Football in the Championship.

 Football in the Championship.

The English football season may be drawing to a close but there is a fascinating scenario at the top of the Championship and another slowly unfolding at the relegation end of the Premier League. It does seem likely that the teams who were promoted from the Championship may be heading back from whence they came. Life often throws up some of the most charming coincidences and football has a habit of following suit. But this one seems too good to be true. We're not quite there yet but it does look as if history may be about to repeat itself and that wouldn't be for the first time. 

The three teams who were promoted to the Premier League- probably through no fault of their own or maybe it is- Southampton, Leicester City and Ipswich Town are hovering over the relegation trapdoor too precariously for words. All three look destined to go down to the Championship and that may not speak volumes for the current quality of squads now prevailing in the Championship. And just to rub salt into the proverbial wind, the three clubs in contention for a place in next season's Premier League have also sampled the high life in the top flight in recent times. 

Both Leeds United, Burnley and Sheffield United were once well established and prominent names in English football. In the august and learned drawing rooms, pubs, bars and supporter clubs of  football's most active discussion rooms, the word is that we've seen it all before. It is rather like watching the same, stodgy diet of daytime TV programmes with the sound turned down. This is not a case of familiarity breeding contempt more a realisation that some things never change in football.

But now both Leeds, Burnley and Sheffield United are battling it out for the right to compete in the most fiercely competitive and unforgiving League of them all. A couple of seasons ago Burnley treated the Premier League rather like kids at a birthday party trampoline. Under the shrewd guidance of Vincent Kompany they stormed the barricades of the Championship and were promoted back to the Premier League in no time at all. Then it all went disastrously pear shaped and they were relegated back to the Championship the following season. 

This season the Clarets of Burnley,  who once won the old League Championship 65 years ago, are tasting another bottle of vintage bottle of champagne. Former West Ham and Chelsea midfielder Scott Parker, a smooth, hard working and composed player, has taken up the reins at Turfmoor. If all goes according to plan, Burnley will be high fiving and mixing it up convivially with the upper classes once again next season. Burnley are just one example of what can happen when you think you've cracked the code and then discover that it was all an elaborate hoax and you've been caught out, tricked and hoodwinked.

For Leeds United, top flight football in the old First Division became an almost permanent fixture for decades when Don Revie was manager. Then we realised that there were skeletons in their cupboard as well. During the 1970s Leeds were both lovable and despicable in the same sentence. Their football was captivating, beautiful at times, delightfully compelling and just stunning at others. Then there were times when their fans could have cheerfully throttled them although not literally, you understand. Leeds, with tigerish, feverish and hot headed Billy Bremner lashing out with both fists and ferocious tackling, became thuggish, eleven white shirted terrorists who were intent on creating havoc.

And yet several seasons ago now, Leeds hit rock bottom and went through quite the most horrendous ordeal any once legendary team could have been subjected to. Leeds were in the old Third Division and scraping the bottom of a barrel that became increasingly more repulsive as time went on. But stability has been restored to the Elland Road club. Sadly, the likes of Lorimer, Bremner and Charlton, once held in the highest esteem and almost idolised, are no longer here to watch the modern generation and only the very sophisticated Johnny Giles remains from an unforgettable era. 

Leeds United are now literally a match or two away from promotion back to the Premier League and for the neutral fans who could only look on with the deepest admiration during the 1970s, there is a sense that Leeds somehow belong in the Premier League. Of course comparisons with the Leeds of old are just preposterous so we can only form a judgment when the new football season dawns in August. The nightmarishly traumatic 44 days of Brian Clough seem like some historical anomaly, something that was mistaken in the translation and would never be repeated again.

Finally, there's Sheffield United who, rather like both Leeds and Burnley, can never seem to make up their minds about their place in the greater scheme of things. Sheffield United have been like the traditional yo yo in recent seasons, up one minute and down the next. Sometimes you think to yourself that the widely mentioned parachute in footballing circles should be provided to all those teams who keep bouncing between the Championship and the Premier League. 

But such is the current infrastructure exists that in both Premier League and the lower divisions it is hard to imagine how any of those aspirational teams can ever dream of a comfortable residence in the top flight. The financial incentives on offer to the likes of both Burnley, Leeds and Sheffield United are both mouth watering and deeply enticing. TV money from the money tree that is both Sky and TNT sport is dictating the way in which most of the big boys will be conducting their business. We wish both Leeds, Sheffield United and Burnley the heartiest of good wishes.  

Good Friday and the Easter break

 Good Friday and the Easter break.

This is normally the point in the year when most of us descend on our supermarkets and attempt to load as many Easter eggs and hot cross buns in our trolley as we can feasibly can. Then we search frantically for those frozen legs of lamb that we know will complete the Sunday roast and keep the entire family happy for the whole duration of the holiday weekend. It is the perfect culinary experience and eventually we all spill out ecstatically into the garden and leave the kids to kick their football into the neighbours garden with an almost amusing regularity. 

Essentially, springtime in England has now officially been declared because the tulips and daffodils are out in their smartest attire, petals fluttering nervously in the gentle breezes of April before a chill nips at our fleece coats. We then invariably complain about the cold again because we somehow long for warmer weather and the height of summertime. Then the sunshine breaks through the cotton wool clouds that keep playing chess in the blue skies, one moment drifting languidly across our startled eyes before swapping places with another set of nimbus cumulus and then into another neighbourhood.

But, across Britain, the furniture and do it yourself warehouses will be alive with the sound of ringing cash tills or cashless as is very much the case nowadays. Everywhere dads, uncles and cousins will be opening up their garden shed for yet another display of their haberdashery selection of tools, lawnmowers, pruning secateurs, water hoses, remarkable looking bags of manure and compost, rusting boxes of seeds, old Daily Mail newspapers and a transistor radio that was probably last turned on when Marconi was but a lad. 

Inside the home, the kids are excitedly ripping open their Easter eggs with tons of chocolate boxes of Maltesers, Mars bars and a varied assortment of everything that is supposed to be bad for you, damaging your health almost immediately and leading to all sorts of medical complaints in later life. But you remembered your lovely grandma and grandpa opening up their drinks cabinet and revealing those mouth watering chocolate indulgences. It is a cholesterol paradise and yet you never rejected the opportunity to stuff your face with huge quantities of sweet brown confections that you could never get enough of. 

And yet why is today Good Friday? The mystery seems to deepen with every year and you wonder what's so virtuous and excellent about this Friday in particular. It is life of course undoubtedly so. We are now familiar with Good Friday's religious connotations since most of Christianity is suffused with a warm glow, devout churchgoers huddling together in their orderly rows of pews as the vicar preaches in the holiest of worship. Then the hymns flood out of the stained glass windows of many colours and we all sing harmoniously from the same sheet. 

There is something timelessly reassuring about Easter that never fails to hit the right spot. On the TV, we scratch our heads in obvious bewilderment once again at the lack of Easter Parade with Judy Garland. Besides, it is the most appropriate film you could ever wish to see at this time of the year. But the TV schedulers have missed the moment so perhaps dad can finish fixing the bookshelves again or  some more mahogany cabinets, the hanging of exquisite paintings on the wall and don't forget to use the drill and screwdriver, nails and brackets.

This is very much the time for getting out to nature, exploring woodlands, rambling along country lanes in search of the friendliest country pub in the world. It is a time for renewal and resurrection, waking up to the sound of the amiable robin who perches itself on your nearest fir tree and guards your home with an almost touching affection for human property. 

For some of us this was quality time for meeting up with my wonderful family wife Bev, son Sam and daughter in law Lucy, the loveliest people in the world and most precious. And of course there are our stunning grandchildren Arthur and Rosie. You are most humble and grateful for everything that life has to offer. We tend to take our family for granted and then realise just how important they are to us, our connection to the world we live in.

 But Good Friday will now precede another Easter weekend where football begins to slowly wend its way to its natural conclusion. Soon the crack of the cricket red ball against willow bat will be heard across the parklands, garden centres, quaint tea shops and those whirling wind turbines that now dot the landscape of every motorway, roundabout and hard shoulder of Britain.

This is Britain flinging open its curtains and blinds on this Easter weekend. Soon the caravans and motorhomes will return back home from the seaside since we do know how to be by one. This may not be quite the time for abandoning ourselves to deckchairs and ice creams with knotted handkerchiefs on our head but Good Friday is good enough for all of us. You can almost hear the cricket and tennis season. We can see it from every angle and perspective. It is so life affirmingly sweet. 

 

 

Rory Mcilroy at the US Masters

 Rory Mcilroy at the US Masters.

The Irish gentleman with a twinkle in his eye walked out onto the driving ranges and tees of Augusta, Georgia and hundreds of his fans cheered themselves hoarse. Golf was meant to be a good walk spoiled but then what did Mark Twain know about golf?  There are probably prettier sights in the whole wide world of sport but Augusta takes a lot of beating. But the man from the Emerald Isle was smiling from ear to ear, his day complete and mind quietly satisfied. 

Rory Mcilroy ventured onto the first tee at Augusta for the US Masters and even the legends acknowledged his style and regal majesty. Mcilroy is surely one of the most accomplished, refined and polished golfers the world has ever seen. Time will tell whether he can emerge from the likes of Justin Rose and Bryson De Chambeau with a stirring victory and official possession of the Green Jacket. But it all felt so right for the Irishman yesterday and the signs were so good and positive. 

Amid the unforgettable azaleas and dogwoods which decorate the Masters course, you found yourself in complete awe of a man who makes everything he does look so easy. There was a time when most of us must have thought that Gary Player, Lee Trevino and Jack Nicklaus were the only the golfers with an air of statesmanship and admirable composure. Nobody could possibly emulate or surpass the achievements of those from yesteryear but then there was Rory Mcilroy.

But Mcilroy stood in the middle of Georgia, completely detached from all the fuss and commotion, oblivious to fear and anxiety before completing a second round at the Masters that reminded you of the most lyrical poetry ever heard or seen. Wearing both grey shirt and sweat shirt with a white cap and cream coloured trousers, the Northern Irishman repeatedly and consistently birdied with an effortless nonchalance and then executed some of the most difficult looking shots, treating the whole experience as just another day at the office. 

With a near flawless round of under par six with a 66 and 72 in the locker, Mcilroy headed towards the clubhouse like the man who strolls into a gentlemen's menswear outfitters, tries on a pin striped suit and then pops a carnation onto his lapel. For most of Friday afternoon the brilliant Irishman just breathed genius and leisurely insouciance, a calm, measured spring in his step and only thoughts of becoming a champion again. 

Over the years Britain has produced some of the greatest golfing talents ever to bestride a golf course. There was Tony Jacklin who once achieved a hole in one at the British Open, Sandy Lyle and Colin Montgomery, colourful characters with well rounded personalities. There was Nick Faldo, who was allegedly the temperamental bad boy of golf and Peter Ooseterhuis, a smooth and immaculate golfer who just seemed to glide around the fairways and bunkers with all the time in the world. 

But yesterday Mcilroy did everything he was supposed to do. He drove from every hole as if the whole exercise was something that came naturally to him. Standing upright, he addressed the ball with the steadiest of approaches before swinging elegantly, hips swivelling in perfect time and then lifting the heel of his shoe as if barely troubled by any care. Then there were the awkward shots from the pine trees, the ones loaded with complexity but presenting no problem at all. He chipped from shady corners, clipping delicately from the unlikeliest of angles and then putting from immensely long distances to some miraculous spot near the hole. 

Sometimes the great ones never bother about their demanding challenges. This is because golf is all about precision and accuracy, a sport elevated to its highest plateau. There is still something of a middle class, elitist feel about golf, perhaps a petty snobbery and a hint of exclusivity about it, a game simply designed for the wealthy and entitled. 

And yet finally Mcilroy finished the second round of these US Masters with not a bead of sweat pouring from his face. Today in Augusta, springtime will feel like a glorious summer for the Irish master. The job has yet to be done but when the sun sets on Augusta and the strokes have been made, it may be that Rory Mcilroy emerges with a Green Jacket. Britain and golf will welcome him like the all conquering hero and sport will also take off its most respectful cap. It will mean the world to Mcilroy.  

National Hug Your Dog Day.

 National Hug Your Dog Day

Now it is that spring is here and nature has awoken to its sweetest melodies, this may be time to acknowledge man and woman's best friend. We spend a great deal of time singing the praises of our dogs and it's no coincidence that today is National Hug Your Dog Day undoubtedly. Besides, dogs have formed such a close and companionable bond with the human race throughout history that it would be easy to take them for granted. 

Every morning we get out of our beds and there they are patiently waiting for us by the front door or just wandering around our homes, anticipating their breakfast with a presumptuous air, almost expecting to be fed and watered because they love us unconditionally and the feelings are definitely mutual. How often do we look at our dogs in the morning and think how privileged we are to have in our possession an animal that really does understand our capricious moods, our innermost emotions and our everyday behaviour? 

And so it is that my wife Bev and I greet our dog Barney, a poma poo with the warmest of receptions, our adorable canine who is now the grand old age of three. When he first joined our family he was just a tiny package, a black ball of fur no larger than the average matchbox and utterly terrified quite naturally. Poor Barney must have thought he was in the most alien environment he'd ever known and nobody could sympathise with his predicament because he'd suddenly found himself in a frightening world that didn't really make any sense. 

Of course we offered him a home, compassionate human parents oozing affection, acceptance, delight and a home where everything was safe, secure and nurturing. We all know about the therapeutic value of welcoming our dog friends into our homes because we've been doing it since time immemorial. Dogs keep us mentally alert, wonderfully calming influences when things go wrong and just there when we need them. They offer comfort and solace in our darkest days then immediately switch a radiant, beaming light on us when the problem has been rectified and it's a fabulous life and you're on top of the world. 

So what is it about dogs that have such a transformative effect on our everyday lives, how do they know when we're down and depressed, anxious and agitated. There has to be something about our body language that transmits itself to our dogs and just responds in a crisis. The truth is that Barney is completely and emotionally involved and attached to our family at all times. He looks at us in a way that speaks a thousand stories, knowing, wise, attentive and responsive at all times. He then turns on his still puppy eyes and tells you that he knows what's going on in your crowded and congested minds. 

The truth is that our Barney sits and then lies down on my lap quite comfortably and shares toast and jam or cereal for breakfast. He knows you've just woken up in the morning and you're not as alert and quick witted as perhaps you should be. He knows that you need his company because he'll never be judgemental or critical. He'll be there as a completely neutral presence, a model of impartiality, a lovely friend of the family who just wants to support you, believe in you all the way, trusting your instincts and offering silent guidance while just staring into your eyes with a tenderness that can't be defined.

And then we take Barney for invigorating walks in the spring sunshine, venturing out into the streets and roads before heading for parks, wetlands, bushes and trees which just happen to be his favourite hunting grounds. Barney will gingerly tread towards where he wants to be, tugging on his lead and then dutifully trotting along with us with a comfortable spring in his step. He may just be seeking a place for doing what comes naturally to all humans or just marking his territory. He'll sniff scents in bushes with that gloriously inquisitive nose but then proceed in an orderly fashion. 

Over the centuries, dogs have always hunted in packs and run across vast tracts of land blissfully content to be with their closest friends, family and the increasing numbers of dog walkers. But essentially Barney is our game changer, the catalyst for positive activities in our lives. We may not realise it at the time but Barney clears our minds, influencing all the time our immediate responses and reactions to any given moment in our day. He is a morale booster because he needs us and we need them. Dogs need our undivided attention and we need them because they've never let us down or disappointed us.

And so we come to today. Today is National Hug Your Dog Day. Of course it is Everybody knows that and so do we all. It is a day for expressing our complete adoration for our doggie friends, for telling them that they are the greatest creatures on Earth. They are the animals who came to our rescue in dire moments of emergency or crisis, licking us to pieces, approving of everything we do. They offered us protection from hurt and pain, stretching out their loving paws with full on reassurance.

Barney has now been with our family for three years and during that time he's been a blessing, nuisance, stubborn, childish at times, outstandingly co-operative and just a good, old fashioned dog. At times Barney has been a pain in the proverbial neck since he is not one to go out for a walk without a fight or an annoying refusal to do so. Barney will, quite amusingly, hide behind clothes horses or chairs and tables, obstinate and consistently intransigent before growling, snapping and baring his teeth in defiance. 

For me the very act of owning a dog is something of a revelation. But now that Barney has settled in, he is the perfect extension to our family unit. We are a family of dogs and long should that be the case. Barney must privately know that when we do go out for a walk, he knows instinctively that his canine acquaintances will be out and about, running after tennis balls their owners have kindly thrown for them, gathering around in a circle with other dogs and sharing mutual pleasantries. 

There is something very uplifting and stimulating about a dog's presence that remains a constant source of wonder. Why though do they sit on the tops of sofas or armchairs, casually lolling around our homes,  simply snoozing and sleeping the day quite contentedly without a care in the world. Initially, Barney had terrible separation issues and whimpered the day away like some lost and heartbroken dog who'd been deserted by everybody. But we'll never stop loving our Barney.

For days, months and weeks, Barney would start crying poignantly because there was nobody in our home to look after him at such a critical time in his puppy life. He was scared, petrified even, nervous in isolation and just longing for a hug. And so it is Ladies and Gentlemen that we National Hug Your Dog Day, a day of cuddling your dog and for conveying quite clearly all of those signals of understanding, appreciation and sitting next to him during another evening of watching Crufts dog show for the umpteenth time. 

And then on Sunday morning you might head for the local forest or idyllic piece of woodland where your dog is at its liveliest and happiest. You'll have a handful of sticks and bones and you'll know what he's thinking and they feel much the same. Your dog loves the outdoors and will break into a tentative jog into thick marshlands, muddy patches of grass and sprint for their lives. They'll stop for a while with a contemplative stroll around a duck pond and several upstanding geese, sizing up their next move and then running after the aforesaid birds, shooing them back into the water and then looking very satisfied into the bargain. 

But essentially dogs are ideal alarm clocks in the morning, jumping onto our beds excitedly at the crack of dawn before even the robins have had time to yawn and tweet. There they are again, bounding around the kitchen downstairs, darting around the living room in the most playful fashion before leaping up the stairs and begging for somebody to play with their toys and games. You may be still fast asleep at six o'clock in the morning but your dog wants to play catch the ball immediately. 

So go on let's hug your dog, make it feel as deeply important as royalty. Your dog is a dog for life, to provide you with emotional assistance, to feed in the morning, taking priority in your breakfast arrangements since your dog is starving and famished and needs to eat here and now. Your dog wants to be friendly with the whole of humanity, reaching out with their paws and making a fuss of you. Never underestimate your dog because they are your assistance dog and a dog for ever more. Barney is an integral part of family life and that's official. Hug your Dog and spoil your dog something rotten. They're always there for you permanently. We love you Barney.     

The Grand National.

 The Grand National. 

So it is that the spring equinox dawns brightly and beautifully on Aintree, scene of one of the greatest, loveliest and, undoubtedly, the most stunning horse race in the world. Across all the social classes, backgrounds and lifestyles, we will gather around en masse to watch what has now become one of the most endearing of all rituals. For those who only put a bet on either the Grand National or the Epsom Derby, it is a race that transcends all boundaries and one that any jockey or horse can win.

Today it is that the yearly Grand National explodes in a riot of colour, elegant fashions, expensive food and drink in the hospitality boxes and huge quantities of drama, melodrama, glamour and high profile names, riders with distinguished reputations and trainers who have been plying their trade for innumerable decades. 

The Grand National is now officially one of the oldest and most highly respected English national treasures, firmly established in our hearts and still one that captures the imagination of even the most impartial observer. It is sport at its most natural and authentic, possibly quite cruel and barbaric in the eyes of those who belong to the animal rights supporters. But, needless to stay, it's still quite astonishing, barely believable at times, utterly compelling, irresistible and heroically gripping. 

Throughout the years and centuries, the critics have bombarded us with fierce criticism and condemnation. How can you possibly subject one of our most delightful animals to such anguished agony and painful purgatory? Why do we treat our horses so appallingly and callously, traumatising and torturing them with cracking whips, driving them on relentlessly as if their lives depend on it. But this is the Grand National and, besides, it has always been this way. 

In 1956, a horse called Devon Loch approached the final fences at Aintree almost brazenly confident that it had done enough to win the Grand National. Then tragedy struck. Devon Loch, leaping over the final fence with an almost arrogant certainty, landed awkwardly, stumbling, staggering, panicking before collapsing on the hallowed acres of Aintree's grass and had to be put down. It was one of the most horrendous sights we had ever seen in any sport but we were rudely reminded of its ever present life threatening dangers.

Then during the 1970s, one horse emerged from its paddock and stable to become one of the most gorgeously proportioned of all horses. The horse had class, refinement and breeding, the most infectious enthusiasm for the big race and a personality that was both engaging and charming. It was a horse who knew it was important and yet unaffected by all the fuss and commotion and cool as a cucumber. If it could talk and communicate it would probably go into chapter and verse about the history of Aintree. 

For three consecutive years Red Rum dominated Aintree, almost took a mortgage out on the racecourse and firmly believed that it was untouchable and unsurpassable. The very presence of Red Rum could swell the numbers on any race meeting by the thousand since it was the smoothest, silkiest and stylish horse the world had ever seen. 

In 1973, a horse called Crisp was miles away from the pursuing pack, heading frantically towards the finishing line. This looked like a formality, a one horse race with no horse even remotely close to it and all Crisp had to negotiate were the final fences before sprinting for victory. Then Crisp completely ran out of steam, energy seeping away, flagging forlornly and gasping for breath. Crisp became slower and slower, legs now buckling under and clearly betraying the trust of the punters who had backed it in the bookmakers. 

Meanwhile, behind Crisp, the horse who would achieve legendary status Red Rum, started galloping flat out with real conviction and just determined to hunt down Crisp with an unforgettable turn of pace that was quite startling. Once it had got going there was no stopping Red Rum. Tommy Stack and Brian Fletcher, who would become one of the most polished jockeys Britain had ever produced, did what they had to, bodies purposefully hunched over in the saddle, playfully slapping Red Rum on the back as it flashed past the winning line. It was one of the most uplifting and rewarding moments horse racing had ever seen. 

For the next two years Red Rum would win the National with an almost effortless ease and an inner confidence that defied belief, a suave gentleman who had just walked into the Garrick, spread out the Financial Times in front of him, poured himself a triumphant brandy and then lit up a cigar just for good measure. Red Rum even appeared on BBC's Sports Personality of the Year as if he belonged in exalted human company. Red Rum had deserved this one evening in the TV spotlight. Who could argue?  

And so we move seamlessly to the present day. The names of the horses are still unfailingly amusing, beyond comprehension and evocatively poetic.  There was Coko Beach, Twig, Duffle Coat, Appreciate it, Broadway Boy, Three Card Brag, Chantry House, Hyland, Stumpton, the wonderfully comical, sublime and then the ridiculous such as Monbeg Genius, Intense Raffles, BravesmansGame and finally not but least Meeting of the Waiters. 

Sadly last year's winner I Am Maximus, which does sound gladiatorial and confrontational, failed to repeat the victory of 2024. But the Grand National had succeeded in moving its traditionalists if only because the event was still held on a Saturday afternoon tea time. The seasoned thoroughbreds and not so experienced had retained their place in Britain's affections.

This afternoon Nick Rockett , ridden by son Patrick Mullins, under the guidance of dad Willie, romped home to win the Grand National at 33-1. Second was I Am Maximus who had to be content with the runners up spot while Grangeclare West clinched third place. Aintree then declared itself content with the business of the day. The hardened punters who had been picking winners for years at Aintree flung their hats in the air, cheered hoarsely and then looked gleefully at their betting slip. Then there were the folk who had lost their shirt and just slumped over a bar with several beers at their disposal. You win some, you lose some. The Grand National had got it absolutely right. 

Autism Awareness Month

 Autism Awareness Month. 

During your childhood you were never entirely sure what was going on inside that complex mechanism known as your brain. There were frequent moments when it all felt perfectly normal, straightforward and your behaviour was perfectly acceptable. There was nothing out of the ordinary. You learnt how to walk, talk, articulate toddler's emotions,  learning about all the basic rules and regulations, the laws and customs as they applied to your wonderful parents and what to do when the world expected you to abide by them. 

April marks Autism Awareness Month and as somebody who was diagnosed with Autism in 2009, this is one issue that has to be addressed. You feel sure that we have to be enlightened and discussions on the subject have to be out there in the public domain. Personally this has been a difficult, challenging, problematic if rewarding life journey since living in ignorance of Autism was perhaps the most awkward experience I've ever had. 

But now I have the most wonderfully loving and supportive wife, children and extended family you could possibly wish for and that's all that matters. My whole family have offered unconditional love and affection and for this I can be immensely grateful. The fact is though Autism can often be lost in translation, beyond my understanding and a general pain in the neck. Every so often your patience is tested to the limit since nobody can make head or tail of your body language.

This all goes back to your childhood again when you found yourself in a bewildering environment where friends, family and neighbours saw you in a perfectly rational light, the kid who just wanted to lead his life in much the way they were. And then complications set in very slowly but surely. I was painfully shy, reserved, withdrawn, lonely, solitary, self conscious and with none of the friends that my contemporaries had taken for granted. 

The truth is that the medical profession had suddenly discovered a condition known as Autism because this went much deeper than an obvious breakdown in communication. For those who have experienced Autism in all of its different forms, then you'll know what I'm talking about. There's the insistence on routine and structure, the nagging necessity to be at any specific location at a particular time. Sometimes it's just exhausting and occasionally demoralising since you certainly have no idea why life has to revolve around you. 

I now have my everyday coping mechanisms since Autism is now a fundamental part of life and, although not a source of interference, still makes demands on you subconsciously. You find yourself longing for familiarity, the comforting knowledge that everything is right and going well, craving reassurance should that be necessary. 

This is not to suggest that those with Autism are unusual although they can be unconventional and somehow unique. In a sense we function in the way that most people without Autism conduct themselves in public. But the list of tasks and responsibilities that Autistic people may have difficulty in undertaking are innumerable. Still, I do have a healthy acceptance of the Autistic condition and know all about the trigger points. 

At parties and family gatherings, I used to feel terribly uncomfortable, deeply isolated and confused about looks on faces, knowing the exact moment when to make the right comments in a private conversation. Of course I'm not tactless nor do I make appropriate references but there may be something in our dialogue that somehow goes over your head completely. 

Then there are the moments when you read between the lines in something people may say. Autistic people are, from my point of view, always searching for a deeper meaning to something that could be considered as trivial. And yet Autistic people are far from being conspiracy theorists believing that the outside world is saying nasty or unsavoury things about you behind your back. 

So there you are. This is Autism Awareness Month, whose generous patron is the Duchess of Edinburgh Sophie, whose eloquent support of this condition is much appreciated. Autism has been very good to me and there is a realisation that I'll never be alone in a world that maybe cruel and unforgiving, callous and indifferent at times. It's a mental health issue that has to be high up on the agenda of our supposedly kind and considerate politicians. Maybe just maybe it will always be their foremost concern and priority. We must hope. Thank goodness for the diagnosis of Autism. 

Crystal Palace reach the FA Cup semi final at the expense of Fulham

 Crystal Palace reach the FA Cup semi final at the expense of Fulham

For both Crystal Palace and Fulham this was very much a defining moment in their season. Lose and their Premier League campaign fades into obscurity or win and the sky's the limit, a day of wild celebration and revelry. Both Palace and Fulham have served up some of the most attractive football throughout this season but now was not the time for throwing the dice and calculated gambles. 

Yesterday, down by the placid River Thames, Craven Cottage's always quaint and welcoming ground opened its doors to its local London neighbours from Selhurst Park, Crystal Palace. It was an amiable kind of reception, mutual flattery promptly shared but FA Cup glory was at stake and there was no sentiment or respect for each other here. This is the business end of the season and that meant the last four in the FA Cup had now become a vitally important contest. 

Some of us were hoping that 50 years after their last and only FA Cup Final appearance, Fulham would be going hell for leather, storming the barricades and ready to give blood, sweat and tears for the cause. For the first twenty minutes or so the Cottagers recalled the days of Viv Busby, Les Strong,  John Mitchell, Alan Mullery and, of course, the incomparable Bobby Moore. But Fulham's 2-0 defeat to London rivals West Ham probably still rankles with their fans and here was an opportunity to redeem themselves.

And so here we were at the Cottage, the ground where once the dearly missed and beloved George Best once teased and taunted Hereford United mercilessly in an overwhelming 4-0 victory in the old Second Division. The sight of Best and his fellow exhibitionist Rodney Marsh, dancing and prancing, carousing and cavorting with poor Hereford will live in our memories for an eternity. 

Nowadays Marco Silva, certainly as far removed from Alec Stock as it was possible to be, stood patiently but ultimately sadly as his Fulham side from today's generation were decisively beaten by a Crystal Palace side still trying to shake off the trauma of a heavy FA Cup final defeat to Sir Alex Ferguson's Manchester United 35 years ago. For Crystal Palace this must have felt like the right time and place to exorcise the demons of their past and win the FA Cup this year. 

Palace of course enjoyed some of their greatest and most satisfying match days under both Terry Venables and Steve Coppell. Neither Venables or Coppell reached the promised land and Palace are still looking for their first trophy of any significance in any season. Palace have bounced up and down from the old Second Division and top flight rather like the kid on the trampoline completely without fear or trepidation. But now the Eagles have well and truly landed so to speak. 

After the well educated Roy Hodgson had taken Palace as far as he could, the general consensus was that the South Londoners would always be guaranteed joyous entertainment. But there was none of the stability that other clubs would take for granted. Palace would always be considered as one of those middle of the road London clubs who would never be strong enough or suitably equipped for bigger achievements.

Fulham, for their part, must have been convinced that 50 years is almost too long to decorate their trophy cabinet with at least something to show for their earnest endeavours. Football can be cruel and unforgiving, a game where the thin line between victory and defeat can be so fragile that it just can't be judged or measured accurately. This was not 1975  but rather a perfect opportunity to turn round their fortunes and Crystal Palace had to be theirs for the taking. But the Cottage, although privately expectant and vocal throughout, couldn't force themselves over the finishing line.

Palace were like greyhounds out of the trap, weathering the early Fulham onslaught with an effortless calm and nonchalance that was admirable. Fulham were moderately impressive but Palace surged into attack with a fluency and cohesion that the home side were helpless to repel. Fulham became increasingly ragged  and their disenchanted spectators knew exactly what to expect. Palace played metaphorically like royalty while Fulham looked like commoners who had forgotten their garden party engagement.

For Palace, the likes of the superbly commanding Marc Guehi, dependable full back partner Chris Richards and Tyrick Mitchell, solid as rock, Palace turned on the afterburners, thrusting forward at turbo charged pace and then landing powerful blows on Fulham's forehead. With Adam Wharton, Jefferson Lerma, Ismaila Sarr and the gloriously talented Ebereche Eze almost a force of nature, Palace's measured and more cultured approach to this FA Cup quarter final was too much to handle for Fulham. Jean Phillipe Mateta became the ultimate pain in the neck for Fulham, irritating and annoying their opponents repeatedly.  

Now Palace had all the right cards and were so pumped up for this match over their local rivals that nobody needed to remind them of where they were and knew what was expected of them. Their football was both delicious and delightful in equal doses, short, sharp, and simple passing movements that carved through the Fulham defence like a knife through butter. It wasn't long before Fulham's briefly functioning attack began to fizzle out like a damp firework. 

When Timothy Castagne, Calvin Bassey, Antonee Robinson, Joachim Andersen seemed to stagger and stumble on leaden feet for the home side, they reminded you of those daring souls who keep treading on hot coals and getting their feet burnt. Fulham looked awkward and ill at ease, at times leaden footed and emotionally overcome by the occasion itself. And they paid the penalty for their attacking ineptitude and little in the way of defiance. 

By the time Antonee Robinson, Sander Berge, Sasa Lukic and the ever tricky Alex Iwobi had exhausted their options, Fulham looked punch drunk, wobbling precariously around the pitch as if in a permanent daze. The home side had failed to turn up on the day and after another respectable season in the Premier League, Fulham were beginning to wonder whether it had been worth their while, a side now bereft of ideas and going nowhere. 

Palace of course inevitably took the lead because they had given every indication of doing so. Tyrick Mitchell, a sturdy and steadfast presence for Palace, sent a long, flighted ball with impeccable accuracy into the path of the stunning Ebereche Eze. Eze looks like he could become one of the most influential of all England players. There is just a hint of the Steve Coppell and Peter Barnes about Eze, a winger and midfielder  full of fleet footed trickery and sorcery that bodes well for Thomas Tuchel's England. 

Eze, picking up the ball, went on a breathless run at a now terrified home defence before dropping his shoulder, jinking, dinking and shimmying his body before cracking an unstoppable low shot that was placed neatly into the corner of the net. Palace were now carefree and cavalier and liaising splendidly with each other, their football now absolutely suited for a portrait gallery. 

Minutes before half time, Palace extended their lead and rubber stamped their authority on the day. Ismaila Sarr, never less than lively and enthrallingly energetic, headed home from another lovely cross from Eze. Fulham had no answer to the Palace cavalry charge, their immensely constructive football almost impossible to resist. And now with this match well and truly done and dusted, Palace rubbed the proverbial salt into Fulham's wound. 

Another former Arsenal forward Eddie Nketiah cut inside a now forlorn and over run Fulham and then drove the ball firmly into the Fulham net. Come the final whistle and Palace manager Oliver Glasner switched on a beaming smile. He stared up at his jubilant fans who looked as though they'd won the World Cup rather than the FA Cup quarter final. The Eagles will now be flying higher than ever. Maybe this is their year. There can be no telling but perhaps it could be. We shall see.       

No more Blue Peter

No more Blue Peter.

So the news is out and for some of us, it almost felt as though we'd lost a valuable teddy bear from our childhood or some favourite board game in the cupboard that we were loathe to throw away but had to dispose of because it was just cluttering up our living room. But then we realised that perhaps it had passed its sell by date ages ago and, besides we hadn't used the aforesaid item for ages and it did look pretty old anyway. 

Today, the BBC, perhaps with a heavy heart and with great reluctance, put out to pasture one of its much loved programmes and TV national treasures. Blue Peter is about to end its seven decade occupancy at the height of the now increasingly busy children's TV schedule, a programme so deeply cherished by generations of kids that it's hard to believe that, shortly, it will be no more and just a historic TV gem that always gleamed brightly. Maybe a trickle of tears were seen to be falling from the eyes of the BBC's Director General and a host of boardroom directors. 

For those who grew up with the programme, that infectiously uplifting naval jingle that introduced Blue Peter will live on in the memory for many years. It represented our black and white world where tea time TV during the 1960s made way for a celebrated telly institution that informed, educated and enlightened in equal measure. It was immensely entertaining, reassuring and just delightfully familiar. 

Everybody knew the presenters of Blue Peter because they entered our homes with cheerful invitations from parents who just wanted their children to sit in front of the TV and just watch something that would broaden their mind, stimulate discussion and remind us that life was gentle and inoffensive or seemingly so. Blue Peter was a campaigning children's programme, serious, funny, topical and relevant to all ages, classes and backgrounds. Nobody ever felt excluded when Blue Peter hit our screens because it was always inclusive, diverse, accessible and never felt patronising. 

We grew accustomed to Valerie Singleton, John Noakes and Peter Purves because they were relatable, recognisable, always upbeat, excellent communicators and always ready to explain the complicated in simple terms. We were acquainted with lovable dogs, memorable elephants, rabbits and tortoises no doubt and people who were always ready to boast about their exceptional achievements. Blue Peter was always on two or three times a week and invariably followed Play School and, at times Andy Pandy. 

In one edition there was the unforgettable sight of John Noakes, ever the adventurous type, coming face to face with two adorable elephants in the BBC studio. What followed was complete bedlam and pandemonium, a whole fifteen minute segment of Blue Peter devoted to Noakes hilarious attempts to keep the restless elephants under control.

 As the item unfolded, we were reminded of exactly why we watched spellbound as the sublime became the ridiculous. Noakes, smiling helplessly, struggled desperately to hold on to the said elephants while the animals allowed nature to take its course on the studio floor. At first Noakes seemed to have be coping admirably but then let go of the rope tethered to the elephants, before releasing them as they left their lasting legacy on the floor. 

But what we'll always remember about Blue Peter were the bottles of washing up liquid, the innumerable buttons, pieces of cardboard, sticky back plastic, the glue, the scissors, the countless boxes that were cut up mercilessly, squeezed together with either glue or staple guns and then joined together to create something that simply oozed creativity and originality. We were never sure what we were going to get because it may have come as a pleasant surprise. 

Then there were times when Peter Purves went on epic journeys around the studio on futuristic bikes and then demonstrated ground breaking objects such as computers of the future or phones that would eventually become mobile phones. Valerie Singleton, for her part, was always interested about peculiar inventions, children's art work and the programme's unstinting commitment to exotic charity projects. 

Singleton did her utmost to promote worthy causes with both the underprivileged, needy and disabled receiving the highest priority. She was very much the patient and understanding mother figure, carefully describing details of how much Blue Peter had raised in its Christmas appeal. But the genuine appeal of the show was the frequent appearance of those wonderful dogs. Dogs were always  relaxed and comfortable within the confines of a TV studio. Noakes first dog Shep became the nation's favourite dog until one day Shep passed away and Britain was grief stricken. 

In later years there would be Lesley Judd, Janet Ellis, the late and much missed Karon Keating, daughter of the radio and TV presenter Gloria Hunniford. For the men there was Simon Groom, Simon Thomas, Peter Duncan and a whole host of others who would bring their own unique personality and aura to the programme.

Behind the scenes, there was the permanently enthusiastic and effervescent producer and director Biddy Baxter, a major influence on Blue Peter for years and just there to inject considerable humour where necessary. When the post bag containing the programme's substantial fan mail rolled into the BBC there was a sense here that this children's TV gold nugget had officially confirmed its place as one of the finest the Beeb had ever produced. 

And yet today there are parents and children who will be mourning the loss of a TV classic that never openly swore at its audience, never underestimated the challenges confronted by the likes of its ITV counterpart Magpie and knew how to be both creative, forward thinking, up to date and always working on behalf of children.

 But the 21st century has provided kids with viable alternatives to Blue Peter such as online children's games, sometimes overwhelming screens, Tablets and Smart Phones and every conceivable mobile phone available on the market. It does seem that Blue Peter never really stood a chance but we'll miss you deeply and it is, quite certainly, a sad day for children's TV. Never forget Blue Peter.

England beat Albania in World Cup qualifier.

 England beat Albania in World Cup qualifier.

Last night was all about polite introductions and initiation ceremonies. By the end of it all, we were all on first name terms, civil handshakes had been exchanged and agreeable smiles were much in evidence. Everybody had got on with each other, there were no personal disagreements and the milk of human kindness was overflowing. There was no need for any bad blood, rancour and petty differences of opinion. 

Under new coach and manager Thomas Tuchel, England had beaten Albania in their opening World Cup qualifier for next year's global football jamboree in the USA, Mexico and Canada. Straightforward really, no sweat, no problem at all. But there was a bizarre and mysterious air about last night's game that was perhaps indefinable. We've always known about the underwhelming nature of these World Cup preliminaries since the opposition are marginally more demanding and taxing as a Hackney Marshes 11 on a Sunday morning. 

The fact is that both Albania and Latvia on Monday at Wembley are never likely to shake the foundations of world football at any point in the history of the game. By the hour of yesterday's evening nondescript, meaningless, wretchedly insulting, dull and dreary spectacle at Wembley, most of England's devoted fans were beginning to think about an early exit home for late night tea drinking stimulation. This most blinding of football smokescreens couldn't disguise the sheer futility of the exercise. 

International football has undergone a dramatic evolution in recent years with the arrival of now frequent international breaks during the Premier League season and nothing but probing questions. World Cup and Euro qualifiers used to be valued and a major source of fascination. England used to be presented with tricky obstacles in their way en route to any of both competitions. There was Poland in 1973 when Sir Alf Ramsey anti climactically lost his job for England on their way to West Germany for the 1974 World Cup against the Poles and then Italy four years later when Don Revie's England fell by the wayside against Italy.

When Gareth Southgate recently departed his post as England manager last year, the yawning chasm and gaping gap needed to be filled as quickly as possible. Lee Carsley briefly took over the shop as a means of blooding the next generation of England players and integrating fresh new faces. But the pain and anguish of losing last year's European Championship Final to an embarrassingly superior and technically outstanding Spain side exposed all of the usual limitations and left England gasping for oxygen once again.

So here we went again for England last night, a match that bore no relation to anything that might resemble a proper contest in next year's World Cup Finals. We were again lulled into a soft focus blurred image of footballing excellence. The truth is that this was a caricature of an international match, some pale imitation of football that struggled for any kind of fluidity. England got the result they were looking for but this was rather like being trapped in a dark room desperate for a chink of light. 

And yet Thomas Tuchel will have seen the first faint pencilled outlines of England's future under his honourable and well intentioned management. Tuchel is an exciting and innovative coach who began to build solid bricks and mortar at Chelsea but then experienced subsidence when things went wrong. He remains an unknown quantity at international level but judgments have yet to be formed and we shall see. 

But what on earth was last night's fiasco all about for England? What we had was a genuine demonstration of slow motion, boring, painfully anodyne and insignificant football that belonged exclusively on the training ground and  leisurely five-a- sides before sinking into anonymity. From the kick off, England indulged in stuttering, self indulgent and staccato passing that barely troubled the half way line at times. There were bewildering, keep ball patterns that became increasingly repetitive and to the outsider, simply annoying and intolerable. 

Of course there is a school of thought that the passing game should always be regarded as a thing of beauty and splendour, a marvel of sweet intricacy and purposeful product at the end of it all. Football was designed to be constructed patiently from the back of the defence, shuffled pleasingly through the midfield and then finished with the most incisive finish and goals galore. England though may have put far too great emphasis on over elaboration and overdoing the fancy approach work.

In fairness to Albania, their ex Arsenal player Silvinho, now coach to Albania had worked out a grand masterplan to stifle Tuchel's England. Having erected an eleven man defensive wall in front of them, England would probably have needed an earth remover and bulldozer to break down the visitors. Commonly known as the low block, Albania were almost camped inside their own half permanently, touching and nicking the ball occasionally but then surrendering all hope within minutes of the game.

England though made all the right commendable noises and attacked with both urgency and intensity. But then they started tapping out their version of Morse Code, shifting the ball sideways and then backwards as if treating it like a hot potato. Then there seemed a baffling insistence on the horizontal and the vertical, the ball moving into nowhere in particular before drifting off into a private recycling no man's land. It looked as if they were trapped in a maze or confusing labyrinth where football disappears into a world of its own. 

As for the team itself both the veteran Kyle Walker, Ezri Konsa and the 32 year old Newcastle all conquering Carabao Cup hero, Dan Burn fixed up their defensive picket line and refused to budge. Newcomer and Arsenal favourite Myles Lewis Skelly, a mere child of nature and still learning the ropes, was simply a dazzling revelation, comfortably playing his way out of trouble and just impregnable. The truth is that England didn't really need their defence last night so surplus to requirements were they. 

Liverpool's Curtis Jones was promisingly and impressively adventurous with neat ball control, darting runs and a willingness to run at Albania. Declan Rice, as is customary now, did the simple things correctly, stable, assured and never flustered. He also ventured forward into attack from time to time and now seems likely to become a very capable holding midfield player with a licence to roam forward. 

For his part, Phil Foden sadly vanished from the game after a while and this may be a source of concern and anxiety for Thomas Tuchel. The Manchester City midfield player has hitherto been an essential worker and catalyst at the start of all City's attacks, buzzing, scurrying, tricking and deliberately deceiving opponents with the ball at his feet. Foden though has had a forgettable season for City and his presence in their attack has almost been non existent and negligible. Foden did spark and shine last night but then any remaining energy seemed to drain from him. 

Both Harry Kane and Marcus Rashford did lead England's forward line with a hearty appetite for goal and a sixth sense that there was something in it for them. Kane shepherded the ball admirably into dangerous areas for the captain and Rashford powered his way past players as if determined to prove his doubters wrong. Kane had half chances to score while Rashford kept hunting for goals. 

England's goals though were worth waiting for. With just over 20 minutes gone and tentative sparring with a very meek and submissive Albania, England finally broke through. The remarkably gifted Jude Bellingham, who kept dragging the Albanians out of their formation with some masterful body swerves, picked up the ball deep into the half and then released the most stunning, low through pass past three statuesque Albanian defenders that just split all of them in half. Myles Lewis Skelly, quick on the uptake and superbly responsive, sneaked into the penalty area and seizing the opportunity, clipped the ball precisely past a helpless Albanian goalkeeper for a goal to remember. 

After a second half that came and went in a rapid flash, England went about their business, engaged with the task at hand but never really bothering to leave a lasting imprint on the game. A second goal, although much prized, had become irrelevant.  It did though come and we were more than grateful for its appearance. In any other circumstances, England may have put their foot on the accelerator pedal but this was an England in first gear with no real inclination to humiliate their visitors. 

Firstly Kyle Walker and then Declan Rice swapped what had to be the thousandth passes on the night, before the Arsenal defender floated the ball serenely and high towards Harry Kane. Kane, with polished expertise, brought the ball down from the sky beautifully, turned inside his defender with the deftest touch and then curled the ball delicately past the Albania keeper. Here was a master of his craft, knowing what to do and how to do it. 

So yet again England are off to another flying start in another World Cup qualifier. Latvia at Wembley on Monday are next on their busy schedule. Serbia will follow in due course and theoretically England should be contemplating an advance plane booking to next year's World Cup. But then Sir Alf Ramsey and Graham Taylor must have been thinking along the same lines in years gone by and look what happened to them. Anyway at least Sir Norman Wisdom must have been having a private giggle. Even Albania, in giving Wisdom special status, may have seen the funny side of this game.       

Newcastle United finally win a trophy

 Newcastle United finally win a trophy.

After exactly 70 years without a single domestic trophy, you'd have thought they'd be declaring a national holiday on Tyneside. Footballing droughts are hardly more barren when you've spent seven decades banging your head against the proverbial brick wall. The fact is that Newcastle United have finally won a reputable football trophy and the folks back home are dancing from semi and terraced homes, council estates, cottages, mansions, villages and, surely, shopping centres in the North East. 

Yesterday, Newcastle won their first trophy in dear old England since Bobby Mitchell, the Robledo brothers and Jackie Milburn brought home the FA Cup in 1955 against Manchester City. In 1969, Newcastle laid their hands on the old Fairs Cup in Europe, their precious victory in the Final against Ujpesti Dozsa of Hungary breaking the oldest of underachieving cycles of failure. It's all come right though on the day for Newcastle just when we were beginning to think a gypsy curse may have been placed on the club. 

Up in the celebrity boxes at Wembley, delight and jubilation was unconfined, otherwise cynical figures who may have despaired of ever seeing their club winning anything again, jumping up and down with pleasure quite openly. Ant and Dec, those jolly, chipper and chirpy TV presenters who always seem to see the good in everyone and everything, turned around to one another, hugged each other unashamedly and then congratulated themselves for being there to see their team triumph on this momentous day. 

Meanwhile, Newcastle's greatest, most deeply revered and loved strikers Alan Shearer, a St James Park icon and legend for eternity, threw his hands up into the air, barely able to control his black and white scarf and scarcely able to hold it all back. When Shearer signed for his hometown club during the 1990s from Blackburn Rovers, the feeling was that the local boy had returned home to look for his spiritual roots. Shearer scored lorry loads of goals for Newcastle and the Toon were simply overjoyed. Sadly, the club were never able to deliver the Premier League for Newcastle but the North East had been revived as a major force in the land. 

But it was good to see a team who have been so cruelly starved of any kind of success throughout recent decades being finally rewarded for their stubborn perseverance. In 1998, Shearer's Newcastle were outclassed by Arsene Wenger's seemingly unbeatable Arsenal. You had to go back 51 years ago to find any semblance of black and white striped Wembley glory tarnished only by FA Cup Final defeat to the team they overcame yesterday Liverpool when Kevin Keegan, Steve Heighway and John Toshack were just irresistible on the day. 

Yesterday, Eddie Howe's Toon marauders struck the perfect balance at Wembley by winning the old League Cup Final or the Carabao Cup Final and all was good in the world. Even before yesterday's straight contest between the North East and North West, there was a real excitement. They say that everything comes to those who wait and that patience is a virtue and never has this been more applicable. The stars were shining and the lights were beaming on Newcastle and this vast, sprawling city can finally acknowledge an emotion that they may have thought would become permanently elusive. 

On the day, Newcastle fulfilled their season's long held potential, their up and down, fluctuating Premier League season now redeemed by something tangible and positive. Some of Newcastle's football this season has been astonishingly impressive, free flowing, fluent and enormously pleasing on the eye. But then there have been the roller coaster moments when there have been cracks on the road, defensive shortcomings and spasmodic defeats at home and away. So the Premier League may be their next project, their overriding objective and something to plan ahead for. 

But now they find themselves stuck between the devil and the deep blue sea. Newcastle are still deeply respected by the wider football community and still regarded as a big club. But the more demanding fans will now want more of the same, perhaps more prestigious silverware to adorn the club's cabinet. Their children and grandchildren will now tell their generation and generations to come that St James Park is still the place to watch top class football. 

During Sunday afternoon, the whole of London's West End became a colony of black and white, massive throngs of passionate supporters sitting on the roof of old Covent Garden piazza buildings, firing off flares and then watching small wisps of smoke drifting across that delightful area where once the barrow boys would trundle their fruit and vegetable stalls across the Victorian cobble stones. It was also the venue where Charles Dickens would wander around at midnight, filling up his fertile literary mind with hundreds of ideas, images and symbolism. 

And then finally those same supporters would fan out into Trafalgar Square where the tall, imposing figure of Nelson's column may well have indirectly inspired them to feats of heroism that could hardly have been imagined for years at Newcastle. Then they would raise the scarves in unison again, chanting those famous old songs that were born in the Industrial Revolution.

 For a while they may have pondered on those days of thriving Tyneside mining collieries, the melodious Blaydon Races, the fathers and grandfathers who emerged from the pits with grime and sweat on their faces. This was far from being a rags and riches day for Newcastle since Newcastle fans felt they deserved their moment in the sun. You remembered the cheeky, impish grins of Ant and Dec, that joyous smile on Alan Shearer's face and were deeply grateful for football's endless capacity to enchant and enthral. This was a moving and poignant day for Tyneside and how uproariously triumphant it was.   

The new Old Trafford.

 The new Old Trafford.

Those now decaying football stadiums that were once an integral part of football's rich heritage maybe poised to be phased out altogether. Maybe time has inevitably caught up with them and we are now living in the 21st century and new technologies have taken over completely. The days of hanging around refreshment bars and drinking beer and then devouring burgers next to police on horses, may now be consigned to some medieval page in footballing history. 

We all treasured the atmosphere outside grounds such as Highbury, Upton Park, White Hart Lane and, more, recently, Everton who will also be requiring the services of furniture removal vans to shift their belongings into the new Everton stadium next season. Surely it can't be long before Liverpool  decide to move their mighty Anfield fortress to greener pastures. And yet a huge capacity upgrade has now rendered that possibility a non starter. Liverpool will stay where they are for the foreseeable future. 

Yesterday though those global football giants Manchester United announced their ambitious intentions to move lock, stock and barrel to an even bigger, smarter, posher and more architecturally stunning football stadium. Finally, the rather old fashioned and perhaps frayed looking Old Trafford is now looking its age. It is far from being shabby genteel and behind the times but there is a sense now that Old Trafford is beginning to look a little haggard, rough around the edges and reminiscent, dare you say of it, of an old music hall or some weather beaten department store that has been around for centuries. 

Old Trafford's capacity is now at the remarkably impressive 80,000 and if you listen closely you can also hear and see the ghosts from the past; the vivacious, vital and voluptuous George Best, unmistakably beautiful and almost a supernatural force. There was the late and wonderful Duncan Edwards, the boy who perished in the Munich air disaster in 1958, naturally gifted, an outstanding leader of men, all breathtaking ball control and balletic poise on the ball. The Stretford End has always been the place to be on those emotional European nights at United, loud, feverishly noisy, communally together at all times and utterly influential. 

You now wonder what the likes of the legendary Sir Matt Busby would have thought of this now life changing moment for Manchester United. It's a new stadium, new infrastructure, still vast wealth, very much a transitional era after the greatness of Sir Alex Ferguson and sadly no sign of the continuity that Ferguson must have been hoping for after he left the club. The manager is still the wrong fit or seemingly so and those rose tinted days of Triple winning, multiple Premier League titles and several Champions League trophies now seem an age ago. 

But now the movers and shakers at United want an even larger place to call their home. The news drip dripping out of the media circus in Manchester is that there are plans for a 100,000 capacity stadium, all grand fixtures and fittings, the finest facilities in world football and plenty of room to manoeuvre. United's loyal followers were reassured yesterday that the old Old Trafford will remain where it is although the completion date for the new stadium is scheduled for five years time. 

The fact is that football will now miss those charming old grounds that were somehow a vitally important part of our childhood and still are. There's Aston Villa's Villa Park, a venerable red brick facade outside the stadium with a steepling flight of steps that is still redolent of Victoriana. Crystal Palace's Selhurst Park will always be associated with thrilling FA Cup semi finals in recent times and surprisingly held 50,000 fans way back when. Palace now have a commercial supermarket behind Selhurst Park which always reminds us of the essential role that food and drink play in our lives. 

Sheffield Wednesday's Hillsborough of course will sadly be accompanied by those horrific memories of the 1989 FA Cup semi final crowd tragedy and disaster. Even now it remains one of the most harrowing events in the history of the game, an ordeal made even more traumatic by the 97 Liverpool and Nottingham Forest fans who lost their lives that frightful day. But Hillsborough was the venue for some of the World Cup games in 1966 and still has a spectacular amphitheatre ambience about it. 

And so we return to the immediate matter in hand. Yesterday one of the head honchos at Manchester United Sir Jim Radcliffe outlined the vision and future, the hopes and ambitions for this new Old Trafford. Most of the new state of the art football grounds of today have that magnificent spaceship design about them. The estimated attendance at the new Old Trafford will be 100,000 and as Radcliffe pointed out, United will be hoping to turn the new stadium into the Northern Wembley which may be an exaggeration but you can see his point. Yesterday, it has to be said, that Manchester United's new stadium looked like a vast, well lit marquee. 

At the moment, concerns have been expressed for this season's wretched outcome. When Erik Ten Hag left the club with the club stuttering and then dropping down the Premier League dramatically, it was hoped that Ten Hag's successor Reuben Amorim, their Portuguese coach would produce overnight miracles. The truth is that United have gone from bad to worse in recent weeks and their only trip to Europe next season may consist of several pre-season games in Germany, Spain or Italy. Still, there's a new environment for United fans to get accustomed to and for some of us that may be not before time. The future is still bright for the Red Devils. 

International Women's Day

 International Women's Day.

Now where on earth would we be without women? Women, of course are renowned for their multi tasking, their undoubted versatility, their down to earth practicality, their stunning logic, their maternal instinct when babies are born and nurturing becomes second nature. Women can spin plates simultaneously, adapting and adjusting, organising, making plans for the future and then just getting on with the business in hand without any objections.

But then history tells us that they also produce some of our finest Prime Ministers, our most respected humanitarians, excellent nurses, kind, generous individuals who left an unforgettable legacy on society. When Florence Nightingale provided a warm, caring and sympathetic heart to the wounded soldiers of wartime England, it was widely felt that women had asserted their authority, well and truly arrived. But Nightingale was one of the leaders, pioneers, a woman who loved and cared unconditionally. 

There was Indira Gandhi, formidable prime minister of India from many moons ago, Golda Meir, the Israeli Prime Minister, who was there at the start of Israel's great Independence era, a strong, forthright, positive, ruthless, uncompromising world stateswoman, a woman of clear thinking, radical ideas, controversial statements, no nonsense theories, an almost incessant smoker but revered in a way that few women had been up until that point. 

And then in 1979 the United Kingdom welcomed its first woman into 10 Downing Street as Prime Minister. She was a feisty intellectual, a professional chemist, smooth talking but direct, pragmatic, forceful, outspoken and attracting both huge respect and notoriety in huge measures. When confronted by the might of the mining industry during the 1980s, Margaret Thatcher gave as good as she got, attacking Arthur Scargill's militant colliery workers and miners, breaking down political barriers by threatening and then destroying their resistance. 

The memorable sight of Thatcher striding across barren wasteland where once there were prosperous pitheads and coal faces will never be forgotten by the enraged working classes. Thatcher hated Scargill and his hard working, gritty miners who had left school at the age of 14 and known no other employment. But Thatcher was deliberately disruptive according to some, perhaps dangerously divisive and just a pain in the neck. She was single handedly responsible for the three million unemployed who had now found themselves lost and bereft, out of work, no money in their pockets to pay bills and look after their families. However, that may have been questionable to those who thought she was superb. 

Nowadays women occupy some of the highly prestigious roles in modern times. In the old days, women were, and still are, accomplished legal secretaries, acknowledged PA's,  human resources administrators of  the highest calibre, eminent high court judges, prominent lawyers of some repute and women of strength, character and resilience. Women strike with vehement intentions, protesting for their rights with bold placards across the world. Women rightly complain about gender inequalities, feelings of injustice and persecution in a man's world.

The truth is that feminism is still a movement that has to be taken seriously. Women are fervent campaigners on behalf of worthy causes because they believe, quite firmly, that they're right. And who could possibly disagree with them? Emily Pankhurst, leader of the Suffragette movement, was steadfast and loyal on behalf of feminism and would never be silenced. Emily Davison, who bravely threw herself under the Kings horse in the Epsom Derby way back when, is still regarded as an iconic figure by millions of women. 

Then, there are today's artists such as Tracy Emin who threw back the frontiers of her profession when she presented us with the famous unmade bed and displayed it in an art gallery for all to see. Germaine Greer joyously advocated women as powerful and influential, raging against alleged sexism and women's subordination and oppression, while men threatened to take away what must have seemed their waning influence. 

Who could ever forget the perception of women in the world of music? Ella Fitzgerald was the dominant and mighty voice of jazz, a woman whose magnificent and gifted voice travelled the globe and made a lasting impression on her fans and admirers. Billy Holliday was the heartbreak and bittersweet voice of the 1950s, crying and sobbing into a microphone as if she'd been rejected in love yet again when we knew she hadn't. 

And then there were the likes of Barbara Castle and Shirley Williams, hard, indomitable spirits who knew theirs was the right opinion and none could contradict them. Female politicians will always model themselves against the inimitable Margaret Thatcher but then again who could ever deny them their moment in the sun?

Women in sport have never had it so good to quote an old Tory Prime Minister. Football enjoys a phenomenal global popularity and the Women's Super League in England is a flourishing force with the national team defying all expectations at times. Women's cricket has yet to emerge as a recognisable entity but does seem to making genuine progress at both club and international level while women's rugby is slowly developing and may take a while to make a dramatic breakthrough. 

So it is that we mark International Women's Day. They will be flying their flags, marching impressively down high streets and traditional West End of London landmarks. My mum and grandma will always be important members of my own family because they fought and overcame the horrors of the Holocaust. They provided me with the opportunity to express my gratitude for them here and now. Members of my family of course on the distaff side, will always be guiding lights on my life. So wherever you are in the world Happy International Women's Day. This is your day. 

Donald Trump and that argument

 Donald Trump and that argument.

So there we were minding our business on the first weekend of March when, suddenly, it all kicked off. You've never seen anything like it. It was almost as if somebody had set light to one of the biggest fireworks parties in the world. There were rockets, ferris wheels, sparklers, catherine wheels and things that blow up and soar into the night air and, under normal circumstances, this would have been a spectacular sight but on Friday morning in downtown Washington, it must have felt as if all the grenades had exploded at once. 

Huddled together in the Oval Office in the White House, the President of the United States of America Donald Trump delivered his most lethal and most ferocious metaphorical punch at the President of Ukraine Volodymyr  Zelensky who used to be a comedian in another incarnation. But at no point during a violently combustible Press conference, was there anything remotely funny or hilarious about the verbal boxing match that was the hostile showdown between Trump and Zelensky. 

There have probably been moments in political history when two men have almost come to blows over a tragic and lengthy war. But there are now thousands of innocent civilians who have been brutally killed, murdered and shot down in cold blood over that old chestnut of territorial domination. Fists have been raised and they even assassinated a former American president for just mixing in the wrong social company. But this latest ugly development in the continuing war of words between both America, Russia and the Ukraine is a symptom of a world that is both fractured, fractious, troubled and never at peace. 

On Friday evening, the world's Press, hungry cameramen and women, photographers, radio and TV microphones assembled for one of the most horrendous bust ups ever seen by two powerful and, in hindsight, two thoroughly incensed men who would willingly have put on gloves if they thought it would sort out this unseemly and unsavoury mess. 

The irony, of course, is that both Zelensky and Trump were sitting next to each other, in what turned out faux harmony, all of the pent up frustration of the last three years erupting in front of the rest of the world like some deliberate act of sabotage. In fact so staged and premeditated was the whole Friday charade, that Trump had the gall and chutzpah to declare that this had been great TV. And so it had been but probably for the wrong reasons. 

And yet it had all started so promisingly. Both Zelensky and Trump exchanged pleasant jovialities, Trump perhaps sarcastically congratulating Zelensky for dressing up smartly for the occasion. Then we went through the formalities of a peace agreement being reached and how we were all ready to celebrate a permanent ceasefire. The important documents were about to be signed, confirming that both President Putin and Zelensky had finally recognised that enough death and destruction had been inflicted on the people of both Russia and the Ukraine. So far so good. 

But then as the questions were fired from the Fourth Estate and journalists had exhausted their battery of questions, the air became poisonous. An American gentleman from the Press piped up with perhaps the most crass inquiry ever heard at a gathering such as this. Why, he asked, wasn't President Zelensky wearing a suit and, more to the point, did he even own a suit because the good people of America were anxious to know why and had a right to be informed?

You could almost see the dark clouds hovering over a crowded and tense room of politicians and journalists. A Polish broadcaster thought the time was right to ask Trump whether military action would intensify to such an extent that eventually Poland would be dragged into conflict. Now it was that the volcanic atmosphere would simmer and boil threateningly before just steaming over. Things would spiral dramatically out of control. 

Vice President Vance, conveniently situated on a chaise longue from a middle class living room in California, joined in with the bun fight. Landing savage hooks and jabs into Zelensky's head metaphorically once again, Vance seriously wondered whether Zelensky would ever thank his so called American allies for busting a gut in the relentless quest for peace. For everything that Vance and his colleagues had done to save Ukraine from complete annihilation, the least Ukraine could do was show their gratitude. 

At this point, the American president with the ridiculously long red tie, bristling orange hair and a navy suit that Robert Redford once wore in one of his films, started raising his voice. Before long, Donald Trump simply went berserk. So angry, inflamed and impassioned did Trump become that it wasn't long that his fingers and hands were in full confrontational mode. The body language became tiresomely familiar and there was the old fashioned routine of gesturing, gesticulating, stretching his hands to make a pertinent point and then glancing around the room with those sinister glares.

Trump just kept going on and on about the deals he was famous for doing, the non existent wars he'd stopped and then perhaps the most outrageous comment. In the middle of another raucous rant about the Ukranian insistence on continuing the war, Trump became convinced that Zelensky was quite happy to gamble with millions of lives with a Third World War repeatedly.

Shortly, after another heated exchange of facts and the obvious statements, both men looked as if they were just eye balling each other contemptuously. Trump looked just fed up with the whole occasion before claiming once again that Zelensky just wasn't co-operating and that wasn't a nice thing. He then resorted to that celebrated vocabulary where the whole act of being disrespectful to America and the world, was driving him around the bend. 

And after what seemed an eternity, Trump just engaged with his audience with one of those looks that suggested that butter hadn't melted in his mouth. He kept looking for approval and rapturous applause but didn't get it. The President of the United States had just concluded one of the most astonishing and memorable political Press conferences ever heard or seen. 

It could be said that we'd just witnessed the gaudiest, cheapest and sleaziest political scenes but then we must have known this to be the case. Donald Trump had behaved with all the politeness and decorum of one of those individuals at Speakers Corner at Hyde Park who do nothing but shout, expostulate, holler at the the top of their voices, spouting seeming nonsense, insulting invective and contempt for everybody. 

But of course Trump had the vested interests of peace and pacifism at heart, a buccaneering hero who should win the Nobel Peace Prize and be widely acclaimed for being the perfect gentleman. Sadly, we turned our eyes away from last Friday night in shock and horror, bafflement and confusion, hardly believing the evidence of our eyes. It was truly terrifying TV and certainly not one of Trump's finest hours. We may hope and pray that we never ever see its like ever again.  

Brazilian carnival week

 Brazilian carnival week and March.

In England, we celebrate street carnivals on the August Bank Holiday when the summertime pageantry is drawing to a close, the sweet heat of May, June and July is sinking grudgingly and slowly on the West London horizon and everything and everybody becomes sad and regretful. The parks and gardens are sprinkled with the first of the early autumn showers, the leaves are slowly turning brown and life assumes a different mood and complexion. But you can still hear the steel drums and always see the colourful dancers. The Notting Hill Carnival is under way and thriving. 

Next week, starting from today, Brazil, perhaps the most hypnotic and rhythmic nation in the world, will burst into life once again for the traditional street carnival in Rio. It is a now well established institution, the one event in the year in Brazil when the happy-go-lucky people of this South American jewel abandon themselves to carefree and joyous togetherness. Carnival in Brazil is a remarkable revelation, hundreds, thousands and millions of Brazilians smiling incessantly, young girls wiggling energetic hips with wonderfully ostentatious feathers, thick lipstick and mascara on their faces and a passionate love of life. 

We all know about the Brazilian outlook on life: vividly optimistic, always cheerful and deeply attached to the umbilical sporting chord of football. And here are the striking parallels with carnival. Carnival and football are almost spiritually compatible with each other. They both exude community, a genuine sense of harmony and there is a realisation that nobody can match their desire to be amongst each other if only to present to the rest of the world a lasting image that people can still get on with each other. 

High above Christ the Redeemer and Sugar Loaf Mountain in Rio, there will be the natural exuberance of youth, the infectious samba beat blasting from the speakers, the striking sensuality of carnival on quite the most magnificent scale. At the moment, you begin to think that the world is in desperate need of something to get excited about for politics and wars invariably capture the news agenda. We know what happens when we gather together for either a party to remember and memories to cherish. We get lost in the moment, swallowed up with a communal euphoria. 

The Notting Hill Carnival is a delightful outpouring of goodwill, like minded instincts, men, women and children devouring massive helpfuls of jerk chicken, all manner of exotic, spicy foods and general bacchanalia. Notting Hill winds its way through the streets and back roads of this salubrious West London suburb and in Rio, too, they think and fantasise about winning yet more World Cups in football and the yellow emblem of Brazil becomes a shield of honour. 

And yet here we again on the brink of March and England in springtime turns its attention to healthy outdoor pursuits, the glorious vision of the floral spring festival and nature at her most sumptuous. Finally, winter downs its tools, leaving behind it the gloomy dark melancholy of long winter evenings without any sunlight and spring emerges from behind the grey curtains of post Christmas bleakness. 

Tomorrow signals the start of the meteorological spring calendar when weathermen and women point at the computer graphics with warm fronts streaming across Europe and back out into the rest of the world. Spring will always be synonymous with picture postcard yellow tulips standing proud, an air of almost noble haughtiness about them and the most uplifting aura. Then the crocuses and snowdrops push their way animatedly out of the ground and seemingly smile at all round them while the rest of humanity feels a sense of utter privilege. 

Here in North London, a stunning wetlands provides a wonderfully scenic and idyllic backdrop to life itself. Wherever you go, there are young children, wheeling around the pathways with that almost traditional innocence and outward glee that can never be restrained. Kids have been cycling for as long as we can remember and, in a world of high tech electronic screens and social media, maybe that's a blessing. Then families loosen their scarves and coats, removing layers of thick pullovers with undisguised relief and generally exchanging work or family related pleasantries. 

In our part of the world, kingfishers and great crested glebes join forces with beautifully proportioned swans, ducks and Canadian geese who look as though they're simply ruling the roost. Last summer, the most aesthetically pleasing on the eye white swan could be spotted sitting on her nest, lovingly protecting her chicks. Mum was devotedly keeping a close eye on her offspring and all was well with the world.  

But for those with sporting interests, spring can only mean two specific cultural events. Shortly, the good folk of Aintree in Liverpool will be opening its equine doors. The Grand National will give the spring sporting calendar its most impressive presentation, those memorable days when the paddocks and stables produce smoothly groomed horses and thoroughbreds. Our friendly four legged friends will be trotting gently around the parade ground as if acutely aware of the National's historical importance. 

Jockeys and trainers will be socialising amiably and deep in conversation about financially lucrative afternoons in the spring Liverpool sunshine. Then the Aintree bookmakers will be supervising their now electronic boards with thousands of prices flashing and flickering constantly. It is all very British and somehow we'd miss the National terribly if it wasn't there because England is immeasurably poorer without it. 

And then the following week or maybe the week after that, the rowers of Oxford and Cambridge come out of their winter hibernation and most of us will know where we are in relation with the world of sport. They will drop their boats into a slowly warming River Thames, pause at Putney and Hammersmith where their destination will take them and the Boat Race will be up and running. Those observers by the riverside will sip their first bottle of red wine, swap some pate and then cheer themselves hoarse.

The two universities of Oxford and Cambridge will face each other because they always have for as long as we can remember since the 19th century when Gladstone was but a boy. In 1978 Cambridge, half way through the Boat Race, suddenly discovered they were about to capsize in the Thames. Within minutes Cambridge's race was over and Oxford were laughing uproariously all the way to the finish line. 

So here we are at the beginning of the wondrous carnival in Brazil and the threshold of springtime in England. It may be ludicrously premature to even consider cricket but spring never fails to cast a magical spell over us. We instinctively think of Easter, Pesach, the passover, spending long summer evenings delighting in the intriguing rallies of tennis at Wimbledon before enjoying the simple pleasures of life such as family barbecues and endless parties. It maybe March but soon it'll be summer. We have so much to be grateful for.       

Premier League latest.

 Premier League latest.

For the last four seasons the Premier League has been dominated by the same pencil lines, graphs and watercolours, a fusion of the picturesque and stunningly attractive that proved to be both bewitching and a study in technical virtuosity. Manchester City have won the Premier League by such a convincing margin year after year that you wondered whether they were toppled from their lofty perch. 

There was a point during this remarkable period of dominance when even Sir Alex Ferguson's treble of trophies with Manchester United seemed just a picnic in the park compared to the lavish feast being served up at Old Trafford. City were exceptional, untouchable at times, classical, ornamental, a model of go ahead innovation, reinvention and sheer poetry in motion. Pep Guardiola must have thought he'd discovered a revolutionary art form and may have been tempted to open up his own gallery. 

But this weekend City are languishing in fourth place in the Premier League after quite the most ordinary season by their exalted standards. Their fall from grace and horrendous decline after reaching the dizzy heights of excellence must have come as a terrible shock to their system. Up until this season their superlative successes had been  achieved by the most simple methods and an attacking philosophy that bordered on the supernatural and transcendental. City must have thought that everything had come far too easy for them and that their exquisite passing game had been created by them and nobody else. 

This weekend though, Manchester City were dwelling on what might have been since the road has been considerably bumpier with innumerable rocks and boulders in their way. Their defeat at Bournemouth towards the end of last year would have been unthinkable a couple of seasons ago let alone in the context of this season. But the Premier League does punch you in the solar plexus when least expected and even City were revealed as mortal and fallible. 

Now City find themselves scrambling for consolation prizes in Europe and a place in the Champions League may be a painstaking struggle if they don't watch themselves. This season is following a script that even they couldn't have imagined possible. The team at the top of the Premier League at the moment once owned the intellectual property on trophy winning rights. They used to be held in the highest esteem by impartial observers and world renowned as a major force in the game and now they're back in charge again. 

Liverpool are now 11 points clear at the top of the Premier League and heading in much the direction that Bill Shankly, Bob Paisley, Joe Fagan and, more recently, Jurgen Klopp had taken the club. Liverpool have almost won 20 League titles both in the old First Division championship and Klopp, in the Premier League himself, during the Covid 19 season when none of the fans were allowed into stadiums and you could have heard a pin drop on Merseyside. 

Now though Dutchman Arne Slot has been instrumental in the revival of Mo Salah's career and the lethal Egyptian striker can do no wrong this season. Once again, Liverpool's football has resembled the most perfect geometry lesson, angles mastered in a matter of seconds, passing through the lines as if the whole exercise had been performed with their eyes closed and the loveliest of movements both in and out of possession. 

Yesterday Liverpool, ironically, had far too much class and footballing intelligence against Manchester City, a complete reversal of roles and a reminder of what can happen when you take everything for granted. Salah celebrated another record breaking goal and even his striking partner Darwin Nunez must have been glowing with envy after that embarrassing miss in front of goal at Aston Villa which might have put the Anfield side out of sight. 

However Arsenal, Liverpool's closest contenders for the Premier League title, are now effectively out of the chase for domestic silverware. Arsenal were beaten by London rivals West Ham United 1-0 at the Emirates Stadium which to some of us came as a pleasant surprise if not a miracle. Jarrod Bowen lunged forward with a low diving header from close range from an excellent Aaron Wan Bissaka cross. Arsenal have normally dictated the pace of games on their own pitch and there was an effortless spontaneity about their passing football that left most neutrals purring with delight. 

Now though Arsenal are beginning to resign themselves to their fate once again, admirable ambassadors for the finer points of the game but just agonisingly short when it matters most. There are now very real grumblings of unrest and dissent at the Emirates although this is certainly not the end of the world. You remain convinced that sooner rather than later that Mikel Arteta will find the consistency and attacking firepower that will get the Gunners over the line eventually. 

Behind Arsenal are both Nottingham Forest and Chelsea and the Premier League is gearing itself for the most hair raising sprint for the line. A certain Brian Clough must be somewhere just willing the present day Forest to re-capture the end of the 1970s. The Premier League is perhaps well out of their comfort zone and reach but Nuno Espirito Santo has to be slapped on the back heartily for this season's sterling endeavours. There are no Tony Woodcocks, John Robertsons, Archie Gemmells, Kenny Burns and Gary Birtles to give this current day Forest jet propulsion but Forest have been entertaining for most of this season. 

Meanwhile, on the other side of Merseyside, Liverpool's fiercest rivals Everton, are bracing themselves for greener pastures. Goodison Park once played host to 1966 World Cup group games and by the time the Z-Cars theme had reverberated around Goodison, the old ground reminded you of an old pop concert venue. But times are changing although the manager has returned from whence he came all those years ago. David Moyes has now revved up engines at Everton once again and next season Everton will be performing in new surroundings. 

When the club were given planning permission to build their beautiful new Bramley Moore Dock ground, it almost felt as if a weight had been lifted from their shoulders. The Everton Stadium hasn't quite the same ring and resonance as Goodison but it shouldn't be too long now before Everton fans are chanting and rhapsodising about their team from this very modern example of footballing architecture. 

And so it is that the Premier League begins to look like a throwback to an intriguing reincarnation of the 1980s. Then Peter Reid, Kevin Sheedy and Paul Bracewell were the cogs and wheels behind the attacking machinery of Graham Sharp and Gary Lineker. Everton even won the old First Division championship but mid table respectability will be their only salvation this season. Football can be the funniest of games. 

   

My book of football poetry Football's Poetic Licence

 My book of football poetry Football's Poetic Licence.

So how's your team doing in the Football League, be it the Premier League, the Championship, Leagues One and Two and what about the Scottish, Irish and Welsh Leagues. Has it been an excellent, fair to middling, moderate or a season to remember? Or would you rather not talk about it because the spectre of relegation is hovering over your team? Are the family arguing over debatable VAR decisions, dodgy offsides, goals that were definitely over the line and is the referee simply biased? And the manager is either good, bad or indifferent. Maybe managers always deserve the sack in the morning. 

The point is that football loves to attract talking points, controversies, bones of contention and people who think they know much more than the pundits and analysts who have played the game extensively, after all. Now for those who simply want to sit down and read some football literature, the Beautiful Game is all about the words, sentences and paragraphs that somehow provide the game with its scenic backdrop. 

I have just the read for you if you're in a mood to pick up a book about football that is both original, different and a tad unconventional. My book of football poetry Football's Poetic Licence is now available at Amazon, Waterstones online, Foyles online, Hatchards online and Barnes and Noble online. Let me explain. Football's Poetic Licence is all about poetry in motion in the written word. It's Shakespeare meeting the modern game, football in the pages of my book.

In Football's Poetic Licence I wax lyrical about the FA Cup, Premier League, Champions League, my late and wonderful mum and dad, there's a warm eulogy to my lovely dad, grandpa Jack who cut the hair of those noble 1966 World Cup winning heroes Bobby Moore, Sir Geoff Hurst, Sir Martin Peters, the World Cup, England, USA, football grounds and Ilford FC, my local team growing up. So treat yourself to some lyrical and poetic descriptions about football. My name is Joe Morris and my book Football's Poetic Licence will make you smile and chuckle. It's a cracking read. Thanks everybody.