St Andrews Day.

 St Andrews Day.

With Christmas and Chanukah now weeks away and the glad tidings of the season already upon us, it is hard to imagine where the time has gone. The ageing process should be a graceful one and undoubtedly this is the case but how time flies indeed. The year of 2024 has been rather like any other year in decades long since gone but perspective is a special thing and this year has of course been eventful, dramatic certainly, traumatic at times but joyful and then disappointing for some if not others.

We all wish we'd had enough time to occupy our hours much more constructively than we were hoping we would. There are formidable tasks that were carried out, there were friends and family we saw briefly but happily but then there were enemies we'll never regret ditching and dumping unceremoniously. We might have missed out on important deadlines, reached for the stars one moment, fulfilled those elusive ambitions but then discovered it just wasn't good enough. We'd have to do better but still, we did try and nobody could possibly have accused of us anything but dedication to the cause.  

And so to the end of this year and what have we done. Another year over to quote the masterful lyricist John Lennon. Tomorrow marks the beginning of, traditionally, the busiest month of the calendar year. December brings with it yet more shorter days when darkness falls over Britain at tea time and the mind is deluded into thinking that it's time for some shut eye and a good night's sleep. The first frost and ice has now arrived on our doorstep, vast quantities of snow have been predicted by the Daily Express for the umpteenth time since July and before you know it, we'll all be preparing for Easter.

Christmas seems to get earlier and earlier, a time of the year when spectacular TV advertising campaigns for all those prestigious British supermarkets become more elaborate with every passing year. They invariably involve gallons of bottled wine, huge helpings of turkeys the size of your dining room, chocolates to damage your waistline for seemingly an eternity and brussel sprouts that are rarely eaten at any other time of the year. 

So today seems as good a time as any other to remind you that it's St Andrews Day. You remember St Andrews Day. It's that day in bonny Scotland where the good, honest and law abiding folk of Glasgow, Edinburgh, Dundee, Aberdeen, the Grampians  and the often turbulent islands up North, let themselves go, shaking off their inhibitions and celebrating life in all its rich diversity. The Scots really do know how to have a good time because every Hogmany and New Year's Eve, they remind you of how to party the night away unashamedly.  

Although not quite the jolly knees up and boozy bacchanalia of New Year's Eve, the whisky distilleries are still plundered and the beer flows like a thousand waterfalls. The whole of Scotland will retire to its local watering hole and high street pub in anticipation of the one event of the year when the drunken delights of the evening culminate in jigging around swords, flinging the tartan kilts around with blissful abandon and, of course, blowing on the bagpipes. Now this has been going on for so many centuries in Scotland that maybe we've taken St Andrews Day for granted. 

Every August, Edinburgh welcomes its vast populations into its street theatres, comedy clubs, bars and then onto its many stages. The Edinburgh Fringe Festival is that yearly homage to British art and culture. It's been going on since time immemorial, a magical exposition of everything zany, eclectic, creative and bohemian. It shouts out the virtues of literature, the craft of comedy at its most refined, music of all genres and performances from all and sundry. 

Today Scotland will remember high summer on the final day of autumn because that's what the Scots do with enormous relish. They sing the praises of Rabbie Burns, Scotland's greatest poet and Sir Walter Scott, Scotland's most literate and outstanding of novelists. They remember the great shipyards of Glasgow, staring mournfully at those once beautiful tenements that are now shopping malls and then long for a time when those grand old Scotsmen and women once walked in the hallowed footsteps of Bonny Prince Charlie and William Wallace. 

Recently, Scotland lost one of its most controversial of politicians. Sir Alex Salmond was a feisty, gritty and combative politician who became the First Minister of Scotland and did rub up his critics the wrong way but then changed opinions when Salmond did something that met with their approval. You would have thought Salmon would have thoroughly enjoyed today because the patriotic inside him would have been mightily proud of Scotland's notable achievements. 

Devolution and independence have always been bones of contention in Scotland. The Scottish assembly continues to be their jewel in their crown. But Scotland has never made any secret of its utter contempt and detestation for England, the Sassenachs, those folk across Hadrian's Wall who just get on their nerves. But today is different or Scotland hope it will be. They'll get drunk tonight and then sing at the tops of their voices because that karaoke is such a splendid idea. 

Then they'll think of the once gifted folk singer and guitarist who became one of the finest and most delightful of all comedians. Billy Connolly is a national treasure, the man who lit up the comic landscape of not only Scotland but the rest of the world with those colourful profanities, the bawdy jokes that shook us to the foundations but has now kept us heaving with delicious laughter for years and years. Connolly's telling observations on society, childhood and his life as a docker in his younger days, filled the halls, clubs and pubs of Britain with blustery gales of hilarity.

But then Connolly conquered Hollywood and converted the Americans overnight with those vulgar witticisms and endless stories about the rich tapestry of life. He appeared in films, late night chat shows and typified the indomitable spirit of Scotland. In fact, Connolly is now regarded as a master of his craft, a wonderful exponent of the graphic and physical sketch where all of the taboo subjects are just repeated over and over again.

And so it is that Scotland will resort to Connolly's saucy sense of humour, those vinegary gags that have kept most of us rolling in the aisles and tickled every bone in our body. Scotland will just be doing what Scotland do best, raising a pint or hundred to the underdog, the football team who always flatter to deceive and then achieve the impossible when the odds are so heavily stacked against them. 

Down South in North London, we will be acknowledging St Andrews Day with a pint of Tennents or two. We'll Take the High Road, blurt out or verse or two of Auld Lang's Syne even if it's almost exactly a month before we should. We shall imagine the mist-shrouded mountains in the Highlands, the drifting snows that begin as sleet but then settle on the summit. We shall think of everything symbolically Scottish, the glens and lochs, the stirring anecdotes about Loch Lomond and Loch Ness, the kings and queens from another age and then St Andrews Day itself. It's time to puff out your chest, Scotland. This is your day. Oh for the swelling pride.  

Thank goodness for peace

 Thank goodness for peace.

It may not be set in stone but all the signs are pointing in the right direction. The news filtering through from the Middle East is that Israel has declared a ceasefire in the war against Lebanon and Hezbollah. Now the truth is that at the moment the longevity of any peace settlement between Israel and its adversaries is always fraught with uncertainty such is the nature of the long standing hatred that still exists in some of the territories. 

But after a long and torturous conflict, often explosive and deadly, Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, so heavily criticised and maligned by those who can barely tolerate him any longer, has made the boldest and bravest decision of his life. Over a year after the first outrageous and hideous attack on Israel on Hamas, Israel has decided that the main enemies have been eliminated and the leaders of both Hamas and Hezbollah are dead and no can longer cause any widespread pain and torment. 

These are encouraging developments since Jews across the globe have been patiently waiting and hoping that one day both Hamas and Hezbollah would come to their senses. Somebody had to knock something into their collective brains because nothing else seemed to be working. War will always leave collateral damage on all humanity and the enduring images of the last year or so have not made for edifying viewing. To the outside observers, it has been the continuous horror show that must have left most of us cold and stunned. There have been attacks and counter- attacks, reprisals and counter- reprisals. 

And yet finally the monumental death toll has been considered more than sufficient for peace in our time. The casualties and fatalities were bloody, distressing, almost too much for the mind to take in. But then we remembered the children, the innocent ones, the next generation who were never consulted over a year ago and the almost silent minority who were helplessly caught up in the unadulterated violence and murder.

So we clasped our hands together in blessed relief, looked to a place deep within us and begged for a permanent truce, a peaceful and amicable solution to this sorry, terrible war of words and minds. And yet scepticism continues to live in our innermost thoughts because we have been here before on innumerable occasions. Hamas promises never to lift another finger in anger because, suddenly, they've been cast as the victims of circumstances, the relentless punch bag for some battle that they must have felt had nothing to do with them. How foolish and delusional they must have been. 

But the evidence was there for all to see. Last year, on October 7th, huge consignments of arms, guns, bombs and abundant ammunition to last several years, were stocked together by Hamas. It was the sacred Jewish festival of Simchat Torah and evil was brewing. Mass squadrons of Hamas terrorists and soldiers prepared themselves for the most disgraceful attack on Israel and civil liberties. What followed was a despicable violation of any law in the land. 

After leaving the Nova music Festival in Israel, thousands of Israeli youngsters streamed away happily, euphoric and full of joy. Suddenly, terrorism reared its ugly head. Turning around in their cars, they panicked and then screamed with agony. Shots were fired indiscriminately at concert goers who were just there to share the beauty of togetherness and happiness. The bullets and bombs were dropping in massive clusters and over 1,500 Israelis died because they were Jewish and had to be wiped out, obliterated from existence. 

To say this was the most shameful and reprehensible act of murderous brutality the Israelis had witnessed for quite a while would be a gross understatement. A recent TV documentary showed the depressing aftermath of that one day. Teenagers were weeping, desperately crying for mercy. They ran for their lives, jumping into building skips, behind shelters, cowering with naked fear and understandably petrified. And then we saw the less fortunate ones, the ones who didn't escape, lying lifeless on the ground, killed because they adhered to the wrong religious principles. In other words, they were Jewish and Hamas just wanted to get rid of the global Jewish population. 

We have now become, more or less desensitised to war, conditioned to its senseless bloodshed and incomprehensible savageries. We look at the evening news now through closed eyes, heads held in shame and speechless since words have become superfluous. But yesterday and the day before, it felt good to be a human being, relieved of the necessity to worry and sympathise and we could sleep easy in our beds knowing that, for the time being, the Middle East is quiet and slowly returning to normality. 

For some of us the Yom Kippur War in 1973 and the Six Day War in 1967 are still firmly lodged in our subconscious or quite clearly in others. We remember the dramatic news broadcast from legendary sports presenter David Coleman when Coleman skilfully described the frightening events of the 1972 Munich Olympic Games. One morning, 11 Israeli athletes were taken hostage in the Olympic village and killed without any provocation. Or maybe they were murdered because they were Jewish. 

To all Jews who have suffered such unforgivable persecution and vilification over the years, it never gets any easier. We now have a cessation of hostilities, a recognition that enough is enough. There is a feeling that eventually some modicum of commonsense will penetrate the minds and combined forces of Hamas and Hezbollah.

We have now assurances from US President Joe Biden that civilised debate will ensue, that intelligence will intervene and a welcome reconciliation will be thrashed out over a hearty lunch.There are vitally important issues of trust and confidence to be negotiated. We must believe in the sometimes mealy mouthed rhetoric from Hamas and Hezbollah but surely there has to be a realisation that too many lives have now been lost and any more lethal ammunition of any description would be asking for more trouble. 

So the world, although comforted by the knowledge that one war has now been seemingly settled, another theatre is still watching another pointless drama. In Ukraine, lives are still being lost as Russian tyrant and dicator Vladimir Putin continues to create hellish havoc with neighbours he simply detests. This is one nasty, dirty and catastrophic war, laced with poison and revulsion of the enemy. But Putin keeps losing his temper, eyes blazing with fury and determined to get his way. We can only hope that one day he plucks up the courage and apologises but we hardly think this is possible in anybody's lifetime. 

But in the Middle East this morning, the vast plumes of mushrooming smoke pouring from demolished homes and buildings, are now clearing. Beirut is still a gory battleground and, in retrospect, always has been while Gaza clears the smoke from their faces and shovels away the devastation. It may be ages before a full recovery is complete although time, as we know, is still a great healer. 

We will once again pray for lasting harmony and goodwill. We still believe in the goodness and humanity of the human race because this is the only way. In Israel this morning, they'll be toasting this ceasefire with a stirring rendition of Hava Negilla, a celebration to last a lifetime. This Shabbat and sabbath weekend, they'll be gathering by the Wall in Jerusalem and singing to life to life L'Chayim.   

Andy Murray - the coach

 Andy Murray- the coach

Now that Andy Murray's vintage days as two- time Wimbledon champion have now passed into the illustrious history books, it would have been safe to assume that memories of his greatness will always be fondly preserved. Besides, Britain had to wait several lifetimes before acknowledging Murray's special and natural talent. We'd more or less given up any hope of re-capturing that iconic moment at SW19 but good things happen to those who wait patiently and never stop believing. 

It had been over 75 years since Britain last acclaimed a men's singles champion at Wimbledon so the man from Dunblane, Scotland deserves every credit. The years have been long and embarrassing at times. But our patience was rewarded in both the Olympic year of 2012 and not once but twice as richly deserved Wimbledon champion. So Murray drove himself to the limit of his renowned endurance and just gritted his teeth. He lifted the famous Wimbledon trophy, showing it off unashamedly and never forgetting the sterling contribution that his mum Judy had made in his maturity and development as a player.

But now Murray's now highly regarded career on the major tennis courts of the world is glorious history. Over the weekend, Murray announced his intention of becoming a coach to one of the greatest modern- day tennis stars of the global community. It was a decision that may have been reached with the heaviest of hearts since Murray must have gone throughout his entire playing career without ever considering the prospect of guiding, encouraging or inspiring his colleagues in later life. 

Now Murray is the official coach to his greatest rival but, still, closest friend Novak Djokovic. Now this seems the unlikeliest of partnerships because both men were dedicated to winning Grand Slams and accumulating so much prize money into the bargain that Murray, as a coach, almost felt like wishful thinking. But the Scotsman has now accepted that his dancing days as a fabulous sportsman and ambassador were something to be treasured and realistically belonged to another golden age. 

After a career often blighted and ruined by incessant injuries, you'd have been forgiven for thinking that Murray would just throw his racket into a nearby bin and never swing another cross court volley, mesmerising forehand winner or stunning backhand. The back problems and various, debilitating niggles, strains and bodily stresses began to mount up quite disturbingly and the temptation to pack it all in always seemed an enticing one. 

But Murray summoned all of those fighting qualities that we've all come to know and love. Murray had stubbornness, gutsy defiance, bucketloads of perseverance, courage in spades and remembered that no match was ever lost until that final, thrilling five set epic. The boy from Dunblane had already experienced some of life's toughest and most harrowing of ordeals. Murray saw all the horrors of a barbaric attack from a vile murderer who terrorised a local school and left a trail of carnage and destruction behind him. So he became conditioned to the harder and unsavoury side of life and soldiered on bravely. 

The boy served his apprenticeship as a fledgling tennis player and worked his way through the youth ranks. He struggled to bury the past at first but then emerged triumphantly in both 2013 and then three years later in 2016. We could barely have imagined that somehow,  from the depths of disaster, one British tennis player could so dramatically transform the fortunes of British tennis. Fred Perry had done the trick back in the 1930s but that was way back in TV's infancy and nobody saw it apart from the Centre Court gathering present at the time. 

Yesterday, the talk among tennis aficionados was of Andy Murray as the motivational guru, the influential coaching figure, the man who made others tick and function properly. What we weren't expecting was an Andy Murray instilling shrewd advice into a man who probably thinks he's unbeatable anyway. Novak Djokovic is not a man to be argued with nor any more likely to respond to those who could only have dreamt of emulating the Serbian's colossal achievements. He does things his way and 

Murray of course was the man who had to follow the intelligent guidance of one Ivan Lendl. Now Lendl was never the most emotional and demonstrative of men and lost a succession of Wimbledon Finals because he was just unlucky on grass. But Murray responded to Lendl and invariably got the most out of the Scot. Lendl instilled bloody-minded aggression and bullish determination into Murray's mind and Murray bust a gut to prove to the world that he was no submissive defeatist with nothing more to give when it mattered. Murray won Wimbledon twice because he was driven, almost possessed at times, pumped up to the highest degree and just devil may care. He had the right kind of attitude, though.  

Now though Murray is the figure behind the scenes and Djokovic will receive the full benefit of Murray's ruthless tongue although the Serb may believe this to be unnecessary. Djokovic is a fiercely independent spirit who follows his instincts rather than others. During Covid 19, Djokovic was adamant in his refusal to take the vaccines before the Australian Open. He was the one who took a militant stand when those who knew him best should have been much firmer with him. 

So it is now Murray's responsibility to take Djokovic under his wing and ram some home truths into the sassy and feisty Serb. Recently, some of us may have noticed a worrying arrogance about the man who has now dominated the Grand Slam era with so many victories that we may have lost count. There is a sense of vanity and ego about him that manifests itself in aggressive fist -pumping, sneering at hecklers in the crowd and simply snarling with a disdainful growl at the now growing list of critics. 

But there is something of an indefinable quality about Murray that once blossomed on Centre Court. Murray has a no nonsense, hard- as- nails belligerence about him that must come with all the right recommendations from both fellow coaches and players in the current generation. Murray is still softly spoken but always positive, never negative, ready to take on the world. This is Murray's ultimate challenge because both men are completely at ease with each other, hearteningly familiar with every stroke and knowing everything there is to know about their body language. 

The epic images of Murray's legendary win over Djokovic in 2013 followed by another Wimbledon Final winning trophy against Canadian Milos Raonic three years later still leaves a warm glow in the hearts of his eternally admiring followers. And now Murray is the inspirational coach, the one who cracks the whip, who watches and studies all of Djokovic's mannerisms, his sometimes moody and temperamental outbursts with an admirable tolerance and forbearance that could be vitally important in their relationship on court. 

This is the next chapter in the career of Andy Murray, a man in complete control of his feelings while trying desperately to hold onto those of his buddy, buddy contemporary. It is a fascinating combination, a friendship that could be tested to the full. So let's hear it for Andy Murray the coach, coaxing from the sidelines, the man with the track suit top equipped with the kind of knowledge that Djokovic may be in need of even if he doesn't think he does. Tennis looks forward to its new power behind the throne. 

International Men's Day.

 International Men's Day. 

You do know what day it is today or maybe you don't. Every so often we need to be reminded of the significance of today in case it's both overlooked and forgotten. Yes folks, it's that day of the year when the men of the global population re-establish their identity because somehow the gentlemen of the world may be feeling alienated and marginalised, lost in a world that may have left them in a private room, unseen, invisible at times perhaps and never really given the recognition they probably deserve.

For as long as humanity has existed since the beginning of time, sexual conditioning has always been a complex issue. It's the men who used to leave their home at the crack of dawn, wiping the frost and ice from their frozen cars before returning to their domestic kith and kin for breakfast with their loving wife and children. Then, with briefcase or bag in their hands, newspaper next to him and a rolled umbrella if they worked in the City, they'd run towards the railway stations, jump onto a Tube or overhead train for another day at the grindstone, working themselves into the ground and toiling away frantically for hour after hour, week after week, month by month and year upon year and another year.

Today folks, it's time to celebrate International Men's Day, a ringing endorsement for masculinity, male bonding, male solidarity, vigorous virility, beating chests with manly pride and pretending that there is a place for men despite any adverse publicity to the contrary. The battle of the sexes is probably as old as time but wherever you may look, the female population will have to take a back seat today. Sorry ladies, it's time for the gentlemen of the world to become assertive again and shout it from the rooftops. 

Now there is a misconception that all men are the same, lazy, lethargic and lackadaisical creatures who go to work in the morning and then come home and expect to have their dinner on the table now, pronto. They fall into the dining room, complaining and discontented, disagreeable and objectionable. Then they collapse onto the sofa, shirt, tie and trousers protesting loudly, kicking off their shoes, moaning incessantly about the total inadequacies of the train network, the endless delays on draughty platforms, the trains that were cancelled for the umpteenth time and then the annoying wait for the aforesaid train. 

It was once said that men were just male chauvinist pigs who did nothing around the home and expected their doting, permanently affectionate wife to do all the dirty work after them. Women fulfilled the function of cooking, cleaning, doing the shopping and rearing children. Women were the ones responsible for watering, feeding and caring for their men folk and children. Women were the unsung heroes who deserve a medal just for tolerating men's eccentricities, their innumerable faults, their unusual habits and just doing the kind of things designed to drive women completely mad.

So now it's time for the men of the global habitation to strike back with a vengeance. The stereotypical man is the one who spends every Sunday morning, washing, polishing and scrubbing his car with meticulous attention to detail and a gleam of tenderness in their eyes. Then their mates converge on them from all directions and demand they get a move on. It's football on the marshes, parks and recreation grounds of Britain, respectable men, growling, shouting, laughing, joking with each other on muddy quagmires during all winters. 

They pull on their multi coloured football shirts, struggle to fit their feet into the same boots they've been wearing for the last 30 years and then releasing a huge bag of footballs onto a million pitches.They slam the car boot vehemently, chuckling sadistically at each other's stomachs, be they of the ironing board variety or paunchy, portly figures that may have eaten too many pizzas during the week. Football is the definitive theme of a man's life unless they can't stand the game. Football reinforces a man's sense of worth, his striving for acceptance and validation from the rest of society. Football used to be a man's game but has now found gender equality with the advent of the hugely popular Women's Super League. 

But men and cars have now become synonymous with each other not so much obviously linked to each other but a homogenous whole where men have carved their initials on other pursuits. Men now take themselves off to river banks where, for hours at a time, they indulge in the ultimate male pursuit of fishing. Mostly in isolation, they escape from the female demands and exhortations. Rather than mowing the grass in the garden or painting the kitchen yet again or fixing another set of shelves on the wall, men throw nets into hundreds of cod, trout and haddock communities, pipes in mouths and bottles of lager to keep them company. 

Oh but of course men drink lager because alcohol is one of their more frivolous preoccupations. It is the only way of winding down after a gruelling day at the work furnace. Drink is that mentally satisfying hobby where nobody minds if they swallow as many pints of ale in record time. Alcohol used to be that working class guilty pleasure that men embraced because it relieved the presssure, slowed down the reflexes and just made them laugh once the threshold had been broken. Then lager and ale conspired to affect their everyday behaviour, muddying their senses before reducing men to quivering wrecks. 

Some of the more macho of men just attach themselves to activities that may seem rather less than conventional. They buy huge chrome motor bikes, investing in sartorially correct leather jackets, growing thick beards and then applying glorious tattoos to their arms and shoulders. Male grooming of course is a much more recent innovation and something to be acknowledged as a proper expression of their real selves. Bottles of hair gel, genuine shavers, innumerable choices of after shave lotions and bottles of anti-perspirants provide a comforting accompaniment to the male with perhaps hidden insecurities. 

Then for all of the men of the global mass, there are the dedicated lorry drivers whose massive articulated vehicles roar up and down the motorways, freeways and autobahns of the universe with unwavering commitment. Male lorry drivers are tireless creatures who power their way past the heaviest traffic jams before dropping into motorway services for several plates of everything with mountains of chips. They roll up their sleeves, eat yet more chocolate bars and then hold onto their steering wheel with a steely tenacity as if refusing to accept that they may be knackered and exhausted. 

But as a male member of the human race, you begin to wonder if perceptions will ever change. To the impartial observer, they remain downtrodden, determined to create the right and favourable impression but often failing miserably. They then resume their role as pub-drinking builders with muscles the size of rocks, industrious painters and decorators who love nothing better than a good, old fashioned perusal of Page Three of the Sun. This may come as something of a major disappointment to them because semi naked young girls are a dwindling species if not entirely non existent. 

So Happy International Men's Day both Ladies and Gentlemen. For obvious reasons, your adorable and wonderful late dad always remains firmly on your mind and will never be forgotten. My dad was the epitome of male elegance and propriety. My dad dressed immaculately at all times, well tailored jackets, suits and blazers always to the fore. In fact he insisted on sartorial perfection because if there was no tie to hand and a handkerchief in his breast pocket, then my dad just felt incomplete. My dad used to wear a naval blazer for the seaside and no trip to either Southend or Westcliff was without the crisp shirt or a leisurely Fred Perry T-Shirt. He was always smartness personified but although never a drinker, loved smoking to his hearts content. 

Way back in the early 20th century most of the male Hollywood leading lights, blockbuster household names and distinguished film luminaries were never without a cigarette either dangling from their lips or a fashionable lighter with boxes of matches in their possession. Both  my lovely mum and dad were regular smokers but my dad had to have a packet of Senior Service cigarettes at his disposal. Bogart was addicted to his nicotine habit and you feel sure that my dad responded to Bogart's daily routines. 

And so men once again, it's time to stand up and announce yourself proudly to all and sundry. This is not a time for being ashamed of who we are or apologetic in any way for any of our faults. Men may be portrayed as strong, muscular, ambitious, commonly athletic and just setting the right exemplary role model to both their wives, sons and daughters. But, above all, this is the day when men should be rightly proud of being fathers, boys, men, friends, uncles, cousins, teenage adolescents who just want to be the best husbands imaginable. Let's hear it for the boys and men.   

   

England are promoted to group A of the UEFA Nations League.

 England are promoted to group A of the UEFA Nations League.

England have been promoted to group A of the UEFA Nations League. That's official and unquestionable. In bold lettering. All over the country, advertising hoardings will be emblazoned with the news. Every high street, suburban and urban shopping centre, road, street and avenue will be announcing perhaps one of the most underwhelming pieces of information in the sporting history of Britain and the Commonwealth. Or will it be? This could be one of the greatest days in England's chequered history. You somehow think not. 

 Maybe we're underestimating the momentousness of England's achievement in the highest echelons of international football. But now is not the time for being facetious because the England football team are back at the top table of world football and it's time to get out the street bunting, dozens of sandwiches, crisps, cakes and biscuits and tables heaving with celebratory food and drink. Yes folks, England are through to the latter stages of the UEFA Champions League and you can pinch yourself now.  

They are through to Group A of the UEFA Champions League. Yesterday, the vicars and congregation of every Sunday church across the country were chanting homages to the England football team. Every rhapsodic hymn, including Jerusalem, floated across the lush meadows, the well manicured fields, while also giving thanks to the gushing rivers and streams that dot the timelessly majestic landscape of the British countryside. Brass bands and jazz quartets, orchestras and theatres could hardly contain their excitement. England are back among the main contenders. And the Republic of Ireland could do nothing about it. 

For a country that rejoices in its grand literary heritage and Guinness drinking culture, this was not the best of nights for the Republic of Ireland football team. In fact, it could hardly have gone any worse for Southern Ireland since Finland couldn't do them any favours against Greece and Irish luck was completely out. In the bars and taverns of Dublin they must have been drowning their sorrows and you could almost hear their ancestors weeping into tankards of inconsolable booze. Maybe the likes of Oscar Wilde, William Yeats and Seamus Heaney may have been somewhere in the ether, sobbing bitterly but we doubt it. 

This was an awful and disastrous evening for the Republic of Ireland who must have thought they'd held out quite creditably against an England side who probably thought they'd done enough anyway even before last night's contest. Wembley was reasonably jammed solid but not exactly bursting at the seams with pleasure. When both the Republic and England met at the Aviva, the Irish were swept away in a white tidal wave of pressure and English domination. Euro 2024 had been forgotten and this was a new slate, new time and place and another tournament. What could go wrong?

The only blot on England's horizon was the horrific 2-1 defeat by Greece at Wembley and, judging by the nerves and apprehension gripping the English fans before the match against Eire, you feared that something could malfunction and, for a while, England reminded you of a hall of fretful school students studying for their A Levels. Their heads were down, creased with anxiety and full of worse case permutations. What would have happened had they drawn a blank on their logarithms and algorithms, their algebra, their graphs and rock formations, their extensive knowledge of the capitals of the world? It doesn't bear thinking about. 

But Lee Carsley, their temporary boss, bowed out with an emphatic 5-0 victory and confirmation that things had gone well for him. It all looked a bit dodgy and worrying at times but there was never any need to panic. England were on solid ground last night and everything looked safe and secure, then oozing with confidence because somebody had pulled the right levers and switched on the right lights. By the time that an hour of the match had gone, England were sailing serenely away with happiness and out of sight. The England cruise vessel looked in stately command, untroubled by raging storms that might have impeded their progress. No problem and no sweat for Lee Carsley's men.

After an even and tightly contested first half in which the bulk of England's possession seemed to be going nowhere, the large green contingent of noisy and high spirited Irish fans were in full voice. The Irish were moderately threatening at times but this was never going to be their night. There were no goals in their tank and, at times, you wondered what the magical feet and vision of Liam Brady would have made of last night's mish mash of a Republic team. You tried to imagine what the likes of Don Givens, Tony Grealish, Ray Houghton and Frank Stapleton would have done to turn around the fortunes of this current Republic of Ireland team. 

The days of the unforgettable managerial reign of Jack Charlton are no longer relevant. The legendary 1966 England World Cup winner would have seen the delicious irony of this painful defeat for the Irish. But then Charlton would probably have pointed to that other memorable confrontation in the 1988 European Championship when Houghton's guided header flew past Peter Shilton in the England goal for the winning goal in the group stages. 

But this made for nasty and uncomfortable viewing for the Irish, an evening for hiding behind sofas and cowering away shamefully in Irish pubs. Their football looked distinctly pleasing and well constructed but there was little cutting edge and nothing to upset the English apple cart. So England gradually gathered themselves for an imminent cavalry charge and then the second half arrived. One defining and match- changing moment left the Irish busted and broken.

Minutes into the second half, Liam Scales launched into a reckless tackle for the Irish, having already been booked earlier on in the game. It was as if somebody had knocked over their king in a game of chess. The Irish were floored and bereft, desolate and desperate. A hitherto well organised green defence tumbled to the ground. England gorged themselves hungrily on a banquet of goals. It became all too easy. The Irish were horribly exposed and even England's permanently optimistic supporters could hardly believe what they were seeing, a calamitous Irish defensive collapse. 

Harry Kane, dropped for the game against Greece in Athens, was back in the team. It was Kane's delightfully perceptive and well weighted pass into the path of Jude Bellingham that left the first cut in the Irish wounds. Bellingham was tripped blatantly in the penalty area, Kane stuttered before drilling the penalty into the back of the Eire net. 

Then Tino Livramento, another surprise choice for Lee Carsley's squad, surged to the by line purposefully, cutting the ball back sharply with a low cross that arced over Irish heads and into the onrushing Anthony Gordon. The Newcastle winger is slowly developing the instincts of a Tom Finney although that may be a gross exaggeration. But Gordon came steaming into the six yard box at full pelt and clipped the ball firmly into the net for what now looked a decisive second goal for England. 

England were now definitely in control of a game that never looked in doubt after England doubled their lead. This was the cue for the appearance of the increasingly impressive West Ham striker Jarrod Bowen to add even more punch and bite to England's flourishing attack. Within minutes of Bowen jogging onto the pitch as a substitute, England were awarded a free kick from out on the right. A precise ball to Bowen's feet worked like a dream and the Hammers striker whipped a well struck shot confidently past the Liverpool goalkeeper Caoimhin Kellener. It was the fruition of a training ground routine and Bowen had notched his debut goal for England. 

A game that had looked so nicely balanced at the start of the second half, now fell by the wayside for the Republic of Ireland. England added a now obvious fourth goal following a well delivered corner. Marc Guehi, the steady and reassuring Crystal Palace defender, nodded the ball on with his head. Conor Gallagher, who now looks a much happier player since his move to Spain, prodded the ball over the line after a momentary consultation with VAR. The goal was given and England were on cloud nine.

And finally to add insult to injury for the Republic, a fifth goal must have seemed like the ultimate kick in the ribs. For the green shirts worn by Nathan Collins, Mark Mcguinness, Michael Johnson, former West Ham player Josh Cullen and Kasey McAteer, this was a night to wipe from their memories almost immediately. So it proved. Bellingham was once again here, there and everywhere and his beautifully angled ball into the penalty area found Southampton's emerging talent Taylor Harwood Bellis who thundered his header into the back of the net for another England goal. 

So what happens now? At the beginning of next year, former Chelsea manager Thomas Tuchel will take over as England manager and the lively discussions will begin. Will Tuchel have a World Cup qualifying campaign at the back of his mind or the more pressing issue of a UEFA Nations League trophy dominating his thoughts? Some of us would like to think that Tuchel will be prioritising  what might be another World Cup trophy for England. There can be no other consideration unless you're an England supporter who would give anything for a trophy of any description.

It'll be exactly 60 years since that iconic and wonderfully exhilarating July afternoon when London stopped on its axis. Sir Alf Ramsey just sat expressionless and hardly moved when he discovered that England had just won the World Cup. Surely even the most passionate of England's loyal followers will hardly give the UEFA Nations League another thought if the Jules Rimet Cup suddenly pops up on their radar. We await with our customary expectations.

 

England beat Greece 3-0 in the UEFA Nations League.

 England beat Greece 3-0 in the UEFA Nations League.

So let's get the formalities out of the way. England are on the verge of promotion to a much better group of European nations in their quest to reach the latter stages of the UEFA Nations League. Are we all clear on that one? Sometimes football tends to lose itself completely in the translation and a full, detailed explanation is perhaps all we need. But this is increasingly looking like the one international football competition that remains in some dark room with the door well and truly locked. 

But the impression is that England are about to arrive at some bizarre fancy dress party with outlandish clothes, strange dynamics and an ultimate conclusion that still beggars belief. The UEFA Nations League is that interim European football tournament where nobody really loses as such but none particularly care whether their country lifts this novice trophy or not. It's hard to know whether England should be in a buoyant mood or just happy to be playing other countries in Europe regardless of the eventual outcome. 

Lee Carsley's England beat Greece in the Olympic Stadium of Athens where once athletes of all abilities and immense gifts proudly flaunted their natural strength, endurance and remarkable agility. The spirit of Baron Pierre De Coubertin followed the England football team both spiritually and emotionally all the way to a comfortable 3-0 victory, dispelling any underlying fears that this is one competition that they should find both degrading and completely beneath them.

Adittedly, this is not the European Championship and thank goodness for that. We're all acutely aware now that England have suffered more than enough humiliation in recent times. The two consecutive Euro Final defeats to respectively, Spain and Italy, have left some nasty psychological scars on the England camp. Gareth Southgate, their former manager, did his utmost to restore some semblance of credibility, changing attitudes and mentalities along the way. But last night felt like one of those exercises in rehabilitation and recovery that must have felt very good but should never disguise nagging shortcomings. 

England are still far from the finished article, a team still wearing hard hats, high viz orange jackets and mixing huge quantities of cement. There are still loose bricks in the foundations, the structure and framework of the building is far from stable, yet to meet the required health and safety specifications but there are no windows or doors. The nuts and bolts are there but the chief components are still missing. England are a work in progress and labour of love, perhaps a tad naive and gullible. But not necessarily cliched. 

When Lee Carsley inherited this England squad from Southgate, he must have known what he was letting himself in for. The England job, although not yet a poisoned chalice, has all the makings of one of those booby traps where something very unsavoury could yet blow up in their faces. England have yet to acquire the status of trapeze artists on a circus high wire but you really wouldn't want to swap places with any of the players on show.

With so many England regulars crocked and injured, England were at the highest altitude and there were no safety nets. Instead what we had last night an England team consisting of promising teenagers, burgeoning talents but nothing in the way of familiarity. This is not to imply that these were strangers in the night because Sinatra would never have known what to make of England football teams anyway. 

This was a patchwork quilt England side, a team  strong on both individuality and team ethics but whose knowledge of the bigger picture around the world may still be a bewildering one to many of them. This has always been an ongoing project for whoever may be brave enough to undertake what often turns into the most traumatic ordeal. 

Most of England's hardiest and devoted fans have been to hell and back with England over the years. Besides, some of us just hate roller coasters anyway. There have been two major Euro Finals and a World Cup semi final in the World Cup of Russia in 2018. In hindsight the very mention of Russia at all is simply repulsive and if we'd known it at the time England would never have embarked on that journey but we must be grateful for small mercies.

But for 90 minutes, yesterday evening in Athens felt like the conquest of Mount Olympus. There were no Herculean feats this time although this one felt extremely satisfying. England must have felt purged and cleansed, revived and revitalised after the Greeks had broken too many plates at Wembley last month. The Greeks 2-1 victory still feels like a painful scab on the skin of too many England players. This though may be the time to move on. There are bad days at the office and ones where the photocopier stubbornly refuses to work so let's put this one down to experience.

The truth of the matter is though that England are close to promotion in the UEFA Nations League and that has to be a jolly fine thing. Eventually England may reach another major European tournament Final and that has to be something to get excited about. The reservations and questions are, it has to be said, frustratingly on the surface of any conversation about football. This is all very new fangled and yet to find acceptance in some quarters.

Last night England met the criteria at every level. They were smooth, fluent, professional and extremely accomplished at times. Their football was a joyous antidote to all of the other problems that may exist in Britain's often troubled political world. Their passing was of the most exquisite quality and the white shirts looked to be on the same page for much of the game. Once again there was a fundamental understanding of the game, their cohesion and clarity of thought a cause of much rejoicing and almost relief given what happened at Wembley in October. 

England's football had the kind of streetwise intelligence and the sweetest of fragrances. The ball has become more or less a very close friend to them, controlling and manipulating the ball with both a heartwarming touch and subtlety that resonated with all the purists. There were hundreds of triangles, rectangular and perfectly geometrical patterns in the middle of the pitch that cut open Greek lines with a swiftness and incisiveness that must have thrilled Lee Carsley. 

At the back of the England's players thoughts will be Thomas Tuchel, England's new manager, who will be monitoring activities from some far off corner of Europe. Tuchel could be the answer to all of England's fondest dreams. The long term future for England is still in up in the air and abeyance. Nobody knows anything about Tuchel's credentials at international level but we shall see. 

And yet England,at times, looked like men who were trying to piece together a complex model railway set. From time to time there were bits missing such as signalling equipment, warped tracks and not a sign of a platform guard with a paddle to usher in the train. So England had to make do with football was that basic and essential because nobody would ever take this seriously. There was a rigorous efficiency and technical competence about England which was surprisingly impressive.

However after seven minutes England received just the boost they were looking for. Chelsea's exciting young winger Noni Madueke had already been proving a handful for the Greek defence. But the way Madueke so cleverly and brilliantly turned his defender inside out on the flank, must have briefly reminded you of  Peter Barnes or Steve Coppell from yesteryear. The Chelsea youngster looked to have no worries whatsoever, teasing, taunting and scheming relentlessly before cutting the ball back low across the six yard area where Aston Villa's natural striking poacher Ollie Watkins instantly steered the ball into the net for England's opening goal. 

Before the match, some of us were wondering what happened to captain Harry Kane but Watkins stepped up to the plate with persistent hassling and hustling of his defenders. It was never a centre forward's masterclass but Watkins was certainly classy. England continued to set up ever increasing circles in their opponents half and the tapestries of vivid attacking colour were always in evidence. Both Ezri Konsa and Conor Gallagher were moving the Greeks and the ball with a confidence and trust in their judgment that was both heartening and gratifying. 

Once again Kyle Walker, although in the twilight of his career, is as fast as a cheetah and just races back into his position at full back when fires need to be put out. Walker reads the game like a sixth form student swotting for his chemistry exams, still looking indomitable, secure and wisely experienced. Marc Guehi, of course, is still learning the ropes of the game with Crystal Palace and does grow in stature and assurance with every England appearance. Liverpool's Rico Lewis is literally wet behind the ears but has a commendable maturity about him that could send him a long way. Lewis loves to take on all comers, running purposefully at players and weaving his way through the heaviest tackling as if he'd been doing it for years. 

And then there was Jude Bellingham. By his own elevated standards, Bellingham was never the motivational force that England were hoping for in Euro 2024 although he did score England's opening goal in the tournament. Last night, Bellingham was unstoppably brilliant and truly breathtaking on the ball, a force of nature who just breezed past the blue shirts of Greece as if they were petrified ghosts in a haunted castle. He tricked, back heeled insolently and rudely interrupted the Greek flow. He controlled the game like a pilot navigating a long haul flight for the thousandth time. He created time and space, analysing his options with a care and vigilance beyond his years. 

Any comparisons with Paul Gascoigne are both inappropriate and invidious since Bellingham shows little inclination to refuel from dentist chairs or swigging back innumerable quantities of Fosters lager. There is neither desire or inclination to stuff his face with one kebab after another and no sign of self destruction. Bellingham seems to know everything there is to know about moderation and once again gave his opponents plenty to think about. 

By the middle of the second half, England had taken their feet off the accelerator, tapping out Morse Code messages on the grass with simple, easy passes. For a moment you tried to imagine the England football team trying to decipher the Enigma code at Bletchley Park and wondering whether there was any point. But every time they had the ball, you suspected there was some kind of undercover and clandestine plot because it all looked very confidential and secretive. 

But there was nothing furtive going on last night. England were open and expansive, spreading the occasional floated diagonal overload of lofted, angled passes to either Walker in space or Guehi on the other flank, overlapping consistently and encouragingly all the time. Then Gallagher began to pick up the ball and searched for gaps in a tiring Greek defence, giving and taking with either Lewis or Jude Bellingham.

Now a second goal almost seemed inevitable and it was that man Jude Bellingham again who took all the plaudits and bouquets of praise and deservedly so. Now Bellingham, gallivanting into space, received the ball after a spellbinding blur of quick, one touch passes in midfield had sent him through. The Real Madrid midfield maestro went on a magnificent surging, powerful run at the heart of the Greek defence, looked up almost automatically and cracked an unstoppable, low shot that had goal written all over it. The ball flew past the Greek keeper Odyseseseas Vlachodimos and despite a last gasp attempt at a save, he saw the ball trickling past him and nestle in the net. 

Then with minutes to go and the game now seemingly beyond the home side's reach, the goal of the night appeared on the radar and how delighted we were that we witnessed it. Jarrod Bowen, the West Ham striker who came on as a late substitute, gathered speed on the right, inviting his defender to bring him down for a foul but then accelerating away. We were expecting something special from Bowen and we were not to be disappointed. 

 Bowen, sensing an opportunity, fed the ball into Morgan Gibbs White, also on as a sub and the Forest attacker nudged the ball intelligently into the path for an onrushing colleague whose low cut back into the six yard box found the Liverpool striker Curtis Jones who impudently back flicked the ball with his foot and the ball flashed past Vlachodimos for a signature third goal that underlined England's vast attacking superiority.

So England return to Wembley on Sunday for their second assignment of the week. Their meeting with the Republic of Ireland is more or less a non-event since England seem certain to  move on in the UEFA Nations League at a fair lick. Whatever your opinions on this new competition, the fact is that the sceptics may have to get used to it since it's here to stay. England expects but not for the time being perhaps.           

World Kindness Day.

 World Kindness Day.

In a world that the cynics might refer to as one of mean-spiritedness and downright selfishness, it might be said that we should be kinder towards each other, less concerned for those who may have it all. It is widely assumed that most of us have got shedloads of money in the bank, a big, nice house with all the materialistic possessions such as a luxurious, spacious kitchen, enormous bathroom, a conservatory and summer house at the back. But domestic comforts mean nothing if we find ourselves financially broke, skint and destitute. Money then tends to pale into insignificance. 

But for those who become obsessed with greed, overwhelmed by complete dissatisfaction, accumulating more thousands and millions by the day, then we begin to take everything for granted. Then we become inveterate hoarders of everything from newspapers, magazines, books, records and general souvenirs or paraphernalia. It is at this point that we might forget about the simple act of giving to our local charities, models of warm hearted benevolence because, perhaps, we don't need these once valuable keepsakes.

So we then think charity begins at home and determinedly refuse to give anything away to those who may need it more than we might imagine. We begin to save for a rainy day that may never come but then discover that our neighbours have noticed that we haven't spent a penny on a new car for years and our holidays consist solely of a canal barge journey along the Norfolk Broads. The paint is peeling on the walls of a now decaying house, the windows have been neglected and are now filthy. They look down on you condescendingly on you because money is everything to them and they never give anything to those who so thoroughly deserve it. 

Yes folks. It's World Kindness Day, a day for doing a favour to your best friend, neighbour or cherished family members. It is time to loosen those parsimonious purse strings and throw lavish dinner parties, giving toys and games to children without a single thought or doubt or just smiling for a change. World Kindness Day could be a day for either changing the habits of a lifetime by splashing out on a four course restaurant in the West End of London for the first time in ages. Or maybe they'd rather stick indoors with a plate of fish and chips and just turn into sourpusses, miserable and isolated folk who just can't be bothered to paint the town red and party. 

World Kindness Day means unashamed generosity to those who may be less fortunate, taking them out to lunch at the local cafe, buying several pints of booze because they just deserve this largesse. But of course the kids thoroughly merit days out at the local seaside during the summer and to those who have suffered long term physical illnesses which may be sadly terminal, then kindness should be considered as a natural response to adversity. 

This may be a day for just knocking on the doors of the elderly and disabled and inquiring about their welfare, offering to do their shopping, taking them out to a country pub or just organising an impressive picnic for the entire family because it just seems the best idea of them all. We then walk up to the tin rattlers in the street, smiling at the recipient and dropping a fiver or tenner with a munificent heart. We then think nothing of doing voluntary work for the community, painting houses in dire need of tender loving care or swimming hundreds of lengths with the only objective of collecting a couple of thousand pounds for children from broken homes or indeed the homeless. 

On Friday, the BBC will hold their yearly Children In Need TV spectacular, a vast charitable endeavour that seems to have been around for decades. Children In Need, quite literally, has done what it says on the tin for years and years, a multi million pound fund raiser that continues to blow us all away. We watch with a good deal of guilt and discomfort at the children with nothing, poverty stricken, hungry and penniless, children with no academic future or children confined to a wheelchair for the rest of their lives. But then the great British public dig deep into their bank balances or wallets and deliver the goods with classic fund raisers such as bingo evenings or general knowledge pub quizzes. 

For quite a while, celebrities have jumped onto the bandwagon with pleas for more money from the public over and over again. Then rickshaws are seen travelling around country lanes, busy roads and motorways across the country. Invariably the ever-cheerful figure of Country File presenter and former gymnast Matt Baker, has ridden through all the weathers. Then the buckets come out again and vast sums of money are gathered. Random acts of kindness do exist in homes across the whole of Britain but are never really recognised as substantial achievements. 

So Ladies and Gentlemen. It's time to pull on a T-shirt or tracksuit top or bottom because you can't beat a good, old fashioned marathon. Running and fitness are the perfect way of expressing a good heart. Marathons give so much money back to organisations which never really get the monetary help that should be theirs as of right. It's World Kindness Day so let's be good to those who may never know such days. You could change somebody's life or lives permanently. It's worth a thought or two. We've always heard about the milk of human kindness so let's have a pint or two. 

Armistice Day- lest we forget.

 Armistice Day- lest we forget.

In a couple of hours time, London will once again grind to a standstill. It has done so for as long as any of us can remember and will continue to do so because respect and nostalgia must always be valued highly by those who should always remember the gallant deeds of those who put their lives on the line for all of us. It is a day heavy with solemnity, humble reflection and thoughtful reminiscence. It is a day we should never forget and lest we forget. It is a day of sombre poignancy, bowed heads and righteous obligation. 

Today is Armistice Day, a day to signify the passing of those who fought so courageously and yet unavailingly in the many battles that claimed so many soldiers during the First and Second World War. They fell in the muddy trenches, risking life and limb before dying tragically by thousands of bullets, bombs and grenades. Somehow war has always seemed the most futile of exercises, a senseless engagement with perceived enemies, a long held grudge that could never be resolved peacefully. 

But on this day in 1918 at 11.00 am, Britain, the Commonwealth and the rest of the world, will stop for a moment, traffic on roads and streets pausing for just a couple of minutes and just reduced to nothing but silence and contemplation. They will do so and always will. For 106 years now, the forces of peace, reconciliation, gentle agreement and rapprochement have remained in place, undisturbed by the threat of evil, tinpot dictators who just want to glare at the rest of the world with tyrannical hostility. Now though,it is an ugly, sick, bitter and twisted world at times but we should never overlook the importance of loving families and friends.

Thankfully the conflicts of Ypres, Passchendale and Gallipoli are now consigned to dusty and miserably horrendous history. But the deafening blasts of gunfire, explosive bombing campaigns and all the resultant shrapnel that killed so many brave men in action, can never be truly measured and valued. It all seemed to happen so violently and incessantly that none of us can judge the sickening impact of war. The First World War saw so many perish in the prime of their lives that the number of casualties are grim memorials. 

What we do know that men in mufti and khaki spent four years frantically running for safety across mudbaths littered with minefields, then hiding in trenches and garrisons, helmets on their heads, love letters in their pockets, hip flasks by their side for sustenance and nothing but heroism on their minds. They raced across desolate wastelands, hearts trembling and shaking, eyes narrowing with crippling fear and then recognised what they were doing. It was all about sacrifice, bloody minded commitment to the cause and the forlorn hope that one day the guns would stop booming and murdering. 

Then the gunfire would get noisier and then become almost unbearable. Death would be illustrated graphically by countless men in army uniform, desperately clinging onto the precious sanctity of life. They ran for their lives, leaping across their brothers in arms, friends now lying prostrate dead on the ground, bullets rattling furiously across acres of land. There is something truly unimaginable about a war that some of us can barely comprehend, let alone explain. 

We can still see men with filthy faces, blackened by a deadly combination of smoke and spent ammunition. They held onto their rifles tenaciously because they were terrified and petrified. They had no idea where they were going and what they were doing. They knew they were fighting for their country because that was the urgent necessity, something that had to be done. They jumped across trip and barbed wires, bodies crouching and cowering, ducking and dodging death and destruction.

But at the end of it all, the ones who survived were the ones who always believed that divine intervention would be on their side. They knew that girl and boy friends were waiting by the fireplace with a candle flickering nobly on the table, photographs faithfully gazing at treasured members of families. Then they would look at the piano for a small recital of Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Tin Can and Smile, Smile and Smile. These were the rallying calls to regiments and the Royal Fusiliers, the men in the front and in the firing line. 

We remembered the likes of Jona Lewie who pleaded with the Cavalry to just cease the killing, the murder and death. His sweetheart was waiting patiently at home and would always remain hopeful. Then that legendary Beatle Sir Paul McCartney would tug on the trenchcoat, hunkering down in more trenches and then sing romantically about his girlfriend back in their intimate living room.

And so today the nations of the world will become gravely self conscious, almost beside themselves with repentance and remorse for something they may feel they had nothing to do with but feel a debt of lasting gratitude for. Buses, cars, lorries and vans may pull up to their respective traffic lights and hope the red will keep them there for some time. It will be a deeply troubling and harrowing time for many of the centenarians whose faces will crumple with emotion, resigned to the fact that the memories will always be painful.

At 11.00, Big Ben will ring out with its familiar resonance and the veterans will weep with red eyes, recalling again the heart wrenching pain, the aching loss that never goes away, the endless private suffering, recollections that hurt and almost seemed to get lost in time. It's the day that should be celebrated if only because it marked the end of the First World War. But we will mourn and lament, cry and sob if the mood takes us and then remember over and over again. Lest we forget since we should never do that.   

Lord Mayors Show and West Ham

 Lord Mayor's Show and West Ham

This morning the London streets will once again be alive with the vibrancy and traditional colour that normally accompanies the early stages of November. It's the Lord Mayors Show and we all know what that means or perhaps we don't. For those of a claret and blue allegiance and who spend so many excruciatingly painful moments with our football team, it could only spell either complete disaster or glorious redemption. It'll be a case of after the Lord Mayors Show which is a sure sign that this could be a critical day in the recent history of West Ham United. Will it be a dreadful anti-climax or a new manager? We shall see.

The indications are pointing to the exit door for West Ham's Spanish toreador of a manager Julen Lopetegui who is now entering the end of his first four months in charge of the club. When Lopetegui arrived, most West Ham fans must have thought they'd be celebrating with endless street siestas and fiestas, castanets rattling with some conviction, bullfighters swishing their capes outside the Westfield Shopping Centre in Stratford and paellas all around. And don't forget the jellied eels, cockles and whelks for tea. 

After that memorable night in the UEFA Conference Final when David Moyes claret and blue of vivacious vintage, lifted their first European trophy for 57 years, it was widely felt that West Ham were on a road to paradise, that the club would romp to a whole succession of FA Cup victories and,quite possibly, an elusive first ever Premier League trophy. But the latter was dismissed as wishful thinking and probably always will be. 

But Moyes left the club at the end of last season having perhaps overachieved at the club and since then the club has been on an alarming downward spiral. We might have known this would happen. At the moment, West Ham face their most important afternoon in the Premier League. A thumping 3-0 defeat at Nottingham Forest's City Ground last week was preceded by a heartwarming and auspicious Premier League victory over Manchester United who would subsequently lose their manager Erik Ten Hag as a result of United's 2-1 defeat at West Ham's London Stadium. 

And yet the gloom and doom naysayers would probably have predicted yet more embarrassment had Moyes stayed at the club. There can never be a happy medium for any football team at any stage of the season regardless of who they are and whatever level they play their football. The balance and chemistry has to be right and for West Ham, the test tubes and bunsen burners still look pretty hazardous. Their football is going through the doldrums, that bleak wilderness where everything looks to be going well but then slumps into a depressing despondency when the team leak goals like a kitchen sieve. One minute up, the next face down on the pavement. 

Last Saturday,  and not for the first time, West Ham's crucial defensive midfielder Edson Alvarez was sent off for a criminally rash tackle and you could almost hear the despairing sighs in the Billy Bonds household. Bonds was a seasoned warrior and crusader for West Ham over 40 years ago but you suspect even he would have been horrified at some of the cringe worthy defensive cock ups and horrendous indiscretions at the heart of West Ham's current defence. What Alvarez thought he was doing at Forest last week defies belief and now the back of West Ham's back four will creak and wobble like a loose fence.

A couple of weeks before that forgettable moment in West Ham's latest Premier League fortunes, things went from bad to worse. For much of the season there have been wide open spaces between both defence and attack which certainly couldn't been have filled with putty. The sense of disconnect and negligible communication between Lopetegui's men, has been horribly noticeable. 

But when Mohammad Kudus, the club's magical and mercurial winger, eyeballed his Tottenham counterpart just over a month ago, it felt that as though the joy had been sucked out of West Ham. Kudus, reacting with all the brash petulance of a four year old at nursery, promptly pushed the Tottenham defender Micky Van Der Ven in the face and then kicked Spurs midfielder Pape Matar Sarr quite violently. What on earth would the late and great Bill Nicholson have thought at such madness and impetuosity?

Kudus now faces a lengthy, and what could prove to be costly, ban from the game and the chances are that if things don't pick up for West Ham, then the club could stare collective daggers at the Ghana international. There is an increasing sense of disenchantment at the East London club since it's all the manager's fault and besides, who else should take the responsibility for the sudden decline at West Ham?

For those with older memories, November has never been the most rewarding time for our claret and blue Saturday afternoon cigarette card heroes. You are now taken back to the mid-1970s when Jimmy Armfield's skilful and disciplined Leeds United side took an early lead at Upton Park on a wintry afternoon at Upton Park and never relinquished it. In hindsight, it was an almost traditional occurrence because a majority of West Ham fans always knew the club were locked in a struggle as soon as the body language betrayed them.

At half time the floodlights would sputter on reluctantly and the North Bank residents at Upton Park would regularly illuminate the day with their familiar light show of Benson and Hedges cigarettes. West Ham would never score in a month of Sundays and if the game had been allowed to drag on uncomfortably until midnight, not a single West Ham player would look like scoring against Leeds. So the Hammers supporters resigned themselves to fate and accepted defeat almost submissively without so much as a whimper. 

This afternoon, West Ham face an Everton side who, although labouring precariously themselves near the bottom of the Premier League, have something about them in situations such as this. Under Sean Dyche, they still look like a bunch of hod carriers at a building site at times.Their football is organised but frail, direct and distinctly unpalatable to the purists with a discerning taste for the game. In fact, that dramatic points deduction last season almost cost Everton their place in the Premier League. There was a shoddiness and dreary predictability about their football last season. But to those who fear the worst at times, West Ham could be in for an ugly and rude awakening for the club if Everton sense blood at the London Stadium.

If the club are looking for any semblance of omens, then previous confrontations with Everton could be of immense comfort to West Ham. The famous FA Cup semi final victory for the East End club against Everton in 1980, will always be remembered for the remarkable Frank Lampard senior diving header winner at Elland Road on a warm and sultry night. And then there was the afternoon when Ronnie Goodlass, a sterling and battle- hardened Everton defender, picked up the ball on the half way line at Upton Park and promptly lobbed the ball over the head of a helpless West Ham keeper Mervyn Day.

So it's make or break for those of a claret and blue predilection. West Ham are now in their almost customary state of grim melancholy and malaise. Recent seasons have thrown a smokescreen over the real West Ham since David Moyes, although never associated with the prettier side of the game, still guided the team to another safe top 10 position in the Premier League. European football is just some distant Hollywood fantasy film from many moons ago but Julen Lopetegui will take his technical area at the London Stadium and look at a sea of blue. Everton were once referred to as the Bank of England side but this will be no home banker for humble, always vulnerable West Ham United. We must hope for the best but, hey it's only a game. 

Donald Trump becomes American president again.

 Donald Trump becomes American president again.

In one of America's greatest cartoon theme parks in the world even Mickey Mouse must have stifled a chuckle and laugh or two. Florida has, it seemed, declared Donald Trump as President of the United States of America yet again. We knew it would happen like this so this was the way we knew this one would pan out. The election of a new American president always seems to bring some kind of emotional baggage with it but this morning the United States of America woke up to another thrilling instalment of Groundhog Day. The good people of America are resilient souls and they know how to roll with the punches. But today is just history repeating itself, a mirror reflection of 2016 and 2020.

This morning Donald Trump will become the 47th president of the United States of America and some of us are wiping our eyes with puzzlement and bemusement in a way we never thought we would. A vast majority of the American population will probably be just beside itself, delighted, ecstatic, relieved more than anything else, gripped with a sense of vindication, knowing full well Trump would get back into the White House again.

Objective eyes could hardly be less indifferent because we could never understand the complex machinations of American politics or any of the global political barminess that continues to follow the behind the scenes manoeuvrings and whispered discussions that get progressively louder before every American election. But today has a feeling of inevitability about it, a sense that of course we've been here before because we have quite undoubtedly. 

The cult of Donald Trump is now so firmly embedded in American culture and every political ideology you can possibly imagine, that this morning will not come as an earth-shuddering surprise. Trump has felt every conspiracy theory in the land for the last four years and still maintains he was unfairly robbed by Joe Biden and that all the forces of evil were hounding him. He was deeply incensed that it took America four years to come to its senses so it's about time justice was seen to be done.

Trump still thinks he deserves to be President of the Free World because his egotistical nature, which is the size of an American condominium, is confirming everything we always knew, anyway. Donald Trump loves himself and is convinced that he's the best thing since sliced bread. Britain doesn't know what to believe but it does like a winner. Trump fits the bill perfectly. He came to his podium in front of thousands of enraptured Trump fans and a forest of phones took their triumphant photos. 

But despite all the attempted assassinations which only grazed the Trump eardrum, the run up to this American election has become almost tediously controversial. Now of course such a statement seems to make no sense whatsoever but you can't help but think nobody has spiked anybody's drink. A sober assessment of the recent goings on across the USA reveals nothing more than two people grabbing each other's throats, attacking each other's faults and deficiencies and remaining steadfast in their hatred of each other. 

Both flagrantly questioned each other's sanity, both have accused each other of suffering from an incurably sociopathic illness and then finally dismissed each other as demented fools. Both, they believe, should be locked up in a lunatic asylum and never allowed to walk the streets of New York or Washington ever again. Trump, for his part, thinks the whole world should bow before him deferentially as one of the mightiest and most outstanding leaders of any country. He really would like be regarded as political royalty with all the trappings of British monarchy.

This morning though it does look very much as if Donald Trump has done it again. Surely the most comical, most incomprehensible, at times seemingly hilarious man ever to become President of the United States is about to put his feet under the table at the Oval Office again. Some will refer to him as one of the craziest, most ill educated and idiotic men ever to walk into the White House with a straight face. Maybe somebody will pinch us and tell us that we were dreaming this but Hollywood has our full permission to suspend our belief for the next four years.

Now across the whole of America, the whole of the Democratic party are now crying into their beer yet again. Kamala Harris, the woman most of her ardent supporters hoped would become the first female President, is now licking the bleeding wounds of almost certain defeat. For Harris read Hilary Clinton who did everything to woo the hearts of the American public but then realised she was up against impossible odds.

Clinton lost her private battle quite convincingly and a man called Donald Trump came blustering into our vision, gesturing expansively with both sets of hands, raising his voice over and over again, grandstanding ostentatiously, showboating almost constantly and then doing a passable impersonation of Muhammad Ali. He was the greatest, floating like a butterfly and stinging like a bee. At times Trump looked like a clubber at Studio 54, boogying and swaying from side to side and pretending to be a distant cousin of John Travolta.

At times it's almost felt as if time has been frozen, time revisiting another day from the past. Trump is genuinely conceited, narcissistic, a man now weighed down with a potty sense of entitlement and living in a world of a permanent illusion and delusion. Here we have a man with a frightening lack of knowledge about the job he's now been elected to carry out burdened by bonkers bombast and a self image so wildly distorted that even his closest advisers will be telling Trump to just tone things down. It's hard to know what to think of a man who never needs any introduction because most of us can hear him coming down the road from another suburb or village. So let's take this one from here.

Now we discover that it's official. Donald Trump is the 47th President of the United States, which for better or worse, means that to the outside world, it's time to board the roller coaster. The ride will be a swooping, sometimes unnerving, often terrifying experience where some of us may feel inclined to go weak at the knees, feeling sick with anxiety and resolving never to go anywhere near a fairground again. Trump, as has now been well documented, is never short of a forthright opinion and his comments are so cutting and acerbic that somewhere in the world, foreign prime ministers or presidents will be trembling with fear and trepidation. 

Then there is the Trump who goes off on some insane rambling rant about something completely inconsequential such as the consumption of cats and dogs, eating animals and doing so completely out of context with anything in particular. Then Trump goes off into his own private world of late night comedy where he takes enormous pleasure in verbally attacking any institution or religion, class and humanity in general. He'll roast you alive if you're in the wrong place or wrong time but you must never cross him because he'll just rip you to shreds if you criticise the colour of his shirt or the now infamous orange hair.

The blunt reality of course is that Trump has now acquired the kind of notoriety and shameful publicity that none of us can understand. Trump is a convicted criminal and felon, a figure of fun in the eyes of some, a sexual pest to the others, a hardened misogynist while claiming at the same time that he adores women. Earlier on Trump was addressing the kind of court charges that made the blood run cold. But it was a set up, totally unacceptable and unfair, illegal in the extreme. In fact, how dare they hurl savage indictments against this honest, respectable citizen of the world who just wants to be the Leader of the Free World? It was all a massive fix.

During the 1970s, this sharp business mind and entrepreneurial genius, once appeared on a late night chat show on prime time American TV. Now in the general scheme of things, this was somehow regarded as normal since Trump was a successful, up and coming businessman who was about to make his first millions. But then we had to hold in our laughter when Trump dressed up as a chicken on a farm, promptly engaging in the kind of bizarre tomfoolery you're ever likely to see on any TV channel.

The fact is Trump could end up conducting vital foreign policy business from behind a draughty prison cell burdened by the knowledge that he has committed fraud and any number of financial improprieties. Here we have the President of the United States still at the mercy of those who still think of him as a master of bumbling banalities, utterances of tosh and trivia that barely seem believable.

 His campaign speeches resembled nothing more than inane comments about Kamala Harris mental stability. He continues to sound like a man who never sticks to the script and then uses the media as an obvious scapegoat for everything that is wrong with American society. Fox and CNN must dread his some of his more irrational outbursts and the national newspapers must hide behind the sofa every Trump opens his often vitriolic mouth. 

But then Donald Trump is an angelic paragon of virtue, flawlessly perfect and there are no flies on him. Trump talks coherent, perfectly understandable sense and his understanding of the world has been enhanced by everything he sees around him. The global wars of Gaza, Israel, Ukraine and Russia should be uppermost in his mind and undoubtedly his concern is a genuine one. But the judgmental and critical nature of the man has to be both disturbing and distressing. At times, Trump may have to bite his lip when the going gets really tough because diplomacy is something that just escapes him.

Today the world has been shaken to its core again. The Trump fanatical fans will see today's election victory as a triumph for good, old-fashioned pragmatic politics. Trump speaks from the hip and never wastes his words. There is an honesty is the best policy of course about him. The next four years should prove to be a fascinating study of human behaviour, the rigorous examination of a man you simply can't make your mind up about. The permanent critics would love to see him fail miserably, a man who is still an embarrassment to the human race. But we do mellow with age and although Trump is rapidly approaching 80, we can only hope that things will get considerably better. Tony Blair certainly thought as much.

Quincy Jones dies.

 Quincy Jones dies at 91.

One of America's most influential and dynamic of music icons Quincy Jones has died at 91 peacefully and quietly. Jones was one of the greatest, most charismatic, productive, prolific, imaginative, groundbreaking and pioneering figures in the history of American music. Jones was a driven, determined and inspirational character who proved to be one of music's most important characters, an irresistible force, a permanently optimistic and galvanic record producer, music arranger, conductor, writer, instrumentalist and a man for all seasons. 

For much of his life Jones always seem to be around celebrities, showbusiness legends, a cheerful, happy go lucky man who devoted himself exclusively to the lives of the remarkable Frank Sinatra, Michael Jackson, Ella Fitzgerald and countless singers and songwriters who knew all about Jones aura, his formidable presence and electrifying personality. To be in the company of Quincy Jones was to be in the earshot of musical geniuses, men and women who simply wanted to be surrounded by the Jones entourage. 

Jones was always the driving force and catalyst behind Mike Myers and Jones loved to be behind the movie camera as much as he felt more than comfortable around Jackson and Sinatra. Jones particularly enjoyed his relationship with the privately troubled Michael Jackson, a man who struggled with his psychological demons for ages but felt comforted to be among Quincy Jones. Jones worked on the film the Wiz with Jackson and there was a real rapport between the two. 

And then there was Michael Jackson's iconic and record-breaking album Thriller, a piece of vinyl so transformative in the history of popular music that Jones must have suspected that something very special had taken place. Thriller spawned so many singles and hits that to those observers who could only look on with astonishment, it must have seemed a life-changing moment for both men.

Tracks such as Beat It, the eponymous Thriller and the superbly funky I Wanna Be Startin, Billy Jean, the more reflective Human Nature and the Paul McCartney Jackson collaboration The Girl is Mine were always on our chanting lips. There was also that magnificent album Off the Wall where Jones first ignited the flames of a music revolution. Jones became the best of friends with Jackson but later discovered, much to his eternal regret, that Jackson was suffering behind the scenes and Jackson's death must have come as an enormous shock to Jones. 

Jones also revelled in the crooning superstardom of the unforgettable Frank Sinatra. Sinatra and Jones were inseparable with Luck Be A Lady and the Rat Pack narrative the perfect connection. Jones adored his life in a recording studio and just relished his friendships and enduring relationships with the stars, the Bossonova, the soul groove and the whole organic process of creating, shaping, inventing and improvising. 

There was a time when Jones must have felt a strong kinship with fellow songwriters such as the also sadly missed Burt Bacharach. Both of course were demanding perfectionists but shared a common interest in the sounds, layers and textures in between the great songs. Jones seemed to feel the music, experience its simple delights, smile at its simplicities and then turn into an artistic powerhouse. He drummed his fingers on the complex desks of record companies because music was Jones and vice versa. 

In recent years Jones went into semi-retirement but never tired of rising to the occasion at grand and lavish award ceremonies in Hollywood. He accepted lifetime achievement awards, acknowledged his leading role behind familiar musical compositions but was always modest in the extreme.  I Na Colida  and Stuff Like That charted in both the US and Britain but never really made the desired impact as such. Both were superlative disco soul floor fillers in the world's nightclubs and bars and did much to keep the Jones brand image in the public domain. 

But Quincy Jones epitomised the American music scene because he touched hearts as one of its most innovative forces. Jones was one of the great conductors, presiding over the engine room of music's vital dynamics with subtle rhythms and infectiously pulsing beats. Yesterday the world of music lost its truth, its vital essence, its raison d'etre, the man who waved a magic wand and never failed to be lively, entertaining and wholly dedicated to the people who mattered.   

Non League Tamworth knock out League One Huddersfield Town

 Non- League Tamworth knock out League One Huddersfield Town.

The FA Cup normally reserves its giant-killing for the third round of the competition but we'll make allowances for early contenders. Normally, the Football League pyramid sits quietly in the background at the first round stage of the competition but we were now both stunned and shocked by the magical and unexpected. Last night, National League pace setters Tamworth, gently tucked away in Non League hinterland and unobtrusively minding their own business, sent League One Huddersfield Town toppling out of the FA Cup in this year's first cries of its infancy.

Ordinarily, most of us wouldn't have reacted with gobsmacked amazement at this startling turn of events but Huddersfield Town were the visitors to Tamworth's typically tight, neat, cramped and claustrophobic Lamb Ground in the middle of Staffordshire. But this one was a mighty conquest. Huddersfield, admittedly 100 years ago now, were old First Division League Champions under the legendary Herbert Chapman before Chapman came down to London and transformed Arsenal into a world-class League Championship side. 

So Huddersfield have bejewelled history and have also lifted their FA Cup and that was back in 1922. So much for those Football League superiors with all their flashy affectations, airs and graces and serial achievements. Huddersfield briefly ventured into the Premier League in recent times but that was just a fleeting flirtation and now they're back in the shark-infested waters of League One, fraternising with the less than glamorous, good- time boys who once mixed with the best and finest. 

Last night all of the FA Cup stereotypes were in full evidence. There were the matchbox terraces, shaking with breathless anticipation, little children dangling their legs over advertising hoardings, the seething, heaving masses and the hardcore, dedicated Tamworth supporters who have braved wind, rain and snow through innumerable seasons over the years. There were the signs for local steam cleaners, metal car showroom signs and clearly prominent sponsors from Staffordshire's most well- respected factories and companies.

This was Tamworth's greatest night in the TV limelight. Nobody would have ever heard about anything that in any way related to the club apart from perhaps that celebrated story of escaping pigs many years ago. Now though the fantasy story came joyfully to fruition. Yesterday evening, the tightly knit communities and amiable clubhouses of the National League were full to the gunnels with chairman, managers and fans munching away gleefully at well made, nutritious sandwiches, plenty of harmless and inoffensive booze, crisps and savouries and that pervasive air of rock and roll celebration. 

The obscenely wealthy environment of the Premier League seemed a world away and Tamworth amply demonstrated their non League prowess with their more than competent capabilities. It would have been easy to dismiss Tamworth as lightweights, little known minnows, purring pussycats who were just there for a severe battering at the hands of their once illustrious opponents. Instead, the National League got their come- uppance over League One, a classic example of the so called peasants and proletariats coming unstuck against the posh, swanky, bourgeois elite who play their football on an altogether different planet. 

Recently, my son and I had the enormous pleasure and honour of watching Prescot Cables, a cosy outpost in the shadow of Merseyside, a land of solar- panelled rooftops, crisp, leaveless, autumnal trees without any summer foliage and men in yellow shirts who could have been mistaken for Wolves. It was football of earthy authenticity and warm sentimentality, where the local lads play for simple, unalloyed joy and little in the way of national recognition. Prescot Cables were beaten 2-0 by Northumberland's Morpeth Town. There was no end of the world sense of apocalyptic disaster for the Cables because nobody had been hurt, there were no film stars or celebrities, no prima donna, pampered superstars. It was grassroots football at its most intoxicating. You were drunk with happiness. It was the FA Cup working its magic. 

At Lamb Ground last night, there were tiny cafes and busy refreshment kiosks doing a roaring trade selling warming cups of teas and coffees. There were shining palaces of commerce glowing in the evening light and the floodlights towering over the ground were truly uplifting. These were not the massive chandeliers of the Premier League, more the lovely studio apartment lights of the National League with a slender pole at each end of the ground.

But Lamb Ground is a glorious or, perhaps not so glorious throwback. Lamb Ground has a plastic,artificial pitch known in the modern vernacular as 4G. You were painfully transported back to the 1980s when artificial football pitches were all the rage. Queens Park Rangers became the trailblazers for plastic pitches at a time when the late and much loved Terry Venables was still writing detective novels and crooning songs with the Joe Loss Orchestra. Venables also happened to be instrumental in one of the most memorable moments for the England national side when he almost guided the country to Euro 96 winning glory but then saw Germany in the headlights and bit his lip. It was semi final heartache at its most excruciating.

Then there was Luton Town who also got into the act of this new fangled business of plastic pitches. To this day there simply seemed a nonsensical silliness about these synthetic grounds where the bounce of a ball reduced the game to the status of mockery and satire. Then there were the burn marks on the body where the friction caused by the scraping of players well honed legs and arms, just beggared belief. 

And yet the shiny green 4G pitch was somehow acceptable because this was the FA Cup and anything goes. There were no WAG girlfriends in the crowd, no VAR, no controversial decisions although the winning goal itself might have been chalked off. This was plain, unpretentious Tamworth, old school, old fashioned, illuminated by the splendidly heroic figure of one Tom Tonks. Tom Tonks may be an unknown journeyman who just loves the electrifying atmosphere of the FA Cup but Tonks revelled last night in one of the most magnificent long throw routines that saw off Huddersfield when none saw it coming.

The FA Cup was still weaving webs of withcraft and the supernatural even a night after Halloween. There were no orange pumpkins or broomsticks at the Lamb Ground but even the most wide eyed optimists were predicting a night to remember. How dare Tamworth assume ideas above their station. They should have been preparing for another National League fixture rather than planning for the world's most famous competition. But football of course can be the most richly fertile of level playing grounds. We all knew that. Football has an innate capacity for turning the world upside down.

As for the football itself in this often free- flowing and rewarding FA Cup first round match between Tamworth and Huddersfield there was something very raw and natural about the game. It reminded you of one of those old Pathe newsreels where the rattles and rosettes can be both heard and seen the length of the local shopping centre. This was never football designed for the purists and connoisseurs of the one touch, instinctive variety seen in matches involving Brazil, Germany, France and Spain. But it was good to watch and essentially pleasant on the eye.

Tamworth had Jasbir Singh in goal who was the very epitome of bravery, flinty courage and absolutely bravura heroism, flinging himself at everything, being hit in every part of his battered body and sacrificing life and limb. Hadyn Hollis and the wonderfully named Jordan Cullaine Liburd were towers of security and reliable as front doors at full back and centre back, locking up the home defence rather like yeomen at the Tower of London. Luke Fairlamb was a busybody, ubiquitous, here and there midfielder, various fingers in different pies, scurrying and scampering to all points of the compass, helping out when necessary and urgent. Ben Milnes, Tom McGlinchey were always intelligent and perceptive while Rico Browne just stood tall and assured for Tamworth. David Creaney, up front, buzzed, darted and probed for the ball rather like a kid hunting for a lost ball that had landed in a neighbour's garden.

For Huddersfield of course this was a deeply uncomfortable, distressing and humiliating defeat which wasn't supposed to happen but did. Their small knot of away travelling fans could hardly look through bemused eyes. Tom Lees, Nigel Lonwijk, Matty Pearson, David Kasunu, the hapless Serbian Bojan Radulovic were never on the same wavelength and frequently moved the ball about between themselves like a wartime grenade, never quite knowing where they were going with the ball. When they did get anywhere the Tamworth goal, it looked as if too many cooks had spoilt the broth. 

It was all very well intentioned and honourable but Huddersfield were going nowhere. The up and under, long ball nature of football at this level always ruined the spectacle at times. But Tamworth did try to play it the right way and for that they have to be commended for their enterprise and willingness to keep the ball on the deck. At times it was all very higgledy piggledy, dreary and desultory occasionally descending into the typically awful. But this was the FA Cup and, besides, who cared?

The winning goal itself was both accidental and ever so reckless and careless. Tom Tonks, Tamworth's man of the night, wound himself up for one of those long throw-cum missiles for which he is now renowned across the whole of Britain. Rubbing the ball on his chest and staring menacingly into the eyes of petrified Huddersfield defenders eyes, Tonks held the ball high into the air and launched a miraculous throw into the away side's trembling penalty area. 

Chris Maxwell, the Terriers goalkeeper, leapt up for the ball confidently but then broke every goalkeeper's time- honoured rule. Maxwell fumbled and bumbled, dropping the ball clumsily and getting punished for his negligence. The ball fell into no man's land and,after an unseemly scramble, prodded the ball into his own net with his back foot. It was not the way Maxwell had imagined the night would turn out for him but his Huddersfield team had now unravelled. 

You remembered the Huddersfield of yesteryear, the immortal and exceptional King Denis Law who began his career at the old Leeds Road ground but then discovered Manchester United and never looked back. Then there was the lovable socialite and party animal who went by the name of Frank Worthington who started his career at Huddersfield. Worthington once scored one of the most spectacular goals ever seen while at Bolton. Trapping the ball deftly with his back to goal, Worthington juggled the ball with both feet, back- flicked the ball over his shoulder impudently and drove the ball into an Ipswich Town net, a goal to treasure in an unforgettable 3-3 draw.

But last night Huddersfield were back in less enlightened company. It felt as if they were almost completely overawed by these humble surroundings. Your mind drifted charmingly back to Herbert Chapman, the Huddersfield manager who revolutionised the club overnight. The formal waistcoat, bowler hat and cigarette characterised the man but even Chapman would have been at a loss at the modern incarnation of Huddersfield Town. It was not a pretty sight.