to decide one way or the other. Their choices are unenviable because the options are so limited and you have to feel so sorry for them. Whenever we have dilemmas or dodgy patches throughout our lives we normally turn to people we feel we can trust and who love us. But in early November, one of the most powerful and influential countries in the world will be voting in the next President of the United States of America and that's a thankless task. 

Now the reality is that America is now faced with a straightforward decision. Do they pick as President a man with perhaps the most humiliating track record as former President or do they plump for the first woman to lead the country? In one corner, we have Donald Trump, whose very name is designed to send shivers down your spine, the feelings of dread and foreboding that young children normally get when mum and dad tell them that their long summer holiday is over and it's time to go back to school.

The very mention of Trump  is so offensive to the ear and deeply abhorrent to contemplate that you wonder if this is really happening to the country the United Kingdom continues to call its most enduring ally since the end of the Second World War. There is now a painful awkwardness about everything connected to American politics that has now been festering ever since Trump first held the reins of power in the White House as President. 

These are worrying times for the United States because both Donald Trump and Kamala Harris have now become such a toxic influence on their country that it's hard to believe that there could ever have been a worse time for those living in Washington, New York, Los Angeles, California, Ohio, Michigan, Chicago and Pennsylvania, Texas and Dallas. Throughout the 50 states and innumerable ghetto lands of the US and those cohesive communities in the deep South, there is an uncomfortable fear of the unknown, a terrible suspicion that life may never be the same after the Election and anything can happen or not as be it the case.

It is still hard to believe in hindsight how Donald Trump came so close to power and how anybody could attract such a hard core, dedicated following from such a vast majority of the American population. We all know about the potty mouthed nonsense that continues to pour from Trump's mouth, the ludicrously illiterate ravings and rantings, the totally indecipherable absurdities that continue to reverberate around the world.

Trump is an undoubtedly a political loose cannon, a dangerous liability to the whole of the globe and even now some of us are trembling in case he gives his consent to another Vietnam. Now of course that's an exaggeration but you never know because Trump looks like he's capable of inflicting so much damage with his mouth that even innocent civilians must be biting their fingernails. By his own admission, war does appear an appealing prospect to him but we must hope that even Trump will try and think through his more outrageous statements.

And yet you can't help but feel sorry for the Americans because Trump is so full of his own vaingloriousness and pumped up pomposity that if anybody dare puncture his monumental ego, he may threaten to take you to court and sue you for every dollar that he may have at his disposal. Trump is so ferociously opinionated and unapologetically tactless that if somebody had just suggested he join a charm school he may well have just dismissed them as village idiots.

In the case of Kamala Harris the jury is well and truly out since little is known of her as a potential president of the United States. She does have her fanatical supporters and, of course, the rational commonsense and exceptional intelligence that Trump will never be able to claim or perhaps we've got it all wrong about him. To his credit, Trump will always have their ear for all of those eccentrics who still think of him as the best thing sliced bread. Trump fires off all manner of mockery and vicious vitriol at Harris because he knows that she could yet beat him on the day of the election.

Yesterday Harris delivered from her pulpit, preaching to the converted and pontificating on all kinds of issues so close to America's heart. There were the traditional promises of a healthy economy, low levels of unemployment, the Constitution which enshrines the gun culture and a secure, prosperous America. Both Harris and Trump have the best interests of the United States at heart but only one can be right and we all think we know the answer to that conundrum.

Last week, former President of the USA Jimmy Carter, now so highly esteemed and most commendable of Presidents, celebrated his 100th birthday. Your mind travelled back to that now famous handshake between Anwar Al Sadat and Menachem Begin, the notable Prime Minister of Israel. It signalled a beautiful peace agreement between Egypt and Israel. Standing between Sadat and Begin was that admirable man who grew up as a peanut farmer and then became President of the United States. Carter was the face and voice of peace and reconciliation.

The thought occurs to you that now either Trump or Harris will have their work cut out in the ongoing war between Israel, Hamas and Hezbollah. Trump was the man who once dressed up as a chicken in some easily forgotten American variety TV show and this is the man who wants to take America to the promised land, this power crazed megalomaniac who aspires to rule with a rod of iron at the White House and the Oval Office.

Kamala Harris simply wants to be remembered as the first female President of the United States. There are rumours that some of her policies are less than palatable and a vote for Harris could be wantonly wasted. The other day, in a head to head TV debate on American TV, Harris just started giggling at Trump barely believing what she'd just heard. Trump, with that blond orange head of hair still playing games on Trump's head, kept blustering and bellowing away like one of those highly amusing characters at Speakers Corner at London's Hyde Park. 

Here in the UK, the USA will always have our unwavering admiration and support. But the truth is that come early November, decisions will be made and fates sealed. It's either Harris or Trump. Some of us believe that it may just as well be those other legendary American comedians who went by the name of Abbott and Costello. Rest assured America. Here in Britain we are thinking you.

Nova Memorial Day for October 7th

 Nova Memorial Day for October 7th

They came from all the world, those tightly knit and loving communities, the towns, cities and global villages, the vast continents, over land, ocean, sea and the expansive lands where Judaism is so richly celebrated, cherished, and treasured. They stood together in poignant unison and just reflected on the events that, a year ago to the day, so horrifically scarred the beautiful country that is Israel, damaging and then destroying humanity and leaving nothing behind it but the repulsive smell of death, heartache and suffering. 

Today, a year ago, hundreds of music concert lovers were leaving the Nova music festival in Israel just happy and euphoric, delighted to be among each other on the glorious festival of Simchat Torah. And then their world collapsed around them and the evil forces of murder and pathological hatred spread their tentacles around, poisoning the air with its deeply distressing aftermath. Over 1,500 innocent Israelis died in the most horrific outbreak of violence and terrorism ever seen in modern times. Even a year later, the rest of the world is still numb, still speechless, traumatised and still asking questions, still rationalising with senseless killing.

And yet amid the devastation, destruction, brutal barbarity and the relentless onslaught of gun fire, bullets, bombings and missiles that fell on that fatal and fateful day, we have yet to find answers to those crucial questions. We will know exactly why October 7th happened but will never discover how it was allowed to happen. The events are well chronicled and the depth of the personal loathing brazenly expressed by the despicable terrorist networks of Hamas and Hezbollah leave most of us cold, stunned, shocked beyond reason, appalled and just lost for words.

But on a grey and uplifting Sunday afternoon in Hyde Park in London, we held up our Israeli flags with the kind of immense pride that has almost become customary since last year on October 7th. We have marched defiantly along the Embankment, animated, angry and determined to let the rest of the world know that we were still here, passionately supportive and never going away. We were wholeheartedly committed to the cause, imploring that the Israeli hostages held in captivity be released immediately.

We knew we were probably wasting our time but we had to hold onto something, an indefinable optimism, a delusional belief that Hamas would just surrender and give back those innocent people who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. What we didn't know was that Hamas had stubbornly dug their heels in, refusing to allow commonsense to prevail and intent on the complete annihilation of Israel, wiping the country off the map of the world.

In the distance there was a stage ready to host yet another rousing concert to the thousands down below them, the stoic ones who held the Israeli flags and innumerable photographs of the hostages. We looked around us and heard the voices that mattered most, both Jewish and Christian contingents with the same message, the same proclamation of freedom and liberation. They'd heard enough about torture and mutilation of babies and children, the inhumanity of it all, the dreadful conditions that the hostages had been undergoing for so long. There was, above all desperation, a plaintive plea to just be released from stinking hovels and then reintroduced to families, smiling mothers and fathers, grandparents, cousins, aunties and uncles. This, though, was one emotional reunion that would never take place.

For exactly a year we have seen nothing but burning buildings, charred ruins, flattened homes, supermarkets, post offices, chemists, government organisations and, above all rubble. We have seen plumes of black smoke soaring into the skies, fires and explosions, children buried in the ground being pulled out of broken girders, piles of bricks, twisted metal, the skeletal remains of once proud structures. They were now drenched in blood, faces caked with yet more blood, dripping blood from torn clothes, bodies now unrecognisable, all hope gone. Israel was now inconsolable and crestfallen, families were now murdered and never to see each other again. It looked like the worst of all Greek tragedies but this particular disaster had been situated in the Middle East.

The hardest pill to swallow was the one after October 7th when, after the  inevitable retaliation from Israel, Hamas and now Hezbollah were now claiming that there have been almost 40,000 fatalities when we all know that such figures have been grossly exaggerated. Of course the propaganda machine is functioning more efficiently than ever. It is one long, agonising nightmare where once again the law abiding civilians have suffered and died in the general madness and maelstrom.

And then we go back to the beginning of this human catastrophe. A recent BBC documentary highlighted the terrible magnitude of one continuous day of rabid terrorism. We saw young teenagers fleeing for their lives to some warm sanctuary where they could hide but were still petrified in case one of the bullets and bombs had fatally hit them. They concealed themselves in building skips and containers, in improvised trenches, behind the remnants of shops, anywhere that could provide them with a safe haven. But then we heard the crying, terrified youngsters, throwing themselves onto the ground and praying for their lives. 

We all know that at some point a ceasefire must be considered and peace will be declared. But that's not even on the imminent agenda soon because one side simply want to murder every Jew and Israeli on the planet. It's personal, a vile vendetta against the state of Israel, the extinction of the Jewish race and ruthless persecution of all Jews. We should shiver with revulsion at such vicious victimisation, a simple desire to rid the world of Jews from every Jewish population. Of course we should express our disgust and condemnation for all those 1,500 Jewish youngsters who lost their lives for no reason at all. 

Yesterday, Hyde Park echoed the sentiments of our private thoughts. They listened to Chief Rabbi Mervis, prominent Jewish poets and historians, hugely eloquent orators, dignitaries and dignified folk who delivered their sermons with heartfelt emotions. We were undoubtedly moved to tears but didn't really know how to articulate more and more grief because this is one conflict that can have no resolution without compromise and acceptance of the status quo. Hamas and Hezbollah insist that they will never stop until every Jew is blasted into oblivion, so that just seems like a forlorn hope. But we have to hope because hope means progress and finally, victory over Hamas and Hezbollah.

Across the whole of Hyde Park we saw a movement in a positive direction, thousands of Jews and non Jews, the old Iranian flags fluttering away gratifyingly on the side of Israel. We saw Friends of Israel stalls from all over Britain and our North London location. We saw all religious denominations backing Israel and Standing by Israel. They were wrapped in the blue and white of the Star of David and we felt secure and united, harmonious and, quite literally, singing from the same hymn sheet. 

 Occasionally there were gentle drizzles of rain and occasional flickers of late autumn sun but there was something very enriching and invigorating about the day that restored your faith in man and woman kind. Your family were there for you and of course they mean the world to you. By the end of the day it felt so good to be Jewish and so deeply proud of your Jewish identity that you simply wanted to chant Hava Negilla a million times with resounding certainty. Being Jewish is so wonderful.

World Teachers' Day.

 World Teachers' Day.

Teachers have always been models of respectability and the people we look up to for reassurance, a thorough education and the figures of authority who are simply there to offer wise guidance and experienced pearls of wisdom. Teachers should be our friends and confidants when childhood becomes both difficult and challenging. They're the ones who we can trust and believe in if we're just a couple of minutes late because the bus or train was late and mum had forgotten to pack our lunch. Teachers soothed feverish brows, alleviating anxiety at the drop of a hat and explaining everything carefully.

Today is World Teachers' Day and it's all about taking just a couple of hours for our young students and imparting the best possible advice. School is all about learning, developing those first friendships from a young age and telling your teacher that you may be struggling even though you may think you're not. From our first infant or primary school day, we are all bewildered children because none of us know exactly where we might be going. So who do you ask for help? You turn to the man or woman who rings the bell for playtime and you stop immediately. Teachers instinctively knew what may be going through a child's mind when that bell goes. They may be laughing and giggling but it's all a bit daunting.

Teachers are our first points of academic contact, the ones who point at what used to be blackboards with rubbers and chalks in their hands. Then, all manner of multi coloured chalks scratched out the multiplication table, the alphabet, grammar, new words, the first seeds of a burgeoning vocabulary. So you sit at your desk, waiting patiently and then looking at sir or miss with increasing levels of fascination. Your attention may be diverted by events taking place outside your classroom and the windows with long wooden poles.

As a young child it all felt like the most intimidating challenge of them all, that first week back in early September after an ecstatic summer holiday. Some of us genuinely cried into their bed pillows as kids because we were dreading this new environment or perhaps one we knew everything there was to know about but wished we couldn't be subjected to again and again. Besides, why on earth did we have to go to school because the kids were naughty and nasty, always disobedient and never well behaved? 

All the kids in the playground were just troublemakers, letting off stink bombs, a singularly disruptive influence and just a pain in the neck to all the teachers who were there to maintain law and order. So, as primary school children, we can all remember vividly those eternal playground days of chasing each other for no apparent reason, playing Tag by catching each other and then tapping each other on their shoulders. The girls were always playing Kiss Chase or skipping because gender stereotyping was years away.

But then teachers came into our lives and were always there for us, constantly available for a word after lessons. They'd sit us down in private when the rest of the kids had run out of the gates and were desperate to get home for games of football in the park with our classroom mates. Kids were always hungry for knowledge whereas others regarded school as a painful imposition that just had to be endured and tolerated. So teachers would be our confidants, the ones who would always listen to all of our childhood grievances and long term problems. 

Most of our primary school learning was conducted in either long corridors with classrooms inside or huge huts outside and although the memories may be totally unreliable, we can still visualise it all with a certain amount of accuracy. Within minutes and hours of our first lessons, you could still hear the incessant clattering and pounding of footsteps, five or six year old children running down the passageway while every so often the teachers yelled out severe reprimands to those kids who just continued to run and laugh. You had to stop because if you didn't, the punishment would be a hundred lines after school in an empty classroom.

Teachers were those individuals who set vitally important standards, morals, values and, above all discipline. They stood there in all weathers, whistling every so often in the playground and bawling out strict orders above all the pandemonium  around them. They shout at their pupils with ferocious conviction since they just want them to succeed in life and get on in adolescence. But we were just oblivious to the adult world because school was a meeting place for fun, sharing football Panini football stickers and swapping magazines called Jackie for the girls and Shoot magazine for the boys. 

Most of us tend to think of teachers as horrible and condescending individuals who just lecture you and humiliate kids because sir and miss simply don't understand us.  They make all manner of belittling and facetious comments about you because you were the one who kept flicking pieces of paper at the other kids or using an elastic band that would normally miss its intended target. Teachers are supposed to be instilling the groundwork for further education in later years but, at the time, kids have no boundaries.

Then there is the dawning realisation that teachers are the most patient and understanding of any person, apart from your loving parents who  love you and care for you. They have a very specific role in our lives, always influential, always compassionate and hoping that one day you'll be grateful for everything they've tried to give back to both you and the rest of society.

Long gone, of course teachers and headmasters would confidently march into your classroom, wearing a a black cloak with a mortar board, a university cap on their heads and the infamous stick. The old St Trinian's films from the archives of film history are still engraved on our minds.  St Trinian's of course was just slapstick comedy and nothing more really. The kids would always be up to mischief, plotting something unsavoury and then poking merciless fun at those they may see to  them as terribly threatening authoritarians.

Nowadays teachers are still underpaid, undervalued and almost dismissed as mean spirited, heartless members of their noble calling. The kids are the ones who leave behind them huge piles of books consisting of questions that have to be ticked as right or not as be it the case. Teachers are the ones who usually confronted with mountains of exercise books that never seem to come to an end. But teaching is, essentially a vocation, a natural calling, a profession to be acknowledged as something to be proud of.

Above all the madness and deafening noise, you can still hear a despairing voice in a chemistry lesson from way back when.  You can still see a helpless and struggling Asian gentleman who just wanted to be heard and not simply disregarded as some battering ram. Here was a man who was being mercilessly beaten over the head with loud jeering and sneering of the most cruel kind. But teachers are worth far more than relentless verbal punishment laced with insults and hurtful jibes.

But for some of us primary school was all about a certain husband and wife team who guided us to our first promised land of academic virtuosity, the first building blocks towards a bright sunset of an educational paradise, the foundation stone of our early lives. We still remember Mr and Mrs Cole because they were somehow inseparable and that was comforting to us at the time because we admired them for that reason alone. Mrs Cole used to take us for country dancing lessons on Friday afternoon. She was a maternal, a beacon of stability to us because our mums and dads had given us those first guiding hands and the world was a treacherous assault course. 

And then, finally there was our masterful primary school headmaster. Ken Aston had been a distinguished World Cup football referee at the 1962 World Cup in Chile and then was present at the 1966 World Cup in England as a pacifist. Aston, in the now infamous Battle of Santiago where the players of Chile and Italy quite clearly intended to kill each other given half a chance, raced over towards the scene of the crime and pointed towards the players tunnel. The match was immediately called off and before you could blink, feuding players from both sides sheepishly walked off the pitch. It had now degenerated into a playground scuffle, fists were flying, but Aston,  like a ruthless sergeant major, stood for no nonsense and the players were back in the dressing room in no time at all.  

So there you have it Ladies and Gentlemen. It's World Teachers Day and please try to pay attention when you're being spoken to. You don't have to do detention nor write 1,000 lines about firing pea shooters at each other when sir or miss are trying to teach you about phonetics, pronunciation, verbs, adverbs, pronouns, numbers, division and long division. It'll stand you in good stead later on in life and besides, we'll thank them profusely later on in life. Oh and my wonderful son Sam and lovely daughter in law Lucy are brilliant teachers and they love what they do. Enjoy World Teachers Day because you may learn something.

Happy Birthday Sir Trevor Brooking

 Happy Birthday Sir Trevor Brooking

When you first set eyes upon him, we knew that here was one of the most extravagant footballing talents you'd ever seen. At the time, you really didn't think you were watching the genuine article and yet you were and it wasn't an optical illusion, a figment of your imagination. He was, and would become one of West Ham and England's most creative midfielders of all time and you remain convinced that this is indeed the case. He is undoubtedly a peerless footballing genius, surely the most princely and educated of all footballers. 

Today, Sir Trevor Brooking celebrates his 76th birthday and, in your personal estimation, none have equalled, matched or surpassed his brilliance and superlative magnificence. They broke the mould with Trevor Brooking, the angels were singing beautifully and if Brooking had become a classically trained musician he would have been the greatest of violinists or pianists. We've heard all about those obvious football cliches. We're completely familiar with conductors of orchestras, midfield artists with divine brushes but Sir Trevor Brooking had it all on the pitch. 

Football of course came naturally and organically to Brooking. It endowed him with breathtaking ball skills from his Barking birthplace in London's East End.  Overnight he became one of England's classiest and purest players. It shaped him into a man of manners, politeness, civility and composure in every fibre of his being. West Ham and England were just hoping and wishing that one day a player of Brooking's like would come along to provide football's most impressive landscape with its prettiest watercolours.

And so at the tender age of 18, manager Ron Greenwood turned to the youngster in claret and blue and promised that one day Trevor Brooking would grace every football stage with poise and immaculate ball control. He had the kind of smooth balance and equilibrium on a football pitch that the once late and tragically missed Duncan Edwards of Manchester United might have given the Beautiful Game. But Brooking was the epitome of suave sophistication, a glorious playmaker, the catalyst and sparking plug that just electrified a match at every level.

It did take Brooking a while to adjust to the game's most exacting demands. He was twice the recipient of two FA Cup winning medals with West Ham. In 1975, now a reliable first team starter for the England team, Brooking was one of the principal figures in the Hammers 2-0 FA Cup Final winning victory at Wembley. Then, five years later, Brooking was a central protagonist in West Ham's shock 1-0 FA Cup Final triumph against overwhelming favourites Arsenal.

 He stooped to conquer with one of the most uncharacteristic headers Wembley and football had ever seen. Alan Devonshire's flighted cross to the far post resulted in a flurry of feet with a David Cross flick of the leg, a Stuart Pearson lunge of the ball and Brooking just heading the ball low past Pat Jennings in the Arsenal goal for the ultimate FA Cup Final winner. Then the white West Ham shirt shone brightly in the May sunshine, as Sir Trevor Brooking revelled in the rapturous acclaim of thousands of overjoyed West Ham fans.

England manager Don Revie awarded Brooking his first England cap against Czechoslovakia and the rest, as they say, is history. One of your fondest memories remains his perfect working relationship with Kevin Keegan, Liverpool's human dynamo and brilliant striker. In a 1979 Home International game against Scotland, Trevor Brooking wore an England shirt once again. Teaming up  and conspiring with Keegan in some almost confidential agreement, Brooking carved through the Scottish defence in a heavenly one two with Keegan. Keegan finished off the move with a stunningly executed goal. It was a work of art that belonged in a gallery.

Then, in a World Cup qualifier in 1981, a cat's cradle of passes outside a bemused Hungarian penalty area eventually ended up at Brooking's feet. Adjusting himself beautifully, Brooking lifted his foot and struck an incredible first time shot that arrowed towards the Hungary net. The ball soared towards the stanchion of the net and just stuck there. For a minute, most of us thought the ball had just hit the side netting but the game's purists knew it was just the most magnificent goal England had ever scored.

Brooking would be capped 47 times for England and scored some of West Ham's most memorable goals. Before joining West Ham, his parents had encouraged him to stay at school and pass all of his O Levels before securing his academic status. The England midfield maestro might have gone to university but instead pursued his footballing studies. He went on to become a director of a plastics company with a business like and studious mind and that would always be his fallback had football not worked for him.

And so today Trevor Brooking today blows out 76 candles and some of us are wishing him the happiest of birthdays. We received his autobiography in an Ilford supermarket during the 1980s and will never forget his sartorial elegance. And that's perhaps Brooking personified.  Happy Birthday Sir Trevor Brooking. You're the most exemplary role model. Jude Bellingham take note. You could be Sir Trevor's modern day successor. Happy Birthday Sir Trevor.