World War Three- Never ever again

World War Three - Never ever again.

We are now just under a fortnight away from Christmas Day and the world is desperately clinging on for dear life. There is a sense of real turmoil in the air, a deeply worrying apprehension, a feeling that the world really has lost the plot, that it can no longer manage its emotions and the only alternative is a world war. And yet, this will never happen because pacifism and peace have to be addressed immediately as our only priority, an emergency measure and that we can no longer tolerate these veiled threats of a major world war. 

Christmas is just around the corner and President Putin's Russia are growling like the grizzly bear who always beats its chest when it can't get its own way. For as long as you can remember now the world has always been teetering on the edge, the very precipice, furious with the status quo and ready to let loose their military might. It all feels like Putin is simply flexing his muscles, testing the waters and playing psychological silly beggars. But is this just hot air, devious mind games or an authentic warning. 

It is hard to fathom the mad, deranged actions of an evil dictator. We feel sure that Putin is a cold blooded assassin given half  the chance, a pathological murderer capable of bumping off and killing as many innocent civilians as he can within no particular time frame. Putin is the personification of the school playground bully, possibly a psychopath who was never given the love and tender affection he may have been crying out for as a child. Putin is one of those individuals who won't be happy until he gets his way. 

Some of us are privately concerned about the vociferous noises, the sinister intentions, the very notion of bloodshed, death and suffering. Putin is deliberately seeking violence on a monumental scale, using the first rounds of gunfire and explosive bombs that he won't  think twice about deploying if the rest of the world keeps rubbing him up the wrong way. This is not the time for wartime propaganda, those feelings of dread and foreboding because of course we're in dangerous territory and who can possibly read the mind of Putin since we know exactly the gist of his thinking.

He wants Armageddon, the ulimate apocalypse, the downfall of humanity, the total obliteration and annihilation of the whole universe. He may be looking for vengeance, any kind of revenge for the perceived injustices that only he can see. The tyrannical regime under which Putin presides will not be afraid to use its enormous stock of arms and ammunition if it has to. But the world must rise up, taking all manner of contingency measures, defending our civil liberties, the freedom to live our lives in the way they've always lived them. 

Now here's the message from these shores. There has to be peace and reconciliation, agreement and compromise, understanding and tolerance. These are, of course, the statements of the obvious, the values and principles that we must always cherish. At the moment, Britain and the rest of the world remain steadfast in their pursuit of world peace. We will never allow the forces of evil and wanton destruction to spread across the continents, seas and oceans of this wonderful planet because we never ever want to see a repeat of the events of 1914-18 or 1939- 45. It must never happen.  

We are now resolute in our resistance to the hellish hostility of war, the frightening prospect of hiding away in domestic shelters and just fearing the horrific worst. Your friendly blogger is committed to world peace, lasting friendship, hands across the water, amicable relations under all circumstances , a general consensus, no more bullish aggression or physical harm. It has to stop now.  

And yet we look back at the chequered and often chaotic past of Russian political leadership. We look back at the crotchety Brezhnev who, if memory serves you correctly, never smiled at anything or anybody. Or so it seemed. The Cold War was pretty heavy going, hard and ruthless and nobody ever made Leonid laugh at any point. Then there was Boris Yeltsen, who always looked drunk at times and was forever conducting orchestras. Further back there was Krushchev, almost permanently glum and miserable as sin. The poor man never felt compelled to put on a happy face to the outside world and there was something of the melancholic about him. 

From an outsider's viewpoint Russia, for all its architectural grandeur, onion shaped domed Kremlin and legendary authors such as Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, still looks as though it carries the weight of its problems on its shoulders. There is an almost inherent pessimism about the future of Russia in any debate, an almost chronic resignation to its fate and a sense that things will never get any better. It invariably snows in any TV news bulletins and the reporters appear to be wearing a thousand layers of clothing including a woolly hat and the thickest pair of gloves available. 

We are all familiar with Russia's take on those old fashioned ideologies, Communism at its most rampant, the aftermath of Joseph Stalin's rule of iron and the Lenin years of oppression and suppression. Russia still retains its image of grim severity, its slavish addiction to censorship, immediate punishment for all manner of crimes and a general air of dissatisfaction with the way the world may have turned against them.  

But we are now at a critical point with the Russia of Putin. We could completely disregard their grumblings and their persecution complex because nobody has time for warmongers.  At the moment things are smooth and serene, untroubled if a trifle bothered but not that much. Russia is still intent in wiping out the whole of his Ukranian neighbours and enemies and won't stop until such time as they complete the job.

The world has always been an unstable and unnerving place but then while the likes of Russia continue to breathe fire and brimstone, then that may be not entirely unsurprising. What is absolutely certain is that we will battle on relentlessly to hold on tightly to the precious gift of peace, assured in the knowledge that one day we will open the curtains or blinds and discover a million street parties and carnivals, stirring party music in our ears and a fierce commitment to harmony, amity, unity and togetherness, an unyielding belief that the world can be a safer and happier place. We will strive to  maintain good mental and physical health because that's essential.  So President Putin. It's time to go to those anger management classes and just think of something else to occupy your time.      

Another wonderful day out with your family.

 Another wonderful day out with your family.

A wintry cloak of darkness fell across the West End of London on Saturday evening. Out on both Regent Street and Oxford Street it was richly atmospheric and there was a romantic ambience about the capital city. It reminded you of where you were when you were a kid, gazing spellbound at the sheer beauty of your surroundings, the artists impression of what it might have been like had you possessed a palette of watercolours and somebody had commissioned you to paint this festive parade. 

And yet this was the way it felt. You were accompanied by your wonderfully loving and supportive family, wife, son, daughter in law, stunning grandchildren. What could be more perfect? Nothing at all, of course. We were strolling along the pavements of the capital city, the streets of plenty, a thousand acoustics with its throbbing pulse, a magical electricity in the air and, last but not least, those mind blowing and mesmeric Christmas lights. It felt almost too good to be true. You had to be imagining this Disney film set, this heavenly slice of Hollywood, the kind of scenery that had to be seen to be believed.

But here we were experiencing this journey back to our childhood because both parents and grandparents were living the dream. It is hard to imagine how much better you could feel apart from your wedding day or the birth of your children because this was the culmination of everything you'd striven to achieve. Your precious son was happily married to his lovely wife and two adorable grandchildren, grandson and granddaughter. Oh wow. 

Of course life had presented its trials and tribulations, its lowest points of desperation and despair, its highest moments of triumph and jubilation. But that was part of its familiar tapestry, the way it was supposed to turn out and the way it was now successfully flourishing. We all have days,  months, weeks and years when we all feel down in the dumps, plumbing the depths of anguish and despondency, privately wishing many years ago for something we were never capable of achieving anyway. So we accept the status quo and we embraced life because it is wonderful. 

Now there is a blissful awareness that life is indeed beautifully sweet, full of those honeyed fragrances of every day living, the smell of roast chestnuts at Christmas, the frantic hustle and bustle of London's thriving heartbeat and then there was the extraordinary wall of people we were forever bumping into. At what point it felt like a massive collision of cultures, crowds of shoppers, tourists and vast swathes of the population barging past you, jostling and pushing, brushing past hordes of shoulders but good naturedly and happily. 

This though was unlike anything you'd ever seen at any time in Christmases long since gone. There were people from every corner of the globe, or seemingly so. They came surging towards you, like a tidal wave that ebbs and flows with rhythmic consistency. Firstly and privately you held onto anything just to avoid an inevitable accident. London at Christmas time had arrived properly three weeks before the big day. It was unnerving and worrying at times because there was a sense of entrapment about the West End, almost captivity. But it was alright on the evening and night and none of us panicked.  

Firstly we settled in for a leisurely and sedate afternoon tea at the John Lewis department store in Oxford Street. There is something quintessentially English about afternoon tea because it is undoubtedly one of London's even England's fundamental charms. It is a timeless event, a throwback to Edwardian and Victorian times when the aristocracy settled down in their elegant dining rooms and flaunted their best china, silver, crockery and cutlery complete with napkins, serviettes and, above all, teapots. 

Then the butlers and their servants would glide in and out of the kitchen with a politeness and courtliness that none of us could ever imagine ever being reproduced in any other country. The lords and ladies, earls and dukes and duchesses would then prepare themselves effortlessly for an afternoon of delicate tea drinking or tiffin as they used to call it. There was a ceremonial air about the drawing rooms of Mayfair, Kensington and Chelsea where all of the rituals of the obscenely rich would be quite rightly observed with no room for error whatsoever.

But this was my family and we tucked into our afternoon tea with the satisfaction and pleasure of the humble and grateful family who just wanted to enjoy the fruits of our labours. There were the triangular sandwiches with coronation chicken, the ploughman's lunch with cheese sandwich and tuna from the finest seas. Then the customary scones, jam, and cream were followed by strawberry flavoured eclairs, lemon drizzle cake and the delightful sponge cake oozing yet more jam and cream. 

We all then ventured towards Trafalgar Square never quite sure when we would get to our destination but glad to be together, grandchildren safely secure in their pushchairs and prams while mum and dad were swollen with immense pride. Now began the slow, painstaking journey towards Hamleys, one of the most famous toy shops in the world. It was here we discovered the full measure of the West End's phenomenal popularity, its magnetic pull and those who were just irresistibly attracted to this veritable toy and game empire. 

Hamleys has always been in the same spot for over 250 years and, to all outward appearances, looks as though it could be in Regent Street forever more, in perpetuity and eternity. It occurred to you that even the remarkable advances made in high technology and modern merchandise could never keep the toys and games we remembered with such moving affection, away from our prying eyes. Of course we are children of nature when the mood takes us because toys and games will always be our favourite things.

We may be adults now with children and grandchildren of our own but we will never lose that fascination with Lego coloured bricks, Buzz Lightyear and cute toy rabbits that always need to be either wound up or reinforced with more and more batteries. There were hundreds of Paddington bears, innumerable jigsaw puzzles and demonstrators flying toy cars or strange objects over their heads. It was just the most unforgettable sight you'd ever seen. 

You now thought back to your childhood when your parents had done exactly the same thing. Mum and dad would walk their first son into Hamleys and you were aware of something exciting and spectacular unfolding like an early morning dawn.  Your earliest recollection was a Hornby railway set and your beautiful and late dad sprawling out on the dining room carpet before clipping the rails lovingly together. On Saturday we didn't have time to go up to the model railway set in full flow but that's the way it must have been for you.

On this Saturday evening, we were reduced to a slow shuffle past thousands of pounding feet, ducking and weaving in and out of humanity as if it were some daunting challenge that couldn't be figured out. Heading back down to Trafalgar Square we now encountered rickshaws that seemed to multiply with our every step. There were brightly coloured rickshaws, cycles with passengers, music blaring out into the evening air, rickshaws occupying every conceivable paving stone and pavement and a rickshaw park with bays for rickshaws.

Then we noticed the old fashioned Route Master buses this time spray painted a grey colour. There was a sudden realisation that we were now in the presence of party buses and that folk who were boogying the day away on the upper deck. So opposite John Lewis and Selfridges, Primark and Dickins and Jones, there was something of a carnival going on, music, lights, action and dynamism. This was something like a chapter from a Hans Christian Andersen tale, where all is lightness and sweet, glorious technicolour. There was a spellbinding naturalness and purity about the whole occasion, the time of the year fitting the scene to perfection.  

And we then looked up as we had always done as children at the Christmas lights. Oxford Street had excelled itself and we always knew it would. In front of us there were huge white and silver angel wings hanging magisterially across all of the shops and department stores that have so symbolically dominated the night sky in London at Christmas time. As a young kid you were still reminded that you were Jewish and, realistically, told that this wasn't your festival as such but to enjoy the essence of Christmas. 

You were reminded of your mum and dad's oldest friends and their relationship with toys and games. The husband had been a successful accountant but then decided to try his hand at the competitive business world. Soon, he would be opening up his very own local toy shop on a much smaller scale than Hamleys but he was one of life's most charming of gentleman and a budding entrepreneur into the bargain. But then he realised the true marketability of this simple idea. So he opened up this high street toy shop and appointed himself manager of the shop. 

Shortly, thousands of families, wives, fathers, cousins and aunts would flood into his shop everyday including Saturday but not Sunday. Having briefly worked in the shop, you became aware of the innocence of childhood, the way in which children could find instant gratification in the smallest of toy cars or just a ball of plasticine. It was rather like finding that Pandora's box had been revealed and you too were that kid in the playground who just couldn't believe their luck. 

And so the husband would move to the front of his magnificent emporium, standing there hour after hour, demonstrating the newest of gadgets and smiling broadly. You could hardly believe what you were watching but here was a man at peace and contentment with the world which of course is a gift. Here he was in his early 50s, playing with a Rubik's Cube. The child in him had taken over and he was recapturing that snapshot in time where nothing else mattered. Oh what fun it was to see him and admire the bold initiative he'd taken. But the kids and families loved those demonstrations because they wanted this toy and game immediately and nothing would ever stop them from buying it here and now. 

Eventually though we would all make our way to Trafalgar Square and more festive illumination. There was the stunningly resplendent Christmas tree, a present from Norway shortly after the end of the Second World War and a permanent fixture at the beginning of December. For a while we wandered around the German market selling mulled wine, boxes of mince pies perhaps, doughnuts, sweets and all manner of different Christmas products. By now it was late evening and it was 8pm and we'd spent the best part of roughly three or four hours, immersed, fascinated and absorbed by the Christmas reference points wherever you looked. 

We now headed home and reflected fondly on the wonderment of the day, the simplicity of the day, the unity and togetherness of family life, just being there in the moment and for all time. It's almost Christmas and don't we know it? The supermarket TV campaigns are underway and they all think they're the cheapest and best in the world. There are no arguments from here because Christmas seems to highlight all of those celebratory times in our lives where we can just be at one with each other and the world would never ever be at war ever again. Family and friends took paramount priority and we can do peace permanently. Of course we can.    

World Cup draw

 World Cup draw

For a while it almost felt like the Oscars, that elaborate and garish ceremony where America hands out awards for blockbuster Hollywood films. There was pomp and ceremony, seemingly endless preambles to some epic moment and the kind of reception the Americans would normally have accorded to their President Donald Trump. Ironically, Trump was in the building and he didn't have far to travel because this was the soccer or football World Cup draw for the men. And it was the capital city of the USA, Washington. But how Trump seemed to lap this one up because he was the centre of attention and we know how comfortable he is with that arrangement. 

But yesterday was all about the football World Cup(the round ball version played in England rather than the American version played with helmets, an oval ball, touchdowns, cheerleaders and showbiz razzamatazz. Then there was the good, old fashioned football played in England which used to be played on mud, snow and, historically, against that famous backdrop of wide, open terraces and grounds that looked so old, ramshackle and dilapidated that health and safety became an urgent concern. 

And yet all eyes were on Washington, the capital of the Land and Free, the home of one Donald Trump and his Republican colleagues. Yesterday, the country that gave us glamorous film stars from another age, towering skyscrapers and vast buildings, gave another revealing insight into its psyche. Suddenly, we were reminded of its huge marketing teams, its mountainous burgers and Coca Cola franchises, that apple pie smile and Uncle Sam. We love the United States because it just seems a world away from their European partners. In England, the formation and origin of the game goes right back to the halcyon days of the Industrial Revolution. In the USA, it's a more recent innovation dating back to the 1970s.

We gathered in Washington, USA, and kept waiting and waiting for the main show. The hours ticked away inexorably or so it seemed. Still, there was no sign of the World Cup draw and, for a while, it looked as though the organisers had forgotten about it and were ready to postpone the whole event for another day. Surely they weren't going to leave it until the last possible moment since that would be most unprofessional, terribly inefficient and quite unlike the USA. Eventually we had lift off and the World Cup was still a live object, a viable proposition. 

Both Scotland and England were waiting like kids the day before Christmas Day. They were really excited because surely Santa would be delivering the best presents. There was Thomas Tuchel, business like and pragmatic, suitcase alongside him and various documents in his hand. He walked into the hall where the World Cup draw was being conducted and just kept smiling. Now the cynics would have insisted that Tuchel had to put on a happy facade because, although England have always flattered to deceive at World Cups, we were still in with a good chance of winning what would only be their second World Cup. We've been here before. Of course we were. 

So it was that the national managers, dignitaries, officialdom and Gianni Infantino, the FIFA president, took their respective places rather like men who were at an important business conference. England know how this one works. It's second nature, in their bloodstream, deep inside their raging hormones, part of their adolescence from a long time ago. In recent history, England have qualified for World Cups rather like the same audiences who turn up for the tennis at Wimbledon every year. 

We know what to expect from England, those audible sighs of disappointment, the frustrated groans, the devastation we always feel when it all goes horribly wrong. The eternal optimists will be hoping for the greatest achievement of all. Next year will mark the 60th anniversary since that remarkable day at the end of July, 1966 when England won the World Cup and were acclaimed World champions. Sooner or later, it'll happen again but we're not hoping for much since stage fright always seems to get to us. Still, it could be England again but let's have no sleepless nights. 

Eventually, after what must have seemed like a whole century in Washington, the table tennis balls were thrown into the plastic bowl and the top seeds were thrown together in a machine that reminded you of your local bingo hall. Then you realised that there were no full houses and no prizes for a line. This was the World Cup draw. For Thomas Tuchel's Three Lions this will mark the end of the phoney war. There is an air of hard nosed robustness about England, a steely resolve to do well in next year's World Cup in the USA, Mexico and Canada but no bold promises or guarantees. 

So here's the good news or maybe the bad news depending on your much broader perspective. England are in the same group as Croatia, Ghana and Panama. Sounds familiar? Indeed it is. In the 2018 World Cup held in Russia, Gareth Southgate, full of the joys of spring and always upbeat, guided England to the World Cup semi final against Croatia and, not for the first time, the national team will be poised to hit the jackpot and win the World Cup. But seven years ago in Russia, we were all biting our fingernails and nervous in a way that had always been the case. Sadly, after an early England goal from full back Kieran Trippier, from a perfect free kick, Croatia, masterminded by the exceptional Luca Modric, fought back gamely and emerged as winners. 

In another World Cup group qualifier, England simply demolished Panama 6-0 and once again we were all lulled into a false sense of security. Reality insisted that the world class world beaters of Argentina, France, Germany, Spain, Brazil and Italy were the real thing rather than a country renowned only for its canal. Once again Panama are on England's radar and will be wondering whether there's a conspiracy against them. There may well be countries in next year's World Cup who will just meekly accept defeat from the kick off next June, that compliant submissiveness that always casts them as whipping boys. But England have to remain quietly confident and nothing more at this stage. 

Ghana will provide England with tough and brave opposition but England must fancy their chances in a one off scenario. The emergence of Nigeria, Senegal and Cameroon as credible forces in the world game, is one of the most heartening developments in the global game. Ghana, of course, have to be respected by Thomas Tuchel's England but not dreaded or terrified of. Football in Africa has always been a fusion of heroic athleticism, wondrous stamina and admirable enthusiasm.  England, though, will be rigorously prepared.

And so it is England will want to savour the identity of their World Cup opposition. The pundits will tell us that England and Croatia will win their group qualifier by the length of a really long street. But there is no such thing as a formality so let's take one step at a time. Croatia may come to haunt England for many a year to come but there is an inescapable feeling that we can do it this time. It'll be 60 years next year so England will bring it home because it's heading that way and there can be no arguments this time. 

For Scotland of course, who haven't qualified for a World Cup since 1998, this is all new and the unknown. There are bound to be cobwebs and rust in the old machinery so it's time to err on the side of the caution. Those golden days of World Cup in West Germany and Argentina during the 1970s must surely feel like ancient black and white episodes of Steptoe and Son. And indeed Scotland will be hoping for rather more than a pile of junk. But Willie Ormond and Ally Mcleod's drawn, haggard face are now no more than distant images from World Cup years of yesteryear. 

This time Scotland, it'll be case of history repeating itself and deja vu. In the World Cup of Spain 1982 the Scots were drawn into the same group as the breathtakingly brilliant and once impossible to beat Brazil. It was always likely to be a daunting task and Scotland, despite all the valour and bravado, could never live with the six times World Cup winners and promptly left the tournament in the early stages. But Scotland love to challenge the Establishment and the underdog mentality does tend to suit them more than most. 

For Scotland now, there is Morocco who surprised everybody in the 2022 World Cup in Qatar but way back then, were annoyingly stubborn opposition for England in the 1986 World Cup in Mexico. Half way through, the late and much missed Ray Wilkins, a superbly refined playmaker, gave away a foul. In hindsight, Wilkins should have counted to ten but, in the heat of the moment, Wilkins had a rush of blood to the head. The former Chelsea and Manchester United player threw the ball at the referee and was immediately sent off. England were then held to the dullest goal-less draw by the Moroccans.  

The Scots also have the unknown quantity to deal with in the same group as Morocco. Haiti once participated back in the 1974 World Cup of West Germany. None of these World Cup group preliminaries can ever be properly predicted in advance. But Haiti can safely be dismissed as lightweights and whipping boys so Scotland may be considering the prospect of drinking several glasses of whisky by way of celebration.

And so it was that Donald Trump, in uncharacteristically understated mood, politely thanked everybody in Washington, honoured to be among world football glitterati and litterati. For a minute, Trump was humble and grateful to be the among the great and good of the Beautiful Game. We were now witnesses to the World Cup Nobel Peace prize, an impressive looking trophy that shone and gleamed rather like Trump himself. Trump, for once, looked as though he was a privileged guest at some grand looking function.

 He said all the right things and then closed his speech with a few well chosen words. Next June we will once again be crowding around English beer gardens and heaving pubs. And then Scotland, joined quite possibly by both Wales and the Republic of Ireland, will be exchanging light hearted pleasantries. World Cups bring the best out in all of us, those footballing aficionados and wise sages who know everything there is to know about the game. If not then you would have to plump for the sorcerers and magicians of Brazil for so many decades now. They have to be in the running for the victorious World Cup crown. 

`Is it really Christmas and Chanukah?

 Is it really Christmas and Chanukah?

Now here's a thought. Yes folks it's almost Christmas and Chanukah yet again. Once you reach December you know exactly what to expect. In fact the whole spectacle and inevitability of Christmas is unavoidable. You're surrounded by it, obviously aware of its magnificence, its religious themes, the wonderfully historic resonance of it, the way it impacts on our lives, deeply and significantly, influencing our every day approach to the way in which we conduct ourselves and the traditional behavioural patterns. 

So here we are a couple of weeks to go before the children of the world refuse to go to sleep on Christmas Eve and discover, that once morning has broken on Christmas Day, dear old Santa Claus will have carried out his normal obligations and, dutifully, tumbled down chimneys, landed on a soft carpet or laminate flooring and just laughed heartily under a thick white beard and the largest red coat in the world. So that was what Christmas is all about and, if you hadn't known before, this is how it's going to be whether you like it or not. 

But on inspection of the wider world out there, the reminders are constantly in our faces, the muzak Christmas music floating around our celebrated supermarkets, Jona Lewie's memorable Stop the Cavalry, Wham's Last Christmas and the immensely accomplished Chris Rea with Driving Home For Christmas. There was  Paul McCartney's lovely and appropriately festive Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas Time where McCartney marches happily out of what looks like a country pub with his late wife Linda and then plucks his guitar to the sights and sounds of Christmas, the jollity and merriment of the festive season engulfing them and reassuring them.

Then McCartney retires into the pub before launching into a piano rendition of the song, the late Denny Laine in thick pullover grinning broadly. And then McCartney wraps a scarf around his shoulders and the pub revellers crowd around the roaring log fire, smiling constantly, laughing uproariously quite clearly and celebrating for as long as they think is their divine right. Finally, Paul McCartney dances out of the watering hole, Pied Piper style with children and adults following him all along the pathway and out into the brisk and bracing winter air. Christmas has arrived and we love it. Or some do anyway. 

Meanwhile Jona Lewie is just overcome with a nostalgic sentimentality with Stop the Cavalry. One of the most remarkably anti War songs ever to be recorded for the Christmas pop music market, Stop the Cavalry begins with Jona Lewie sitting by the trenches during the First World War, proudly wearing military army style uniform while all around him, bullets, gunfire and bombs are going off  with a deafening cacophony, dramatic and heart breaking, horrifically real and, in hindsight, unbearably unnecessary. 

Then Lewie becomes all misty eyed, as he sits by another fireside, reflecting once again upon the girl he'd left behind him when called up to serve his country. So he wanders around his cosy, intimate living room, deeply morbid, morose and regretful. On the top of a piano, he stares at a photo of his girlfriend, pining for her desperately and convinced that an emotional reunion continues to be a possibility one day. 

But then he finds himself back on those explosive and fatal battlefields of conflict and hatred, still singing and still hoping against hope that one day humankind will come to its senses. So half way through Stop the Cavalry, Lewie tells himself that if he became President of the United States, he'd stop all this outrageous and bloodthirsty madness before clutching his heart poignantly and pretending that he's just been hit with a murderous bullet.

And what about Chris Rea's warm and fuzzy, beautifully crafted and composed Driving Home For Christmas, a song so deliciously timeless that years and years after its initial release in 1986, can still be recalled with affectionate reminiscences about the Christmases we once enjoyed or maybe not?  So here we are on a snow fringed motorway in the middle of nowhere, travelling back home to your families and bursting with excitement. Rea gets it absolutely right and the imagery is so relatable that you found yourself drawn into the breathless anticipation of the festive season. 

Now a car keeps wiping its windscreen relentlessly and drifts of snow fall gently onto a wet road and we are now treated to the intriguing spectacle of a car going somewhere and we found ourselves just gazing into the headlights of oncoming cars with wide eyed amazement. Slowly but surely the said car winds its way through acres of pine forests and pine trees caked with yet more slush and snow. It is the most delightful symbol of Christmas and we could hardly wait to get into the warmth of our homes. Rea finally pulls into what can only be described as a warehouse populated with lorries, a depot housing all the festive presents. 

During the 1980s, Wham, fronted by the legendary and much missed George Michael, produced Last Christmas, another of those joyful festive ditties that even had its own tinkling bells as its familiar soundtrack. So, on some snow packed skiing resort somewhere in the Alps presumably, George Michael and friends gather together on a pure white mountaintop. They pull on their thick and warm boiler suits before venturing onto the slopes with a carefree disregard of the weather, climbing onto a cable car and then arriving back in their chalet, glasses of mulled wine in their hands, tinsel and glitter on their clothes.

Settling into their snug living room, George Michael, who had to be considered the most instantly identifiable, handsome  heart throb to any girl, takes off his coat and scarf and winks flirtatiously at one of the girls at the Christmas table. It is the look of a man who, to all intents and purposes, is comfortable with his sexuality. Years later. Michael's brave gay admission would leave his female audience dumbstruck. But Last Christmas is a comforting blanket across our chests and a ringing endorsement of everything connected to Christmas.

And finally there is Slade's eternally cheesy if stunning So Here it is Merry Christmas or just Merry Christmas, another splendid acknowledgement of the celebrations to come. Made at the height of a hot and exceptionally warm summer in an American recording studio, Last Christmas was released at a time of chronic industrial unrest in Britain, miserable powercuts, disruptive miners strikes and a general air of soul destroying malaise. But Noddy Holder was just deliriously happy and Merry Christmas took up residence at the top of the charts and stayed there for what seemed an eternity. So as we frantically race around our shops and bulk buy huge piles of mince pies and turkeys, it could be the time to remember the musicians who made it all come to life. It's probably a bit early but Merry Christmas to everybody.     

Billy Bonds passes

 Billy Bonds passes.

On the weekend when West Ham were once again humiliated at home and beaten for the fifth time at the London Stadium by Premier League champions Liverpool, West Ham also lost one of their own. For this is who he was apart from his Charlton apprenticeship. After a three match unbeaten run, it looked as though all was well in the world of the Hammers until they were informed that this was not to be the case. It felt as if all the roses were more fragrant and you could smell the coffee until fate intervened and then it fell apart tragically. Nobody knew how to react or where to look. 

So it was that Billy Bonds, one of the club's red blooded warriors, had died at the age of 79 and the claret and blue punters must have been heartbroken, bereft, inconsolable and crestfallen. For a long time, Bonds had never been in the best of health anyway but nobody could break the spirit of the former West Ham captain. Billy Bonds was indestructible, a wholehearted, indomitable and rugged centre back who would run through brick walls for his team and do his utmost to give everything to the cause. He was the one man who embodied the high standards and values that West Ham had held so dear for so long. 

The sad coincidence was that West Ham were beaten by Liverpool since this had happened before under, admittedly different circumstances but nonetheless the same opposition. When West Ham were relegated for the first time since their promotion to the top flight in 1958 under the shrewd guidance of Ted Fenton, it was the beginning of a new era. Fenton was then advocating the game's finest virtues such as smooth passing, the creation of space, fluid movement on and off the ball and was, essentially, years ahead of his time. 

For the next twenty years West Ham could finally boast their own homegrown talent, a side rich in East End promise and a vision for the future. Admittedly, the likes of Malcolm Allison, Noel Cantwell, Dave Sexton and Frank O' Farrell would go on to greener pastures as highly respected coaches and managers with other clubs but then we always knew that West Ham would become a nursery for the great and good within the game. 

And so on the final day of the 1978-79 season, West Ham, struggling for survival in the old First Division, looked over their shoulder of those who had gone before and found themselves hankering after the good old days. Bonds, captain on the day against Liverpool, knew his team had to win in order to retain their top flight status. You were there on the day, cramped together in a small knot on the South Bank at Upton Park with your happy go lucky schoolfriends one of whom was an ardent Liverpool supporter. Sadly, you were resigned to your club's fate and there was nothing any of us could do about that one.

It was 90 minutes later that Bonds and West Ham were relegated to the old Second Division and left the Upton Park pitch with that awful sense of anti climax and severe disappointment that very much comes with the territory as a football supporter. You'd seen the ups and downs, the often painful fluctuations of fortune and now misfortune. There was a hollow sensation in the pit of your stomach until the realisation hit you that your club would be playing the likes of Millwall, Oldham, Preston, Shrewsbury, Leyton Orient and Grimsby. 

But Billy Bonds remained undaunted by the harsh realities of footballing life, a man so single minded in his pursuit of success at any level of the game that nobody was remotely concerned for the club's future. Bonds rolled up his sleeves and wore his heart on them. He was a throwback to the old days when men were men, and battles were there to be won, fearlessly and ferociously. Bonds never accepted defeat in any given scenario, since he was a fighter, scrapping tirelessly for his team, tackling with unflinching determination, refusing to give up and crunching into the opposition as if they were the most wicked of villains. 

Bonds was the personification of everything West Ham represented. There was a controlled aggression about his approach to the game, a man hard but fair, lunging valiantly into the thick of the action and not for a minute worried about his gung ho approach to football. He would slide into attacking forwards as if his life were somehow dependent on it, before lifting up his opposing attacker from the ground with an admirable sense of compassion. He then grinned broadly and smiled amiably. 

It was often said that if a defender was built like a brickhouse and had shoulders like boulders, then that was the template or model for any aspiring team with designs on winning the old First Division. Billy Bonds was somehow impervious to danger or fear because the only thought on his mind was victory and winning Cups hopefully. It was to this end that Bonds began his long and distinguished journey from Charlton Athletic, his first club, to the dizzy heights of the old First Division now known as the Premier League. 

And so back in 1967, West Ham's highly regarded manager Ron Greenwood set his sights on a young, callow defender quite literally wet behind the ears. Bonds seemed to fit the bill quite properly. For the next two decades or so, Billy Bonds became a legend, a moral crusader, always tidy and punctilious off the field and bubbling over with enthusiasm and energy on it. Bonds was the epitome of muscular Christianity, courageous, always adventurous, going beyond the call of duty.  

In 1975, Bonds stepped up the old Wembley steps to receive the FA Cup for West Ham and their opponents Fulham became no more than a footnote in football history, losers in an FA Cup Final and plucky opposition. Five years on and Bonds was back for another bite of the cherry, another attempt to replicate the magnificent achievement that had meant so much to him five years later. In 1980, West Ham, totally unfancied on the day and very much the old Second Division underdogs beat their most illustrious and permanent residents of the old First Division Arsenal. A low, stooping header was enough to bring back the FA Cup to the East End. 

What followed were the fallow years of struggle and reinvention for West Ham. The claret and blue collective were eventually promoted to the top flight and Bonds was almost beside himself with pride. For years, West Ham had rediscovered something of the zest and attacking flair for which the club had been renowned and the years of stability in the First Division came to a grinding halt with frequent relegations and then promotions. 

But then Bonds naturally hung up his playing boots and was appointed manager of the club he had now become totally enamoured of. Bonds chose former playing colleague Harry Redknapp as assistant coach and Redknapp would replace Bonds as boss when the former Charlton Athletic teenager decided to move on. Happily for West Ham, the cordial relationship between both Bonds and West Ham remained intact. Bonds became an off the field ambassador for the club and was rewarded for his unswerving loyalty to the Hammers when West Ham named a stand after him at the new London Stadium. 

There were regular requests for after dinner speeches, questions and answers audiences, charity events and interviews he willingly agreed to take part. Here was a quiet, modest and gracious man, a man who could still talk about the innumerable bruises and long term injuries he'd sustained with the acceptance of somebody who had clearly suffered for his art but never complained about them for a minute. There was never a hint of bitterness at the way he was overlooked by the England hierarchy. Of course we will miss Billy Bonds because he loved the club and the feeling was utterly mutual. Billy Bonds, of course we'll miss you.  

The BBC in crisis?

 The BBC in crisis?

Maybe they should have known this was going to happen. The warning signs were there for all to see. And yet, they assumed it would all would go away and never come back. You may think this vaguest of introductions to the following article but the fact  is that the BBC are being far too woolly minded and naive in the first place. Perhaps this was just a temporary blip and shows a complete lack of judgment. Sometimes what goes around comes around.

The BBC, one of the most globally revered of all TV organisations, is under attack from all sides. They are a team in crisis, languishing perilously near the bottom of the Premier League and  sinking without trace if they're not careful. Of course they've been here before because no company can go throughout their whole existence without a couple of boardroom upheavals, ferocious disagreements and a good deal of argy bargy. 

Now for decades and well over a century, the BBC have been bastions of reliability, good and seemingly lifelong friends and friendly neighbours. They have always accompanied us through dire predicaments when the news was bleak, triumphant moments when it was good, royal occasions, royal weddings, critical turning points in political history, Prime Ministers standing outside 10 Downing Street while the cameras were rolling and those hilarious quiz and chat shows where you couldn't help but laugh. 

It only seems like yesterday but over 50 years ago the BBC had a monopoly on TV bragging rights. They had Bruce Forsyth's Generation Game, one of the daftest if funniest quiz shows for many a year. In those days the whole family would sit down in front of the new colour TV service and feast their eyes on one of the cleverest vehicles for Saturday evening TV. Give the audience at home a genial host with bristling grey sideburns and the most outrageous line in humour and frivolity and there you were. The games on the show itself had most of us convulsed with happiness, laughter and pleasure. It was a recipe for success.

At Christmas time, and the weeks leading up to the great festive period, there was that magical double act known as Morecambe and Wise. The viewing figures, for these legendary and stunningly polished comedians, shot through the roof and soared into the many millions. The BBC had a safety net when it looked like falling from a great height and crashing to the ground. Eric and Ernie were the BBC's salvation at a time when the news agenda was similarly downbeat and depressing. 

The BBC still had a stranglehold on period drama adaptations such as the Forsyte Saga which had captured the imagination of a black and white TV audience. But that was the 1960s and for years the Beeb were treading water. The combination of Dickens, Jane Austen and Anthony Trollope had kept the BBC buoyant. But their evening news coverage, once its flagship, was still in a commanding position. The BBC were trustworthy, responsible, allegedly biased but still worth a half an hour of our spare time. And yet it now all seems very formulaic, predictable, dangerously racist, sexist, antisemitic, xenophobic and just totally prejudiced. 

In the light of the recent Middle East wars and the Ukraine and Russia conflict, the BBC sent in its mightiest heavyweights, journalists without a hint of bigotry or taking sides in any argument. We wondered at the excessive and obsessive focus on the poor, battered and beleaguered Hamas and its dying people in their thousands. And we were just aghast and speechless because this was a sham, a fallacy, a pack of lies, completely exaggerated and just not true. Who started this war? Hamas protested their innocence but then of course the 7th October was still raw in our minds and, as proud Jews, we defended ourselves consistently and if the retaliation was painful, it was something we had to do. 

Now of course the BBC find themselves understandably stuck between the devil and the deep blue sea. Here is a so called a powerful, global TV news bulletin and 24 hour operation. They now look like a groggy boxer staggering around the ring and clinging desperately clinging to the ropes. They have been beaten to a pulp, a bruised, then battered bantamweight with swollen eyes, blood dripping from nose and mouth and struggling to stay on their feet. If they hadn't seen the writing on the wall they have now. 

Then above all the raging turbulence and chronic chaos, the Beeb look for anything resembling redemption, a life boat, anything to save their blushes. On Saturday evening, the BBC present us with their winter comfort food. Now an established Saturday evening favourite, Strictly Come Dancing is sparkling, colourful, glittering, full of showbiz flamboyance, perhaps a tad garish and gaudy for some but maybe not. It is an explosion of outrageous clothes and costumes, gleaming smiles and experienced judges who know exactly what they're talking about. 

But, taken on its own, Strictly Come Dancing can never hope to adequately fill the gap. This is no sticking plaster because there's the rest of the week to be held to account. Of course there are the dramas and cop shows, the mysterious programmes, the fabulous wildlife documentaries, sitcoms from time to time and then a spate of what looks like rehashed mediocrity. But this could never be regarded as a hurtful and withering accusation because the Beeb love to entertain, inform and enlighten. Ask Lord Reith's great grandchildren and relatives.

Then you have to wait for Friday evening before the whistles are allowed to blow and the bells ring. The masterfully and politically irreverent satirical show Have I Got News For You is still a must and highly recommended. It is incredibly amusing, laugh out loud funny and perhaps the one TV programme that deserves far more air time than it does. The family tree show, where celebrities look for their ancestors, is Who Do You Think Are and is just spellbinding, fascinating and a compulsive watch. But that's where it all begins to unravel for the Beeb.

Within the last week, Tim Davie, their latest Director General, has fallen on his sword and left the BBC because his position had become untenable. The BBC have been rocked by one criticism after another, attacked for their poor, slipshod reporting on prominent celebrities who have are being held on rape charges and an American president who just wants to sue the Beeb for billions of dollars and pounds for deplorable behaviour and flawed, fake journalism. Oh dear, Aunty simply can't get it right. 

And to think that it used to be so refreshingly different, a world away from shame and controversy, a day's viewing dominated by quaint Test cards with girls wearing pig tails and playing a game of noughts and crosses which remain, to this day, unresolved. There were those national treasures such as Z Cars, Softly Softly, Dixon of Dock Green, Play for Today, Grandstand and Match of the Day. Morecambe and Wise was just magically essential and imperative, a gloriously intoxicating comedy hour or two from delightful double acts Eric and Ern. There was the Two Ronnies, wonderfully lyrical and stunning word paintings from Ronnie Barker and a comfortable arm chair for Ronnie Corbett.

The children had Watch With Mother, Andy Pandy, Muffin the Mule, Camberwick Green, Trumpton, Bill and Ben, Play School and Play Away, Crackerjack at 5pm on Friday afternoon. Then, back in the mists of the time, there was Billy Cotton's Band Show, Hancock's Half Hour, starring Tony Hancock, a sad and misunderstood comedian who the BBC can probably relate to at the moment. Then there was BBC Two who gave us the alternative entertainment package with groundbreaking snooker in colour, Pot Black and company, classical music concerts, left field educational programmes such as the Open University, jazz, revealing and insightful real life social documentaries on inner city council estates, hard, hitting investigations and Horizon, where the truly amazing casts its eyes on widely diverse cultures.

And so this morning the BBC will be licking its wounds and bandaging over the deep wounds. As an impartial outsider, you fear the worst for the BBC. In an age of constant information and news, and an Internet that now spans the globe providing the news just as accessibly and immediately, the Beeb are now in serious trouble. To all intents and purposes, the BBC has completely lost its way. We no longer need a flickering screen on our TVs since our Smart Phones, Netflix, Amazon Prime, Apple and a vast selection of Sky, Fox, CNN News and even tinier screens can tell us precisely where and when the momentous events of the day are taking place.

 The BBC seem to be withering on the vine, slowly disintegrating into a very gradual obscurity. Some of us will lament the way it used to be for BBC TV but the writing is on the wall and the graffiti is telling us a story that the hardcore Beeb audience may not want to hear. The signs are, that the BBC we used to know while we were growing up, has now reached its lowest point. There are those who may be celebrating this moment and those who will be gladly rubbing their hands in relief. Surely Aunty Beeb you can do so much better or should we just allow you to rust away and left to decay. Now let's see, it's time to say farewell to our once family favourite BBC One. Who knows, it's over to you, folks. 

Happy Birthday.

 Happy Birthday

Ah yes. It's another birthday to yours truly. With the passing of time and the whole ageing process, you begin to find gratitude for good mental and physical health much easier to accept. There is no longer the desire for birthday cards, validation or approval, that constant craving for presents or planning elaborate parties where friends and family come flocking from all the points of the geographical compass. 

You settle for what you have, recognising humbly that another year has been flown by and you are no longer the child of nature you used to be or the awkward teenage adolescent for whom birthdays probably meant something important on the day but never more than some inevitable occurrence. So you privately smiled and congratulated and just got on with the business of the day, deeply proud of your achievements thus far but no longer the kid who insisted on jelly and ice cream, Pass the Parcel or Musical Chairs games and parties with your friends and family. 

The transition of childhood into fully fledged adult life with partners, boys to men and girls to women,  is almost old as time itself. Childhood is all about the development of bones, muscles, brain capacity, mobility and cultural moments in your early lives. There is also the wondrous realisation of religion, discovering much more about being Jewish, understanding the finer nuances of life, those cherished hours, months, weeks and years where we simply want to stop, take stock and become reflective and enormously appreciative. 

The cliche of course that, when we were kids, life was the most exciting journey that would last forever and that remains very much the case today. An aura of immortality, untouchable impregnability and a real sense of indestructibility and invincibility always floods all over us because, as children, the world is, quite literally, our oyster. You can be the greatest mathematician and engineer, the most remarkable inventor and scientist who ever lived. There is so much time, potential, so many encouraging omens, a time to grasp the nettle. So you wake up on your birthday morning and open up the cards from family and friends and just feel good about yourself. 

This is your 63rd birthday and you feel as you should do no younger and no older than you thought you might. There are no more twinges, aches and pains than would ordinarily be the case. You are now the grandfather of two stunning grandchildren and this feels so satisfying. If anybody had told you over 32 years ago that you would have a wonderfully loving and supportive wife and two gorgeous children, then you would probably have thought they were mad. But here you are 63 years later and the panorama is still stunning. 

Of course the bones are not nearly as flexible as they were when you were 15 or 20 because back then you were at the height of your athleticism, running for miles, oozing with boundless stamina if perhaps at the time, painfully shy, lonely, remote, detached and totally confused. But as they often tell us, age is in the mind, a psychological obstacle, a state of mind perhaps and of course they're right. But although the body may be willing, the mind would much rather do nothing on your birthday. 

So there you are on the anniversary of your birth. Do you loosen and fling away all of your inhibitions with a luxurious bath, book into the swankiest five star hotel on Park Lane in London's West End or perhaps glide down the River Thames with family and friends while consuming the most delicious afternoon tea and being surrounded with unconditional love? Or perhaps you could re-capture your childhood spirit with a visit to a kids fairground or just jump onto a park swing and spend all the day there. 

Personally memories of childhood birthdays are far too vague and indistinct for any clear recollection. Your mum once told you that you were invited to the second birthday party of the lad who used to live around the corner to us. The two year old son David had a father who was both a superb upholsterer by trade and a magician in his spare time. He was also a football referee because Uncle Roy, as you called him, was the best and most qualified. Their family had a mum Janet who was always amiable and welcoming. But then it suddenly occurred to you that you were lavished with birthday presents as a child. It all returns to the surface of  your mind and fills you with delight. At the time it was so sufficiently thrilling an experience, that you can hardly believe that it happened. 

It could have been any childhood year, be it fifth, sixth, seventh or eighth, maybe ninth because, at some point, it all becomes blurred by time. But you can still remember sprawling all over your mum and dad's carpet and dad just being there for you, his adoring first son. It was a Hornby railway train set and the images are unforgettable. Lovely dad began the whole wonderful task by grabbing hold of a set of rails and then carefully fixing every rail together and then attaching the carriages and brown wagons to each other. It all seems the most glorious of all days but it is now just a distant misty period of our lives but how wonderful it felt and still does all those years later.

And then as the years progressed, birthdays became less important, occasions of noteworthy interest. Mum was always there for a card, a complex but beautiful Lego plastic brick set that you spent hours simply clipping together, assembling something, then dismantling it as if it were some dream home that you'd just built. Birthdays were then just briefly acknowledged, perhaps celebrated in a small way but never made a real fuss of. There was something called an Etch a Sketch, a drawing machine that a Smart Phone, Tablet would have been today's equivalent or something that used to be called Photo shopping now but the Etch a Sketch was a major source of fascination. 

It was 50 years ago today - or a week before your birthday- that you were called up to sing and chant your Torah piece for your barmitzvah. The occasion still has an air of clarity to it. It was a synagogue hall in Gants Hill, Essex and was then known as the Beehive Lane shul. Dressed in the fashionable ruffed purple shirt and bow tie of the time with the cleanest white shirt, tie or, quite possibly, bow tie, flared trousers that were synonymous with the 1970s and platform shoes as high as Paddington railway station. 

But here is where it gets very amusing. On the occasion of your rites of passage adolescence, your barmitzvah, you were piled high with fountain pens, and the brand new calculators which had just become very marketable and cut out all the scribbling of maths equations, sums and percentages. Calculators were supposed to be the future and, to this day, are still widely available. They had small keyboard numbers with a flashing green light on the calculator  and the tiniest of numbers on the smallest of screens. 

Oh yes and before you forget there were all the hundreds of cheques and cheque books, cheques with goodness knows how much money they had given you. But you didn't care because you were remarkably wealthy at the tender age of 13 and besides, you'd always wanted to open up an ISA account as a teenager or just take out shares in a spectacularly affluent oil company. So it is we now arrive at the piece de resistance, the much coveted present of all presents, the kind of gift that sent you into a trance of bewilderment. 

Finally, there was the ultimate in all birthday or barmitzvahs gifts. For some inexplicable reason, your guests on the day felt it the most opportune moment to give you clothes valets just in case your wardrobe was in dire need for what looked more like glorified clothes hangers. At the time you were perhaps grateful and appreciative but it all felt unwanted and superfluous to any requirement. You can remember feeling quite underwhelmed with clothes valets and faintly insulted since you were never a follower of any fashion at the time. But hey it was good to be 13 and besides, by the age of 14, you'd have been pleasantly surprised by another novelty birthday present.

Still, here you are on your 63rd birthday and not really caring for such fripperies as balloons, whistles, cakes, birthday cakes with lashings of chocolate cream, the party clown or magician and last but not least, the jelly and ice cream. We look back to our childhood birthdays and imagine them in some rose tinted isolation, some golden halo of time when, back in the 1960s, you could leave your door open, leave your kids on their bikes during the school summer holiday and just enjoy the fruits of the day itself. 

Today is your birthday, my birthday, the anniversary of my birth, the day my lovely mum and dad gingerly descended the steps of the Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel and thought their life was complete. And indeed it was. It was 1962 and a boy band from Liverpool were about to create history and become a pop music sensation, a phenomenon, a universal revelation that took the whole world by storm. They were called the Beatles and for the rest of the decade they would become the greatest musicians, lyricists, record breakers of all time. They would release a multitude of singles, number ones that rolled off endless conveyor belts, best selling albums, gold and platinum records by the lorry load and then push back every conceivable boundary.  

Now of course there was quite finally the one BBC programme that had most kids of that age cowering fearfully behind their sofas and settees. On the day of my first birthday Dr Who began what would turn into a national treasure, a science fiction TV series that blew everybody away quite literally. It was, perhaps, not as revolutionary as some might have thought at the time because, during the 1950s a BBC classic called Quatermass had frightened the lives out of us. 

But today 62 years ago today, one William Hartnell became established as the first of the Doctors, a strangely dressed, professorial type who was transported through hundreds of time journeys. In a police box that had now been converted into something called a Tardis, Dr Who showed considerable foresight because you suspected he must have known a baby in his cot was vaguely aware that something astonishing and appropriate was about to happen on our black and white TV set.

 And still Dr Who has survived the ages to the present day. It was scary science fiction that may have inadvertently traumatised, albeit briefly, the children who just happened to be watching. But then it was safe to come out from behind the chairs and tables. So it's a very humble, unfussy and modest birthday to yourself. It's time to indulge in just a hint or maybe an abundance of chocolate. Go on treat yourself. You deserve it.  

The Ashes Down Under.

 The Ashes - Down Under.

We knew it was going to be pretty tasty and spicy and indeed it was. This is the battle royale, the ultimate confrontation, the fiercest rivalry, the biggest sporting grudge match of them all. And if we didn't know it before we certainly do now. Because the fuse has been lit, the fires of antagonism are burning brightly and wouldn't you know it, it's here again, back in the sporting spotlight, the greatest meeting of them all where personal hatred takes centre stage, all bets are off and this means business, no holds barred. You better believe it.

Yes folks it's the Ashes, that legendary cricketing contest between England in the red, white and blue corner against the yellow of Australia. For decades and centuries, England against Australia has become one of the most spiteful, vindictive, combustible, incendiary and explosive of all matches. It does what it says on the tin. It can often be bloodthirsty, vengeful, villainous, almost borderline barbaric- well not quite but you know where we're coming from. 

For as long as any of us can remember, Australia and England have been sworn enemies both off the field and quite literally in the pavilion. The great John Arlott, one of the wisest and most erudite of all cricket commentators, must have thought it was his birthday. There were so many metaphors, adjectives and similes that he could have used about the Ashes that at times he must have felt quite spoilt for riches. 

Back in the 1930s, there was that defining Ashes tour that became known as Bodyline Tour when murderous bouncers were bowled by England and the Aussies did nothing but complain and quite often feared for their lives. This has not made for pleasant viewing and the repercussions can still be felt 100 years later when you thought the dust may have settled. But cricket always lent itself to Arlott's poetry and this was one match where the pigeons at mid wicket always took cover and the Barmy Army, England's most loyal fans abroad, would always make their boisterous voices heard.

Just after the Second World War one Australian gentleman stood head and shoulders above the rest. Sir Don Bradman, as he rightly became known, was the most princely, regal, imperious and graceful batsman who ever existed. Bradman was born to play cricket, a man blessed with nature's finest gifts, pulling nobly on the back and front foot, hooking for fun, blasting all comers into submission and just wiping the floor with England's most fearsome bowlers. Bradman has now been ordained into cricket's Hall of Fame and even now England can still hear his mighty shots echoing across the ages. 

But in more recent times the Ashes has always been about certain individuals. In 1981, one Sir Ian Botham or Beefy, as he was affectionately known, singlehandedly transformed an Ashes series when it looked for all the world as if Australia were just coasting home to victory and the Ashes was going back to Brisbane, Perth and Adelaide. So it was that Botham came charging in to bowl at Headingley and within a couple of days completely turned the game on its head. 

The former Somerset quickie and terrifyingly fast bowler skittled out the Australian attack when it seemed as though the Aussies were far too complacent for their own good. So what happened next? England, with Mike Brearley as captain, studied the opposition, as Brearley always did, with an almost effortless air and, accompanied by the unforgettable Bob Willis at the other end, looked danger in the eye. Now England just became defiant, stubborn, cavalier and flamboyant in a way that none of us could have expected. England regained the Ashes after what must have seemed a lifetime. 

And so we find ourselves back in Perth for the first test between England and Australia at the Waca where England have always found themselves on the end of a hiding over the years. In fact this has never been a successful hunting ground for English cricket because they invariably lose and that must stick in the craw and hurt. This time it really does feel spine tingling, ferociously competitive, an Ashes to remember that may never be forgotten. But then it always was and always will be. 

Yesterday the captains Steve Smith of Australia and Ben Stokes of England, stood in the warm sunshine of an Australian winter or maybe summer depending on which side of the world you happen to be living. In between them was the much coveted Ashes urn, quite the most improbable reward for a victorious sporting team and then finally glanced at each other, shook hands politely if perhaps reluctantly and rolled up their sleeves for the humourists, may feel like war but we know as sport's most metaphorical of sporting punch ups. 

At the moment it feels as though there is nothing between Australia and England. Yesterday, Steve Smith's hungry, marauding, almost carnivorous of bowling attacks, roared into the lion's den and sliced open England's helpless batsmen. By the time both lunch and tea had been taken, England were like wounded animals, bowled out for a meagre and pitiful 172. For a while it felt like 1981 all over again. But then England knew this was never going to be a picnic so they forgot their hamper and were promptly devoured by Aussie fast bowler Mitchell Starc. Starc quite literally looked like a man possessed, flaring at the nostrils and creating havoc every time the arm and hands unfolded and the lethal ball was released.  

Now the Waca almost exploded with joy and licked their lips with a kind of sadistic air about them. If Australian cricket hadn't experienced this same scenario a thousand times, they'd have savoured the moment time after time. Soon England were reeling and rocking, wobbling and then toppling over like a thousand set of dominoes. The castle had been broken into and the Australians were looting, plundering and ransacking the England batsmen like men who just love to laugh at the misfortune of those they can barely stand or abide. 

Sport can often be ruthless, cruel and heartless at times. Australia were probably looking forward to an early victory in the Ashes and just putting the contest to bed as quickly as possible. Joe Root had been out for a duck, Harry Brook had offered a briefly promising 52 and captain fantastic Ben Stokes could only manage a tearful six. Oh how much worse could this one get. Ben Duckett, Zak Crawley and Ollie Pope from whom much may have been expected, were also out cheaply. 

But now Australia are in for their first innings and, quite frankly, this could go to the wire because the Aussies have been slipshod, careless, weak and equally as pathetic but you must never call an Australian that because that's a brutally abusive and pejorative term and you know how that winds them up. They have lost wickets fairly rapidly and will probably be all out in double quick time. So Australia you can put that in your cheroot cigar and smoke it. 

Here in Britain it's the penultimate week of November. In the old days, young children would sneak their transistor radios into their bed and covertly listen to the Ashes because mum and dad thought you were fast asleep. Thanks to the wonders of satellite TV, the highly regarded Sky can also accompany you through the night as you shuffle your score card about and drink as many cups of coffee as you possibly can. It is time for the Ashes, cricket's liveliest of encounters, a controversy waiting to happen and a match nobody really wins because both England and Australia both deserve the spoils.

The green baggy caps are ready and waiting and the red, white and blue of England is snarling, sneering and sniggering like giggly primary school children at assembly, contemptuously and now furiously. They'll be waiting for each other just to prove who's the fittest and strongest. Come on England or if you're reading this in Australia let's settle our differences over several tinnies of lager. Hold on, it's only a game of cricket and indeed it is.

Happy Mickey Mouse Day and Disney.

 Happy Mickey Mouse Day and Disney.

Oh come on surely not. You'd be forgiven for thinking that this one had been literally a cartoon with a speech bubble attached to it. So today is National Mickey Mouse Day and you're still in the land of dreams, safely cocooned in your own childhood and this is happening. It's surely a national day that belongs in the realms of the ridiculous and just preposterous? But it really is a good idea because everything seems possible in the best possible world. 

Some of us of course were the legend who is Mickey Mouse since he was the cartoon character who sent us into wild paroxysms of laughter, giggling, chuckling and then blowing out yet more expressions of happiness and delirium. Mickey Mouse belonged to the Walt Disney childhood factory, a place where all the conveyor belts and machinery seemed to be always working and never stopping. Everywhere, that now familiar back story of Walt Disney, controversial as it might have been, always remained faithful to the concept of childish fantasy, never let up for a minute in his quest to produce some of the greatest cartoons ever conceived and executed on the movie silver screen. 

Even now in hindsight whatever you may have thought of the man who was Disney, there can never be denying his phenomenal impact as a film maker, producer and director. When Disney settled down in front of his vast collections of drawing boards, pens and pencils, you knew that there was something pretty special on his feverishly fertile mind. Walt Disney was, of course, an artistic genius, unparalleled cartoonist of the highest quality and a man with a veritable stable of fun kids characters and a huge repertoire of animal sketches that suddenly turned into glorious technicolour on the cinema screen. 

But let's concentrate on Mickey Mouse. Now, as you may or may not know, Mickey Mouse, originally started out his life as a work in progress. Before he became Mickey, he was formerly known as Mortimer Mouse. The USA was still in the grip of the Great Depression and there were soup kitchens in the streets of New York, California, Los Angeles, Hollywood, Detroit and every American city trapped in a downward spiral of poverty and economic depression.  

So who do you think waved a wand and made America feel so much better about themselves. Al Jolson, who had just revolutionised the world of movies with the first talkies movie called the Jazz Singer, found himself up in fierce competition with a remarkable man with a wonderfully prophetic vision of the future. Walt Disney had now given us Steamboat Willie, then a black and white revelation that underwent an astonishing metamorphosis that changed us overnight from hard bitten scepticism into lifelong converts who had to believe in miracles.

From those heady and early days of Disney's development, Walt Disney knew he had something when Mickey Mouse started clowning around in that remarkable sequence of fun loving tomfoolery, knockabout antics that had kids rolling in the aisles. Mickey spoke with a distinctive high pitched voice, squeaky clean at all times and determined to play with the rest of Disney's lovable friends such as Donald Duck, Pluto, Daffy Duck and then there was epic movie era which underlined Disney's pre-eminence and cinema domination.

Before long we had Jumbo, the stunningly impressive Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, followed by yours truly was introduced to Rudyard Kipling's Jungle Book and that endearing deer known as Bambi. But the magnitude of Disney's achievements can never be truly measured because the man was so prolific and constant. 

During the 1960s author Pam Travers had already written the superlative Mary Poppins, the nanny who was entrusted with the welfare of two children who just happened to have an umbrella which took her flying over a thousand smoky rooftops. But a recent film about Travers cast a much darker shadow over Disney's now questionable reputation. Travers believed that the Mary Poppins character had been completely undermined and then destroyed by Disney's insistence on reducing Poppins to some comic pastiche of the one Travers had in mind. 

But we are still on the subject of Mickey Mouse because, it is, after all, his day. His female counterpart Minny Mouse probably feels like a little hard done by, completely overlooked. Mickey Mouse may well be wandering around those flourishing and spectacular theme parks, walking around jauntily with that black and white suit and those big ears which can hear about the latest news in Mississippi, Colorado or Alabama. He'll be recalling those far off days when Mickey held our beautiful children in thrall when lining up for Mickey Mouse's autograph just before breakfast. Mickey was Florida and Florida was Mickey. 

So for those who still remember the TV kids programmes the Mickey Mouse club, this is your day. We may not know that much about Mickey Mouse but thanks to the marvels of cinematography, we are considerably more enlightened about this wondrous Disney creation. Mickey Mouse is the leader of his cartoon gang, a world exclusive to children, unreal of course but very much alive in the world of our children and their grandchildren in perpetuity. 

There he goes as jolly and upbeat as always, shaking the hands of everybody sociably and never less than friendly. He'll wave at the crowds, dancing and moving with a rhythmic beat, constantly understanding kids because that friendship will never go away. Mickey Mouse has spanned a whole multitude of generations, a cult figure in both Florida and Paris. And that's the way it should always be.     

Harry Redknapp and the loveliest cruise

 Harry Redknapp

There are moments during our lives when the heroes we've idolised from a far seem to become more distant with every day. Sometimes those same legendary names pass almost modestly and unobtrusively through our lives, always lifted onto the highest plateau and never really recognised for who they really are. It is quite often the case they suddenly appear on the front or back of our books, the finest print of our newspapers and then just plastered all over the front covers of your favourite magazine.

You never really think for a minute that you'll ever bump into the aforesaid idol or those you may have admired quite extensively whose image would suddenly turn into real life. And then you meet one man who ticks all of those boxes and then walks into your fondest dreams rather like Roy of the Rovers or Dan Dare. For a minute or two, you had to stop and wonder if indeed you were fantasising which of course you weren't. He was there in the flesh, never a cartoon or caricature because that would have been an insult to the man's reputation. Redknapp is the epitome of a statesmanlike figure, an exemplary ambassador for his sport. 

That man, of course, is Harry Redknapp. Harry Redknapp, undoubtedly one of the most charming, urbane, chattiest, most chipper of all footballing legends, had made it all seemed possible. From the moment my lovely wife Bev and I walked onto our cruise vessel the Sky Princess, Harry Redknapp was the most delightful company you'd ever hoped he would be. Redknapp always had the gift of the gab, a priceless story teller, the most outstanding bon viveur and the funniest raconteur of them all. It almost felt as though everything we'd heard and seen about the man was so completely true that of course he was a natural in the field of public relations. 

We were walking along our cabin corridor when suddenly the Prince of Poplar in London's East End appeared and immediately acknowledged your immediate overtures. Yes Harry, West Ham had indeed won their first home match of the Premier League season and Newcastle had been well and truly beaten. After a couple of friendly words of introduction you felt just blown away and just as overawed as you'd been when Sir Geoff Hurst had signed your book as part of a memorable wedding anniversary present from our daughter Rachel. 

Then the following day we once again crossed paths with this most eminent and distinguished of all footballing men, a man so modest and self effacing and self deprecating that you almost felt that even though he has now reached the pinnacle of his career, Redknapp remains grounded, firmly rooted. Here was a man without any airs or graces, cosmetic falsehoods, not even the remotest hint of arrogance. There are no signs of the pretentious posturing or showbiz affectations that you would normally associate with any major celebrity. 

He is singularly charming, excellent company, bubbly, always positive, never despondent and always extolling the virtues of the Beautiful Game. There is nothing of the prima donna about him, no pomposity whatsoever and a former manager and player who could probably talk about the game to anybody well into the wee small hours of the morning. My wife and even had a private audience with him and here was a man of genuine small talk, cheerful and witty badinage, admirable honesty and authenticity. 

After spending most of his playing career at his beloved hometown team West Ham, Redknapp moved into management almost seamlessly. Beside the salubrious seaside, Redknapp gave dedication to the cause at Bournemouth. His most significant achievement and high point at the Vitality Stadium was a standout FA Cup third round victory over Ron Atkinson's Manchester United. Giant killing had visited Bournemouth for one splendid afternoon over 40 years ago and Harry was carried shoulder high. 

Ten years later the club whose shirt he'd always graced came calling. When Billy Bonds needed an assistant at West Ham he didn't need to look any further than Harry Redknapp. After Bonds had left the club, West Ham turned to Redknapp to don the managerial track suit. Redknapp obliged with magnificent and triumphant days at the old Upton Park. He guided them into European football and guided the club to one of its highest positions in Europe. 

Sadly, after an unfortunate behind the scenes argument with club director Peter Storrie, Redknapp departed the club in what seemed like acrimonious circumstances. And yet, as we now know, the man with claret and blue running through his veins had always had the best and most vested interests of the club at heart and left almost reluctantly. 

In the early 2000s, Portsmouth inquired about the former West Ham legend and the rest is well documented history. In 2008 Portsmouth won the FA Cup in the most remarkable of circumstances. The Pompey chimes resounded around Wembley and opponents on the day Cardiff City could hardly have believed that they too were sharing a magical moment with Harry Redknapp. Fratton Park has since sadly encountered life in the lower divisions and are now trying to recapture those halcyon days once again. 

Then there were the Spurs years for our and your Harry Redknapp, an irresistible force. It was hard to imagine that Redknapp could even contemplate joining West Ham's so called London rivals Spurs but Redknapp arrived at the old White Hart Lane like a fire fighter called out while the flames were still licking and slowly demolishing Tottenham. At this time several years ago, Spurs were in a desperate state of disarray, languishing near the bottom of the Premier League with a miserly two points. By the end of an extraordinary season of evolution and revolution, Redknapp had waved the metaphorical magic wand and taken Spurs into Europe. It was a season that defied description and belief.

There followed the TV pundit days, of pulling up outside football grounds on transfer window day and then informing the rest of the captive Sky TV audience that Redknapp was about to do business, engaging in those classic headline making transactions, winding down his car window and neither denying nor admitting to speculation. Harry was and will always remain down to earth, amiable to anybody who just wanted to thank him and full of humbling humility, never fazed by setbacks and determined to achieve whatever challenge and objective may have come his way. 

And so for the rest of our relaxing cruise in both Portugal and the Canaries. For the first two days or so we were greeted by wild rain squalls on the main desk. Madeira had been a pleasant and easy going in the Botanical Gardens and the most gruelling of climbs up steep slopes that were reminiscent of a mini Mount Everest. By mid day, we were puffing and panting for breath and beginning to wonder whether it had been  worth it. But it had been because we were in this one together for this had been good exercise and ultimately rewarding. 

Onwards we moved out to three days out at sea. For the first couple of days, hardy and intrepid passengers on the main deck were tugging at blue blankets to keep out the wind and chill. Now there followed a collective determination to keep warm. At one point it looked as if everybody was competing to see who could lift up the said blankets to the top of their necks. But then the warm sunshine came out as we approached the Canaries, Lanzarote and Tenerife, all flying visits but nonetheless immensely enjoyable. 

In the distance there were the dormant volcanoes and conical shaped mountains that provided the most dramatic backdrop to these glistening islands in the sea. The combination of ash and grey concrete on the ground may have been slightly disconcerting to some but here was a landscape to be preserved for posterity on a million Smart Phones. We saw, came and conquered and were never disappointed. 

So it was that we headed for home, three more days at sea, at times unnerving and turbulent but somehow a joy to the soul. We will never forget those permanently majestic marble pillars inside the ship, floors and statues in marble, endless lines of five star restaurants, luxurious living, musicians tenderly manipulating delicate violins and double basses and cellos, tea dance music that still inhabit Park Lane hotels, pianos that are evocative of any era in modern times and the jazz vibe at the Take Five stage. Then there were the hilarious quizzes, huge bundles of fun wrapped up in frivolity. 

But just to make the whole cruising experience such a unique one we witnessed the most eye catching sight of them all. The art gallery was just a kaleidoscope of colour, paintings that caressed the eye and made you think of the most profound of thoughts. There were famous American artists as well as global practitioners who seem to use their canvas as one blissful release of creativity. And so my wife and I sailed back towards Southampton and home full of presents for our beautiful grandchildren, full of appreciation for the finer things in life and love for both our family and the world. Of course life is sweet.   

The FA Cup first round.

 The FA Cup first round.

It's that magical weekend of the football calendar. Yes folks. For all its critics and cynics in recent years the FA Cup always comes up smelling of roses, chocolate and the  most vintage wine. The FA Cup belongs in some far off ancestral corner of our sporting imagination but always bursts into life at this time of the year. At its formation in 1872, it was a game played predominantly in universities and public schools, recreation fields next to billowing industrial chimneys, guzzling gasworks, the Oval, Crystal Palace, Stamford Bridge and then, ultimately, the old Wembley Stadium. 

This weekend though the FA Cup returns in its current incarnation, today's iteration, the way it is now and was and always should be in the future. It rolls into town like those rooting tooting Wild West cowboys on horseback, reckless and adventurous, unblemished by time, hardly touched by the ravages of modernity and high tech, brazen sponsorship, millions of pounds of investment by a thousand TV and radio stations, every conceivable football magazine and, for the locals, a full page spread in the regional newspapers. 

The FA Cup used to be about traditional values, the highest moral standards, giant killing of the most monumental order, the flights of fantasy winging their way through the land of fairy tales and the shock, horror stories where the FA Cup's most romantic liaisons always melted our hearts. The back page headline makers would always strut their stuff and then jump into the communal bath after a game, swigging back innumerable bottles of milk and champagne. 

This weekend, the FA Cup first rounds unfurls its finest tapestry with some of the most decorative stitches still intact. Maybe the FA Cup should be engraved on a special shield for posterity and regularly celebrated by all those little teams who play their matches before three dogs and a cat. For that is essentially the FA Cup, its essence, the foundation stone from where the first cement and brick was first laid. It is the recreation ground next to sylvan parkland, where the Sunday pub eleven trot out of tiny huts and smaller dressing rooms. The FA Cup was all about level playing grounds, the shining light of amateurism. 

The FA Cup belongs to the working classes, the dedicated part time players who strike the right balance between the work and fun conundrum with such effortless ease. They start their working day schedule at the crack of dawn, filling up supermarket shelves or clocking on at those manufacturing factories where steel and iron can still be heard. They post letters or trundle past chocolate box terraced houses with rattling milk floats. They spend interminable hours hunched over office desks in front of flickering screens. And then they will play football because that represents a welcome relief from the toil and intensity of hard graft.

So who would care to step up to the plate first. In the fair city of Bristol, Weston - Super- Mare will meet Aldershot, a game that conjures up all of the symbolism and imagery of a typical Cup tie. There will be little fuss and commotion at the end of this one. Then there's Salford City for whom several Old Trafford alumni will have vested interests in this year's FA Cup. Salford City will meet Lincoln City, perhaps completely unnoticed by TV or radio but embraced by social media.  

There's Bedfordshire's finest Luton Town who will play green, environmentally friendly Forest Green Rovers, both of whom may have to content themselves to the bread and butter of the Football League pyramid. The lovely county of Essex will be preparing itself for the visit of Milton Keynes Dons who for their part, will probably have to negotiate several roundabouts. Colchester, home of those famous military barracks, will be hoping to down the Dons and what could be better than that. 

Meanwhile, Tranmere Rovers, not a million miles away from the allegedly superior Merseyside neighbours of both Liverpool and Everton, will meet Stockport County which is more or less a local case of bragging rights in that part of the Wirral. Wigan, who memorably won the FA Cup in 2013 against the all conquering and mighty Manchester City, will be up against Hemel Hempstead Town and that maybe the end for the gallant folk of Hemel Hempstead. 

And then the Welsh wizards of Newport County will face those fine and able representatives from the Garden of England in Kent where Gillingham will be hoping to adorn their day with the most fragrant bouquet of roses. Cheltenham, in deepest gymkhana and horse loving Gloucestershire, take on the ruthless but stylish Yorkshiremen of Bradford City while those other illustrious Yorkshire folk Barnsley engage in another local derby against York City. 

So let's wrap up this gentle synopsis of FA Cup goodies. There's the War of the Roses showdown between Bolton Wanderers against Huddersfield which has the ring and resonance of a 1920s Cup tie. Farnham, of  Surrey stockbroker belt territory, will meet eyeball to eyeball either Sutton United or Telford United. Back on the Essex Riviera, there sounds like a cracking, exhilarating local derby between Chelmsford City and Braintree Town. 

Wherever you may be over the weekend it would be advisable to carry around you a box of handkerchiefs, some nutritious beef and onion pies and a flask of tea or coffee because the FA Cup is bound to get emotional. Tomorrow marks the first day of November and some of us get very sentimental when those happy strugglers of the non League try to upstage their so called betters of the Football League pyramid. The FA Cup, by its very presence, is still good for the soul, unforgettable and a constant source of reassurance to those who may think football lost its soul ages ago. It's time to strap yourself in tightly for the great roller coaster that is the FA Cup. Of course it matters. 

Winter wonderland

 Winter wonderland.

It is normally the time of the year when most of us withdraw into deep reflection and contemplation of the year as it wends its way slowly towards its close. Then, for reasons that may seem obvious and not quite so understandable, we become withdrawn, reclusive, comfortable, warm and cosy. An overwhelming air of sad, sullen moroseness quite obviously hangs heavy on the homeless, neglected, the marginalised classes whose voices are never heard, the ones who sleep on street or park benches alone. We will never be able to know what may be going through their heads. 

And then we probably feel sorry for ourselves because it is indeed winter and all of those vibrant summer parties and family barbecues are nothing but yesterday's chip paper. We retreat into ourselves, switch the heating on, pull a blanket or two over ourselves in front of the TV and just feel tired, reflective, completely lacking in any desire or ambition. Of course we've got the perfect job or car, a family unit we'll always cherish. But then we'll look at the all enveloping darkness outside our windows at five o clock in the evening and wish summer had never even considered leaving us with its glorious warmth. 

Last Sunday morning we suddenly discovered that the clocks had gone back and we were not in the least surprised. It's something we've grown accustomed to for as long as we can remember, the transitional period of the year when summer makes way for autumn and then winter. Our body clocks should be used to this yearly occurrence and yet, as a kid, you took it for granted that when you woke up for school in the morning, it was both dark, foggy and misty, the milk floats were rattling and the postman or woman was up at the crack of dawn. 

But that failed to disguised the awkward realisation that seven o'clock in the morning still felt like midnight and you simply didn't abandon yourselves to the joys of academic life at roughly the time the owls make that familiar nocturnal hooting noise outside your bedroom window. And yet you went to school in the dark and invariably came home as the fading light of tea time made way for an early night. It almost felt as though daylight had somehow become rationed and you'd had no time to enjoy the remnants of the winter sunshine. 

It was always thus. And then we were regaled with that same old urban myths or maybe the truths. We may have been told repeatedly that the clocks only went back at the end of October because Scottish farmers insisted that the cows had to be milked at a certain time. Those self same cows were never consulted for their considered opinion on daylight and night time. Can you imagine a herd of Friesian cows debating the merits and demerits of waking up when they were told to?

Anyway here we are again and shortly the rampant cash tills of commercialism will be ringing fiercely and furiously as thousands of supermarket trolleys are taken for a paso doble around vast food and drink emporiums. In a couple of days it'll be Halloween, the season when energetic kids will be running around the roads and streets of Britain, knocking on doors quite enthusiastically and then expecting a wad of money for their sterling endeavours. 

Then we'll look up at the dark wintry sky and pretend we can see huge communities of witches on their broomsticks flying around at the rate of knots. Meanwhile, back at home, families across the country will be sipping warm bowls of pumpkin soup. Those same children will be carving eyes and ears out of the pumpkins and lighting candles inside them. It is all rather strange, pagan, mysterious, fun in a roundabout kind of way but baffling because it's hard to see the point of it all. Still, maybe you've reached an age where you don't really care anyway. 

And then next week another ritualistic event makes its yearly appearance. Guy Fawkes Night is almost as old as time, a night of loud, deafening, boisterous, noisy fireworks. We do this every year without questioning it. Then we're almost resigned to its perennial soundtrack of bang, crash, scream and laugh before intensifying its volume a million fold. Suddenly the sparklers will be whizzed around with much hilarity and dad will tell his children to stand well back before the Ferris wheels and rockets are launched to their highest altitude. 

The organised fireworks party was always a wheeze, the funniest of all revelations, confirmation of your childhood and never disappointing. But as a grandfather now, Guy Fawkes night is no longer the source of fascination it might have been when you were five or six. But you're grandson and grandchildren will shortly be introduced to the delights of fireworks, that riotous round of pyrotechnics that soar into the night sky before spinning cartwheels and then spluttering into a damp squib. 

Shortly, November will be with us again and November just seems to race away into the distance because by now most of us will be inundated with the Christmas spirit. Oh yes that festival. We mustn't forget Christmas because we've always remembered and never forgotten it. It just seems to creep insidiously into our imagination like a ghost that suddenly haunts a medieval castle. And yet here we are at the end of October and the weeks, months and the whole year has just gone far too quickly. 

Then we'll huddle around the TV and watch the always glamorous Strictly Come Dancing because that's a must, a necessity because the it's colourful, spectacular, glitzy and sparkly. It is that chandelier light in our living rooms when outside it looks as if a huge chunk of charcoal has arrived outside on our doorsteps. The street lights are on at full amber, the gorgeous reflections of rain water can be seen for miles and the atmosphere out there has radically changed for the better. 

Of course this may be debatable but you can't help but think that you're cosy and healthy, protected from the cascades of rain that pour in Biblical torrents for much of the season. Rain is soothing to the ear, comforting if sleep isn't immediately forthcoming. Rain is good for the crops for those in the agricultural industry, it was an outstanding short story written by Somerset Maugham many decades ago and yes folks it's time to embrace the beauties of the passing seasons and just smile for the camera. Enjoy, folks.