Here comes the summer.

 Here comes the summer.

So here we go, folks. It's time to state the obvious, to announce the arrival of summer. We knew you were there somewhere. You just needed a little coaxing and encouragement. We didn't doubt you for a minute. So you woke up this morning and found summer in all her flamboyant glory, treading the boards and tripping the light fantastic, proudly taking centre stage. It's warm, gloriously hot and, at some point, some of us will be complaining about the sweltering heat and how they've had enough of this energy sapping heatwave. 

Very shortly, we'll be up in arms about long and protracted droughts, endless hose pipe bans, needing a thousand industrial fans just to keep cool. We'll be wondering whether it'll ever rain again and how the grass looks so parched and burnt because of the incessant heatwave. There just ain't no pleasing us. For now is the time to drink loads of water, to rehydrate as quickly as possible and then sit in the shade of a local park underneath a spreading chestnut tree. We'll be purring over the roses and gardenias, laburnums and nasturtiums, the flourishing flowers on rooftop terraces, the gardens which just look ravishing. 

The chances are that we'll probably end up feeling totally disillusioned and devastated because we just can't breathe on Underground trains for lack of air or ventilation. Put the air conditioning on now before we faint. It's the same old story isn't it! Give Britain five minutes of stunning warmth and summer heat and we just don't know what to do with ourselves. Railway tracks buckle, summer traffic in the City simply gets worse and, at times becomes intolerable while, at the same time, the kids have to be kept entertained. 

We are now rapidly approaching the school summer holiday period and we know what parents across this green and pleasant land think of that small matter that develops into a major source of irritation. Take your friends over to the park and play cricket, football, tennis, venture into the world of tree climbing, playing hop scotch on local pavements, scanning our phones on What's App in case one of our mates wants to climb Mount Everest, drinking Coca Colas and Red Bulls all day long and finally jumping off walls and fences because that's cool and acceptable. 

But we're now into the middle of June and you can almost hear the preparations for tennis at Wimbledon shortly. That huge roller will be out on Centre Court and Courts One and Two, gently creating idyllically symmetrical lines across the grass so it looks in pristine condition on opening day. Wimbledon will look like the most immaculately maintained garden you could ever wish to see. It will look like summer and that's a compliment in itself. But then Wimbledon and summer are somehow synonymous with the first village fete, the summer church bazaar, and outdoor swimming pools now jammed solid with teenagers diving off boards and doing their utmost to look like Duncan Goodhew. 

So here we are in the middle of June and soon we'll all be off to the country perhaps for a spot of strawberry picking in the Elysian fields, buying some of the most delicious potatoes and baby potatoes on farmlands that are almost timelessly beautiful. It's time to dust off those barbecues, those tongs, the briquettes that light up that wonderful piece of garden furniture. And then dad will stand next to the barbecue and happily demonstrate his innate culinary skills. What a cook dad is. He's the best so leave it up to him to make the day complete. 

But, above all, summer is all about feeling good and when the mercury hits 86 Fahrenheit, we'll just spend the entire day feeding the ducks, throwing blankets onto the grass for a stylish picnic or wandering through the gorgeous Wetlands next to us and expressing eternal gratitude. At work, we may be longing for a brief respite from the office urgencies or hitting deadlines. So we'll be staring at our computers and ploughing diligently through hundreds of emails, desperately trying to keep the boss happy and just making sure that everything has been done by lunchtime or maybe five minutes. 

You keep charging through the office at a hundred miles an hour while all the time wishing you could just work via your lap top outside in the sun. The welcome arrival of this early summer heatwave may last for who knows how long but it is important to remember that the seasons come and go and winters may be cold and dreary. But hey who cares about that minor consideration. We're all off on a summer holiday and there are no more worries anymore, to quote pop icon Sir Cliff Richard. 

We all seem to feel much better about ourselves and become more energetic as the summer unfolds. There are more runners pounding the streets and roads, while those of us who attempt to work out in our local gym just look stronger, healthier and fitter. Life is indeed just exhilarating and invigorating. And of course it is. Suddenly, the trees have been restored to their greenest colours and the dogs are just full of beans and fizzing exuberance. 

Around here in North London, the Wetlands seem to be thriving. The family oriented geese and swans are just gliding through the water euphorically without a care in the world. A couple of weeks ago, a mother swan took up residence on her nest and eventually gave birth to her delightful chicks. It was one of the most moving of all sights and you were there to witness it. It almost felt as if you were at one with nature and nothing else mattered. 

Soon the butterflies and moths and all manner of exotic wildlife will be flitting and dancing, floating and darting from one bush to another and feeling pretty good with their lives. Then there are the moths who just love to flirt with each other, hovering excitedly over radiant yellow sun flowers. The birds of course conjure up one of summer's prettiest of portraits and melodies, thousands of crows and blackbirds jumping for joy, always inquisitive, nibbling tree branches, tentatively picking at leaves and just enjoying summer's most decorative displays.

There's now July to look forward to and summer has only just started. The hardened cynics will try to convince us that the good weather can't possibly last. Mark their words because, come July, thunder and lightning will dominate the weather agenda. It'll pour down with rain every day and the clouds in the sky will be permanently dark. July will be awash with monumental Biblical floods, typhoons and hurricanes which shouldn't be that far away. Before you know it, the umbrellas will multiply by the second and those who just can't stand the rain will be moping away plaintively as if the world has come to an end. 

And as for August and September. The fact is that some regard these months as the beginning of autumn and therefore any warm sunshine we may get will simply be a bonus. So whether you're sitting around a hotel pool in Spain, Italy or Greece or just putting your feet up on some luxurious cruise vessel destined for some sun kissed island in the Indian ocean, this is the time to count our mercies and just soak up those rays.

It is easy to assume that this could be the year when this heatwave will keep going until at least Christmas Day. So let's be positive because we could all do with at least a hundred ice creams and innumerable trips to the seaside, showing off your bronzed tan once again and just indulging in carefree bliss. Heatwaves in Britain have to be remembered and immortalised in poetry and verse. If Wordsworth, Keats or Coleridge were all alive, we'd all think that summer is one long celebration of life. But everyday is a source of jubilation. We do indeed love life and summer. Have a good one, folks.     

Happy Fathers Day.

 Happy Fathers Day. 

Of course my late and lovely dad was the greatest, loveliest and finest dad on the planet. Today we wax lyrical about our dads, the paternal influence who was always there with the most sympathetic shoulder to cry on when our callow and innocent youth just wanted to have a chat, to unburden ourselves. We would always express all of our pent up frustrations when we'd had a rotten day at school or the bullies were ganging up on us. Our dad was the kindest, gentlest and most compassionate dad of them all, strong, sturdy and always embracing his family with the warmest of hugs, listening attentively to our youthful stresses and anxieties. 

So here's my effusive homage to my dad, Manny Frederick Morris or to quote the Yiddish vernacular Mendel Ben Fifish. Born Emmanuel Frederick Morris to a Hammersmith shopkeeper who plied a respectable trade near his family home in Shepherds Bush, Manny grew up to be a friendly, most engaging, cheerful and gregarious man. In 1961, he married my equally as adorable mum Sybil Rusman and they went on to bring up a family who were immensely proud to call him our dad. Everybody called him Manny because he was their neighbour, their charmer, the life and soul of any party. 

For all the ups and downs, the trials and tribulations, the triumphs and glory days of happiness, my dad shone and excelled, always seeing the brighter side of life when the darkness seemed destined to swallow him up. Of course there were the difficulties and complications, the moments we'd rather choose to forget but knew they were there for a reason. They were character building days, hardening and conditioning my brother and I to the tough times, those deeply uncomfortable days, weeks and months when life challenged the whole family. 

The childhood memories are of course warm, affectionate and enduring. There were the endless evenings when, on returning home from work, my dad would sit down with my mum and I in the kitchen, eat our meal before dad would rush upstairs to show his doting son the essential rudiments of male grooming. Suddenly, a sharp razor blade would emerge from the bathroom cabinet, bottles of shaving foam oozing naturally from the bottle and carefully if painstakingly cut away the bristle from his chin, pencilling away enthusiastically at the grey sideburns from a thick shock of charcoal black hair.

But then were the amusing moments when my dad would suddenly produce an ordinary HB pencil and then gently scratch away with the said pencil. Firstly, there was the already grey moustache that my dad would hilariously pencil in as if privately self conscious and awkward when looking at the distinguished looking grey that mum and I would never object to. We were never ashamed of the way dad ever looked because he was always fashion conscious and smart, often shampooing his grey Ford Cortina and washing it with meticulous attention to detail. Sunday mornings were memorably special for him.

The truth is that my dad insisted on elegance of the highest order, shirt, suit and tie for every occasion. Every time the family set out for a golden Sunday summer afternoon by Southend on Sea, now elevated to city status, my dad, without fail, would appear with the most stunning navy jacket with a naval insignia above the lapel. He would always wear the most fetching tie and trousers, clothes that would have graced our local Valentines Park bowling green and a contented smile on his bronzed face.

And then there were those endless summer Sunday mornings when my dad would think nothing of lying back on the family garden deckchair and of course, the family he treasured so much. Meanwhile, in the corner of our living room, our record player, stereo and tape recorder would be turned up to full volume. Now the dulcet, honeyed voice of the incomparable Frank Sinatra would belt out with stirring conviction My Way and I've Got You Under My Skin. What a glorious feeling it must have been for my dad. The whole of Cranley Road had now become transformed into a crooner's paradise, a powerful symphony orchestra of the great and good, from Tony Bennett, Sammy Davies Junior to Glen Miller. 

How could you I forget my dad and I accompanying my late grandma Dora on the most sedate and leisurely walk back to our Ilford home? Grandma Dora, now an elderly figure, still lived in a flat in Shepherd's Bush  where the lights would always be switched on reluctantly when you had negotiated four flights of steps. In fact there was a mezzanine in between the first floor where a dim light flickered on quite happily. These were indeed halcyon days.

But grandma Dora was a robust, indomitable and formidable Russian,  with the iron constitution of a woman who must have seen such tragedy and disaster during the First World War. She now travelled right across London from West to East without a murmur of complaint. She must have been in her early 80s when I was a child but there was always something of the steely matriarch about her, something non nonsense and uncompromising that never failed to impress. 

My dad though loved the company of close friends and they were legion. They were next door neighbours, friends who had been accumulated from his days of working in a Hackney menswear shop. Alf was an accomplished saxophonist who used to play to his heart's content in a local band and my dad truly valued Alf  as a close friend and a fellow salesman. There was Sandy, the black cab driver who used to live at the other end of Cranley Road, confiding in my dad with petty problems perhaps but then enjoying the delights and fruits of small talk. 

And perhaps notably there was Brian, another black cab driver, with whom my dad would form the closest of friendship, an alliance that became stronger by the day. Brian and Ruth would live across the road from us but Brian and my dad were like brothers, inseparable cousins, chatting, joking and laughing incessantly at the world and what must have been a world of troubled humanity. 

But my dad would always have time for everything and everybody. At work he would invariably find things to do even if there was nothing to do but tidy up ties and shirts in the shop window. My dad would never be bored because he had to be preoccupied with some activity. He would stand nobly in the corner of the shop, cigarette clenched neatly between his fingers and cup of tea in hand, impervious to global wars, student uprisings or revolutions that threatened to tear apart the fabric of society. 

My dad was the man I would always race out of the family home and wait for patiently to turn around the corner of Cranley Road. Now I'd become desperate to see and welcome him home as if he was the best childhood pal you could possibly imagine. Dads always gave unconditional love, tucking you into bed solicitously, switching off the lights and remembering to look after his wife Sybil, you and your brother Mark. Dads always cherished the family unit and his son just there. Rosh Hashanahs and Yom Kippurs were all about the privacy and intimacy of family life, of eating and drinking together as one.

Finally, dad heartbreakingly passed away and died on the day after my birthday in 2005. He'd smoked since he was a teenager. He never allowed alcohol to pass his lips apart from a discreet half lager and shandy on special occasions. But he was the one who, on one Kol Nidre evening, set out with me on the way to a shul and then comically wrestled with a disobedient umbrella while defying the blustery gale force winds. Dad would swim with me delightfully in the unpredictable Southend sea and do his utmost to savour every second, minute, week, month and year. For my dad was the most outstanding dad, revelling in your achievements, never disappointing and the loveliest dad in the world. Happy Fathers Day dad. My brother and I will always think of you. Love you loads dad.    

National Loving Day.

 National Loving Day.

It's easy to forget about the true meaning of our lives, our raison d'etre, that there is a point and purpose to everything, that there is a unifying and binding force that keeps us together. There is a reason for togetherness and harmony, family and friends, that special person who always rallies around you when things become tough and almost unbearable, who drop everything and exert the most beneficial and positive influence on our every day outlook.

Love does and should always make the world go around. It has done so since the beginning of time and for as long as anybody can remember. It is celebrated in film, books, all manner of literature, in the unlikeliest and most improbable circumstances but always there for you, supportive, influential, faithful, sincere and deeply impactful. It can be expressed in a multitude of ways that perhaps we take for granted. It doesn't require a great deal of effort and should be instinctive wherever we are in the world. 

Today folks it's National Loving Day. But why should ever need to be reminded about the meaning of love, the heartfelt emotion of love, the recognition of love with the giving of presents and gifts on birthdays and anniversaries, the way we look, talk, our connection to the people who mean the world to us and the family we could always rely on and trust? It's a given, of course it is. But then maybe we knew that anyway. It doesn't really need any confirmation since it has to be hard wired into our existence from the moment we wake up in the morning to that time our heads hit the pillow and we drift off to sleep. 

So what is it about love that acts as our inspiration when we need it most? Love is there to comfort and console us when we lose a loved one, when the day goes horribly wrong, when disaster strikes with a vengeance and all hope is seemingly lost. We remember the times when our late and lovely mum and dad took us to the park and watched us spinning around on a roundabout as kids or took us to the slides and swings, tucking us comfortingly into bed and kissed us goodnight. 

But this was unconditional love and of course our parents were our formative tourist guides when it came to growing up, learning all about the fundamental rules and regulations, acknowledging with politeness the goodwill bestowed on us by uncles, aunties, cousins, brothers and sisters. Love has been penned and written in a million songs, romantic songs, vinyl records, demonstrative boy and girl bands, music of the most diverse and memorable kind, love songs that are sad, poignant, genuine, reassuring and powerful. 

Music of course, as one famous scribe once remarked, is indeed the food of love. We stare across at each other in candle lit restaurants full of warm intimacy and with tender feelings from the heart. We propose to each other when we're in love, we may just decide to pop around to see you on a flying visit. We did hear that you weren't feeling well and just thought we'd see how you were getting on despite our illness, those nagging ailments that refuse to go away. 

At the moment, the world does indeed need, almost urgently, in some parts of the world, a superabundance of affection, a huge outpouring of compassion and unquestioning sympathy and solicitude. In Ukraine and Israel, there has to be love and understanding, a willingness to lend a helping hand when we're in dire need of love, desperate to hear soothing voices that ooze positivity and the most extravagant generosity of spirit. 

So then we think back to those precious days when babies are born and new life introduced into the world, the next generation. We cradle them in white blankets, showering them with maternal and paternal love, love from grandparents and great grandparents. For this is the way it should always be. Love should never be disguised or hidden away because it is at that point that our communication with the people who should be vitally important, is rendered pointless and superficial. 

Whether it be with boxes of chocolates, the most colourful of flowers or potted plants, the heroic and benevolent deeds we perform with fulsome sincerity, love comes wrapped up in the most ornate ribbons and bows, messages and glad tidings from the other side of the world in some cases. We love the company of strangers who just happen to want nothing more than a smile or laugh, an evocative word or conversation capable of changing our day for the better in seconds. So go on everybody. It's National Loving Day. We love the unity, camaraderie, good humour and bonhomie of family because they are our permanent friends, essential sources of motivation, the people who always make us feel good about ourselves. Happy National Loving Day everybody. 

Holiday time.

 Holiday time.

This is normally the time of the year when we all begin to start thinking about our summer holidays. So you've packed away a huge supply of sun factor 30s, stuffed your suitcase with all your worldly belongings, dug out the beach shorts, flip flops and then all manner of light clothing such as those skimpy T-shirts with amusing slogans plastered all over them. It's time to get in the holiday mood ladies and gentlemen.

Then there are the casual shirts for evening strolls along romantic harbours, window shopping in innumerable souvenir shops and gentle gallivanting around lively market towns, cobblestone back alleys and those tall, imposing churches where every so often a temporary moment of blissful silence is broken by the loud chiming of bells. Now, there's the spotting of those delightful al fresco restaurants and cafes that always look irresistible and attractive when you're visiting the Mediterranean in all of its seductive charms.

We always look forward to that welcome break from the domestic duties at home although family of course are essential and we love them. But, hey, come on, we all need a holiday just to re-charge the batteries, a golden drop of rejuvenation, the medicine we all need at this time just to wind down and give our industrious and workaday lives a complete rest and some different scenery, some exotic environment where chickens and hens wake us up in nearby farmyards next to our hotel. 

By the end of the day, we're so emotionally exhilarated by the relentlessly beautiful warm sunshine during the day that we almost come to expect, nay less demand, more of the same every day. Our destinations are normally European, be they Spanish or Greek islands, and how we look forward to them. So we grab our sun lounger in the morning, drape our capacious towels over the top of the reclining chair and assume that, come the evening, we'll all look like handsome bronzed Hollywood movie stars.

Nowadays there's the Caribbean, African safaris, USA, Hong Kong and the gorgeous Maldives where paradise always seems to come out to play and nobody can disturb your peace. We look for swaying, whispering palm trees and we are never disappointed, soft sandy beaches stretching for miles and as far as the eye can see. There are couples holding hands by the slowly declining sunset, a glorious vision of honey coloured amber sinking languidly into rippling sea waves. They walk seemingly for hours and hours but then find a sea food fish restaurant, where the lobsters and calamari look so juicy and enticing.

We then unpack our bulging suitcases and rucksacks, plonking them down in some relief because our flight was terrible and turbulent and all we want is the ultimate panacea which is invariably a soothing cocktail. Here is something that not only refreshes but just reinforces your enjoyment of the holiday. You sip your Pina Coladas, play with a cherry and express excessive gratitude because the working year thus far has been hectic and demanding, stressful and arduous. It's time to loosen up and chill out, folks. 

So you've settled your holiday itinerary, mapped out the places you have to see because that's what holidays are all about. These are invariably historic places of interest or those mandatory sights that are just breathtaking. You've heard all the right noises about these stunning tourist attractions and this could be the most exciting and enjoyable holiday you've had for years. So you book up to see the Egyptian pyramids, explore the foothills of Tuscany, soak up the beauty of those immensely satisfying mountain ranges and just explore the Med at your own pace. 

Nowadays some of us can still remember with deep affection those wonderful cruises that have now become very much the preferred choice of those with or without the disposable income. Of course, they're criminally extortionate and too expensive for words in some cases. But there's something about travelling on a luxurious ship or vessel in the middle of the Atlantic or the Mediterranean which simply takes you into a world that hardly seems possible and imaginable. But it's happening and this is a dream come true. 

Our perspectives on a broader scale are now very different when the conversation moves to the subject of cruises. Now you can simply kick off your crocs and flip flops, lay back on your sun lounger and gaze out at on an ocean that looks like a placid pond or lake because the breeze is barely noticeable and the sun is shining on your face. When you step on board your boat you're treated as royalty, everything is taken care of and all you have to do is just to find out which restaurant you want to go to for either lunch, dinner or tea. 

In a world of privilege and luxury, maybe we've forgotten what it was like to be swept off our feet as kids when holidays to Southend, Brighton, Bournemouth, Blackpool, Skegness and Great Yarmouth became a yearly, or so we assumed, a permanent fixture in our youth. Then we discovered that there was something more than to Britain and walking holidays in the Lake District. 

And so it is that we venture out into those sumptuous countries such as Israel, South America, Canada, Italy, Turkey or those closer to home destinations such as the Czech Republic, Hungary, Portugal, France, Turkey  or Germany. This is where we usually head for when museums or cathedrals become foremost on your agenda, places of romance and mystique, buildings with character and steeped in tradition. 

Finally, you stop for a cappuccino or a latte in the middle of the morning before adjusting your I phones and taking thousands of holiday images and photos. And then you hark back to your childhood when the fashion statement of the time was the Kodak Instamatic when a now old fashioned looking camera would snap everything from hotels to bridges, canals, woodlands, forests and birds. Your lovely late mum and dad would think nothing of taking pictures of you and your brother swallowing huge quantities of Spanish sangria or thrilling to baby bullfights in distant Majorca. 

Yes folks it's the holiday season and we'll all be telling off our friends and families that we're off to Chile, Peru or spellbinding Brazil. Maybe it'll be the mystical Orient and the Land of the Rising Sun or simply pottering around the hills and valleys of the idyllic English countryside. In the old days your mum would always make our family summer holiday her biggest priority at the start of the year and she would unfailingly bring home a princely pile of travel brochures. A quick flick through the said brochure would reveal seven, eight or ten days at the unforgettable price of £32 for ten days in Benidorm with bed, breakfast and everything included. Ah the 1970s! We'll never forget them. 

So whatever you're doing this summer whether it's home is where the heart is or some desert island in the middle of the Indian ocean, it is time to make sure that you've got everything. Don't forget the passport or that gruelling assault course known as the airport. You'd be well advised to take a deep breath and keep cool and once you board the plane be sure to select music in your earphones because if  you're going on a long haul flight, you'll be wanting some very appealing distractions. 

There are the nightmarish obstacles known as customs, the deeply annoying checking of passports, the suitcases that seem to experience every emotion known to human kind and of course those decadent boxes of chocolates, hundreds of bottles of perfume and packs of cigarettes by the thousands. Take the advice of the legendary Sir Cliff Richard who once found an old Route Master bus in the early 1960s and embarked on his own personal summer holiday. And yes of course it was just for a week or two. Have fun everybody.     

    

Thomas Hardy would have been 185 today.

 Thomas Hardy would have been 185 today. 

It may have been a little known fact but it's certainly true. Today, Thomas Hardy would have been celebrating his 185th birthday. Deep in the heart of rural, peaceful and idyllic Dorset and Hardy's very own Wessex, the bunting will still be out, street parties may well abound and Hardy will be rightly acknowledged, lionised, worshipped and idolised richly so. His name will resound across the vast and picturesque panorama of chocolate box  Southern England.  His literary reputation is confirmed, signed, sealed and delivered, a writer of delicious purple prose and poetic lyricism. 

But across the lush meadows, soaring mountain ranges, snug and cosy valleys and winding country lanes of Britain's loveliest lands,  there are a vast majority  in England's green and pleasant land who will know nothing about Thomas Hardy's birthday. The schoolchildren who sat enraptured at Hardy's love poems will never forget where they were when Hardy's name was mentioned and warmly appreciated. You were besotted by the man's sweetly fragrant novels, the delightful word pictures he would think nothing of painting and then there was Hardy's landscape, the rolling acres of corn fields and sun flowers. 

Some of us will always remember the enduring impact that Hardy could exert. He was born in 1840 but even now a quarter of a century into the 21st century and he was the one you recall with a permanent affection. He was the one who subconsciously triggered something indefinable in your mind. He was my inspiration without every knowingly prompting me to pick up pen, pencil or, ultimately, typewriter. 

Having just caught the bug for reading the great British and world classics, you opened up the pages of four of Hardy's heftiest and weightiest pieces of literature and found yourself carried away by the genuine significance of his words, their contrasting colours, their capacity for transporting you instantly to the English countryside and their deeply thoughtful, reflective nature. For a while, it was rather like listening to your favourite jazz album featuring Miles Davis, admiring the sculpture of Rodin or Henry Moore or even allowing an art installation at the Tate Modern museum in London to wash over you. 

And so we recall the glorious Far From the Madding Crowd, Tess of the d'Urbevilles, the Return of the Native, the Trumpet Major, the Woodlanders, A Laodicean and the memorable Jude the Obscure. We try to imagine what was going through Hardy's fertile mind when the ideas and imagery came flooding over him, his motivations for writing, the symbolism he was trying to conjure up and Hardy's literary influences through the middle of the 19th century. 

Maybe it was Dorset's stunning farmlands, the dancing grass with its liberal sprinkling of daisies, tulips and the blossoming roses which decorate every wisteria kissed cottage in the land of Wessex and Dorset. Then you're reminded of the demure milkmaids in Hardy's novels, the tragic fate that befell some of his beautifully drawn characters, the timeless magnificence of the scenery and that other worldly aura of this heavenly corner of England. 

It is some time now since you decided to pick up a Thomas Hardy masterpiece because every word, cadence, sentence and paragraph became so effortless to him while at work. They are comfortably tucked away in the archives of your imagination, like a loose silky thread that meant so much to you at the time, a gentle breeze that wafted past you while walking through a park or sunbathing in your communal garden. It was a feeling that was so utterly satisfying and exhilarating. 

Finally there was Hardy's estrangement from his wife Emma, who was so sadly troubled for most of her life and with whom Hardy shared a turbulent relationship. The house he lived in was almost a poignant reminder of their unhappy years together. Both Hardy and Emma slept in separate beds and a visit to Emma's bedroom was deeply moving. By now Emma was ill and when Emma died, there was a sense that the grief and loss she should have been experiencing never really existed anyway. 

So it is that we pay homage to the glorious Thomas Hardy because today some of us will be overwhelmed with gratitude, thanking him sincerely for your contribution to the world of publishing and literature. Ever since you discovered those pearls and diamonds of wisdom from the great man, there is an acute awareness of his genius. Whenever you do put your fingers to your modern day keyboard on your PC, you'd like to think that Hardy is there with you in spirit and soul, encouraging and coaxing you along, almost smiling and laughing at your modest endeavours. Thank you Thomas Hardy.

A memorable night among West Ham royalty.

 A memorable night among West Ham royalty.

You really could have knocked me down with a feather and even now you find yourself pinching yourself, simply blown away by the whole, memorably magnificent experience. As part of a lovely 32nd wedding anniversary surprise prompted by our wonderful, beautiful daughter Rachel, my gorgeous wife Bev and I last night witnessed the most spectacular and special of evenings.

Last night, at the Roslin Hotel in sunny, salubrious, brilliantly bracing Southend on Sea, where the tide never seemed to come in until lunchtime as a child growing up, Bev and I were the privileged and honoured guests at an evening of West Ham United royalty. It was quite the most magnificently uplifting and joyous of evenings because there we were watching my legendary heroes from yesteryear. Sometimes the most pleasant surprises can catch us completely off guard but last night was the best of them all. 

From the moment we walked into our hotel for a day's visit to the Essex coast until the moment we left, yours truly was simply floating on cloud nine, stunned and dumbfounded, grasping for superlatives and appropriate gratitude. Not for a minute did I think that this would be the most unexpected of evenings and one to cherish, one that was so relatable to your favourite football team. Perhaps you were expecting a pleasant day and overnight visit in a cushy, comfy, posh, lavish and beautifully designed hotel. But, no, this was much more than that. 

After a leisurely stroll along the prom for an hour or so, my wife and yours truly settled down into our hotel bedroom and prepared for an evening that some of us will never ever forget. Then curiosity got the better of me and although our day had been a nice, relaxing one by the coast  what happened next simply blew me away. You had to find out what exactly was going on in private. So the cat was duly let out of the bag and all was revealed.

This event was an evening with the greatest footballing centre forward England have ever produced. Now this is a biased and subjective viewpoint but booking in for an evening with the one and only Sir Geoff Hurst was the bees knees, a crackerjack occasion, a stunning wow moment in your lives. For as long as anybody can remember, the 1966 World Cup Final will surely be regarded as England's finest sporting 90 minutes let alone an hour, an iconic, seminal and pivotal point in the lives of that Swinging Sixities generation who would never have dreamed that England could ever conceivably or feasibly win the football Jules Rimet World Cup.

Some of course were barely out of nappies, drinking bottles of milk and bellowing out screaming tantrums as a two year old but even as a toddler in shorts and playfully bruised knees, you must have had a premonition that something  special was in the air. And indeed it was. For on July 30th 1966, a twenty year old plus West Ham striker called Geoff Hurst scored the most poetic and lyrical of hat-tricks in the history of the World Cup. He did so at the home of English football Wembley Stadium and that day created history  sparking off wildly patriotic celebrations. 

After Hurst had turned on a sixpence from a magical cross from Blackpool's tireless attacking midfield player Alan Ball, Geoff Hurst adjusted his body at the widest angle, swivelled in a balletic pirouette and thundered a shot against the crossbar which twanged the bar, hit the goal-line and, in the estimation of 100,000 partisan Englishmen, women and children, scored England's third goal after the World Cup Final of 1966 had finished in a 2-2 draw.

 But then there was horrible hesitation, doubt, uncertainty, a stasis that none of us could have anticipated. Was it a legitimate goal or not?  It looked, for all the world, that the ball had marginally bounced down over the line for a goal but then the West Germans chased the Azabaijan linesman, questioning and bickering vehemently about the goal's legality. 

The ball clearly didn't cross the line for goal, according to our Teutonic sweat soaked warriors but Sir Geoff was adamant, unequivocal, convinced that the ball had crossed the line and a goal should have been given. And last night, Sir Geoff Hurst gave us clear and and obvious confirmation of the famously controversial goal in the history of the game, one that should have been allowed to stand. Our Sir Geoff told his enraptured audience at the Roslin Hotel in Southend that it was undoubtedly a goal because his striking partner Liverpool forward Roger Hunt saw the evidence in all its clarity and it was a goal. You should never argue with the voice of footballing authority. 

And so the evening proceeded last night. Our host for the evening was also one of the most prolific West Ham strikers during the 1980s. Tony Cottee formed the most compatible of forward line partnerships with Scottish striker Frank Mcavennie at West Ham's old ground at Upton Park. Cottee was the proverbial pocket battleship, small but compact, a bundle of dynamite, quick as an Olympic sprinter, athletic, lively, problematic in a good way to all opposition defenders and a persistent, persevering menace who knew exactly where the goal was. 

He scored on his debut for West Ham against bitter rivals but good natured adversaries Spurs as a 17 year old and chalked up hundreds of goals for both West Ham, Everton and Leicester City. And then there was the significant matter of England recognition. Cottee last night was master of ceremonies, chatting and interviewing Sir Geoff Hurst on his distinguished career and life. Cottee good humouredly chatted and nattered to our Sir Geoff rather like a star struck schoolboy who couldn't believe he was meeting his all time idol. 

For Sir Geoff Hurst this was very much business as usual. For quite a while now Hurst has been touring the provincial theatres and halls of England, answering the same questions he's been fielding ever since the all conquering England striker starting scaring the life out of old First Division's opposition's defences. He's sat on his stool and given impeccable chapter and verse on what happened on the day of the World Cup Final in 1966, the highs and lows at West Ham and warm homages to his dear, late forward defensive emperor of some renown Bobby Moore.

As he explained last night with warm eloquence, it all started in Ashton Under Lyme in North West England, not traditional West Ham country. But then, Hurst and his loving family travelled down to leafy Chelmsford in Essex and life changed radically. Now, with talent scouts hovering over him in London, it could have been either Arsenal or West Ham. But then former and hugely respected manager Ron Greenwood met him and introduced Hurst to a completely different way of footballing life. 

West Ham had just been promoted to the old First Division, now the Premier League, in the early 1960s and Greenwood was looking for an attacking midfielder who could venture forward and link up with the forward line. Hurst is still admirably thin and even then the most tall and imposing of presences. Eventually Hurst established his first team place in the West Ham first team squad. 

As a callow but increasingly confident youth, Hurst became integrated into the West Ham match day squad but must have feared that club football would be the only fitting reward for his talents. And then there was the masterful Bobby 'Mooro' Moore, Ronnie Boyce, sadly and recently no longer with us and Alan Sealey whose career was cruelly cut short, curtailed by a terrible pre-season accident when Sealey crashed into a school bench while larking around on a cricket pitch in Essex. 

Then Sir Geoff became fondly reflective, occasionally regretful, bitter and resentful of today's modern game and understandably so. But Hurst wouldn't have changed anything for the illustrious career that flowered in front of him. Soon there was the 1964 FA Cup Final when West Ham beat Preston North End with a last gasp winner from the now much missed Ronnie Boyce. Then, the following year, the year before World Cup golden jackpots, Hurst and his plucky West Ham colleagues beat TSV Munich 1860, who as Hurst rightly pointed out were the strongest team in the German Bundesliga, overshadowing the now revered and mighty Bayern Munich.

There were then light hearted, humorous references to his life long colleagues. Bobby 'Mooro' Moore was the most outstanding defender he'd ever played alongside and Hurst's wife Dame Judith used to exchange all manner of pleasantries with the sadly late Martin Peters. Both were devoted friends and the wives would unashamedly enjoy endless over the garden fence conversations in their Hornchurch homes.

But with the passage of time, Hurst would rapidly lose all of his 1966 World Cup winning colleagues, their heroic endeavours on the day now disappearing into the mists of history  First, Bobby Moore would die tragically at the age of 53 in 1993 followed by his lovely old acquaintances such as Jimmy Greaves, Ray Wilson and George Cohen, criminally underrated as full backs according to our Geoff and Alan Ball, the ginger haired midfield human dynamo, the understandably exciting, always animated but invariably enthusiastic man who was the provider for the controversial third. 

Then Hurst went into articulate detail about his intermittent spells in South Africa, a presumably rewarding stint at Seattle Sounders, goal scoring sprees at both Stoke City and West Bromwich Albion and then, deep into his 50s, 60s and 70s, the questions and answers venues among the kind of discerning football audiences who had always admired his wondrous goal- getting exploits. 

There was the 1972 League Cup semi final for West Ham against Stoke City, a match that meandered away for three long and exhausting replays. At the end of the first game against Stoke, Hurst would be confronted by his goalkeeping buddy Gordon Banks. With the game now locked in a penalty shoot out, Hurst stepped up to take the decisive kick and drove the ball purposefully and high towards the top of the net. But the Banks of England flung his whole body at Hurst's spot kick and blocked the ball with his hands, the ball flying over the bar. Stoke would win the replay at the third time of asking and beat Chelsea in that year's League Cup Final. 

But there were the hugely enjoyable fund of anecdotes about mixing with the showbiz fraternity and being royally entertained by Ronnie Corbett and Danny La Rue at those lively cabaret West End shows. Hurst would of course do his utmost to keep out of the public limelight while the rest of his mates would trip the light fantastic at the convivial bars and pubs that dotted the West End wherever he looked. 

There were the setbacks and disasters, manager of Chelsea in the old Second Division, Telford United before finally moving up to the bucolic, countryside idyll of beautiful Cheltenham, Gloucester where he continues to live with Dame Judith, his wife of 61 years. In more recent years, there was the insurance profession followed by work for motor car warranty companies which took him comfortably through to very much to the present day.

Meanwhile Tony Cottee, our now worshipping host of the evening could hardly keep his bubbling enthusiasm and idolatry in check. Cottee would tease, laugh and joke about our Sir Geoff Hurst's illustrious career, swooning with the delight of a teenager at his celebrated forward's achievements. By now, the evening formalities had been carried out to perfection. The raffles had been completed, the auctioning off of West Ham related action photos all done and dusted, Gazza's Paul Gascoigne shirt and Sir Geoff Hurst signing his name on all the relevant memorabilia. 

By the time everybody had finished their good, old fashioned fish and chip suppers with sticky toffee puddings and fruit salad, some of us were in seventh heaven, beyond ecstatic, humble and grateful. The prizes had been handed out and tables were bursting with uncontrollable laughter. It was an evening of splendid nostalgia and reminiscence and the inimitable Sir Geoff Hurst. 

The following morning at breakfast, Hurst would still be there, now quiet and enjoying the privacy of toast and cereal, never remotely bothered by his adoring public. And so we were left with the indelible memories, the honesty of Sir Geoff Hurst, the confessional side of this giant of a centre forward, the fruity jokes and observations and the very modern Selfies with the great man. We left the Roslin hotel on a high- our unforgettable encounter with this football monarch. It was a night that some of us will continue to share with our children and grandchildren. Sir Geoff Hurst, you'll always be the best of all bustling, rumbustious strikers. At 83, you still look terrific. Thanks for a glorious evening.   

Football and cricket.

 Football and cricket

So the curtain falls on another football season in England. Undoubtedly, it has been a season of vaudevillian theatricality, at times almost charming sentimentality and, at the end of it all, one team and only one team, really. Liverpool have won the Premier League because they were moved by the legendary spirit of those managerial giants from yesteryear. First there was Bill Shankly, then there was Bob Paisley, Joe Fagan, Kenny Dalglish, the remarkable charm offensive of Jurgen Klopp and finally, the first Dutchman ever to win a major League title in England. His name was Arne Slot.

And yet there were times, quite frequently, that Liverpool's closest contenders for the Premier League title Arsenal would push Liverpool all the way, going head to head with the Gunners, striving and straining with all their might, narrowing the gap at the top, then threatening to take the season to the final day. But then it became patently obvious that there were too many games throughout the season and Arsenal were found wanting at crucial points during the season, losing games that might have become a formality in previous campaigns and dropping points when three were somehow considered imperative. 

This afternoon, Liverpool will wrap up their Premier League season with their last game of the season against the new FA Cup holders Crystal Palace. Palace, it was, who brought a refreshing breeze to Wembley last Saturday with a richly deserved 1-0 victory over Pep Guardiola's Manchester City side who must be licking the bloodiest of wounds after a season that both malfunctioned and hurtled out of control long before the end of the season. 

So it is that Liverpool and Arsenal will occupy the top two positions while, behind them, Aston Villa will be hoping to add the prettiest icing to their cake by qualifying for the Champions League again. Just behind them are the most improbable and implausible of teams who must have thought their European football aspirations were merely just a pipedream. Bournemouth and Fulham must have had delusions of grandeur in their attempt to confirm their place in either the Europa League or the UEFA Conference League. But now none will have to take out their passports and that's a crying shame because both probably deserve to sample European football next season.

But perhaps the most riveting story of them all was the alarming decline of Manchester City who probably assumed that all they had to do was just turn up on the day and take a fifth consecutive Premier League title as theirs by divine right. But we all know what happens to the presumptuous and arrogant. They invariably get a taste of their own medicine, a rude awakening and a brutal reminder of their fallibility. Yes, even City had weak spots, defensive vulnerabilities and a very delicate constitution. City were rumbled, found out and then left completely embarrassed. This was not the way it was meant to happen. 

Meanwhile, at the other end of the Premier League, the sense of deja vu became a self- fulfilling prophecy. Both Southampton, Leicester City and Ipswich Town, who were probably still drunk with joy at the prospect of conquering all the odds back in the Premier League, have all been relegated back from whence they came. This is quite a rare occurrence but also a cautionary tale. History, though, has indeed repeated itself. None could have imagined that their return back to the top flight would end up as a complete catastrophe. But it has and who knew?

Just outside the bottom half of the Premier League were last Wednesday's Europa League winners Spurs, the beaten and vanquished Manchester United in the Final itself and  your preferred choice of football team West Ham. This afternoon, all three will finish 14th, 15th, and 17th respectively. Now this represents an almost farcical conclusion to the end of the season for the three teams who must have fancied themselves to be serious candidates for a place in Europe next season. 

In the Championship, formerly known as the old Second Division, those traditional household names Leeds United, Burnley and, as of yesterday, Sunderland, complete the emotional reunion of the old boys network. Leeds, for their part, have been in torment in recent seasons having fallen into the deepest hole of League One several seasons ago. Leeds thought they'd recovered quite admirably but then dropped out of the Premier League for another spell in the lower divisions. Burnley have been similarly indecisive, relegated to the Championship but, like, Leeds have returned to the Premier League. What went around came around. 

Burnley, of course, are still surrounded by those brooding and glowering mills and factories that somehow defined the Industrial Revolution. It's hard to believe that Burnley were once a force to be reckoned with, winning the old First Division championship at the beginning of the 1960s. But where once there was an air of stability at Turfmoor, now lives a team who remind you of trapeze artists on the circus high wire.

But when the final whistle goes for the end of the Premier League season in England, all our eyes and thoughts will turn to the infant cricket season. A new cricket season is rather like the spring dawn chorus of robins, the melodious voices of chaffinches, great crested grebes and kingfishers followed by a resounding choir of quacking ducks and honking geese. Cricket is quintessentially English, the summer game, the game where village greens conjure up the game's most idyllic moments. There's the evocative crack of red ball against willow bat, men in caps and white flannels strolling languidly across beautiful green wickets with just a hint of dust and brown at the creases. 

And yet cricket will always be associated with summer's sweetest fragrances. It is, of course one of the most leisurely and sedate of all spectacles bathed in a dreamy tranquillity that football can only fantasise about. Here at the beginning of the County Championship the pavilions at Lords, Trent Bridge, Old Trafford, the Oval and Headingley will resound to the clattering feet of innumerable county teams, nimbly tip toeing down the steps, gingerly treading where others may fear, shifting their pads, swinging bats around in every increasing circles and then rolling their arms for the tenth time. 

It is one of the many glorious rituals that continue to accompany cricket down the ages. Then the opening batsmen will take guard at the crease, helmets neatly adjusted before digging away vigorously at the crease and preparing for the relentless bombardment of fast to medium bowling. Then any American tourists by the third man boundary will start scratching their heads in bemusement because they can hardly believe that any sport could possibly be any slower and, from time to time, the game will finish in a frustrating draw. You see, our American friends demand a result from their frantic contests of baseball and American football. Cricket can never fulfil that remit.

But this summer, India will be adorning our cricket grounds with their presence and, as usual, the current state of English cricket will come under the strictest scrutiny if things go terribly wrong. Then, of course, we'll be served up the regular diet of one day thrashes, T20 Blast slog fests, exhibition matches occasionally and the new fangled One Hundred, a personally inexplicable concept but nonetheless eye catching and nothing less than exciting. 

Around the world of cricket, we will be wondering how the Aussies are doing since the Ashes are always on our minds and Australia love to beat the Poms. We will also find ourselves concerned about the West Indies because, historically, they were invariably one of the game's most powerful and formidable of teams. During the 1970s, the West Indies were almost unbeatable on English turf but there are no more Clive Lloyds, Viv Richards, Gordon Greenidges, Andy Roberts or Joel Garners to face and that borders on the heartbreaking. 

Football though will take itself off to some Greek island or even further afield nowadays. The boots will be slung away mercifully or not in case you can't stand the Beautiful Game. Those sweat soaked shirts will be thrown carelessly into the washing machine and the ball itself hidden away in discreet corners of training grounds, sheds or into chests of drawers. 

Of course the kids will be roaming the parks and recreation grounds of this sceptred isle, shouting and screaming excitedly at the tops of their voices. For the whole of the school summer holidays there will be fiercely competitive five a side matches or full size matches between commanding beech or larch trees. Maybe they'll decide to play next to gorgeous rose bushes or prepossessing bowling greens, quite possibly the municipal tennis courts. 

Football will forever be regarded as a pleasant diversion away from the winter hard grind. It will just carry on throughout the summer for some as if  the game should be played permanently regardless of the season. But whatever you're doing this summer you'd be well advised to remember that both football and cricket can be guaranteed to capture the imagination of millions. Sport always knew how to strike a happy medium.     

Chelsea Flower Show

 Chelsea Flower Show

In the heart of London's most fashionable and wealthy community, you can almost hear the contented murmurs of landscape gardeners, seasoned pruners of roses and those lifelong green fingered folk who can't get enough of their hallowed patch of grass, green and foliage. It is that time of the year again, folks. After a long, hard and dark winter, the end of May can only mean one thing. And no, it's not the merry month of May maypole dancing or rehearsals for that famous cheese rolling competition that Middle England will relish at some point during the summer.  

No, this week it's the yearly Chelsea Flower Show. Oh for the bountiful and beautiful flora and fauna of the Chelsea Flower Show, that wondrous display of plants, flowers and bushes that send some of us into lyrical raptures. Both the great British public, thousands of tourists and curious spectators from far and wide, converge on Chelsea like avid disciples and followers of our precious nature. They wander around the stunning array of Japanese tea gardens, delightful rockeries, gorgeous shrubberies and always aesthetically pleasing, well tended bushes that leave most of its observers mesmerised.

But we invariably find ourselves drawn to the hardy perennials, the celebrity gardening aficionados such as Monty Don and Alan Titchmarsh, the men who introduced us so proudly to the colourful beauty of the Chelsea Flower Show. Every year we proceed in an orderly fashion before gazing around at the ornamental ponds, the neat and well tended small trees, the herbaceous borders, the lovingly mown grassy areas with their symmetrical lines and the kind of garden adornments we've always loved such as the gnomes that never fail to warm our hearts. 

From a personal point of view my lovely and late mum and dad's garden was always a picture postcard, maternal figure and the grass regularly cut to perfection rather like the barber who takes special care to make sure your hair looks as tidy and impressive as ever. My late mum took particular delight in her beds of roses in our garden and frequently strolled up and down, smiling blissfully at the riot of colour, both yellow and red, purple and one that must have left her feeling completely enchanted. It was called a Blue Moon which was called as such because, presumably, it reminded my mum and dad of a blue Moon, a fusion of vibrant violet and purple. 

But the Chelsea Flower Show reminds us of how grateful we should be for the longevity of nature, its natural tendency to blossom and flourish when summer arrives and the Pimms is nicely chilled. The Chelsea Flower Show is a British national treasure, a cultural institution that remains an enduring symbol of how we both look at and admire nature. Some of this year's floral displays are another a classic example of the time and affectionate devotion we give to every single flower. 

Then there are the private exhibits, the expensive array of exotic plants that are probably worth a considerable amount of money. Britain loves its gardens, feeds and nurtures its growth and development, makes a wonderful fuss about its gardens because the Garden of England is Kent and Kent is synonymous with orchards and oast houses and gardens are our proud and joy. 

So before you set off on your summer holidays or just enjoy the simplicity of your domestic idyll, remember  the people who queue patiently outside and are then rewarded with the full and spectacular array of begonias, laburnums, peonies, sun flowers, more and more azaleas and those hyacinths and hydrangeas which come out to play every day and always make us sigh with admiration. Oh for the glories of the Chelsea Flower Show.  

Crystal Palace beat Manchester City in the FA Cup Final

 Crystal Palace beat Manchester City in the FA Cup Final

The body language of Manchester City manager Pep Guardiola told you everything you needed to know about not only City's defeat to Crystal Palace but the much bigger picture of City's dreadful Premier League season. For the first time in ages, Manchester City ended their season with nothing to show for their endeavours and the man who once transformed the fortunes of City and brought about a dramatic metamorphosis at the Etihad Stadium, now looked like a man who had been mortally offended by something that Palace goalkeeper Dean Henderson must have said.

The seething anger and fury on Guardiola reminded us once again of the bitterness and frustration that City have endured through a Premier League season that, by their standards, must be written off as a complete catastrophe. Normally, the smiling, jovial, mild mannered Guardiola would have been a gracious figure even in defeat. But this time it was personal and Pep's world had crumbled around him and this was somehow unforgivable. 

You fondly imagined how Malcolm Allison would have reacted to a Manchester City defeat in an FA Cup Final and all you can see is blue smoke drifting away from his expensive cigar and and a faint look of disgust and exasperation. Maybe Allison's always cheerful and avuncular assistant Joe Mercer would have just chuckled privately under his breath and insist that it wasn't the end of the world and worse things had happened at sea. 

But the former Barcelona manager, with the matinee idol looks and the permanent bristle of hair on his face, must have been hurting and fuming. For the last four consecutive seasons Manchester City have looked unbeatable, untouchable and totally invincible at times. They've accumulated four successive Premier League titles, looking dominant and almost frighteningly good. Their Champions League triumph two years reflected the enormity of their stunning achievements. 

On Saturday tea time though it was the red and blue of Crystal Palace who stole City's thunder. Crystal Palace, who had hitherto won only the Zenith Data Systems Cup and had already lost two FA Cup Finals to City's noisy neighbours Manchester United, finally and deservedly won this Cup Final. At one end of Wembley Stadium, a vast forest of red and blue flags swayed around in the gentle breezes of North London, jubilation unconfined and finally victorious in an FA Cup Final. 

For some of us, although strictly adhering to impartiality, this was an uplifting sight to witness since the FA Cup does love its underdogs and romance is well and truly alive. When Steve Coppell, the former Palace manager, who just happened to be in the corporate seats at Wembley, was agonisingly denied by Manchester United in the 1990 FA Cup Final after a pulsating 3-3 draw in the first game, the conspiracy theorists got to work in 2016 when United repeated the victory over Palace.

And so it was that the team who once boasted the wonderful talents of Don Rogers, Vince Hilaire, Peter Taylor and Dave Swindlehurst in decades gone past, who bust a gut, fought valiantly and gallantly with all their heart and soul, battled courageously as if their lives depended on it. City didn't know what had hit just them and, for all City's customary frills, fripperies and technical brilliance, the petrol tank was empty and City's engine just spluttered out and left them desperately stuck on the hard shoulder waiting for the AA to arrive. 

And yet for the first ten to fifteen minutes it could have been a very different story for City's cocky cavaliers, a team whose spellbinding passing game has left many an opponent dumbfounded and hypnotised. City were building their huge blocks of short passing movements that looked so effortless and instinctive that it only seemed a matter of time before City would break through. But then something happened, something completely unexpected and almost out of character for City. They took their feet off the accelerator, lost their focus and had none of the coping mechanisms that might have dug them out of any trouble. 

Crystal Palace were at Wembley to win the FA Cup and Oliver Glasner, their eternally optimistic manager, was fed up with losing on the big occasion and knew Palace had it in them to defy the overwhelming odds. So Palace admirably responded to their manager's unwavering faith in them and took the game to City as if determined to bring home the golden treasure and bounty. They tackled ferociously, kept hold of the ball for as long as they could under the circumstances and just played their football, neatly and attractively at times but mostly on the counter attack since City were not about to relinquish any possession of the ball. 

With Chris Richards, the outstandingly consistent Marc Guehi at his most steadfast and resolute, Tyrick Mitchell, wonderfully solid and reliable at the back and Adam Wharton competing tigerishly for every ball, Palace were a credit to both their parents and the club. And then it happened very early on. Crystal Palace broke out of defence swiftly and ultimately joyfully. A long ball was launched out of their defence, the ball  held up nervelessly on the half way line before it was released to the overlapping and swashbuckling Daniel Munoz breaking into space who carried the ball forwards. Munoz cleverly ran at the City back four for all it was worth before cutting the ball back low to the onrushing Eberechi Eze who swept the ball firmly home with the side of his foot to open the scoring for Palace.

Palace must have been in dreamland and City were in mood to wake them up at that point. The Selhurst Park club were pinging the ball about sweetly and assuredly, lovely moments of improvisation from the remarkable Eze and there was something about Palace that City must have found disconcerting. They began to win the second ball much more frequently than they had for the first quarter of an hour or so. Palace won possession, dragged the ball into the City half with both a measured composure and a willingness to make use of the ball constructively. 

From Palace's opening goal, there was never any real likelihood that City would gatecrash the Palace party who, quite literally, felt glad all over. At times it was all hands to the pump and backs to the wall for these flying Eagles and at times City had thrown so much of the kitchen sink at their South London opponents that there was barely any water left to keep City buoyant. City, for all their beautiful one touch football, were going nowhere, the final ball invariably being blocked or just frantically thumped into touch as far away as it was possible to be. 

In the second half, City, with Kevin De Bruyne in the autumn of his career still searching, probing and prompting for City with some gleaming cameo moments, couldn't find anything in his kit bag to blow down the doors of a watertight Palace defence. De Bruyne is still one of the finest midfield players in the country and quite possibly the best but not at Wembley against Crystal Palace.

 Jeremy Doku also enjoying a satisfying if not quite the most triumphant end to his season, was still tricking, deceiving, shimmying and body swerving past the Palace rearguard with a charming impishness and impudence. But this was not Doku's day and, when the final whistle went, both men just stood in the centre of the pitch, inconsolable, distraught and perhaps just exhausted. True the now veteran Bernardo Silva and Ruben Dias were covering every blade of the Wembley pitch and doing their utmost to carve open Palace with incisive runs and cute back flicks. But even Savinho, the Brazilian failed to find the exotic South American samba routine while Manuel Akanji appeared clueless and perplexed. 

Even the usually excellent Josko Gvardiol was like a lost, wandering soul for City and Erling Haaland, normally ruthless and destructive up front, had nothing to give for City. The Norwegian, with those blond locks of hair now fluttering in the wind, was never at his devastating best for City and the impetus had gone for City. And then there were those decisive turning points during the game which dictated the fate of this Cup Final. 

When Dean Henderson came rushing out of his goal to thwart another City attack, his hand seemingly grabbing the ball outside his penalty area, the whole of the City team demanded a penalty and Henderson's eviction to the bench, sent off and red carded. But the penalty never arrived for City and the game was effectively over for the side who play at the Etihad Stadium. It looked as if this City would indeed would be given another penalty when the persistent Silva charged into the Palace box after a gloriously surgical one two had sliced open up the South London team. And so it would prove.

The new kid on the City block Omar Marmoosh stepped up to take the penalty and perhaps just a hint of hesitation in his run up, fired the ball confidently but only to find Dean Henderson. Henderson flung his body at the shot and the ball rebounded off the keeper's legs quite sharply. Palace were hysterically happy and now in a deep state of delirium. After a seemingly interminable amount of injury time, the final whistle went and Palace had, at long last, won the FA Cup. 

For the neutrals this was the right result, the one that mattered and justice had been seen to be done. In 1973 Bob Stokoe, a vision in beige, had galloped onto the Wembley pitch after his then Second Division Sunderland had beaten the mighty, all conquering Leeds United, a giant killing of enormous proportions. In 1988 the Wimbledon, who had risen from the depths of non League football, overcame the magnificently gifted Liverpool with a classic mixture of dogged defiance and bold bravado. And now Crystal Palace have joined the recent and improbable FA Cup winners Wigan into the bargain. They certainly were glad all over and the Eagles have of course landed.      

The great Brian Glanville dies at 93.

The great Brian Glanville dies at 93.

Brian Glanville, who has died at the age of 93, was one of the most learned and scholarly football journalists the Beautiful Game has ever known. By way of a coincidence, Glanville's passing has fallen on the day of today's FA Cup Final, one of the many prestigious occasions Glanville frequently graced us with his presence. 

From his early days at Charterhouse public school to one of the many innumerable World Cup Finals attended as a distinguished football writer, Glanville was a giant of cultured football journalism and the most prolific of novelists. In a world of powerful masculinity and often hot headed, tempestuous times during the 1970s, Glanville was a cool, calm, often graceful figure, a writer of measured but controversial prose, a football encyclopaedia who often challenged the establishment and questioned the often authoritative men in charge of UEFA and FIFA.

In 1960, Glanville joined the Sunday Times as chief football correspondent and would establish an enduring relationship with readers of a newspaper that always set the highest standards. His columns were both lyrically entertaining, powerfully descriptive, almost allegorical in their use of the English language, frequently laced with Latin references but always accurate, informative and brilliantly observational. 

At roughly the same time, Glanville became a regular contributor of the still popular World Soccer magazine and his articles were both profound, sharp and acerbic, honest and impeccably researched. He was a fastidious stickler for detail and accuracy, earning him global admiration in the football community and the unwavering respect of his contemporaries. There was the admirable back catalogue of FA Cup, World Cup, League Cup Finals, football throughout the old four divisions of the Football League, football at every level of the game.

And then there were the hard-hitting interviews, occasional criticism of his own team Arsenal, the forthright but balanced journalism. There was an edgy and confrontational nature about Glanville's interviewing style, an insistence on getting it absolutely right and then writing with an integrity that left most of his colleagues breathless with praise. 

The young Glanville was something of a precocious child, completing his first book on the life and times of Cliff Bastin, the Arsenal full back, at the tender age of 17, the precursor to an illustrious career which included a fund of memorable stories about the man. There was the incident when Glanville, travelling back with the England squad from a game abroad, collared then grilled the then FIFA president Joao Havelange, verbally attacking the Italian official on the dreadful handling of some now long forgotten match. Glanville was fiercely critical, relentlessly investigative and always had his finger on the pulse of the game.

His observations on the 1966 World Cup Final in England were often enlightening and thought provoking. He tells the story about the moment when West Germany equalised for the second time. After the messiest of goal mouth scrambles, it was Wolfgang Weber who got the final touch for the West Germans to take the game into extra time. England would, of course win the World Cup with a handsome 4-2 victory. 

But Brian Glanville, remembering the day as if it were yesterday, said that the equaliser seemed to go in via slow motion and none of the eminent Press scribes who were present on that famous day knew who had scored the goal. You feel sure though that Glanville felt himself to be a privileged witness to one of the most glorious days in English sporting history. 

In the years that followed, Glanville would continue to work diligently for the Saturday matches, always an influential presence in football ground Press boxes, his words now precious and beautiful, his reports from the old Highbury, Upton Park, White Hart Lane and then Old Trafford, Anfield and St James Park both witty, humorous, but invariably expressive and elegant. 

Throughout the early 1960s, Glanville would move to Italy before settling and living there, enthusiastically embracing the Italian defensive catenaccio, Torino, AC and Inter Milan, Fiorentina and Napoli. He then mastered Italian and could speak it with spellbinding clarity. He wrote splendidly for Gazzetta Dello Sport with a charm and insight that had few equals.

His literary career had now installed him a rightful place in the history of the Beautiful Game. His definitive account on the Story of the World Cup was a breathtaking work of art, a masterpiece that flowed effortlessly from his typewriter and recorded every single match, player, manager, fact and statistic with meticulous attention to detail. There was an early novel called the Olympian, Goalkeepers Are Different and a whole compendium of player profiles, brilliant and awful matches and managers who were either unpredictable, perfect gentlemen, annoying, irascible but always delightful company.

In a world where football now operates in an online world and football can be processed and analysed via I Phones, Tablets and Smart Phones, Glanville may now seem very traditionalist and  conservative. But he always had a mischievous twinkle, a perceptive eye for a juicy story and was never disapproving of the modern age. 

Some of us will deeply miss Brian Glanville because he somehow epitomised the true spirit of football, a man with an  always inquisitive mind, perhaps something of an ardent perfectionist but always true to himself and his readers. Glanville it was who loved that superlative turn of phrase or bon mots, a wordsmith extraordinaire and one of the game's finest craftsmen.  Brian Glanville we salute you. You were and will always be regarded as the best in the business. Fleet Street will never forget you. 

FA Cup Final day.

 FA Cup Final day. 

It used to be one of the best days in the football calendar. It was one of the most emotional days for both the respective teams and  the feverish fans who could barely hold back their excitement. There was an indefinable anticipation that none of us could quite understand because we weren't there to witness the occasion live in all its technicolour glory. There was the pomp and pageantry of it all, the wonderment, the exhilaration of winning and then in complete contrast, the earth shattering dejection and the debilitating anguish of losing. 

FA Cup Final day was rather like watching the most spectacular West End of London musical, old fashioned music hall vaudeville from long ago. The truth of course is that football shouldn't allow itself to be carried away by the one game of the season that holds so much importance and could so decisively make or break their teams season. And yet it shouldn't be like this because there are far weightier matters of note to consider, events in our lives that should take precedence to every other consideration. It is not the end of the world if we lose the Cup Final because there are far more pressing priorities. 

But tomorrow morning Crystal Palace and Manchester City will be walking out at Wembley for the FA Cup Final and, for both, the fickle finger of fate will be pointing in one direction. We will be watching with impartiality because a vast majority of the nation will be doing the Saturday shopping, taking the dog for a lengthy walk in the park, gazing longingly into department stores in the hope of nabbing a bargain or, quite possibly, watching a game of village green cricket. But, for the FA Cup Final both the fans of Palace or City, this will be their royal command performance at the Palladium in London's West End.

Now for the traditionalists among us, the FA Cup Final normally started in earnest just after breakfast time when the cereals had been devoured and the toast with jam routine had been successfully completed. The truth is, of course, that the whole day was dominated by the Beautiful Game. In the days before remote control and only three channels, there was something very rudimentary about the whole spectacle. You could watch the game in complete comfort and luxury from your sofa and pretend that you too were travelling to the game on the team coaches, cracking jokes and witticisms with your pals and actually taking part in the FA Cup Final. 

Sadly and yet quite upliftingly though you were following every pass, tackle and shot from a distance, utterly detached from the all consuming drama of the day, the absorbing passion of one afternoon in our lives that we could hardly believe we were witnessing. It was the fulfilment of our dreams, our dreams bearing fruit in front of our discerning eyes since every football fan is knowledgeable.

We sat spellbound and transfixed by this compelling spectacle rather like kids at the seaside who simply abandoned themselves to arduous sandcastle building before running into the sea and being gripped with an enjoyment that seemed to last for ever. The FA Cup Final on TV was compulsive viewing, something that had to be experienced since you could never put it any one specific category. It was inexplicably wonderful, a joyously entertaining match regardless of who you supported. 

On London Weekend TV, ITV's commercial channel, we had the late and the always immaculate Dickie Davies accompanied by Brian Moore, surely one of the greatest and most resonant voice in football, a man of stature, enormously revered and respected by his contemporaries. And on the BBC there were the poetic and lyrical voices of either John Motson and Barry Davies, consummate professionals and men who could have recited the old telephone directory and still invested the occasion with a style and authority that won your endless admiration. 

But FA Cup Final day is invariably all about the fans, the supporters who have sacrificed everything just to be among the heaving, seething, bristling Wembley terraces and seats. They're the ones who have followed their clubs in all weathers, shivering in the cold in the third round of the FA Cup in January and then travelling the length and breadth of the country in the hope that this year could be theirs. 

And tomorrow afternoon, we will be hoping to reach the summit flag proudly planted at the top and by 5pm in the afternoon, that famous old Cup will be paraded around Wembley Stadium. There can be no doubt that our team will be drinking the champagne, our conquering heroes who will be dancing in the dressing room because the street parties have been planned and prepared with meticulous attention to detail. Make no mistake. We've deserved this moment in the sun and we're not going to waste it for a minute.

So it was that we immersed ourselves in the jollity and frivolity of the day itself, gazing around the old Wembley with its huge acres of outlandish banners and flags, the amusing if rude slogans and a vocal congregation that bore a striking resemblance to a Sunday morning church service. We were never at Wembley but we were definitely there in spirit willing on our teams, recalling the players we were told about by our grandparents, the day we rhapsodised over because they were the finest and, ultimately victorious ones who would walk up the old 39 steps to receive the Cup from royalty. 

It  is a day we develop a sentimental attachment to, a day borrowed from the warmest archives of nostalgia. It is a day that takes us right back to the day when our grandparents brought out the most exquisite cutlery and crockery for the most rousing of parties. We'll never forget Cup Final day because maybe it was a rites of passage day when we finally discovered the joys and thrills the game could still serve up for our delectation.

Cup Final days used to be synonymous with colourful rosettes on our shirts and those delightful rattles that never failed to entertain us. It was about the players walking across the Wembley pitch, comparing fashionable suits and shirts followed swiftly by the pre match preamble, 'Abide With Me' conducted with incredible enthusiasm by a gentleman wearing a patriotic Union Jack waistcoat. 

Now of course coverage doesn't even come anywhere near the saturation point where every word, sentence and paragraph about football and the FA Cup becomes like an infectious song we simply can't get out of our heads. It's constant, repetitive, mind blowing, perhaps wearisome and tiresome but it keeps going on and on until the conclusion, the thrilling denouement whereby the winning skipper and the players of your team celebrates on grand open top bus parades in local shopping centres. Then you notice more buses and cars, wending their way around the bakeries, cafes, chemists and butchers as if this triumph was somehow fated to happen on this day of all days. It is a day designed for football's vast and ecstatic democracy.

Tomorrow, those same jubilant players and supporters will share a common bond, a kindred spirit and a genuine rapport with each other that only sport can offer. Crystal Palace, who have never won anything but have been Cup Final runners up twice now, are once again the underdogs against a Manchester City side who have had quite the most appalling season in the Premier League, relinquishing their hold limply on another title winning trophy. Liverpool ran away with this season's Premier League, fully deserving of all the back slapping plaudits and rightful praise, a trophy won at a canter in the end. 

Some of us may still yearn for the days when the game was untouched by rampant commercialism, sponsorship from every prestigious company, all of those brash and ambitious businessmen and entrepreneurs from Saudi Arabia with an alleged vested interest in the game. Back in those far off decades, football was relatable, fun, accessible, astonishingly cheap and just plain, good old fashioned fun. There was no VAR, there were no draught excluders at free kicks, no elements of contentious doubt about the scoring of goals. We felt an essential part of the occasion even if we couldn't quite make it to Wembley Park and Wembley Way. 

So whatever you're doing tomorrow be sure to remember that the FA Cup will woo us with its romantic sweet nothings, lavishing us with affectionate good wishes. It's history and heritage will never fade from our rheumy eyed sights. Although your club are not directly involved in the Final itself,  you will be rooting for those who you think could be seriously underestimated. So Crystal Palace and Manchester City. You know what to do. 

National Public Gardens Week

 National Public Gardens Week

So here we are deep into the springtime elixir of our lives when everybody feels as though everything is good, invigorating, refreshing, uplifting, satisfying and life is at its sweetest. We, of course, know life is indeed precious and something to enjoy whole heartedly. In fact for most of Britain it's warm, sunny, the sky is cerulean blue and the world is full of the joys of spring. Nature is flourishing and blooming, trees dancing and swaying in gentle breezes and humanity has to embrace the weather to its bosom because if it does rain later on in the day, we may feel disappointed and let down. But it's almost summer folks. Glorious! 

Now here is where we are in the world. The kitchen doors are open, the industrial fans are on at full blast and your garden is just stunningly pretty. You've left it during the winter in solitary hibernation, fast asleep, dormant, neglected, sad, forlorn and probably feeling sorry for itself. The garden shed has just stood there at the bottom of the garden rather like some very lonely, shy child who all the kids simply ignored on his first day at school. 

But now spring has sprung and everything looks so much more pleasing to the eye. The trees have re-discovered their summer clothes and the green leaves are in joyously hospitable mood. They wave at you cordially, acknowledging every single person with a warm amiability. It is so easy to be lyrical about May because not only is it merry, it's positively thrilled and delighted to be among us. Besides, May is invariably promising, auspicious, a dress rehearsal for the rest of summer. 

Today, the weather forecast has once again informed us that although most of the day will turn into a temporary heatwave, tea time might be the moment when the dark clouds will gather and suddenly, thunder and lightning will cut through the sweltering heat. And yet once more we will remain undaunted, fearless, completely free from any anxiety. Our garden will welcome a downpour of rain anyway because we haven't had any rain for well over a month and, although not in drought territory, this may be disconcerting to some. But who cares?

And our thoughts turn to the recent abomination and tragedy of the Sycamore Gap tree near Hadrian's Wall in England. Earlier on this year, a group of violent criminals demolished this most gorgeous of natural sights. They thought it would be a jolly good idea and a hilarious laugh. Besides, it was a very old tree, almost ancient history and why would there be any vehement objections to cutting down a tree whose branches and foliage were decaying and, quite, possibly dead? 

However, little did these cruel reprobates know what they were doing. This was an act of vandalism, callous aggression and showed up all the worst in human behaviour. Our tree hating thugs have now apparently been sentenced to ten years in jail which seems a more than fitting punishment for this disgraceful assault on our wonderful trees. We have nothing but unwavering admiration for the courtroom judge who meted out the suitable punishment for this heartbreaking murder.

Meanwhile, back in the garden the likes of legendary TV presenters Alan Titchmarsh and Monty Donn, will be pulling on their gloves, digging out the pruning secateurs, wheeling out the lawnmower and gaining enormous pleasure from the flora and fauna in front of their eyes. They will be surveying their beds of yellow and red roses with an almost paternal tenderness and their eyes will light up at the jovial japonica, the lovely laburnum, the breathtaking begonias, the prim primroses, delectable daisies, the spellbinding tulips and all manner of flowers and plants.

This week is National Public Gardens week folks. It's time to venture out into our gardens and encounter something of a horticultural revival. We crouch down with our spades, forks, innumerable seeds and some will renew acquaintance with our allotment sites. Now allotment site lovers are the salt of the earth types, devoted gardeners who adore the earth, growing acres of strawberries, tomatoes, apples, celery, rhubarb and a wide variety of things to eat at breakfast, tea, lunch and supper. They work their allotment sites unquestioningly in all weathers and never forget about the new life in the ground. 

But the gardens of course in the capital city of London are somehow synonymous with everything that is colourful and astonishing to behold by millions of tourists. Hyde and Regents Park are some of our biggest, brightest, most aesthetically mesmerising parks, combining as they do the whole rainbow spectrum of plants, flowers, shrubberies and commanding trees who protect us with endless love.

Still, whether you're green fingered not, this is one time of the year to lavish as much care, compassion and solicitude as you can muster on your garden, your oasis of calm, the place you visit because it helps you to unwind and de-stress, a therapeutic sanctuary where you can relax in the open air or just potter around in.

Public gardens are both attractive and delightfully natural havens where peace can reign for as long as you want them to be. Mentally, our senses burst into life, stimulated and exhilarated because of their capacity to change our mood and boost our spirits. They reveal a peacock plumage of colours that maintain our happy hormones and just make us smile. Who can fail to be uplifted by the first daffodil of the year, the hydrangea that nestles comfortably in either your front or back garden? It is like a guard of honour, decorative and almost ceremonial, a rich feast for the eyes, a balm to your soul.

The forthcoming Chelsea Flower Show will be a typical example of how gardens can soothe a savage breast. Every year, this outstanding social and cultural event attracts thousands of tourists to London. From Japanese rock gardens with trickling streams to the usual assortment of nasturtiums, verbenas, chrysanthemums, patios, pergolas and even the most ornate decking, gardens are almost part of our extended family, never judgmental nor critical.

So to all seasoned gardeners enjoy National Public Gardens Week because you deserve this recognition and the chance to shine. You'll come home from work tonight, slump into your favourite chair in your garden or just wander around the pansies and the petunias for the umpteenth time because you're so immensely proud of them. You'll grab a can of lager or pour yourself yet another glass of Pimms or even a vintage glug of red wine. Look at nature, it's such a beautiful world out there. Let's cherish life. It's sweet as sugar. 

 

VE Day and Pope Leo the 14th

VE Day and Pope Leo the 14th

Across the villages, towns, cities, sleepy hamlets and babbling brooks of England, the citizens of its noble, upstanding folk will reminisce sadly on the events that shook and then traumatised the whole of the world. Today we celebrate the 80th anniversary of the end of the Second World War, a day heavy with poignancy, sombre reflection and lingering thoughts of tragic loss, death and destruction. In May 1945, we celebrated deep into the night as Victory in Europe Day was officially declared. 

Now though 80 years later we lament the passing of those gentlemen and women who sacrificed everything, putting their lives on line and showing enduring dedication to the cause, valour of the highest order and bravery that knew no limit. But there was also a gritty determination to overcome all the odds in the face of adversity, an uplifting stoicism and sheer, no nonsense bravado about us that will never be forgotten. 

For some of the soldiers and troops who always believed that victory would be theirs, today means something very special. Suddenly, on this day in 1945, the air raid sirens stopped wailing, tin helmets thrown into the air with enormous relish, army and navy uniform proudly demonstrated to the world and khaki dispensed with for ever. We all went back to the land of rationality, normality and joyous communication with each other, the memories of the previous six years now receding into a misty distance. 

No more would the world be subjected to a constant bombardment of destructive bombs, crippling damage to its buildings, shops and homes, the millions of innocent people who spent six years of his life tormented by the Nazis, the murderous barbarians wearing evil swastikas on their disgusting uniforms and those who simply wanted to inflict pain, suffering and purgatory on our shores and the world around us. 

But on that final day as peace beckoned and they all gathered around their radio sets to hear Winston Churchill deliver that memorable speech, they too could feel freedom and liberation. It was the day they thought they'd never see but then saw through miraculous eyes. The lights went on at Piccadilly Circus, they did the conga around Trafalgar Square and we danced, sang and partied the night away because they could and they did. Celebrations continued and inhibitions were blown away like a million feathers. 

And now 80 years later we stand undaunted, unscathed, tougher and stronger than ever before and enjoying the kind of luxuries and privileges that none thought possible. We are this generation, the grandchildren of those who can be grateful for life, energy and enthusiasm. We are responsible for setting the standards, morals and values of the 21st century, this is our state of independence, our world to embrace, richly savour and then cherish with all our heart and soul.

Finally we have rid ourselves of those oppressive restrictions, the nightmarish rationing of everyday food and drink, the endless blackouts and every night spent in draughty underground Tube stations. The bombs kept dropping but London remained an oasis of calm, imperturbability and utter defiance. London kept playing old family favourites on the pub piano, singing 'We'll Meet Again' for the thousandth time and London knew that someday the frightening apocalypse would one day end. 

So we thank our heroic veterans, the now centenarians who battled and struggled, fought to the bitter end and would not be beaten. They are the ones who deservedly won the right to show their medals and kept smiling, joking and laughing because Adolf  Hitler had to be crushed into the ground. On the 8th of May 2025 we salute their men and women who went beyond the call of duty, who never gave up or surrendered to the heinous enemy. 

Meanwhile in another part of the world yesterday, we welcomed to the stage a man we frequently acknowledge and deeply revere. In the Vatican, Pope Leo 14th was ordained in a puff of white smoke from the Sistine Chapel. Robert Prevost became the first American to hold down such an honourable position and some of the more cynical of conspiracy theorists wondered if a certain Donald Trump might have had some significant influence on this appointment. 

Now the chances are that nobody has heard of Robert Prevost since few of our Popes from history ever make a fuss or commotion of who they are. But for those who prefer to read between the lines, an American Pope does sound very much like the work of one man. But then we giggle privately and convince ourselves that this couldn't possibly be true. The fact remains that Robert Prevost is the new Pope and as he stepped out onto the balcony and spoke admirably fluent Italian, we wished the establishment that is the Roman Catholic church well. 

In recent years most of us have taken to religion when things looked as though they'd hit rock bottom. Covid 19 lasted for so long and claimed so many lives that most of us asked deep, thought provoking theological questions. It was a hard and challenging world, almost unbearable at times but we rallied together, kept the faith and always knew that the power of prayer would see us through. And so it is that Robert Prevost steps into a world fraught, fractured and horribly divided, a Roman Catholic church that keeps searching for answers but only finds indecipherable puzzles and ever present complications. 

But yesterday evening an American gentleman in a richly ornate cassock, took the appropriate vows and promised to offer a better world free from war and conflict, free from constant argument and what might seem permanent disagreement. You remembered a Polish Pope from yesteryear by the name of St John Paul the second who came to London during the 1980s, travelled around the capital in his Pope mobile, kissed the tarmac at Heathrow airport and generally spread the gospel of peace, health and prosperity to one and all. 

Today, in a still troubled global population, we must hope that Robert Prevost will perform the same acts of kindness, generosity and love that we have come to expect of Popes throughout the centuries. It might be considered a task that would defeat most of us. But yesterday there was something very reassuring about the presence of a religious leader who thinks nothing of spreading happiness wherever goes. Somehow we know he's going to succeed. 

Nigel Farage- a force for good?

 Nigel Farage- a force for good?

He seemed to come from nowhere and the British political landscape may never seem the same again. He is a genuine candidate for elevation to the highest position in the hallowed corridors of Westminster and the House of Commons will now have to accept him as one of the most recognisable figures in British politics. If we didn't know who he was before, we certainly do now. He is the new kid on the block, blunt, outspoken, reactionary, controversial and dedicated to duty. He will never suffer fools gladly and he speaks his mind categorically. He could change our stereotypical perceptions of the British politician.

For the last couple of days or so, Nigel Farage has been moving among the movers and shakers of Westminster's finest, grinning endlessly, congratulating those who appointed him as the leader of the Reform UK party and delighted to be in the public limelight for all the right reasons. At some point, the realisation will dawn on Farage that his is a name to be reckoned with and taken deeply seriously. We thought we'd seen everything at 10 Downing Street during recent years but this almost felt like the most definitive moment.

But this could be a life changing week for the Cabinet and Shadow Cabinet ministers who had thus far felt as if their authority could never be challenged, that the status quo was here to stay and never to be shifted so dramatically. Suddenly though, an imposter has appeared on the scene, a gate crasher at a party who some may regard as unwelcome but then again a valuable asset who could influence the direction in which the political gravy train takes us in the next four years or so. 

Last July, the Labour party headed by the estimable Sir Keir Starmer, won the General Election and Starmer became Britain's latest Prime Minister. It all seemed very normal and ever so slightly exciting. Britain had decided that they'd had enough of the Tory party and gave Rishi Sunak the sack. Once again the British public had spoken forcefully, decisively and critically. And yet here we are in the merry month of May 2025 and the natives are restless, furious, truly exasperated and demanding the head of Starmer.

And this is where a certain Nigel Farage came in from the cold. For a number of years now, Farage has portrayed himself as an honest, respectable, working class man of the people, the Guinness drinking and cigarette smoking bloke who would love to have a proper conversation with the builders, architects, engineers and postmen and women of the world, a non judgmental figure who simply wants the best for his country. 

Recently, the salubrious Essex seaside resort of Clacton elected him as their constituency leader of the party much to the annoyance of those who hate him and a blessed relief as somebody who they thought was a breath of fresh air, a radical speechmaker and a man with the potential to break ranks with everything we'd been accustomed to hearing. Farage is now influential, unashamedly on the side of English patriotism and determined to stand up for English workers and their rights. 

When he emerged from a meeting during voting day at the General Election, Farage was pelted with a milkshake but far from being humiliated. He smiled stoically, got on with the business of whipping his adoring followers into a frenzy and fervently believed that Brexit had been done and dusted. He then presumably went on a long walk to clear his head before remembering that this was the most momentous day of his life. Farage had won over the sceptics and established his presence as a politician with a mind of his own and one with opinions and well defined ideologies. 

But above the hubbub and noise, Farage has promised that the Reform UK party could threaten the two party system in England and, quite possibly, become a bona fide Prime Minister one day. The Reform Party, hey. Now where did they come from, like a bolt from the blue, a flash of lightning, a clap of thunder? It must feel that the House of Commons will undergo its most dramatic transformation within a year or so. The Reform Party sounds like some revolutionary band of men and women who will take to the streets with large, visible banners and then storm the barricades. Is a modern day Reformation about to crash into British society in quite the most unprecedented fashion or are we just imagining all this? 

And yet the mood music does seem to be changing for good or bad. Your mind is taken back to the beginning of the 1980s when the esteemed likes of Shirley Williams, Dr David Owen and Roy Jenkins formed one of the most innovative of all political parties. The Social Democrat Party announced themselves quite forcibly on an unsuspecting nation, surely one of the most intriguing movements in British politics. Sadly the Social Democrats proved a temporary if quirky measure, honourable and well intentioned but completely lacking any real influence, clout or prestige. Nobody would take them seriously and it was all very short lived. 

Last week though could be that crucial, pivotal point in our lives when a new political party shake off the cobwebs of complacency that might be dragging down both the Tories, the Labour party and LibDems. When Sir Keir Starmer hits the pillow tonight and drifts off to sleep he might like to know that there are serious intruders hunting him down. At the moment he may rest easy but the fact is that both Labour and the Conservative parties were severely wounded in the local elections. The opposition are lying in wait and will not  be taken lightly or dismissed as just a passing fad. Beware the Reform UK Party.