Happy and Healthy Jewish New Year.

 Happy and Healthy Jewish New Year.

Yes folks. It's that time when your correspondent and humble scribe turns his thoughts to the beginning of the New Year. But, surely not. That has to be a huge chronological mistake, a stupid anomaly based on the evidence that we are now approaching the end of September and there are no signs of limp tinsel and glitter from the Christmas festivities and no hearty renditions of Auld Lang Syne in the air. And we're not going to wait for Big Ben to usher in the New Year because that's just daft and totally inappropriate.

But as a proud Jew, you adore the communal harmony in our local synagogue or shul, the reverential chanting of the prayers, the stirring hymns from the chumash prayer books and the lovely feeling of togetherness and solidarity engendered by the belief that family and the family unit always comes first in the Jewish religion.  

And so it is that this Tuesday, yours truly and his wonderful family will gather together once again to acknowledge the chag. i.e. the holiday, that sacred moment in the year when we unite under the beautiful canopy of that majestic building known as Finchley Reform synagogue. It is a time, of course, for solemn reflection of the year that has just passed by and perhaps introspection since the world around us may not be in the condition we'd like it to be. We will ask probing questions of our political leaders and those warmongering terrorists who continue to disfigure this gorgeous planet. We will despair of the rest of humanity and hug our family to our bosom because they're precious. 

Sometime on Tuesday morning we'll be exchanging the familiar pleasantries with family, friends and those who pass regular comment on the Jewish people. They must know that we embrace Judaism with a passionate tenderness that remains as solid as it was thousands of years ago and throughout the generations. Being Jewish is the best feeling in the world because at Finchley Reform shul we'll be all as one, singing from the same hymn sheet, male and female, young and old. 

This is the starting point again, another chapter of our lives, the future that unfolds like the thrilling first few pages of your novel, your identity, your plans and ambitions or maybe the simple contentment of who you are. Of course the Jews have endured so much that is painful and uncomfortable. The persecution complex goes back centuries and millions of years. But we can beat this one and we will. 

We've suffered the slings and arrows of outrageous misfortune to misquote the Bard, William Shakespeare.  But, we will be defiant, determined and courageous. This is in our DNA. Jews are paragons of virtue, law abiding, respectable, considerate and sympathetic people, men, women and children with something very meaningful to give back to society. And then we'll tell our children and grandchildren to get out there and prove everybody wrong, to make their indelible mark on the world. 

On Tuesday we'll be ushering in Rosh Hashanah, with its traditional apple and honey symbolism, the prayers for health and happiness, the widespread rejoicing, the vocal congregations with our proud singing voices, the redemptive and rich, honeyed resonance that will boom out across the globe. And then there will be Succot, the Jewish Harvest Festival where the fruits of the earth will hang joyfully from the Sukkah and sweet wine will be sipped before yet another generous helping of chulllah bread just to underline the lavish abundance of everything that is good in our lives. 

Simchat Torah of course will bring back so many painful memories of October 7th from a couple of years ago. It was the day when Israel and the rest of the world hung its head in shame and horror at the violent attack on youngsters returning home after the Nova music festival. Even now it hurts terribly and the 1,500 lives lost in Israel on that fateful day will always remain on our minds. But as the proudest Jew in the world, there will be no room for terrorism and murder and we will stand by Israel. 

So wherever you are in the world, a happy, healthy, sweet and peaceful New Year, a Rosh Hashanah that will always keep you for company because it's so uplifting and good to be Jewish and always will be. Chag semach and l'shana tova to you all. 

Donald Trump again in Blighty.

 Donald Trump again

In the newspaper industry, this time of the year used to be referred to as the silly season. But since there have been no sightings of dolphins leaping out of the River Thames, or crocodiles swimming casually near the Lake District, it would be safe to assume that all is well and normal. But yesterday we had to hold ourselves back from giant gale forces of laughter.

We had to compose ourselves and pretend  that it wasn't happening but it did and the sudden realisation dawned upon us that the President of the United States was on British soil again. Oh not him! In ordinary circumstances we'd have been delighted to hear that the leader of the Free world was treading upon British terra firma but some of us were dreading it, hoping against hope that he'd changed his mind and would go back to America. 

Depending upon your point of view, the sight of one Donald Trump would have been enough to send blood pressures soaring and leave behind him utter disgust in equal measure. For what seems like an eternity, Donald Trump has been in charge of a country that used to celebrate its Presidents rather than reviling them. But Trump was back in Blighty after a brief flying visit to his famous Scottish golf course and insisting that he was the most stylish golfer in the world and Gary Player is just an average club player with a mediocre swing. 

But yesterday Donald Trump, accompanied by a thousand security guards, a mighty police cavalcade and his wife Melania, flew into a British airport and then stepped gingerly onto the ground as if he owned most of the Pennines and the Yorkshire Dales. We thought, for a minute, that Trump would strut into the airport lounge and reveal the most outlandish Union Jack waistcoat with St George hat and flags ready to be proudly unfurled. 

For the great Don has never been short of self confidence or bluster, bravado, or, according to some, outright arrogance. Trump attracts publicity like a moth to a light and he does genuinely believe that he is the finest, greatest, most pre-eminent, remarkable and fantastic of all Presidents. Trump maintains that had he been slightly more self assertive, the current war between Ukraine and Russia would have been over within half an hour of its starting point and that Ukranian leader President Zelensky is just an ungrateful, blundering fool.

And yet amid the muck and bullets, the destruction and carnage, the horrendous loss of life and the complete erosion of human and civilised values, Trump will keep lighting the touch paper. By now we should be hardened to the eccentricities, the strange hand gestures, the sheer verbal banalities, the seemingly surreal statements that may have been made up on the back of a cigarette packet. We are no longer astonished at what sound like the half complete ramblings of a man who hasn't a clue what he's talking about. There is the childish petulance when things go wrong and the it's all the fault of the rest of the world. 

But yesterday Trump embarked on his latest diplomatic expedition. It was off to Windsor Castle where King Charles the third and Queen Camilla were ready and waiting. Now the last time Trump was invited over to Britain, our glorious but late and much loved Her Majesty the Queen was, it has to be said, completely humiliated, as Trump shoved Her Majesty aside while inspecting the royal guards. And for a while, it felt as if Trump hadn't learnt any of the royal protocols that are now delightfully traditional. 

In fact, Trump probably leaves whole countries in a state of utter panic and bewilderment. He tries to do the right honourable thing but then plants his feet in it. Admittedly, Trump was just being Trump so maybe we shouldn't have been that surprised. He was smartly suited and booted but then that was simply being polite and respectful. But the business like and serious demeanour disguised much more than met the eye. Every so often the orange blond hair would wave like a British cornfield and there was a hint of ruthlessness in his eyes, perhaps a sinister menace had you looked that carefully. 

Once again though the very appearance of a man who just loves his own image in the mirror and everything he says or does should be given immediate approval, just couldn't be made up. There was a moment though at Windsor Castle when even we were left speechless and dumbfounded. After walking around huge banks of the red jacketed royal guards, Trump simply found himself in what could have turned into a quicksand of embarrassment. 

It all felt that all the formalities had been successfully negotiated until Trump just lost in a world of confusion, locked behind a door from which there was no escape. Approaching one guard, Trump was required to raise a sword and then drop it onto the shoulder of the aforesaid gentleman. At first it looked as if Trump was being asked to let go of a grenade since the President of the United States seemed convulsed with nerves and terrified of what was about to take place.

Thankfully, no harm was done and there was King Charles, chuckling under his breath and giggling with boundless hilarity. Our gracious King had to stifle yet more guffaws because he knew who he was dealing with. Donald Trump, who sometimes acts with all the tact and discretion of a British politician after several pints of lager, continued on his merry way as if nothing unsavoury had been done. 

And so we all greet the President of the United States with the warmest welcome. In several pockets of the British population though, there was anger, bitterness, outrage, venom, hatred and downright resentment. They were taking to the streets forcefully with their bold banners, their inflated babies with nappies. There was a raw detestation of a man who represents everything that is supposedly bad and wicked about Trump himself. They will shout and make themselves heard categorically and do their utmost to make hiim feel completely unwanted and uncomfortable, a nasty blight on the landscape.

But then Trump will dismiss their outpourings of daft protests and tell them to just accept him for who he really is. Sadly, this may be more than delusional wishful thinking. Still, let us watch the latest episode of this never ending soap opera with hands clasped in front of our eyes. It could get funnier and more absurd by the day but at least, it'll all be worth watching. Oh to be a Donald Trump observer.     

Gerry Harrison football commentator legend dies

 Gerry Harrison football commentator dies

In the days when football on the TV was confined to  only to a small, select and limited audience, the name of Gerry Harrison may not have been instantly recognisable and the chances are that he may have been sadly forgotten now. But he did feature prominently on London Weekend's flagship football magazine programme The Big Match introduced, of course by the legendary and much respected Brian Moore. 

Way back then, football was almost incidental to the rest of TV's vast landscape of period dramas, comedy shows, sitcoms, soap operas, hard hitting documentaries, news and current affairs programmes and celebrity driven interviews. Harrison, for his part, began his broadcasting career in black and white, those days when football was still learning how to cope with a slowly expanding fixture list in the old First Division. There were the scheduling problems and players whose egos were so disproportionately larger than that of the working class man and woman that none of us could really identify with the household names on the pitch. But the players had colourful personalities so we didn't really care. 

And yet we loved those dulcet, hugely enthusiastic TV voices from yesteryear. Harrison, although not as widely known as his contemporaries at the time such as Kenneth Wolstenholme, Brian Moore, Barry Davies and John Motson, had to be listened to and watched.  Gerry Harrison was the smooth, measured and restrained voice of Anglia TV, a regional commercial network who covered the whole spectrum of Suffolk and Norfolk with commentaries from both Ipswich Town and Norwich City. 

Harrison died last month at the age of 89,  a sturdy, upstanding yeoman of the footballing guard, a giant among the fens and farmlands of both the Tractor Boys and the Canaries. Not many of us really acknowledged that fluent and polished delivery because he just became part of the furniture of TV's  welcoming dining room. Harrison was the man who got extremely excited during those glorious seasons when Sir Bobby Robson's spirited and plucky Ipswich Town rubbed shoulders with the great and good at the top of the old First Division and almost won the old League championship. 

There was nothing out of the ordinary about Harrison because he was just one of the lads, excitable at times but in a good way and then lifting the tone of his voice when goals were scored. Harrison covered epic FA Cup encounters, League Cup corkers and spectacular European nights for Ipswich. He was confident, authoritative, knowledgeable about the non League game and supremely assured at the microphone. Then there was Norwich, who under John Bond, were one of the most entertaining sides in the old First Division but never really fulfilled their burgeoning potential at the highest level. Harrison had the utmost respect for Norwich City as well.

In more recent years, Harrison stepped away from the limelight, becoming more more analytical and reflective, returning to his journalistic roots. Recently, Harrison had become a regular contributor to the excellent retro magazine Back Pass. A keen amateur footballer himself, Harrison made the easy transition from life as a player to the commentary box. He always enjoyed the bouquets of praise and plaudits from fellow commentators and contemporaries but never sought hysterical adulation. 

To the outsider, football commentators have always appeared those lovely wordsmiths who sit high above on a TV gallery while the noisy and vocal supporters almost render the commentator helpless and inaudible. Their job is to convey the essence of the game in a way that is relatable, easy to understand and never patronising. They sit there patiently explaining the pictures they can see in front of their eyes- the breathless goal-line clearances, the mad, frantic penalty area scrambles and the divine goals that somehow beggar description but only commentators can communicate with such accuracy and honesty. 

Nowadays, football reaches out to a responsive audience who can't get enough of either Sky Sports Football, TNT football, ITV, BBC, Channel 4 from time to time and Channel 5. It may have achieved saturation coverage now and the statistics would probably prove as such. Maybe there is too much football on TV but when the likes of Martin Tyler, Sam Matterface, Guy Mowbray, Jonathan Pearce, Steve Wilson and Clive Tyldesley get to work in dissecting fact from fiction, you believe implicitly in what you may be hearing and watching. 

And yet football has lost another of its impartial observers and students. Gerry Harrison accompanied you through your adolescence and for that, you feel eternally grateful. After lunch, you would settle down in your loving parents kitchen and watch the Big Match. There were no fanfares, cheerleaders before the match or any kind of pre-match entertainment. There was the wonderful professionalism of Brian Moore, the always exuberant Hugh Johns and the infectious love of the game from Gerald Sinstadt who oozed excellence and a natural feeling for football's more eccentric moments. Keith Macklin, of course, once provided the alternative commentary for the 1966 World Cup. 

But there was always Gerry Harrison, friendly, articulate and just very straightforward. There were no airs or graces about Harrison because he never pulled any punches with his descriptions. If a goal was indeed a goal, then Harrison would tell you immediately. But if there was an element of doubt about a nasty, dodgy tackle, he would bring it your attention with emphatic emphasis. So Gerry Harrison, we'll miss you and Sunday afternoons as a teenager will always mean a lot to us. Thanks Gerry.      

The Last Night at the Proms, the Royal Albert Hall and Remembrance service

 The Last Night at the Proms, the Royal Albert Hall and Remembrance service.

You do know what tonight is. You'd have been forgiven for thinking that it was just an ordinary night on the British calendar. But this is much more aesthetically appealing than you might think. It is the one night of the year that the British decide to celebrate patriotism although the extremists might think that this is nationalism gone mad, too British, uniquely English and therefore totally unacceptable. Besides, we've been holding this one event for what seems like 150 years and we should be used to it. 

Yes Ladies and Gentlemen, tonight marks the Last Night at the Proms. The Last Night at the Proms is simply the most culturally stunning spectacle of the year. It is time for those who will be there at the Royal Albert Hall to get all excited, wave Union Jacks and sing Rule Britannia. So why is it that we find it so difficult to whip up any enthusiasm for these grand occasions, these superbly pleasing extravaganzas that fall so perfectly on our discerning ears. We know that it makes us feel so good about being who we are and living in a country, that, although divided at times, still finds the Last Night at the Proms to be the most unifying force.

After a summer of masterful orchestral work, gloriously melodic symphonies, wondrous sounds and historical harmonies, the Proms reaches its final night at the Royal Albert Hall, a venue so deliciously appropriate for this memorable occasion that you wonder how Britain would ever survive if it weren't there. Come September, when the autumnal leaves are falling like yellow and brown confetti, a huge audience will fill those vast rows of plush seats and those wedding cake tiers of royal boxes. It will just take our breath away because it always has and, hopefully, always will do.

And yet tonight the sheer eclecticism of the Last Night of the Proms will once again be in evidence. The sheer variety and diversity of musical styles will leave us totally exhilarated and the feelgood factor will probably still be there on Christmas Eve. With the statue of Henry Wood looking on, the man who set the ball rolling for the Proms all those centuries ago, the Proms has always brought with it that special flavour, a cinnamon scent of music at its purest. It's left us with a sense of achievement that we should all feel because we, too, should feel connected, we too could produce the kind of music that the Proms has always given to us quite freely and openly. 

But tonight Sir Brian May, brilliant guitarist of Queen and his fellow drummer Sir Roger Taylor, who formed one of the finest rock bands of all time, will be there all guitars and drums in perfect unison. You will think back to that iconic moment in pop music history when Bohemian Symphony reached number one in the charts during the 1970s and stayed there for what seemed an eternity and deservedly so. May and Taylor will know that they are in the presence of musical greatness all around them. The Royal Albert Hall will turn into one of their most rewarding evenings of all time. 

We knew that we could never play the violin, the double bass, the cello, the guitar, the piano, the trumpet, trombone, clarinet, the dramatic drums, the harp and glockenspiel with quite the consummate ease of the masters, the professionals. So we reserved all of our deepest admiration for their technical wizardry, the nimble fingered dexterity of the string section and their natural aptitude for just playing music. We've all heard about the precocious geniuses of Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, Debussy, Strauss, Stravinsky and Handel. But these were gifted composers, men of the highest stature and polish, men for whom the writing of chords, quavers and crotchets became second nature. 

But tonight is markedly different. Following hard on the heels of exquisite jazz riffs and improvisations, there are still the classic film scores, simple folk compositions, world music, soft and heavy rock interpretations of those great bands and singers from yesteryear. Tonight it'll get very stirring, fascinating, breath taking and just the most compulsive watch you could ever wish for. For those whom classical music never really stimulated us or left us wanting more, the Proms somehow gives us a gentle tuition class, reminding us once again that music can take still take us on so many emotional journeys and never tire of its simplicity. 

Above all, the Royal Albert Hall will resound to our yearly renditions of Land and Hope and Glory and Jerusalem. During this glittering homage to music of all genres, we will think of  the familiar appearance of our military men and women at the Remembrance Service in November. There will be the noble Royal Air Force, so wonderfully served by my late and lovely dad, the Royal Marines, the Royal Navy, the Paras and innumerable folk wearing medals on their jackets and berets on their heads. And the Royal Albert Hall will look at its most genteel and just suited and booted for the occasion. 

But then a moment of sweet joy and almost classical silence will stop us in our tracks. We suddenly realise that the Royal Albert Hall can also be the venue for Remembrance services. From the ceiling at the Royal Albert Hall, the main stage below will be awash with red. Red poppies will flutter down from above gracefully, almost deferentially. Hold on, though, this wonderful ceremony happens on Remembrance evening service in November.  We'll think of the soldiers who fought so manfully and valiantly during the World Wars. The Royal Albert Hall is so versatile and multi talented that it can accommodate any occasion.  

World Trade Centre catastrophe and Charlie Kirk

 World Trade catastrophe and Charlie Kirk.

It is 24 years to the day since the world took leave of its senses and humanity sunk to its lowest level. It was the one incident that still leaves us feeling as cold as ice, shocked, horrified and full of revulsion. It was one of those shameful episodes from history that can never be erased from our vision or consciousness because it's just there, agonisingly painful in the memory and sadly haunting all who saw it.

It happened when we least expected it to and then there followed the inevitable questions, the disgraceful images just tormenting us for ages and then the endless repercussions because they're still being felt. It was the day when sanity and normality simply vanished without trace and tyrannical terrorism crippled our emotions and made us feel  fragile and vulnerable, deeply hurt and ashamed of ourselves. We now know the well documented facts but we'll never know how or why it was allowed to happen. 

On just another ordinary working day morning for the good  folk of New York, tragedy devoured the USA, shaking not only America to its foundations but the world population. One minute there was a comforting peace and silence and then chaos, calamity, panic before everything collapsed around the country. The perpetrators of this horrific crime sent shivers down our spines, traumatised us for ages before going into an extensive period of mourning. 

Today in 2001, the World Trade Centre was completely demolished by an evil, murderous terrorist network known as Al Quaeda. While everybody was going about their business and about to start another day of work, the monsters were plotting the downfall of one of America's most iconic of buildings. They were watching from a distance knowing full well that this barbaric attack on our freedom had achieved its single mission to destroy and kill thousands of people. It remains one of the most abhorrent, disgusting, reprehensible and savage of all atrocities. 

It has now become known as 9/11, the day a terrorist attack, without any conscience or remorse, soul, feeling or sentiment, took it upon itself to blow up the Twin Towers in New York. The news report at the time barely seems credible or imaginable because we'll never know what possessed human beings to carry out these horrendously unforgivable acts of what can only be called genocide. But this was just another example of the human race at its worst and most inhumane. Any other interpretation would suffice but the events of 9/11 must have felt like the end of civilisation as we know it. 

So we try to relive what happened to the World Trade Centre. At roughly a couple of minutes before 9am on a mellow New York autumnal morning, two planes were seen heading towards this proud symbol of America's identity. We must have assumed that the aforesaid planes were just flying towards their intended destination. We didn't know it at the time but these planes were on course for what proved to be the ugliest death spiral of all time. In a matter of minutes, America was reduced to heartbreak and tears, charred ruins, thick black plumes of smoke shooting into the sky, sheer mayhem, madness and pandemonium about to ensue.

Suddenly all hell broke loose in the always welcoming and hospitable city of New York. We can still see the first plane crashing into the World Trade Centre, a full complement of passengers dying in one huge explosion, helpless casualties in a wickedly destructive abomination. Firstly there were brief cries of alarm as one side of the World Trade Centre fell to the ground, then screaming, gasping, running desperately for cover, anywhere and somewhere that would offer sanctuary. 

Seconds later another plane hurtled towards the World Trade Centre. By now one side of this noble skyscraper was on fire, all consuming flames attacking the very heart of America's core and backbone. Then, much to our astonishment, another plane was spotted right behind the first one. Now half of the World Trade Centre was slowly and painfully crumbling onto the pavements or sidewalks of New York. The damage had already been done. Soon, the people below were sprinting for their lives, hands over their mouths, hairs coated in ash and dust then, distressingly, jumping out of burning windows to their death.

By now of course thousands had been declared dead in the aftermath of this pernicious assault, this becoming the most dreadful day in the history of a country that has always offered the warm hand of friendship to the whole world. We were now clasping our hands over our eyes, barely taking in this apocalyptic event, a September morning that will now permanently be registered in our minds as something we could never comprehend, our thought patterns gripped by fear and the solemnity of sorrow.

And yesterday we witnessed yet another moment of senseless tragedy. Charlie Kirk, a member of Donald Trump's government and a rational voice of reason when all seemed inexplicable, was cruelly assassinated at another political rally. Kirk was simply speaking on behalf of democracy, reflecting the way America was beginning to look at itself. But then, we were back in the land of John F. Kennedy when, 62 years ago, a handsome looking President of the United States, was shot dead. It is hard to know why Kirk was killed so viciously by a sniper's gun but what we do now know is that America has once again been plunged into a grave state of sombre contemplation and grief.

There are times when the human race just defies any kind of analysis because it keeps going back to the same tried and trusted methods. We are all loving and wonderful people. But when hate and intolerance creeps back into our conversation and we point accusing fingers at the innocent, it doesn't end well. So Charlie Kirk was killed in cold blood, a single bullet to the neck that must have been the only language this deranged gun toting villain could understand. Of course murder should never be tolerated or justified under any circumstances but Charlie Kirk died yesterday and the world is still baffled.      

England beat Andorra in World Cup qualifier

 England beat Andorra in World Cup qualifier

It was never going to be easy for England because this is the way it invariably turns out for the England football team. This was yet another rude awakening for Thomas Tuchel's England, another demonstration of plodding dullness, uncomfortable postures and static progress towards what the whole of England must hope will result in yet another World Cup Finals in the USA, Mexico and Canada. Once again England were reduced to slow motion, lumbering awkwardness and indecisive musings on the ball. 

Here are the facts. England narrowly squeezed past a team whose nation normally provides the scenic backdrop for our winter holidays. England, to be blunt, overcame a team whose spiritual home is one of many a skiing resort. This was very a much downhill slalom slope for England since Andorra are not world beaters and never will be. They sit in the Pyrenees like some snow capped mountain just waiting for summer and hoping that nobody will take their football team seriously. 

And yet on Saturday evening, England were lazy, lethargic, lackadaisical, lifeless and reminded you of a team who were still in the middle of a rigorous training exercise, some desultory five a side kick about where possession is almost constant and nobody wins anything. At some point England will remember where they are and what they're supposed to be doing but sadly are no further forward than that mini disaster and defeat to Senegal in a friendly last season. 

September and England internationals have never shared the same page and sentence as many of us would like so this hardly came as a shock to the system. You were reminded of Ron Greenwood's laudable England team of the late 1970s when a early September friendly against Switzerland ended in a tedious goal-less draw. Greenwood's first experimental eleven consisted of seven Liverpool players, who, as now, dominated English football if not quite in the same way although Liverpool were still a work of art back then. 

But on Saturday evening, England, though in charge of their World Cup qualifying group, must be hoping that nobody really expected anything more than they actually got. This was an England side who couldn't quite understand the script they were supposed to be following. Somebody had thrown the familiar chloroform over them and England resembled a group of tiring ramblers who had run out of energy and were traipsing very carefully across boggy grounds and marshlands in the middle of the countryside. In fact some might suggest that it was like watching men stuck in treacle, wading across muddy wasteland and achieving nothing of any note. 

Whatever Tuchel said to his players before this no show against Andorra, it didn't seem to register properly in the minds of the players. England laboured painfully in and out of small pockets of space, crawling haphazardly towards the half way line and just for a minute, it felt as if the batteries had been taken out and the electrical cables switched off. This was a desperately painful watch by any standards and if England are to reach the World Cup Finals next summer, then significant improvements must be in place by then.

Tonight England travel to Serbia for yet another game of stick or twist. But this time the cards which they will be dealt with are bound to be trickier and more cunning. Serbia will never be regarded as one of the greatest of international household football team but if England think that tonight will be the proverbial piece of cake, they may have to revise their judgments. Why on earth do either UEFA or FIFA keep giving England such lightweight opposition for these seemingly interminable qualifying matches when we know what's going to happen?

But so it was that England gathered together at Wembley on a Saturday evening and privately yearned for a repeat of Dixon of Dock Green, once the Saturday tea time TV staple diet. Some of us would have quite happily, given half the chance, arrested and spoken to this England team in harsh, judgmental terms. This was just not good enough. England cruise through these traditional qualifying sparring contests and this is perhaps where England lose their way. The chances are of course that they will be in New York at the beginning of next summer but this really is a phoney war. 

World Cups of course are stressful and harrowing experiences for any England fan or faithful follower. They muddle and improvise their way through the group stages before hitting that daunting, frightening wall. Come the second round, quarter final and semi final stage, England become a bundle of nerves and we're all on tenterhooks, desperately hoping that they don't get stage fright. Still, there's a long way to go at the moment anyway and, besides, these are the preliminary skirmishes, the private dress rehearsals where tweaks are made and formations suitably adjusted. 

Still at the back, Rees James of Chelsea, the towering Dan Burn from Newcastle, the unsettled Marc Guehi, who would have given anything to be at Liverpool this summer but remained at Crystal Palace and Miles Lewis Skelly, a blooming home grown product at Arsenal, were all dependable safeguards. For much of the game they were never needed at all so this match is impossible to use as a litmus test for the real contests facing England because they had nothing to do of any consequence. 

Declan Rice, also shoring up the defence handsomely both at Arsenal and England and provided much midfield ballast. Rice England nicely with his fellow Gunner Ebereche Eze who looks a wonderful discovery for the England team. Elliott Anderson has also made smooth and streamlined progress in the middle of the park and looked elated to be called up for the senior England squad.  Morgan Gibbs White, who was also the subject of much transfer speculation during the summer, had a touch of modest subtlety and class that bodes well for the future of the national side. Tino Livramento and Anthony Gordon also gave valuable contributions when they came off the subs bench. 

And so it was that England tapped out their now customary Morse Code messages across the Wembley pitch, achingly stop start football, staccato, stationary at times, pausing for breath for what seemed an eternity. Then there were neat triangles, clandestine, hush hush moments, football that was almost secretive and covert. There were rectangular, geometric angles, an abundance of side to side passes, movements that defied description. 

Thankfully England did score but not without seemed the longest wait of all time but even that was an own goal by Andorra.  After a dizzying, bewildering daisy chain of passes through the feet of Rees James, Marc Guehi, Ebereche Eze and Elliott Anderson, James broke forward down the flank.The Chelsea full back then sent a swinging, immaculately judged cross to the far post. Declan Rice, racing up from the back, came storming into the penalty area, planting a firm header into the Andorra net most impressively. 

Maybe, perhaps misguidedly, we thought this opening goal for England would open up the floodgates. Sadly this was a misleading impression. For the rest of the match, England kept indulging in a game of pass the parcel, threatening to score frequently but only ending up with egg on their faces. There were endless sequences of recycling the ball, pat a cake football designed to keep the purists entertained but leading to nowhere in particular. Then it all fizzled out in a shuddering anti climax. 

With the game in its final stages, England just seemed blithely content to hold onto what they had. But some of us realised what was going on here. England were genuinely struggling to score against Andorra. You remembered another World Cup qualifier of recent vintage. After seven seconds against San Marino, England went one down thanks to the worst back pass of all time. Admittedly, England did go on to demolish their hosts 7-1 but there were disturbing echoes of that game. 

So it's Serbia tonight for Thomas Tuchel and England may well expect but this could be another ordeal by football. Serbia will provide proper, credible opposition for England.  There are visually graphic reminders of England managers of a bygone era. There was the hapless Graham Taylor who looked so furious and indignant in his dug out that you felt sorry for him. That was the 1993 World Cup qualifier when Ronald Koeman curled a mesmeric free kick over England goalkeeper David Seaman and the Netherlands went to the World Cup Finals in, ironically, the USA, the following year.

 And of course there was Sir Alf Ramsey who did win the World Cup for England, sheepishly leaving his job at Wembley in October 1973 when Poland came to the capital city and left England on the ropes with utter embarrassment. A 1-1 draw was never going to be good enough and the Poles went to West Germany the following summer's World Cup, finishing a respectable third. 

The Wembley crowd, for their part, didn't know whether to laugh or cry, deeply disappointed but relieved to be given a couple of more opportunities to prove their point. Of course this game against Andorra was completely forgettable and hopefully an asterisk mark. At some point during this World Cup qualifying campaign England would ideally like a replica of their friendly 7-0 victory against Austria weeks before the Poland debacle and Sir Alf's final swansong. We can but hope. 

Angela Rayner quits

 Angela Rayner quits

So here we are literally weeks away from the party political conference season and those very public figures we place our implicit trust in behave like naughty miscreant kids who keep pinching apples from their neighbours garden. They hope they won't get caught and then protest their innocence because they didn't do it because it wasn't their fault. 

And yesterday the Deputy Prime Minister of the United Kingdom accidentally put her foot in it and had to meekly apologise for her misdemeanours. She didn't mean to do what she did but she can explain everything. She can and she will but not before she was pushed over the edge and forced to quit. Some politicians are so naive and gullible that you just wonder how they reach such honourable, dizzy heights in their profession. 

But that's what happened to Angela Rayner yesterday. There was she was just casually doing the right and proper thing before she went toppling into the muddiest ditch and fell on her sword. You can  choose any cliche of your own choice but the unmistakable truth is that Rayner just happened to take the wrong kind of advice and suffered the consequences of her own actions. She was drawn into this trap, this embarrassing imbroglio, this spot of bother that got her into terrible trouble and there was no way back. 

We all know about Rayner now. She's hard working, conscientious, dedicated to her job but she does like to party, drinking and vaping in moderate doses of course but she does take her job seriously. She does, you know. Last year she was spotted on holiday raving the night away and spinning records with a local DJ, throwing shapes so the popular vernacular goes. And yet of course she's entitled to have a good time. We would never begrudge her this golden moment in the sun. So she boogied the night away and everybody was happy. 

She's a single parent caring admirably for her disabled son Charlie. Then she decided to buy a holiday home in a bracing seaside South Coast home in Hove. Nothing wrong there you would have thought but then all of the incriminating evidence came out in the wash. She hadn't paid enough tax on this idyllic seaside retreat and that's where she came unstuck. That was the cardinal sin. When the tax people come knocking on your door, you try to defend the indefensible. Angela Rayner had failed to pay the stamp duty on the tax for the flat. The wrath of the great British public fell around her ears like the most horrible noise. 

Rayner's shamefaced admission cost her the most highly prestigious job in Britain. Whether she liked it or not, tax dodgers or those who deliberately avoid paying the requisite amount, inevitably get their just desserts. Of course she was badly advised and that much became patently obvious. But surely she should have known better, this well respected government minister at the very zenith of her political career. 

But dear Angela Rayner has brought disrepute and shame on her country and office. Now that our fine, upstanding politicians are back from their summer holidays you'd have thought they'd just want to walk back into their classrooms and listen attentively to their teachers. Rayner, of course had no alternative but to hand in her P45, departing Downing Street with a brave if, quite possibly, heartbroken face. 

At the moment one Nigel Farage, that Guinness drinking anarchist who leads that brand new political party Reform UK, is on the campaigning trail. But maybe you do him a disservice by referring to him by that description. Farage is clearly a dissenting voice, a rabid and patriotic believer in everything British and English, patriotic to the core and standing up for the United Kingdom with a broad back and showering the country with fulsome praise. 

Then we gather that Farage is wallowing in the Labour party's latest setback and horrendous blunder. In face he's getting a sadistic thrill out of this whole dreadful fiasco. So he tells his country to prepare for a General Election in two years time when, in fact, it's maybe four years away. Farage is probably airing his grievances now because he believes, rightly or wrongly, that his England is about to stolen away from us and the rest of the world thinks we're the laughing stock. 

Now the truth is that both Farage and Rayner are typical examples of Westminster's often farcical conduct within the corridors of the House of Commons. Of course politicians work their fingers to the bone and they never shirk their onerous responsibilities. They're always available at their surgeries at every opportunity and they'll hear you out. Undoubtedly so. But some  look for loopholes in the payment of their taxes. 

When was the last time though, that they were there to sort out the rubbish bins that haven't been emptied for ages, the recycling products that should have been dumped ages ago? When are they going to address noise pollution in your neighbourhood, the builders who have been making that unbearable racket at two o'clock in the morning? So come on government minister where were you when we wanted you?

Party political conferences are both serious, business like spectacles while also being funny, frivolous comedy halls where a thousand voices can be heard simultaneously at times and you couldn't make this one up. Both Sir Keir Starmer, the Prime Minister and Kemi Badenoch, the Conservative Shadow leader of her party, face unenviable tasks. Shortly, they'll be fulfilling that yearly obligation on behalf of their parties.  They'll stand up proudly at their lecturn before delivering their impassioned rants, their fury, their righteous indignation and telling us how they both detest each other.  Not personally of course but they're not exactly amiable buddies. 

The Prime Minister maintains vehemently that there's nothing wrong with the UK, that patience is a virtue and of course the Labour party are on the right road to redemption and complete prosperity. We'll leave behind talk of cost of living crises, chronic unemployment, a permanently struggling and underpaid NHS and an education system for our children that leaves a rank, bad smell wherever you are. So if we hang on for a while and just take a deep breath because all will be perfect and well. 

But the political battlefield that is the party conference season is the one chance of the year where our dear, reliable politicians can always let it go for a week, shouting, bawling, lecturing, reasoning and then persuading their camp followers in the audience that the country is going to hell in a handcart. They'll point their fingers in a whole variety of directions, bang their hands forcefully on the desk in front of them and reel off a bewildering sequence of figures, percentages and statistics. 

Yesterday my lovely wife Bev and yours truly were listening to our car radio and expressed disgust at the latest announcement from Westminster. David Lammy had become the new if temporary Deputy Prime Minister at which point my wife could hardly contain her anger. David Lammy is so useless and incompetent that how he achieved such an elevated position seemed completely beyond us. You agreed and then questioned the whole political system. Why on earth do we elect these sham and fraudulent characters into the highest echelons of power? Or maybe they're just decent and honest, law abiding individuals and perhaps Lammy is terribly misunderstood. 

Shortly, both Labour, Conservative and Lib Dem parties will be gathering in their huge droves, settling themselves down in their comfortable seats and exchanging age old cliches and platitudes. We've heard them all a million times but the jokes are as old as Methuselah and probably even worse than the last time we heard them told. 

Behind the scenes, there will be those softly spoken focus groups, private rooms where lively discussions about wars and the economy will take their place. Occasionally, there will be whispers of agreement before somebody says something debatable and contentious. Suddenly, there's uproar and it's on the TV evening news or the papers the following day. In some very quiet corner of the world, Angela Rayner will be wishing that she could just be left to her own devices. Oh to be a politician.   

National Dessert Day

 National Dessert Day

You must remember those heavenly days at both school and home when desserts were eaten with an almost voracious relish and enjoyment. You'd queue up at the Nissan hut that we called our dinner hut and were then dutifully slopped up the most mouth watering sweet desserts that were irresistible and left us with huge piles of timber around our waistline. At the time we didn't know any better but were unknowingly damaging not only our waistline but increasing the cholesterol levels almost irreparably. 

After the traditional helpings of meat, mashed potatoes and assortment of vegetables, we were suddenly confronted with delicious roly poly puddings, Spotted Dick with thousands of currants and raisins and the wonderful honey cake which we invariably looked forward to with the most eager anticipation particularly when they kindly added a generous topping of apple strudel.

There were innumerable puddings, the dreaded semolina which seemed to contain horrific looking layers of skin on the top of the semolina and, quite possibly, apple pies but it's hard to remember them with anything like the clarity that they probably deserved. There were three very maternal, middle aged dinner ladies, women with dainty aprons and headscarves who were always pleased to see these blossoming examples of male adolescence and hoping for just a semblance of appreciation from the boys but were never really given the credit they must have merited. 

So today is National Dessert Day and how sweet that sounds, hey!  Most notably, there were what looked like huge milk churns of custard swimming around in a sea of yellow. Suddenly, the aforesaid dinner lady ladled up the custard, spreading the dessert with a glorious flavour and fragrance that would last for the rest of the day in your stomach. But then there was the dreaded realisation that you'd just added at least five stones to your waistline and although you'd felt bloated and heavy, it was still a hot and nutritious meal. And that's where the likes of Jamie Oliver and a whole host of concerned chefs and dieticians came in. 

According to government ministers in high places, a whole generation of teenagers and very young children are eating far too many packets of sweets, ice creams, chewy toffees designed to leave you with hundreds of fillings in your mouth and an abundance of creamy cakes that can't be good for you in the long term. So the Labour party and Prime Minister Sir Keir Starmer bombard us with sanctimonious speeches about the ruination of our school-children because they're just vast, fat and obese. 

For years now governments of various hues have jumped onto the bandwagon of childhood obesity, that vitally important period of their maturity and development where they have to be aware of their mental and physical health. Besides, all of those cream sponges, rice puddings with blobs of jam and all manner of clearly fattening desserts are just bulking them up and before you know it, they'll be getting on to their bathroom scales and showing the most ghastly amount of weight that just seemed to accumulate alarmingly by the stones and pounds.

But now more than ever desserts are simply the most guilty of all pleasures. During your teenage years, mum would always reserve that 1970s staple diet that had to be the most stunning food treat you'd ever tasted. It was called an Arctic Roll and it was just out of this world, a culinary special and feast for the eyes. The Arctic Roll was a stunningly thick sponge with the most remarkable slab of vanilla ice cream that once consumed, was never forgotten. 

Then there was the celebrated Angel Delight, another blob of pink jelly like substance that resembled a a blancmange but never really appeared on the family menu or at least that always seemed to be the case. Desserts were often a fusion of chocolate cream confections with hundreds of thousands sprinkled on top. There was the famous Knickerbocker Glory, that astonishing looking dessert commonly associated with the Wimpy fast food burger outlet that still populate the high streets of Britain. Trifles were savoured with huge quantities of jam, lashings of strawberry additives and whole variety of yet more chocolate. 

Personally you always looked forward to Yom Kippur, the divine meal after the Jewish Fast. Mum would be there with your sweet cup of milky coffee and the scintillatingly beautiful honey cake which is still something that most of us can't wait to devour after the Shofar is blown resoundingly across the world. Your wonderfully lovely mum and dad always kept whole packets of biscuits in her bread bin and some of them could often be described as mini desserts, overflowing with sugar  and represented everything that was bad in our diet at the time. But hey ho. It's National Dessert Day so tuck into that apple pie or Black Forest Gateau with complete impunity. You deserve it and. besides, everything in moderation.   

Joe Bugner dies at 76.

 Joe Bugner dies at 76.

To all outward appearances Joe Bugner bore no resemblance to the traditional image of a heavyweight boxer because he had far too many pounds of flesh around his waist and was just ridiculously overweight. And yet we made allowances for the flabby midriff and the unmistakable fat that accompanied him on his epic journey to the top of British heavyweight boxing. Bugner though was always upbeat, jovial and good humoured about his appearance because the boxing aficionados accepted him for who he was and so did his loyal public.

Bugner was a formidable opponent, a giant of a prize fighter who embraced his sport with a passion and appetite that always stood him in good stead for all his major fights. Bugner was Hungarian and never shied away from any of the difficult obstacles that had to be overcome. He loved the big occasions  because he was indeed, the ultimate showman, almost an exhibitionist at times. He was never underestimated since he always made the most memorable of all entrances into the ring.

There was something very endearing about Joe Bugner because there was an earthiness and authenticity about his rugged approach to the sweet science of the boxing trade. Bugner oozed controlled aggression inside the ring and none could argue with his credentials. He may have been criticised quite unfairly about some of his more unorthodox tactics but Bugner's relationship with boxing's  promoters and agents never became strained or problematic. 

During the 1970s, Bugner came face to face with some of the toughest and most troublesome opponents in a way that must have inspired generations of youngsters who could only hope to imitate him. There was a beefy robustness about him, an enormous upper body strength and a remarkable stamina to stay the distance. His confrontations with Henry Cooper and the often invincible Muhammad Ali left us with some of boxing's most intriguing contests as he built up his repertoire of cunning upper cuts that looked like rabbit punches but were strategically unleashed to make the most effective impact. 

Essentially, though, he was a much loved character and although ridiculed for what looked like chubbiness, Bugner was in the vanguard of boxing's best and finest. His classic fight with Ali will be genuinely remembered for both its novelty value and the total mismatch air of the encounter. Bugner, perhaps attracted only by the lucrative nature of the pay off on the night of the fight, was totally motivated by a simple desire to bump up his now substantial bank balance. But maybe not. 

We will look back on Bugner's career with the fondness it undoubtedly deserves if only because it fully merits  repeated mentions in dispatches. The man from Hungary, oozing confidence and conviction at every level of his sport, may have been accused of being over ambitious, perhaps even delusional in his belief that boxing was a sport designed for heroes and he may have been absolutely right. 

Joe Bugner had guts, an enduring love of boxing and just wanted to be acclaimed as one of boxing's purest exponents, a man who knew all about sport and its endless capacity to thrill  before dropping  into complete obscurity. Tonight we will honour the esteemed likes of Bugner because he may well slip off our radar and never be recognised for his charm offensive. He was, though, a one man publicity machine at times because respect and greater global recognition somehow eluded him. But here's a toast to the man himself . Boxing will undoubtedly miss you Joe Bugner. 

It's another Bank Holiday weekend

 It's West Ham and another Bank Holiday weekend.

It was rather like waking up and then realising that you'd lost your wallet, mislaid your keys and then discovered that this was no nightmare and it did indeed happen. You were stunned, appalled, dumbfounded, quite flabbergasted and wondering whether your football club would ever recover from this most disastrous blow. Football supporters would like to think that, ideally, their team could win every single match throughout the Premier League season in the way that Arsenal once remained unbeaten throughout theirs.

But you were never prepared for the horrendous events which unfolded last night at the London Stadium. West Ham United had already lost their opening day of the season encounter with promoted Sunderland at the Stadium of Light. Perhaps the most galling aspect of last Saturday was the compliant nature of West Ham's defeat. They were destroyed, thumped, overwhelmed by Sunderland and there was something very feeble and submissive about the loss that must have grated with even the most devoted hardcore of West Ham's fanbase. 

What we saw last night was a West Ham in emotional meltdown, almost confused and bemused, struggling desperately to achieve any semblance of mutual understanding on the pitch, a disturbing lack of attacking co-ordination and any kind of forward thinking momentum. In a word, West Ham were clueless. Now the thought occurs to you that all may not be completely beyond repair because, essentially, we're only two games into the new Premier League season and a major re-structuring of the side's midfield could stop the rot. 

And yet during the summer, the chairmen, directors and members of West Ham's so called recruitment team simply dropped off to sleep in the sweltering heatwave. Perhaps they felt there was no immediate cause to panic and that, given time, new players would arrive by the conveyor belt. For a while, some of us gave the club the benefit of the doubt and patience would be a virtue. But then, desperation set in when the players needed for this radical overhaul became either too expensive or distinctly unimpressed by the promises West Ham could offer if they joined the club immediately.  

So here we are with just over a week to go before the transfer window is shut for a while. West Ham have the sum total of four players, a new goalkeeper, two defenders and two strikers whose combined age is so old that even their fans can hardly remember what it was like to have a young, dynamic side. This week alone, West Ham have been heavily linked with Southampton's young Portuguese midfield player Mattheus Fernandes, Quentin Timber, the flying Dutch winger and, in the last couple of days, the strong, sturdy and hearteningly creative defensive midfield French Under 21 player Soungoutou Magassa. 

The chances are that in the forthcoming week Magassa will probably sign for West Ham and the club might have a proper compass, a real focus, a significant change of fortunes and, a genuine sense of direction. To disenchanted West Ham supporters this may be regarded as nothing more than a sticking plaster, some temporary measure designed to pacify and appease them. Who is this youngster and is he the answer to West Ham's almost permanently chronic problems? Besides, Magassa is no Sir Trevor Brooking, Alan Devonshire or the terribly under rated Alan Curbishley. 

Last night, West Ham were criminally exposed and left to hang out to dry..All the encouraging signs shown in their pre season tour of the USA vanished without trace. There was a worrying lack of any creativity, productivity, brightness and boldness, athleticism and, above all confidence about the team. There were round pegs in square holes, very little in the way of imagination and innovation. There was a lumbering ordinariness about the Hammers, a muddled mediocrity and only the Brazilian Lucas Paqueta, alongside perhaps Aaron Wan Bissaka, to redeem the whole performance.

Their opponents yesterday evening were Chelsea and once again you didn't need a degree in quantum physics to know what was wrong with West Ham. There is a clear disconnect within the club, something very static and sloppy about them, a feeling that nothing had been done during the close season to address this most urgent of issues. And then there is Graham Potter, West Ham's now vilified manager, attacked at every level, blamed for everything and of course under pressure. It's all his fault, or is it?

The team who play their football at the London Stadium have now conceded eight goals in their opening two games and surely that statistic tells its own graphic story. West Ham are now at rock bottom of the Premier League and this must hurt them, tearing at the very infrastructure of the side. Wounding accusations of shoddy mismanagement, absolute incompetence and a complete lack of any investment in the club have to be put right. Before it's too late.

Some of us of course have been here before. When Ron Greenwood left West Ham in the late 1970s, after 20 years of exemplary service and superb management, it was widely felt that, although the club would never threaten the bigger boys in the playground at the top of the old First Division, at least they could still tread water, remain buoyant and still remain one of the most entertaining sides in the top flight.

Then, West Ham were relegated to the old Second Division and all of those commendable principles fell by the wayside. Upton Park would play host to the likes of Oldham, Preston, Grimsby, Millwall, Shrewsbury, Notts County, Swansea and Cardiff. Sadly, these were not the household names that the club had become accustomed to playing. This was a cautionary tale, a rude awakening to those who felt the East Londoners were a well respected national treasure in footballing circles, lovably gentle and inoffensive and dedicated to football that was played in the right way but never good enough to win anything.

There were times during those difficult days in the old Second Division when the opposition at Upton Park were just swept aside rather like the dust on the surface of an old dining room table. West Ham were far too good for those lower division sides who just weren't in the same class as the team in claret and blue. And yet for three long and meandering seasons, West Ham were shamefully incapable of beating the unglamorous names of the Football League pyramid. It was time to roll up the proverbial sleeves and knuckle down the task in hand. It took ages to amend the fault lines but eventually they came up with roses and smelt the coffee.

So here we are back in the present day. The gloom and doom mongers, the moaners and complainers, the pessimists and despondent voices can be found in every corner of the East End. From the fans who used to congregate at Green Street market to the Boleyn Ground, a now sadly decaying stadium that once housed its charming assembly of natural, homegrown talent. It was all quite sad and threadbare.  But hope springs eternal because where can the club be without it? Will the London Stadium become their downfall? Some of us will be hoping for the best rather than the worst.

West Ham now face two of the most critical games at this infant stage of the new season. They travel to Wolves in the Carabao Cup on Tuesday and then move back into the Midlands for their next Premier League match against Nottingham Forest at the City Ground. Forest have spent heavily in the transfer window and will be showing no remorse for West Ham's deepening predicament. The omens don't look good but then again who knows?

Here we are again on Saturday and those lovely traditionalists will be grumbling under their breath. You will listen to your weekly schedule of football matches ranging from the Premier League and right through to the Championship, and Leagues One and Two through gritted teeth. There will be a good deal of terrified forbearance and a naive optimism based on nothing in particular. We know what might happen but dare not predict the future with any certainty.

At the moment, it does look as though long, hard winter stretches in front of West Ham. The first autumnal leaves will rapidly be replaced by the first frosts. The Premier League will become that turbulent roller coaster that almost left the club gasping for air last season. And yet, bizarrely, football supporters tend to criticise their team without knowing quite why. It's the managers who become the target for the boo boys, the players responsible for this current state of turmoil and maybe we wonder at  our own preposterous sense of loyalty to our football club. 

We point  accusing fingers at our own motives for going to our home ground, ask questions about our footballing allegiances. Are we the ones with delusions of grandeur, are we the ones who should stop taking football and sport too seriously? Our health and happiness should be foremost in our minds and nothing else should matter. But come three o'clock this afternoon we'll be bellowing our encouragement, maintaining once and all that your team is the greatest in the land and we're going to win the Premier League. Some of us will privately chuckle at the absurdity of it all. Still, for the team who won the World Cup for England in 1966, we must think that better days in football lie ahead of us. Come on you Irons.  

Autumn calling.

 Autumn calling.

You can feel it in your water, sense its presence and know it's in there somewhere. Autumn is calling rather like a summons from some unidentifiable source, a premonition of dramatic changes in the climate and the beginning of shorter days. Summer is fading away albeit gradually and that may sound like a fond farewell but of course there's an element of truth because we can sense a transitional period whereby the heavenly heat of summer begins to cool down and, before you know it, the kids are back at school.

The Jewish holidays of Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kipper, Succot and Simchat Torah will be beckoning us together for another gathering of the great and good. We will pray for a healthy and happy New Year and we'll all be together under the same roof of religious harmony, communal bliss and family bonhomie. It'll be time for just sharing good humoured laughter, corny jokes that always brought a smile to our faces and general satisfaction with our place in the greater scheme of things. 

At the moment of course, the latest political developments would suggest that we could be on the brink of a dramatic and heart warming breakthrough. In the land of NATO, the countries of the world are inching towards common ground, quite possibly peace and reconciliation but there can be no way of telling. The mysterious goings on in the highest circles of diplomacy remain a well kept secret but promising. By now you'd have thought they'd reached a unanimous, bilateral agreement but not quite yet. 

In the USA, a man who continues to defy belief, classification and categorisation, just grins on cue when a TV camera falls on his face and then starts blustering, jabbering away in short, sharp sentences at times unintelligibly and incoherently before lapsing into traditional soundbites. His name is Donald Trump and, according to some, it's nonsensical rhetoric. But, hold on! We are now underestimating the power and influence he still manages to exert.

But Donald Trump, president of the United States of America, is still in charge. He is at the heart of everything, a central figure, that reassuring voice, calm and collected, tactful as always and never shrinking from the most exacting of challenges. Trump is not a control freak, merely somebody convinced that he will win the Nobel Prize For Peace one day and everybody will thank him, that world domination will be his. Or maybe not to all of the above.

The truth is though that Trump maybe whistling in the wind. The sight of a once recklessly ambitious businessman trying desperately to hold the world together, was almost unsightly at times. Trump's horrific confrontation with Ukranian president Zelensky is now well documented. Not only did they have the most combustible of public arguments with each other but there was never any hope at all that world peace was ever on each other's agenda. 

So, for the moment at least, things appear at a complete stalemate. Putin wants his slice of the political cake with his very own specific demands and this whole fiasco smacks of ultimatums and emotional blackmail. Putin looks so snug and self assured that you wonder if he's taken any acting lessons recently. Zelensky, for the first time, had the friendliest of conversations with Trump. The cynics would have insisted there were grudging smiles between them and there is still an icy undercurrent between them. Perhaps they will just make up and  get on with the business of being good mates.

In the background there's British Prime Minister Sir Keir Starmer who, as a human rights lawyer, must be familiar with the legal ramifications of long term wars between nations and the morality issues that lie behind this terrible conflict. Starmer looks as though he probably needs a good holiday on one of the Greek islands with his family. Once again everything is categorically, his fault. The economy is in tatters, the cost of living crisis is deepening and worsening by the hour and those Labour busybodies are doing next to nothing to help anybody. If Starmer thinks he'll emerge from this Ukraine- Russia bloodbath with any credit, he may have to think again. Nobody wins any war under any circumstances.

Meanwhile back in Britain, the seasons are changing slowly but surely. Shortly we'll all be huddling together in our warm homes, crackling log fires soothing the soul, hot soups ready to be sipped  comfortingly and a thousand pubs will be seething with activity. Those gaming machines will be flickering away colourfully, snooker tables jammed solid with experienced punters and the bars will be ratcheting up a healthy profit from the huge variety of lagers, ciders and wines always available to thirsty drinkers who have probably been going to the same pub for ages. 

Now of course a majority of pubs have become restaurants, carveries, eating and drinking venues. There are curry and steak nights, the eternally popular pub quizzes, karaoke evenings and live rock bands who love to make their guitars and keyboards heard in some distant village miles away. And then in a small corner an important game of dominoes will be heard tapping away and maybe a vital game of shove hapenny will also take pride of place.

And before chucking out time in the said pub, groups of men will be playing darts and of course women. Now darts has always occupied a neat place in the affections of many a pub landlord and lady since the game is so well established that it was hard to remember a time when it wasn't there. The throwing of arrows at a heavily pockmarked darts board is now a nightly occurrence in most pubs across the land. Suddenly, the tension will be broken with the famous cry of 180 which is greeted with raucous cheers by a jubilant crowd propping up the bar.

Yesterday though all of the world's great leaders came together and tried to knock heads together, determined to bring this deplorable and disgraceful conflict to an end. Trump, given half the chance, would stop the fighting and killing at source and now rather than next week or month. But then President Putin of Russia just stood there smiling like the kid who'd just bought a packet of lemon sherbets and liquorice allsorts and got exactly what he wanted because mum had been so lovely and kind.

Putin, of course was plugged into his headphones because although his command of the English language is probably impeccable, he still felt at ease with everyday Russian. Putin just wants everything his own way, a smug and, quite possibly arrogant man who believes, quite clearly, that Russia should have everything that belongs to the country by right, history and heritage. But then again there have been the usual discussions, intense negotiations and the eternal quest for compromise if things go wrong.

To the outside world there is still a sense that we're not quite there yet, that we're just labouring, plodding, hesitating and avoiding the main objective. The world of politics is so confused, fragmented and divided that you can only assume that eventually it'll all fall into place one day. Somebody will listen to the voice of reason and common sense, clarity and compassion. Someday we'll say that enough is enough and that'll be it, the line under the sand, no more death, pain and suffering, communities rallying together, mutual love and understanding the predominant emotion.

But, shortly, the rustling leaves on trees will flutter away, dropping onto the grass before turning the most becoming shade of yellow and brown while conkers will be cracked at school. Liverpool, Arsenal, Manchester City, Aston Villa and Newcastle United will be battling away for the right to lift the Premier League trophy next May. And then the England men's football team will hopefully be heading towards their promised land in next years World Cup hosted by the USA, Mexico and Canada and life will be precious and cherishable. We love life and wouldn't have it any other way.   

Opening day of the new football season.

 Opening day of the new football season.

So why do we keep doing this to ourselves? We do it every football season and we don't quite know why. It is this unwavering devotion to the Beautiful Game, the game we became besotted with at an early age and could never adequately explain or justify since we were children and kids are supposed to play the game in the back streets and roads with coats for goalposts. And, of course Jimmy Greaves may have been your pin up boy. He was that iconic poster on your bedroom wall, the striker you struck up a lifelong friendship with even if you could never relate to him since you were a child of nature. 

But today you will be totally committed to the cause because football is addictive, the most riveting of spectacles and, besides, you'll be watching the Premier League highlights on Match of Day since your mates will be there, sharing your agony and ecstasy. You'll always find yourself questioning the root cause of this seasonal ordeal, this unnecessary purgatory since you could be fixing shelves in your dining room, painting the walls for the umpteenth time or just roaming around shopping centres looking for that elusive bargain. Football is not compulsory or a must, an essential part of your day or weekend. It is football and not the end of the world if you lose.

And yet we do take football far too seriously because we can't keep away from the transfer speculation involving your club, the make or break, critical importance of your team's chameleon like performances. Your team are unpredictable, annoying but then we become uncontrollably triumphant when we win. Here's the deal. You spend nine months simply watching those roller coaster rides through wincing eyes, the fluctuating tides of fortune or misfortune.  There will be endless discussions, post mortems, wailing laments, floods of tears, dripping beads of sweat, timeless anguish but, quite, possibly, an upturn in form, victory snatched from the jaws of adversity. 

You'll be sitting on the edge of your season ticket seats desperately hoping for a flying start to the new Premier League season, righteous redemption, salvation from the dangers of relegation. Young and old,  children and adults, families, wives and girlfriends, husbands, cousins, uncles, aunties, neighbours and friends, they're all united by fun loving camaraderie, terrace rivalry and good humoured banter. You've been going to your team's stadium for as long as you can remember and perhaps you're hardened to setbacks and disasters, constant underachievement. But you've now been released from workaday duties and presented with new challenges and opportunities. This is your moment to shine in the August sun.

So these are the opening sentences and chapters of the new football season where issues will remain unresolved until next Spring. Then the daffodils begin to nod enchantingly at you and the tulips will acknowledge your existence with a slight shiver and shake as you walk past these hardy perennials in your local wetlands. Football was always the game that heralded new beginnings in August as winter hunkered down for the duration, hiding away discreetly before the season took a sharp bend into February, March and April. 

In the old days at Upton Park you would appear on the open, inviting terraces and stands of the South Bank, having squeezed through squeaking turnstiles and then placed yourself strategically near the front. With a 10p programme in hand and having forked out the criminally extortionate sum of £12.50 for the afternoon's entertainment, we stood there faithfully through thick and thin. In 1978, football was a completely different kind of animal, a living organism that seemed so vibrant and thriving. There were no multi millionaires, no Smart Phone gadgets, none of the paraphernalia that we now commonly associate with the modern game. 

We had no way of establishing instant communication with each other because London was still dotted with red telephone boxes and thick telephone directory books. In those far off days there was not a single sight or sound of mobile phones with in built cameras. You wandered into your local football stadium and just mixed amiably with your mates, work colleagues, school pals and the extended members of the football community. There were no fashionable accessories to show off or new fangled objects that you could boast about shamelessly. It was just you, the traditional burger, hot dog or a small carton of fish and chips while around you there was an electrifying atmosphere. That was unmistakable. 

Personal memories of an opening day of a football season remind you of some classic fixture from way back when. It was West Ham's first game in the old Second Division in 1978 and the Chicken Run was in unforgiving mood. The club had just been relegated from the top flight, the old First Division and some of the hardy claret and blue followers were still moping and sulking. West Ham fans were never entirely satisfied with the fare they were delivered regardless of the division they happened to be in. But this was an entirely different set of circumstances. 

In their opening day fixture against one of the oldest clubs in the world, West Ham were in rampant mood, pumped up, reinvigorated, batteries recharged after the summer break. In the bright, warm and hot sunshine at Upton Park, West Ham clobbered and battered Notts County 5-2 as the spritely and supple, nimble footed and graceful Hammers were on cloud nine. David Cross, a striker, previously of Coventry City and Norwich, made an instant impression with a valuable goal scoring contribution. 

In recent years, West Ham have been on the wrong end of some savage maulings at the hands of Liverpool and Manchester United on the first day of the season. Opening day fixtures for your team were awkward and often humiliating experiences if you followed West Ham.You often felt their minds were still preoccupied with heady, dizzy and euphoric days on Spanish beaches. Still, we are here now and the football season is back where it belongs- taunting and teasing you mercilessly. 

Last night, Premier League champions Liverpool opened up their account with a marvellously pulsating 4-2 victory over Bournemouth. Liverpool should be joined by the exalted company that normally hunts down the team at the top. It will, inevitably, be the magnificent Arsenal, full of football's natural impulses, passing the ball for fun and admirably durable, a force for good. Then there's the gloriously instinctive Manchester City who won four consecutive Premier League titles without seemingly breaking sweat. Aston Villa and Chelsea will, of course be there or thereabouts while Newcastle United should never be knowingly underestimated or overlooked as potential top three contenders. 

Today will be the day when football stretches its arms and yawns contentedly after a beautiful summer. Managers will be haunted by the spectre of relegation, barracked and heckled by fans who were rather hoping for an outstanding season of trophies and silverware. The players will be richer than ever before and the game will be just as controversial and toxic as it always has been. But if your team play at the London Stadium you may have to settle for anti climactic mid table mediocrity or, hopefully not, relegation to the Championship or even the lower Leagues. Wherever you are, have a superb football season everybody.  

   

It's a heatwave.

 It's a heatwave.

Yes folks it's a heatwave and that's official. It is, undoubtedly gorgeous out there, a stunning profusion of loveliness, beauty, art, a throwback to those luscious, heavily perfumed days of high summer, where the yellow and red rose beds are now blooming, blossoming, strikingly attractive, England enjoying the kind of heat and sunshine that we normally associate with the Mediterranean. But then there are those for whom this exceptionally warm spell may find barely tolerable. It's too sticky and humid, they cry plaintively.

It's far too hot and, besides, we do need rain because the farmers of Britain will be begging for the wet stuff. The rain is vitally important for the healthy growth of their lands and the fertile crops that proliferate with some regularity in the more moderate temperatures of an English summer. But we woke up this morning and once again there was a glorious and royal grandeur about the day, radiant rays of warm sunshine beaming down on suburbia, the urban landscape, town, city, garden, park and fields of gold. 

It is hard to find a happy medium because in some ways this was, essentially, the summer we must have been privately wishing for and then pondered again since, in Britain, none of us know what our preferred climate would be. By May and early June, we had the first indications of a good summer, full of happy vibes, warmth and sunshine. But then the dark clouds gathered and we grumbled albeit briefly because we knew that once the winds began to strengthen and the rain showers increased fairly rapidly, we knew we were in trouble. This summer though, didn't quite conform to that traditional pattern. 

So by the end of June and the beginning of July, Wimbledon tennis had come and gone and we declared a dry, pleasant fortnight at Wimbledon. There were no real disturbances and rain interruptions with every hope that once the sun poked its head over the horizon in the morning over SW19, there were optimistic weather forecasts just around the corner. It was time for the sun to put its hat on and relax in the languorous, relaxing heat. It shimmered across Centre Court and Courts One and Two almost constantly and was therefore accepted as quite the hottest fortnight of tennis ever experienced. 

Now we took to our seaside beaches and esplanades and covered every acre of yellow sand with hundreds of sun umbrellas, those quaint looking parasols that keep us in welcome shade if the sun does prove too much for some. Here in Britain, we dig out our industrial fans in our stuffy offices, gazing fondly at the cloudless, flawless blue sky and wondering if perhaps we were imagining it. And yet it is here and it just feels that, in early August, as if the climate change advocates were absolutely right. Yes, they say quite categorically, we knew that our summers were definitely warming up with a delightful consistency. 

A couple of weeks ago we were shocked when the temperatures plummeted by several degrees and although never cold or freezing, things had cooled down quite noticeably. But then it occurred to us that maybe we needed a break from the sweltering sun, a chance to put our weather into some kind of sober perspective. We could never challenge Spain, Italy and Greece for wall to wall sunshine because in the Med, they turn on the central heating system at the beginning of May and never turn it off. 

So here we are slowly wending our way towards the end of high summer and the last crack of red ball against willow cricket bat can be heard faintly on some peaceful village green where the gulls are now making steady progress away from the English countryside. They remind you of summer's final grace notes, the final, delicious chords of England's orchestral flourish. 

There is a timeless and joyous feel about those final weeks of summer, a wonderfully gratifying sensation about a season that promised so much and then delivered accordingly. In the cornfields and lush meadows of Middle England, they'll be taking their combine harvesters out for one last journey into a world of gently waving productivity. The strawberries have always been at their sweetest and those salads simply irresistible. 

But we'll look back on the summer of 2025 as a hearty and wholesome one, impressively warm and for those who ventured onto Hampstead Heath for the first time, it just felt very satisfying. We were hoping to read our football poetry on some sun kissed field in the middle of nowhere and we almost got there. And yet, we didn't care in hindsight because the day itself was warm and just blissfully perfect. We might have got lost in the labyrinth of winding pathways and deep forests that you seemed to get lost in temporarily but didn't care. You knew you'd emerge from the canopy of tree branches and thick bushlands and then back home, not quite the destination you were hoping to reach. But never mind, hey. Life is indeed beautiful. 

Jim Lovell dies at 97.

 Jim Lovell dies at 97.

It was 1970 and we knew that our rental TV black and white DER set was about to disappear into obscurity, never to appear again quite literally. Our hitherto trustworthy TV had had enough. It needed to wind down and rest. It had lived in our dining room for so many years that we'd quite forgotten how long we'd been watching it for. Our black and white TV was in its last cathode ray, ready to conk out at any minute, about to witness its Last Supper. It had been a good friend to us for many years, faithfully flickering onto the screen with fuzzy images and lines at times but then flourishing when there was something good to see. 

Jim Lovell, one of the last all conquering Apollo 13 astronauts, had travelled to the Moon and back but never got the chance to take those first steps on the Moon. You were still a child at the time but the now vague memories are barely discernible images in your consciousness. Lovell was live and black and white and in our family home, a source of immense fascination. Planet Earth was still the place you wanted to remain but here was a man whose remarkable sense of adventure, enduring curiosity and scientific mind had most of us spellbound. 

Shortly before, Lovell, Buzz Aldrin and Neil Armstrong were gripped by a sense of wild experimentation. What would happen if you wanted to really go to the Moon and actually walk on it? But, Armstrong bravely ventured where none had gone before by actually stepping onto the Moon's surface. And then it happened. Armstrong climbed out of his rocket and capsule and started jumping up and down on the Moon's surface before seemingly dancing with sheer delirium, relieved to have created an epic moment in history for mankind. 

But Lovell, who yesterday died at the age of 97, was more than just a fascinated visitor to outer space. He was commander of Apollo 13, a ground breaker, pioneer, general genius and huge intellect. He knew he was doing something that most of us could have only dreamt of achieving in our wildest fantasies. But Lovell went up to the Moon before floating around, observing the spectacular and barely able to take in the vast scope of his achievements. 

Lovell never actually stepped on the Moon. That was after Armstrong took those giant steps for mankind and played golf, broke into song and then began spinning around delightedly in his NASA suit, laughing as if somebody had just cracked the funniest joke and then just enjoying that iconic moment. The cynics always maintained that man would never step onto the surface of the Moon because it was physically impossible but, 55 years ago, you sat down right in front of your TV and were transported to another world. 

You crossed your legs literally with your eyes riveted to the screen and ignored your mum's warning to the effect that, sitting so close to the TV,  your eyes would be severely damaged and you'd need glasses in later life. Of course mum was right and the glasses came later on in adult life. But then the Apollo space missions were scheduled to appear on two of the TV channels and this was compulsive watching. So it was that ITV or Thames Television and the BBC joined forces and devoted saturation coverage to the Apollo missions. 

You can still remember the professorial and science teacher extraordinaire Patrick Moore, pince nez or glass in one eye, engaging with his enraptured TV audience and talking about the planets around the solar system quite naturally. There was the Sun, Mercury, Venus, Jupiter, Mars and Pluto and Moore left us with enormous wisdom and was the ultimate authority on all matters relating to space and some far distant corner of the universe. Moore was intriguing, admirably knowledgeable and a man with an insatiable thirst for more information. 

But Jim Lovell was just one of many boldest astronauts, a man possessed of lifelong ambitions and whose inquisitive nature would take him to places that most of us would never see or experience. To this day, the likes of Lovell were taking calculated risks, regarded as mad by the cynics but then revered by millions of TV viewers. And yesterday was his final journey into the unknown, exploring areas of far away constellations and craters that none of us could possibly imagine. 

These days our modern imaginations are taken to different dimensions. Now, we watch those science fiction TV classics as Star Trek and will tell our children and grandchildren about the make believe exploits of Spock and Captain Kirk of the Starship Enterprise. We'll tell them about the immense contribution made to the film industry where Star Wars and then the Empire Strikes Back left us breathless and richly entertained. It was space but not as we would know it. 

Jim Lovell, who sadly passed yesterday, would have been proud to know that the generational baton was in safe and capable hands. Hollywood legend Tom Hanks did wonderful justice to the role of an astronaut and, more recently, William Shatner, Captain Kirk, who just fancied a whirlwind visit into outer space. It did seem a quite logical development and perhaps we should have known that Shatner would do something like it. Lovell and the great Apollo missions will always be synonymous with some of the greatest moments in our childhood. 

National Finish Your Degree Day

 National Finish Your Degree Day.

This is normally the day when school children across Britain jump out of bed, wait excitedly at the front door for the post to arrive and then discover all of those very extreme and contrasting emotions. They will just bite their fingernails, hoping against hope that all of those industrious and dedicated weeks, months and years will bear fruition. Put simply, they just want to know how they've done in their GSCEs and, in a week or so, their A Levels. 

It's one of those crucial, life changing and defining moments in their young life when kids get all hot and bothered in case their exams have gone disastrously wrong. It may not be the end of the world if things have gone belly up for them because they can always re-take the aforementioned exams but, if they have failed quite emphatically, then the gnawing doubts and mental anxieties will inevitably set in. They've been a terrible disappointment to mum and dad and how on earth are they going to rectify what would appear to be insoluble problems. 

But today is what happens if you were fortunate enough to pass these exams and go to university because you may want to know how you've done with your degree. University studies were sadly beyond your academic aptitude for learning about subjects you could never quite grasp. So you became resigned to your fate and you knuckled down life at a secondary school unaware that some of your classmates may have been clever enough to study what seemed demanding subjects as physics, chemistry, biology, maths, economics and art. 

And yet today is National Finish Your Degree Day and even that sentence somehow seems so far removed from everything you had experienced at school that even the mere mention of this day seems like wishful thinking on your part. The truth is that one exam and one exam only determined your educational journey and shaped your future career plans or lack of any in my case. If you passed your 11 plus and went to a high or grammar school, you were considered brainy, erudite, quick on the uptake, bright and capable of becoming a working or middle class individual, climbing the ladder of management and one day becoming a company director. 

So here you are this morning, privately optimistic about your degree swotting, all of those diligent mornings, afternoons and evenings locked away in your Halls of Learning and whole heartedly memorising the finer points of your degree and leafing through thousands of reference books, thick and weighty tomes with mind blowing information about bloodthirsty wars, battles, dates, places, detailed descriptions about chemical terminology, complicated logarithms and cosine maths tables. 

Controversially, todays university students will be required to pay monumental sums of hard cash for their further education. And in recent times, we've all heard about the outraged reactions of students who have to cough up thousands of pounds on a degree course for any of the subjects just mentioned. Subsequently, all of today's young teenagers may be burdened with a hellish debt they may never be able to pay off. So they take out these troublesome loans with no prospect of meeting these daunting financial requirements.  

But you do have unwavering admiration for those who have forsaken everything just to get to this point. It's hard to know how much importance society still attaches to school qualifications since the great economists, bankers, scientists, doctors, commercial artists, laboratory technicians, engineers and politicians would still attribute their successes in life to a good university education. The professional classes who go to such eminent public schools such as Eton and Harrow may well be born with a silver spoon in their mouths but a privileged background doesn't necessarily mean that a streetwise intelligence is guaranteed. 

The arguments rage over huge tuition fees and then there are the extraordinary financial demands placed upon youngsters which continue to be a major source of discussion in the polished lobbies and corridors of Westminster. And once again the class system in England, always the oldest bone of contention among social commentators, rears its ugly head. How is it the super wealthy invariably prosper and inevitably end up in strikingly impressive four pillared homes with several Rolls Royce cars in their crunching gravelled driveways? Perhaps these are the gated communities who sneer disdainfully on the rest of Britain. But maybe this is completely wrong and this is some distorted perspective of the way we live today.

And yet today is National Finish Your Degree Day. It's time to assess your molecular biology degree and wonder exactly what it is you want to do with it. You could become a well respected hospital surgeon, a leading medical commentator who knows all about their field of expertise or maybe you could be the next distinguished professor familiar with all the latest experiments and potential cures for all diseases. This is your day for sober reflection and breathing a sigh of relief. After all, you've worked yourself into the ground and deserve your moment in the sun. Well done and congratulations. 

The new football season

 The new football season.

There used to be a time when the new football season in both England and Scotland was warmly anticipated rather like a picnic in the countryside or a day at the seaside or some luxurious holiday  around a hotel swimming pool. Perhaps a lazy beachside retreat next to a turquoise coloured sea would set you up very nicely for the new football season in August. It was timed to perfection rather like a stopwatch. 

For fans who supported teams in the lower divisions, there would be an ever present dread and foreboding, a sense that there was no point in hoping for anything apart perhaps from a decent League or FA Cup run. In the Premier League, though, the algorithms and statistical data would mean something entirely different. You somehow knew that the season would be accompanied by loftier standards and expectations. There remained a real possibility that you might but probably not win any conceivable silverware but there was nothing new about that.

So here we are at the beginning of August and the new club kits are being prepared, washed and cleaned thoroughly. Both the home and away shirts look in pristine condition, preparations are under way for the great pilgrimage to every Premier League, Championship, League One and Two club and dad will iron out the creases of those retro shirts that occasionally date back to when Kevin Keegan or Clyde Best were but teenagers.

But every season, football becomes more and more trapped in a dizzying merry go round of financial madness and rampant materialism, a billion pound operation that becomes so money crazed, greedy and acquisitive with every passing year that you can hardly bear witness to this moral abomination. For year on and year we look aghast at a transfer window so obsessed with its million pound addiction that you somehow wish a rational speaking figure would just get hold of the game and shake it to its senses. 

And therein lies the enduring dilemma. In the old days when football was played against a sensible backdrop of pounds, shillings, tanners and old sixpences, football was pure, unblemished and grounded. It was a game, above all, free from corruption, endless vanity projects and players who were only worried by the size of their next country mansion and those gravelled driveways groaning with the latest Jaguar or Ferrari model. 

Of course, the traditionalists can vividly recall the decade which completely lost its wherewithal, its ability to look no further than the price of footballers, their marketable potential and maybe their capacity to perform in some outlandish reality TV show. They long for the days when Tom Finney, the Preston plumber, simply played football for fun and pleasure rather than the extra digit on his wage packet  which became as much an anachronism as the tram, trolley bus or the rationing of butter after the Second World War.

Still, although there's only a fortnight to go before the much reviled and despised referee blows his first kick off whistle of the season, there is much to look forward to despite the crass expenditure of wildly inflated footballers who still believe that they're genuinely misunderstood. But then you look at the game's outside influences, the dubious chairmen and those spivs whose only objective is to make a quick buck and then make as much money out of the deal as seems humanly possible. It is hard to look beyond football's darker boundaries since this seems so disreputable and unpleasant. 

And yet in two weeks time Premier League champions Liverpool will open their defence of their title with hopes shining in abundance and the usual suspects such as Arsenal, Aston Villa, Manchester City and Chelsea snapping at Liverpool's heels. Next week, FA Cup winners Crystal Palace meet Premier League champions Liverpool in the Community Shield in the customary curtain raiser to the football season.

Even now you can visualise the yearly build up to the start of the season. Groundsmen and women will be painting fresh coats of white onto new touchlines, goal-lines, nets will be lovingly installed on opposite sides of the ground and vast terraces swept and cleaned rigorously. Behind the scenes, legions of fans will be dusting down their cashless cards and phones where tickets of the day will be sold via a QR code or the yearly guarantee of the conventional season ticket. 

It all seems a far cry from the days when you marched confidently into the South Bank at West Ham United and then passed what seemed like a full paddock of horses with stern looking policemen gripping tightly onto their reins. The opening day of a new football season was like the beginning of a school term since in many ways you didn't quite know what to expect. You were familiar with old acquaintances but hadn't a clue how your team would fare throughout the season. 

You then squeezed your way through creaking, rusting and decaying turnstiles and then wandered out onto the hugely populated terraces and seats. At first you were awe stricken at the sheer size and volume of the ground even though it was still empty. Still, you stood there stoically on that famous day in the middle of August surrounded by vocal and vociferous kids with scarves amusingly tied around their waist. Some were still wearing the Adidas T-shirts of 1970s vintage while others were weighed down with several burgers and hotdogs dripping profusely with tomato ketchup.

You now took out the much cherished footballing literature of the match programme. Way back in the distant past, football match programmes consisted of a couple of A4 size pieces of paper with just a couple of notices for future matches and the obligatory advertising of local timber merchants or tyre companies. But your programme was your passport into a world of fantasy and imagination. Perhaps 90 minutes of sheer escapism would provide the most delightful of all distractions and, quite possibly, a victory for your team if they were in the right mood on the day. 

From late summer and right through winter, your feet would be constantly subjected to the ever changing climates. Through sun, rain, wind and snow, you simply didn't care because it was just good to be alive and still is of course. You were watching your team and who cared if they were thrashed 5-0 on a Saturday afternoon since this was the rich tapestry of life. You could read your team's body language from the kick off. Of course every team who visited West Ham's old Upton Park ground would lick their lips and salivate at the home's team's reckless and cavalier attacking style. West Ham were simply easy to beat, fallible and gullible, vulnerable and fragile when their defence was frequently broken into with consummate ease. 

But here we are at the beginning of August and the summertime revelries will soon be replaced by an autumnal cavalcade of brown leaved colours, the endless family picnics in parks now a distant memory, the outdoor pop concerts a barely audible guitar and family parties joyous gatherings that once gravitated into the garden before going back into the kitchen for a while. The ducks and geese will fly back over well cultivated fields and thousands of residential rooftops before soaring over beautifully medieval churches and peacefully idyllic panoramas. It is still very much  a microcosm of your life because it only occupies a small place in your weekly itinerary.  

Football will always have its natural place in the grander scheme of things and will always have the most important value and currency. It is of course obscenely expensive and unbearably repetitive at times since the Beautiful Game is virtually a seven day sporting event. Premier League games are now spread out over an entire weekend and the rest of the fixture schedule is a random manifestation, matches taking place on both Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays and, now ludicrously, on Thursdays.

Still, football fans really wouldn't have it any other way because it's in their bloodstream, their natural conditioning, their lifestyle and mentality, the way they organise their lives throughout the weeks. So, come on everybody, let's celebrate life and usher in the new football season. We would never have it any other way. Step aboard the fluctuating roller coaster of ups and downs that is the football season. It's football and we'll be there for them at every possible moment. You may be sure we will.