England beat India in the third test at Lords by 22 runs

 England beat India in the third test at Lords by 22 runs. 

In the ancestral home of English cricket, England marched forward across the matchless meadows and fields of its illustrious history and Lords sighed with a perfect summertime reverence. Throughout the centuries and decades, the England cricket team have always regarded Lords as their spiritual home. It is the place they come back to reminisce on the valour and gallantry of the Compton brothers Denis and Leslie, who, during and after England's grimmest years of wartime, brought so much happiness and pleasure to those who sit in the seats with their yellow and red ties enraptured by cricket's art and beauty. 

The members of the Lords most knowledgeable of cricket observers know their cricket inside out. They've seen Botham at his most breathtaking, Dexter at his most dextrous, Cowdrey at his most organisational, Boycott at his most patient and methodical, Hutton, spreading goodwill and oozing regal batsmanship at its most destructive and now the present day England team. At times English cricket has been too spoilt for words. 

Last night we were reminded of English class, English grit and determination, English stubbornness and sheer strength of character. At no point was this Test match against India ever likely to be a meeting of lifelong friends and long standing, mutual respect for each other. This one was spiky, vengeful, angry, antagonistic and no holds barred. It was, at times ugly, spiteful, malicious at times and then just plain unpleasant when the stakes were at their highest. There was no love lost between England and India in the third test at Lords.

There was angry finger wagging, deep seated animosity and almost utter contempt for each other. And yet this was not an Ashes contest between Australia and England so you had to remember what you were watching here. This was a novelty moment in Test cricket. England and India were on a war footing at Lords and that didn't really begin to make any sense. Still, this was what we got in this feisty, confrontational almost bloodthirsty Test match. Well, not quite perhaps but it certainly felt like it. 

By the time leg spinner Shoaib Bashir had twirled down a delivery and just left Mohammed Siraj all tangled up and forlorn, you knew this was the end for India. But then you noticed that the ball had beaten Siraj all ends up but he had still played the shot. And then there was agonising sight of the ball dropping onto the ground, creeping unobtrusively towards the wickets and bails which simply fell like a deck of cards. Suraj was out and England had won the third test at Lords by 22 runs. It seemed like the ultimate act of cruelty. 

Lords may never have seen anything like this since the good Doctor WG Grace dug his intellectual bat into the ground for the  national side, a pillar of stern reliability and English devil may care doughtiness. Somewhere perhaps Grace may have been out there, judging and severely reprimanding today's craftsmen and draughtsmen. He may well have looking down on the likes of the wonderful Ben Stokes, the thoughtful and analytical captain Joe Root who hit the most majestic of centuries. Root's 104 runs  tore India's bowling attack to pieces and then the superbly maturing Harry Brook announced his stately presence 

During England's first innings, the skipper Joe Root built up his unforgettable century in a way that his fellow Yorkshire and England batsman Sir Geoff Boycott must have been impressed by. Surely Boycott would have had words of wisdom and flattery for Root who is slowly carving out his legendary status. Once again, Root punched his ferocious cover and straight drives down the wicket before blasting the ball into the Lords pavilion with fours and sixes that shone like diamonds. This was Root at his most commanding, powerful and influential, breathing leadership qualities in a way that Boycott would surely have appreciated. 

Then there was the admirable supporting cast of Zak Crawley, Ollie Pope, Jofra Archer returning to the England team after a seemingly interminable four year absence and Chris Woakes. Here was an English cricket team desperately trying to prove themselves as a team to be feared and never forgotten. Archer was bowling at his fastest and most business like. The Archer eyes were flaring, the number on the back of his shirt rather like an identifiable warning to all comers. And so it was Archer who created havoc whenever he hurtled into bowl like the proverbial steam engine. 

And yet this was a real roller coaster, classically well balanced, nail biter of a Test match. By now India and England were in each other's faces, boiling over with genuine resentment and indignation. This was personal now and England had to do it for not only themselves but the whole of Lords. Lords has now come to expect English victory as a divine right, compulsory and essential, nothing less than routine. So it proved. 

Yesterday evening after England had beaten, the Indian playmakers Rishabh Pant and Ravinda Jadeja looked almost helpless but dogged to the end. Jadeja had scored a commendable 72 and Pant had kept him valuable company with 74 runs. But although the last overs of this Test match had faded into the most beautiful evening sunset, you could still see the evidence of needle, angst, a thousand grudges. England had beaten India but the Lords pavilion was still shivering and seething. Cricket though had won the day.      

It's all hotting up at Wimbledon.

 It's all hotting up at Wimbledon

We are now at the business end of Wimbledon, the matches that count and the important final stages where heroes are born and reborn and champions are acclaimed. A couple of days ago, one Novak Djokovic created yet more records and secured even more monumental achievements. It is hard to think of a time when Djokovic hasn't reached the peak of his game, the zenith of his powers. At 38 now, the Serbian is still a towering giant in world tennis, a mighty influence around tennis's global community, an extraordinary talent still capable of surpassing himself and defying age. 

We thought we'd seen it all when the Swedish maestro Bjorn Borg thought he'd taken up sitting tenancy rights at SW19, a man who seemed to live at Wimbledon and almost take up permanent occupancy as the best player in the world. Borg was nerveless, temperamentally perfect and just unbeatable. But now Novak Djokovic will meet Jannick Sinner in the men's singles semi final with Mount Olympus in sight and the widespread admiration of both his contemporaries and the fans who have so faithfully followed him. 

On Wednesday, Flavio Cobolli of Italy literally surrendered to the Djokovic power game, his all court game flourishing beautifully, the whole gamut of the Serbian's innate gifts working to perfection. Cobolli briefly flickered and then succeeded during his quarter final with the dominant Serbian. He threw himself almost desperately at the ball when Djokovic was simply dragging the Italian to both sides of the tramlines before thrashing the ball remorselessly past Cobolli with frightening ferocity and destructive returns of serve that flew past Cobolli like a missile.

These last few days we have been reminded pleasantly of Djokovic brilliance, his versatility and variation, the wickedness of his forehands and backhands, the subtleties and delicacies and much more. The Serbian has now taken tennis into entirely new realms, a different dimension, demonstrating a flawless mastery occasionally bordering on arrogance but then we recognise him for who he really is. At one point  he threatened to take over at Wimbledon, monopolising the green if now brown baselines as if he were born to be a champion. 

During Covid 19, the Serbian almost lost his devoted fanbase and a worldwide audience who thought he'd betrayed them, let them down, somebody who had now become a major source of disappointment. Djokovic refused point blank to take the Covid 19 vaccine because he thought he was just immortal, immune to disease, untouchable, the best thing since sliced bread. There is still something of the cold blooded assassin about him that sends frightening convulsions down the spine of his opponents and he can still dig into his classy back catalogue of shots that somehow defy gravity at times. 

But with legs askance on the baseline before his first serve, Djokovic is like a coiled spring, a leopard hiding in the jungle, prowling and growling in the tangled undergrowth. He still spends most of his epic matches forever blowing on his fingers, fidgeting and twiddling his racket, crouching like a panther ready to pounce, set on the savanna, eyes wide open and clear of thought and deed. 

And then the Serbian did what he does best, clumping and clobbering wristy cross court winners with his devastating forehands, slicing his backhands with endless variety and then executing seemingly impossible drop shots that almost floated serenely down the centre of the court. Now the former seven time Wimbledon champion was on fire, flipping and caressing the ball with an almost affectionate tenderness. 

After a brief period of Cobolli's resistance, Djokovic wrapped up the game with a semi final place against Sinner. It was 7-6, 7-2, 7-5 and 6-4 and without breaking sweat at times. Up in the celebrity boxes, Djokovic's wife and children watched in horror towards the end of this classic, as the great Serbian, by now hurling himself around the back of the court valiantly, slipped awkwardly on the grass, collapsed dramatically, and remained motionless for a disturbing minute or so. We thought the former Wimbledon champion would never recover from what looked like a nasty fall but thankfully no damage had been done.  

Djokovic won through to his semi final meeting with Italian Jannick Sinner and all was well. You found yourself thinking that time and age may not be on Djokovic's side but the amazing reflexes were still there and the light undimmed. Sometimes the greats never lose that twinkle in their eyes, the insatiable hunger and drive, the relentless will to win that continues to leave us spellbound. We may hope that the man from Serbia still has some petrol left in the tank because legends never disappoint. 

Meanwhile on Centre Court last night, Wimbledon witnessed yet more fun and games. In fact, there was a time during the mixed doubles Final when sport was elevated to another level. It was a spellbinding and mesmerising tennis spectacular. There was a genuine air of astonishment about SW19, two sets of mixed doubles determined to leave the crowd on the highest of highs. Our jaws were dropping with obvious incredulity and wonderment, a match to grace the pages of Wimbledon's illustrious history books. 

At the end, the Dutch and Czech combination of Sem Verbeek and Katerina Simanova won the mixed doubles Final, beating the Brazilian Luis Stefani and Joe Salisbury of Britain with the kind of tennis that many of us will still recall on a dark December night. There was one particularly delightful chip and charge sustained rally, a blizzard of volleyed exchanges at the net that was utterly unforgettable. There were the electrifying reflexes that seemed to go on forever. The ball looked as if a magnet had got hold of it and just kept on going. 

And yet for all the noteworthy and honourable intentions of Stefani and Salisbury, the game was going according to plan for Verbeek and Simanova. There was a steely resolve and something that was magically impulsive about the Dutch and Czech pair, a dazzling mobility and agility which almost wore down the British and Brazilian challenge. There were shots that belonged in an art installation, returns of serve that swung wildly from one end to the other with joyous frequency. 

But it was Verbeek and Simonava who clinched the Wimbledon mixed doubles trophy and another Thursday at Wimbledon had reached a fitting conclusion. It could yet be either Sinner or the stunningly talented Spaniard Carlos Alcaraz whose breakthrough as a world class player may yet be complete on Sunday afternoon with another Wimbledon men singles trophy. And then it could be yet another record breaking afternoon for a gentleman named Novak Djokovic with yet another men singles trophy under his belt. Summertime at Wimbledon will always be as sweet as its traditional strawberries and cream. We await the gallery of the great and good. Anybody for yet more tennis.  

Wimbledon at its weekend best

 Wimbledon at its weekend best.

It was yesterday at Wimbledon and SW19 was at its tea time smartest, Wimbledon in all of  its most handsome regalia and finery. The All England Lawn Tennis Club always likes to wear its most appropriate Sunday best, dinner jacket, shirt and club tie clean as a whistle and as fashionably elegant as has always been the case. It always observes centuries of royal etiquette and the most polite protocol. 

Yesterday evening, one of our last British hopes Cameron Norrie emerged exhausted but exhilarated after one of the most cliff hanging, gripping and most spectacular of five set battles with Nicolas Jarry. His Chilean opponent looked so shocked and upset after losing that, for a moment, you felt sure that he would throw his toys out of the proverbial pram and descend into childish petulance. It would not be pleasant or edifying viewing and, privately, Jarry must have known he'd become the pantomime villain such were the boos and opprobrium raining down on his ears at the end of this pulsating match. 

Jarry was at war with the world because he just couldn't come to terms with Norrie's complete and accomplished all round game, a fusion of the sublime and often miraculous. It's so good to see another British tennis prospect for the future, learning the ropes of the game and quietly progressing through this year's Wimbledon. Realistically, Norrie won't be at Wimbledon next Sunday afternoon, lifting the Wimbledon men singles trophy but you have to hand it to him. He'll be busting every gut, stretching every sinew and charging at return of serves with all the might he can possibly muster. 

Throughout the afternoon, Norrie had gone to toe to toe with Jarry losing a set and then throwing his racket at everything the Chilean had to offer. His whipped forehands were swung purposefully wide of Jarry and were frequently impossible to return. Then he slung his racket with almost wild abandon as if his life depended on this one match. There were the cultured and deceitful, sliced forehands and backhands from ridiculous positions on Centre Court, those beautifully executed drop shots that had Jarry gasping for oxygen and there was an extraordinary stamina and athleticism about Norrie that Jarry couldn't live with. 

Then Norrie released his artillery; there were drilled shots with just the right amount of power and weight of shot. The new British kid on the block had the Wimbledon crowd in raptures of delight. Norrie kept shifting his opponent from one end of the court to the other, dinking the ball over the net craftily with a delicious shrewdness and hitting the ball so firmly at Jarry that the Chilean had no answer to the Brit's questions. 

At the end, Norrie beat Jarry 6-3, 7-6, 6-7, 6-7, 6-3 after breaking twice in tie breaks. This was a throwback to the days when the likes of Andy Murray and even Roger Taylor would hurl their bodies whole heartedly at every shot imaginable, lunging at the ball and darting around the baselines with wholesome courage and bravado. Norrie isn't quite there yet but he isn't that far from being the finished article. The way Norrie dug in and summoned physical resources that even he must have thought he'd never find, was a testament to both his stamina and longevity. And so a furious and incensed Nicolas Jarry stormed off Centre Court as if somebody had taken his marbles away and told him to go to bed immediately. It had been a gross miscarriage of justice and Jarry was going to sulk and sneer. 

Meanwhile earlier on, Wimbledon witnessed one of the most heartbreakingly one sided of all matches. In hindsight, Pedro Martine should simply have turned over in the morning and gone right back to sleep. He needn't have bothered and his contest with the Italian Jannick Sinner turned into a freak show. Martine was clearly in trouble with his shoulder and that much had become readily apparent. The Spaniard, as became increasingly evident, could hardly hold a racket let alone hit a tennis ball. 

From the first set onwards, Martine laboured and toiled, his first serves reminiscent of a club player at a local municipal park. At one point, it looked as if the Spaniard was simply wishing that he could do anything but play at Wimbledon. He served at barely 70mph and his first serve was just a meek apology for what should have been a lethal missile that simply exploded on Corrie's baseline and past him in a flash. 

And so we continued to watch Jannick Sinner in no more than first gear because if he'd put his foot down on the accelerator, the match may have been over much sooner than it should have been. Sinner was a model of arrogance and princely authority, timing his shots with impeccable technique, forehands, slices, dreamy backhand returns, lightning fast reflexes and the occasional moment of improvisation when the ball was returned through his legs. Sinner had seen that his opponent was hampered with injury but just did what was required of him in such extenuating circumstances.

The moody looking Italian was now cruising past his Spanish opponent as if he were simply a helpless rag doll, driving all of his shots with menace and then lethal potency down the centre of the court. Sinner was here, there and everywhere, obviously in command and just waiting for the right moment to blast Martine into the obscurity of tennis history. Nobody remembers the losers at Wimbledon and Martine was no exception to the rule.  One day his day will come or maybe it won't but yesterday Sinner was at his most domineering and authoritative. 

When a medical break had been called to help in Martine's recovery from an extremely painful shoulder, the writing was on the wall. But of course that's a tiresome cliche but somehow a fitting reminder of sporting vulnerability and that must be even harder to bear. So it was Sinner romped home emphatically in the fifth deciding set 6-3. But your heart had to go out to Sinner's defeated warrior, still holding his shoulder and rubbing it vigorously.

There are times when sport just isn't fair, when everything goes wrong on the day but at Wimbledon, this was not the Sunday a certain Spanish gentleman must have been bargaining on. You know what's it like. You get up in the morning, stretching and yawning before your legs, arms, feet and the rest of the body aren't in a particularly co-operative mood. For Pedro Martine, Wimbledon will have to wait for another year. Somehow Martine had earned nothing but our deepest sympathy.    

Wimbledon and summertime tennis

 Wimbledon and summertime tennis.

Now that summer is here and the current heatwave seems to be the precursor to so many hot, balmy and gorgeous days in both London and the rest of the world, it would be foolish to dismiss the tennis at Wimbledon as just another rehearsal for the inevitable. We know where we are when it comes to that richly rewarding fortnight at London SW19. The retractable roofs are opened, the ivy on the outside of all the main courts gets a lovely coat of warm sunshine and there are murmurings of excitement in the air. 

Sadly, all of the British players have now departed Wimbledon and are no longer part of the traditional festivities of this yearly carnival of high quality tennis. For most of us course, Wimbledon evokes all of the celebrated themes, narratives and tropes. It is sport that is regularly accompanied by expensive punnets of strawberries and cream, huge jugs of Pimms to be drunk at your leisurely pace and, last but not least, the players themselves, those rounded characters with their own distinctive mannerisms and idiosyncrasies. We may or not approve of some of their antics at times but we always behave with perfect restraint and civility. 

For decades and decades, Wimbledon has been the permanent home of tennis's finest practitioners, those lovable eccentrics, the outrageous extroverts, those with witty one liners and light hearted badinage. It is the one tournament that can guarantee both laughter and hilarity, sighs of astonishment, blissful rallies that seem to go on forever and an audience who are always appreciative. But Wimbledon never lets us down because if it did, we'd probably be watching the Test cricket, the start of the women's Euro football tournament or perhaps a hearty game of crown green bowls.

Some of us will never forget the peerless genius of Swedish tennis monarch Bjorn Borg who seemed to have taken out a mortgage on Wimbledon so long was he a men's singles winner. Borg was the model of professionalism, an admirable role model to children and those who aspired to play like him but never quite made it. His groundstrokes were like exhibits in an art gallery, he had poise and panache in every shot while always remaining the epitome of cool, composure and smooth imperturbability.

Almost 50 years ago, Borg was in a class of his own, every limb and muscle finely tuned, a nerveless and stylish performer who just happened to win Wimbledon for five consecutive years. Nothing ever bothered or fazed the Swedish maestro and there was a sense that he was completely detached from his immediate surroundings. He would gently blow on his racket as if testing its stability, twiddling his racket for what seemed an age and then launched into his explosive all round game that sent all of Mcenroe's opponents into the giddiest of trances.

Years before your childhood heroes were the graceful Ken Rosewall and Rod Laver, before the 1970s dawned and we discovered genius and greatness on either Centre Court and Courts One and Two. There was the gloriously humorous and capricious Ilie Nastase, a Romanian who brought comedy and cabaret to Wimbledon. Nastase was forever joking with the Wimbledon watchers, grabbing policemen's hats and wearing them unashamedly. But Nastase was the perfect exhibitionist, a man possessed of immense talent and versatility. He had the miraculous forehand and backhand returns, the delicious drop shot and all round, cross court shots from improbable angles. 

And then there was both John Mcenroe and Jimmy Connors, two of America's greatest of showmen. Mcenroe succeeded emphatically in winding up both umpires, and line judges, antagonising everybody with some of the most bizarre reactions to controversial calls and despairing of the whole world. Mcenroe was permanently at war with  himself, cursing himself, shouting at himself, slamming his racket into the ground before threatening a Third World War. Mcenroe always believed that there was an evil conspiracy against him and nobody liked him. 

Similarly rude, offensive, foul mouthed and, for the purist, utterly vulgar was Jimmy Connors. Connors, rather like his fellow countrymen Mcenroe, always looked on the verge of a major conflict or skirmish with those in the umpire's chair. Hair fringe trailing from his forehead like a straw from a haystack, and always obscuring his view, Connors became known as the Wild West gunslinger but he played some of the most breathtaking tennis most of us had ever seen.

Roll forward to the present day and Wimbledon still has that timeless fascination about it, tennis at its grandest and purest, tennis that leaves us speechless and spellbound and tennis that goes beyond the call of duty at times. The old days may have left us with wooden tennis rackets and matches that seems to last a lifetime and performances that may never be matched. We can still remember epic five setters that were played in fading light, a backdrop of darkness dropping down over Centre Court like a blanket poised to fall off a washing line. 

Sadly our heroic Brits Jack Draper and Dan Evans were knocked out of this year's Wimbledon who forgot perhaps they were among the most elevated company. Draper was yesterday beaten fair and square by number four seed Marin Cilic. There can be no shame in Draper's dismissal from one of the most celebrated Grand Slam tournaments in the world since Cilic was undoubtedly the superior of the two, technically skilled and almost unstoppable. There was a moment when Draper was definitely back in the match when he pinched a set from Cilic but, despite some valiant resistance and gallant returns to the Cilic booming, thudding racket, this was never likely to be Draper's day.

For Cilic this was the perfect opportunity to present his full repertoire of slices, heavy with top spin chip and charges to the net and a wide variety of cross court angled backhands and foreheads. The Croatian may be an outside bet for the Wimbledon men's singles trophy and there were several reasons for believing this to be a real possibility. Serbian Novak Djokovic, for so many years, a dominant force at Wimbledon, must have been acutely aware that he now has a genuine contender for the crown Djokovic wore with such distinction. 

And so it was that Marian Cilic overwhelmed Jack Draper with both the ruthless power and clinical ferocity of the Cilic all round game. There was something very cruel and almost barbaric about Cilic, punishing and punitive from both sides of the court. Cilic mixed up the cocktail with endless variations, deceptive angles and savage aces that sped past his British opponent like a greyhound in full flight. Draper had no answer to the Cilic first serve that rocketed down the centre of the court like a bullet from a gun. 

We are now at the end of the first week and the current Wimbledon champion Carlos Alcaraz, a bundle of dynamite and seemingly a champion for the future, is waiting in the wings again. Of course Alacaraz will invite obvious comparisons with Rafael Nadal, his swarthy Spanish fellow countryman. Like Nadal, Alcaraz punches his whipped forehand returns with a merciless authority. He then variously flicks and rolls his wrists with a cunning sleight of hand that does remind you of a card sharp in a gambling casino. Alcaraz has much of the air of a Spanish toreador, thumping the ball forcefully and brutally and never taking any prisoners.  

Wimbledon now approaches its decisive second week and for the women Emma Raducanu, Britain's only genuine hope to challenge the top seeds, is limbering up and gearing herself up for everything that may be thrown at her. It is almost 50 years since Virginia Wade, complete in a mauve cardigan, curtsied politely for royalty, becoming Britain's last women's singles champion. The women's game has always been appropriately recognised at Wimbledon and it only feels like yesterday since Billy Jean King sent reactionary waves through the ladies locker rooms at SW19.

But Wimbledon is here to stick around for another week and come next Sunday the fanatical and patient crowds will gather at Centre Court. They will stroll delightedly around the baskets of flowers hanging decoratively from the tops of roofs and souvenir shops. They will wipe the sweat away from their forehead, the direct result of a  heatwave which many of us will be enormously grateful for. Then of course the heat may be too much for some but tennis at Wimbledon is so essentially British and typically English. And that must never be forgotten.  

 

   

Glastonbury on Sunday

 Glastonbury on Sunday.

They should have been converging on the Sunday morning church services and, for a while, it looked as if some religious gathering had descended on the vast acres of Somerset's finest arable farmlands. But there were no vicars or priests to welcome in the congregation. What Somerset did see was a vast celebration of musical virtuosity, a symposium of the great and good who had shaken pop music to the foundations several decades ago but had now arrived at Glastonbury with nostalgia and modernity still in their veins. 

Glastonbury had once again delivered the goods but a nasty stench of antisemitism and vile hatred had threatened to destabilise this yearly music festival that does so much to spread the gospel of peace, reconciliation, happy go lucky euphoria, unity and harmony. Once again, political controversy and disgraceful rhetoric had seeped down to this loveliest piece of English countryside. It was an ugly, repulsive, despicable act of violent racism and the kind of behaviour Glastonbury could have done without. 

But while there are dissenting voices roaring out their fury and protesting movements of rebellion, there will never be a clear resolution to events in both Israel and Iran, Gaza and Israel and Russia and Ukraine. So we hung our heads in error at the utterly reprehensible events that unfolded yesterday afternoon. When the disgusting and utterly egregious Knee Cap, an Irish rabble of so called musicians, stormed onto one of the many stages at Glastonbury, we somehow knew there would be trouble. 

And so there was. Knee Cap, complete with Palestine and anti Israel foul mouthed obscenities, pranced around the stage like some ignorant, idiotic bunch of thuggish criminals who looked as if they were rehearsing for a major punch up in a local shopping centre. They weren't equipped with knives, guns or bombs but, for all the world, it certainly seemed they were ready to incite violence and division. 

Then a man named Bob Vylan swaggered into view, seething with anger, deeply offensive vitriol and villainy. Vylan promptly launched into his poisonous verbal tirade, a speech loaded with abusive comments and unforgivable death threats. Vylan wanted to see the annihilation of the Israel Defence Force. You squirmed with shock and revulsion, barely able to understand the magnitude of what had just happened. 

For a while it looked as though events going on behind the scenes would wreck one of the most joyous and uplifting music festivals ever created. On Saturday evening, an immensely talented soul singer named Raye had brought a warm aroma of rhythm and blues and soul to Glastonbury. There was 1975, a group fronted by a ridiculously drunk singer who, at times, seemed certain to fall off the stage with a pint of Guinness in his hands, staggering around in a state of helpless inebriation. 

But it was all about Sunday afternoon at Glastonbury. This was the day reserved for the legends, the singers who had made their name many a decade ago and were still going strong in 2025. We had seen Celeste and Turnstile albeit very briefly and dozens of young aspirational wannabes who were desperate to say that they had fulfilled their Glastonbury ambitions. But then at Sunday tea time, our patience was rewarded and it was time for a classical display of legendary pop royalty. 

In their eyes of many of us, Nile Rodgers and Chic are one of the funkiest, most delightful and stunning soul bands from the 1970s. Chic had witnessed the full flowering of disco music at its most beautiful and creative. But the central figure who had made it all impossible was Nile Rodgers. Now in his 80s, Rodgers is one of the most immensely versatile of guitarists with the most prolific output. Rodgers has written for all the greats in his industry, ranging from Sister Sledge, Diana Ross, Madonna, David Bowie and a whole host of others who all responded to Rodgers shrewd advice and infinite wisdom. 

Nile Rodgers may be in the twilight of his fabled career but he's still got it. Of course he has. Yesterday he gave us eloquent chapter and verse on all of his contemporary geniuses. He told us about Madonna's insistence on choosing Like a Virgin rather than Material Girl as her next single. He mined the superb repertoire of David Bowie with Let's Dance given the full Rodgers guitar treatment. But first and foremost he gave us Chic in all their 1970s disco splendour and glory. 

There was the Diana Ross back catalogue superbly covered with a Rodgers solo. Upside Down and I'm Coming Out were simply unforgettable. Then there was the celebrated all girl band known as Sister Sledge from which we were royally entertained with the wonderful We Are Family and She's the Greatest Dancer, dance floor fillers that took New York's famous Studio 54 nightclub by storm. They were still dancing and performing flexible acrobatic routines until well into the small hours of the next morning. 

And then there was Chic itself and Rodgers was quick to praise his fellow guitarist the late Bernard Edwards who had done so much to refine the Chic style. Who could ever forget the ultimate soul classic Dance, Dance, Dance, almost an affectionate homage to disco dancing, I Want Your Love, a Chic track full of romantic yearning but funk in every chord and cadence. Everybody Dance illustrated the sheer elation of strutting your stuff and showing off in front of your friends. Finally there was Good Times, a track that encompassed everything that was good and special about Chic. These were indeed heady, giddy days for both Nile Rodgers and Chic .

Both Madonna's Material Girl and Like a Virgin were an essential part of Rodgers repertoire, David Bowie's Young Turks and much that Rodgers had so meticulously produced. Wearing a black bandana around his head and dreadlocked hair, he was the epitome of style and casual grace. He was too modest and self effacing at times, giving complete credit for those he'd launched on the road to celebrity and fame. 

Then there was the one and only Sir Rod Stewart, the incomparable and unmistakable pop singer, that seasoned old trooper now but quite the most remarkable performer and showbiz exponent of the highest order. Stewart is one of those household names in the music industry who seems to have been around for ever. Rod Stewart is, quintessentially a national treasure, and can probably remember when the Cavern Club was packed to capacity during the early 1960s.

Originally a member of the Small Faces with his old mate and mucker Ronnie Wood, both Stewart and Wood just showboated through the whole hour and an half with a shameless confidence and an insatiable zest for life with, at times, performance art on the stage. Kicking off with the rousing Tonight I'm Yours, he followed this great old standard with Having a Party, upbeat, positive and full of exultant rejoicing. 

By now Stewart's backing girl singers were in full instrumental spate. There were innumerable violins, acoustic guitar solos and banjos from the enthusiastic ladies. There was a magnificent rendition of the O'Jays Love Train where Stewart extolled the virtues of the wonderful American pop show Soul Train. Following hard on the heels of these vinyl 45 beauties was Some Guys Have All the Luck, the bittersweet the First Cut is the Deepest, the heartfelt and tender Tonight's the Night, You Wear it Well, which, as Stewart reminded us, was released in 1972 and then the more recent masterpieces. 

Do You Think I'm Sexy almost appealed to every female in the Glastonbury audience since by now they were both swooning and fantasising about Sir Rod as the ultimate sex symbol. I Don't Want to Talk About It was almost a cry from Stewart's heart about unresolved crisis moments in his private life. And then as we reached the conclusion of this astonishing trip down memory lane, Stewart gave us the full might of his lyrical powers.

Maggie May and Sailing will always be associated with Stewart because they were what he was all about and illuminated his career with the most shining light. Maggie May was very much an early foray into the commercial mainstream and sold in millions, a reference perhaps to one of many of Stewart's many sexual liaisons and girlfriends who would follow him to the end of the earth. It was vintage Stewart, a beautifully crafted piece of music that could almost have been sculpted from a delicate chisel. 

And finally there was Sailing from Stewart's extraordinary best selling album Atlantic Crossing.  Sailing was a genuine masterpiece from beginning to end. It dominated the UK charts for almost the entire summer of 1976 and elevated Sir Rod to the highest summit of his career thus far. We're all now familiar with Stewart's tempestuous love life but his marriage to Penny Lancaster has now reached a 27th year. 

Towards the end Stewart introduced us to his fellow musicians and lyricists, There was Simply Red's Mick Hucknell followed by that Scottish stick of dynamite Lulu. Both Hucknell and Lulu wore the appropriate dark sunglasses. By now Glastonbury was on such a high that, the whole Legends stage became a huge love in. The hot evening sunshine continued to beat down on Somerset almost relentlessly and the bright blue skies reminded you once again of Glastonbury's summer feelgood reputation. Both Sir Rod Stewart, Lulu and Mick Hucknell were all donning sailor's hats, arm in arm and besotted with the good vibes. Glastonbury had done it again. We knew it would. 

Glastonbury

 Glastonbury.

Glastonbury has to be one of the most culturally identifiable of all outdoor music festivals. It stands head and shoulders above the rest of them because it taps into all of those earthy emotions and passions that only music can bring out the best within the human soul. Music is something that Glastonbury has made its most traditional speciality, its centre of excellence and its most powerful expression of joy. 

This weekend Glastonbury celebrates its 55th anniversary and nobody will be more delighted than its founding member Michael Eavis with sterling and exemplary assistance from Emily, Eavis daughter. It is hard to remember a time when Glastonbury was ever overlooked and forgotten during the summer solstice. It is a stunning, striking event, quite the most surreal of all experiences at times and one of the most atmospheric of all music festivals when night falls, the stars gather in splendid unison both in the sky and on that famous stage and thousands of people huddle together in a kind of spiritual worship of legendary bands and celebrated singers. 

And so, in a small corner of rural and idyllically bucolic Somerset, a huge congregation of music aficionados will stand for hours on end, dancing incessantly, bopping up and down and embracing the whole occasion both lovingly and adoringly. They may have travelled from the other side of the world, just to feel and touch the positive vibes and simply entranced with everything around them. Everybody gets Glastonbury because it transcends all boundaries and frontiers. 

 And therein lies the essence and fascination of Glastonbury, its rich celebration of all genres of music, ranging across the spectrum from folk, heavy rock, soul, world music, rap, rhythm and blues, country and western, disco, garage, classical and trance music. There is something triumphantly traditional about Glastonbury, a moment in time during the year when all the setbacks and disappointments that many in the crowd may have had to negotiate during the last winter, finally disappear in some glorious vision of musical fulfilment and pleasure. Now the contrasting moods of Glastonbury take root again. 

There is of course a real sense of feverish anticipation about the farmlands and patchwork quilt scenery of Middle England. Glastonbury is wild, chaotic at times, restless and always animated. It looks quite  obviously cramped and claustrophobic when the fans at the back of the field become sandwiched in between those who may be pushing and jostling for space. At times Glastonbury resembles some mesmeric tidal wave of humankind, sweeping forward in one motion and then subsiding in one ecstatic show of idolatry and worship. 

There are the teenage and 20 something girls perched always precariously on their boyfriends shoulders, bouncing up and down, oblivious to fear and danger. We somehow look forward to seeing forests of brightly coloured flags and banners representing every political movement of the day or people just happy to be there. The national flags of the world have now become commonplace at Glastonbury. It is a huge outpouring of harmony, delirious happiness, hands and arms stretching into the Somerset sky as if at complete ease with both themselves and the rest of the world.

This year the legendary voices will be united over the weekend. Glastonbury does love both its nostalgia and reminiscence, the present day Spotify chart toppers, the modern, and of course, its timeless eccentricity. We now set eyes on the acts who used to pull at our heart strings with just a touch of the bizarre and bohemian. Then on Sunday night when Glastonbury gets all soppy and sentimental, the maestros and and lovable rogues take to the stage. 

At roughly tea time on Sunday evening, when most of the picnic hampers have been deposited in the grass, Glastonbury will settle down and acknowledge the timeless genius of Rod Stewart or Sir Rod Stewart. For almost five decades, Sir Rod Stewart has been at the top of his game, affectionately regarded as a pop maverick but also a genuine rock star of monumental proportions.  The Stewart back catalogue of memorable lyrics and eminently hummable and listenable singles and albums have never really been out of the pop music charts.

From Maggie May to Sailing which seemed to remain at number one for the duration of summer 1976, The First Cut is the Deepest, right up to those glamorous 1980s anthems ranging from Do You Think I'm Sexy? to Baby Jane, Rod Stewart is Britain's national treasure. He's mischievous and mercurial, unashamedly flamboyant when the mood takes him and just the ultimate showbiz performer. It seems that Stewart has accompanied us through childhood and right up to those awkward years of adolescence when puberty and teenage angst just carried us through effortlessly to the beautiful present day. 

There's Billy Bragg, Nile Rodgers and Chic and that other tireless 1960s hippie and smooth operator Neil Young who meant so much to so many people during the Swinging era. Young survived that turbulent period for music when a potent cocktail of hallucinogenic drugs, excessive alcohol, ruinous gallons of booze and endless nights of revelry and celebration literally seemed to last for ever.  

But when the final, screeching, screaming, electric guitars echo round Worthy Farm and the music of a thousand colours fade romantically into the night sky of a million summer stars, we shall raise a toast to Glastonbury. We shall remember why summer nights in the middle of Somerset touched our hearts and sweetened our sensibilities. It is music that taps deep into musical diversity with explosive chords, startling key changes and intriguing layers of sound. It is music with silky textures and permanently profound meanings, teasing ironies and controversial themes. Glastonbury always gets it right and always ticks the right boxes. Long may it last.   

It was 50 years ago.

 It was 50 years ago.

In the general scheme of things, 1975 would have been just like any other year and yet it was quite unlike any other year you may have experienced thus far. It was a life changing moment, a seminal period of your life, a time of transition, the point when you reached youthful adolescence and as, a proud Jew, finally became a man according to Jewish law. But, hold on, let's scroll back to the real interpretation of what it was really like to be a teenager rather than a fully fledged adult who was allowed to vote and drink a pint of lager in a pub.

It was a half century ago that yours truly began the intensive study of his barmitzvah piece from the Torah from what now seems like some historic tape recorder. Every Tuesday and Thursday during that momentous summer, you were required to step forward and read a passage from the Torah on your barmitzvah. For as long as any of us can remember, Jews across the world have sat down with their cheder teacher and read, quite religiously, so to speak and sing a Parsha from the holiest of Jewish books. 

Now a Jewish barmitzvah or batmitzvah if you're a girl, is a rites of passage day for those who reach the ripe old age of 12 for a girl and 13 if you're a boy. It represents the highly symbolic year when the voice of a young boy suddenly breaks and sounds much deeper than it did beforehand. It is the year when the said 13 year old allegedly becomes a man when the reality is that he's still at school, there's still puppy fat around his waist and all he can probably think about is cars, girls and travelling the world when his academic studies are over. 

So 1975 suddenly happened for you and in hindsight, it was rather like 1974 or any random year since the beginning of the 1970s. There was the sudden discovery and realisation that this was the business end of your life and your decisions and ambitions were being shaped on the forge of uncertainty and utter bewilderment. What on earth would happen in the immediate time frame that followed my barmitzvah? Would you become a rocket scientist, respected lawyer or solicitor, the first Jewish astronaut in space, a highly regarded engineer or inventor, maybe a postman or milkman, accountant or bank manager?

Everything seemed to be trapped in a state of suspended animation, guesswork, conjecture, never knowing for a minute what would happen to me. But in 1975 you were still wrestling with the complexities of French verbs in the past, present and future and an opera loving French teacher by the name of Mr Winters who did his valiant best to teach a highly unresponsive and indifferent class of teenagers about a language we had no intention of using in later life. And yet Mr Winters regularly brought his reel to reel tape recorder to class in the hope that Tosca and Gilbert and Sullivan would make a lasting impression on us. 

In 1975, you were taught by a charming Indian geography teacher, if memory serves me correctly, by the name of Mrs Sachi who would regale us with the wonders of the world map and the geological details that related to mountains, valleys and huge areas of the global landscape that had to be coloured in red with an HB pencil. Then there was the wretched and forgettable woodwork and metalwork, two of the most repulsive and unnecessary subjects you'd ever heard of. You were never technically minded in the first place so who cared if it took you a year to craft a mini bookcase or the most ridiculously amateurish looking shoe horn in metalwork?

Of course history would have been considered an absolute imperative since. Besides if a stranger came up to you and gave you chapter and verse about the Tudor Stewarts or the First and Second World War. You had to give a coherent answer about both the start and end of both of the major Wars because if you hadn't been paying attention to sir or miss, you'd have had no idea what life was like at the beginning of the 20th century. There had to be perspective and context about where you came from and your ancestry. 

But in 1975 the only topic that should have been your only overriding concern or preoccupation was the state of your football team. Personally it was West Ham United, notorious underachievers in the game who hadn't won the FA Cup since 1964 but some of us were just resigned to our footballing fate. Realistically, West Ham would never win the old First Division championship because they were just average, mediocre, rubbish, appalling, unpredictable and simply lacking in any kind of attacking potency. 

So our thoughts returned to the most famous FA Cup, one of the greatest and most highly esteemed and prestigious Cup competitions. As far afield as the Solomon Islands or the Borneo rainforest, they'd heard of the FA Cup on some crackling transistor radio in the middle of nowhere. They would huddle together in remote coffee plantations on some exotic location. And then the BBC World Service would carry the whole broadcast and transmission live of the FA Cup in the old Wembley Stadium. Now how wonderful that must have been!

And yet 1975 would be the year West Ham finally won the FA Cup at an age that you found most relatable and recognisable. The third round had been comfortably negotiated at Southampton's old Dell ground, followed by Swindon Town, Queens Park Rangers, Arsenal in the quarter finals in a mudbath at Highbury, then the fashionable and popular Ipswich Town in the semi finals. We'd come this far so West Ham were destined to achieve miracles. It was almost too good to be true. West Ham beat Ipswich in a dramatic FA Cup semi final replay against Ipswich Town at Stamford Bridge and we were Wembley bound for the first time in my formative years.

Up until 1975 you'd a vivid recall of every FA Cup Final since Arsenal's glorious Double year winning of the FA Cup trophy. Then Charlie George had fired home Arsenal's winner against Bill Shankly's seemingly unbeatable and invincible Liverpool in 1971 but this had stirred your consciousness. You were fascinated and hooked by the FA Cup and 1975 was your year. 

In the world of pop music and the mainstream chart, glam rock was threatening world domination, David Bowie was reinventing himself with zig zag painted stripes emblazoned boldly across his face. Then there was Mud, Sweet, the Bay City Rollers and David Cassidy with the Partridge Family who would delight their fans with a superb fusion of gentle, easy going lyrics we could all remember. There was the groovy soul vibe of Tavares, the Detroit Spinners, the magical Eagles and all manner of disparate sounds that had an iconic significance to them at the time. 

But in 1975, West Ham manager John Lyall recently appointed as boss of the club, would be accompanied by the tactically astute and strategically correct Ron Greenwood, emerged from the old Wembley tunnel in a London derby against Fulham who were making their FA Cup Final debut at Wembley. It was an East and West London derby Cup Final, hardly gladiatorial adversaries but nonetheless evenly matched in a disappointing FA Cup Final although it was one you were never likely to forget.

In goal, there was a local academy product Mervyn Day who'd been causing quite a stir in the old First Division with a series of stunning goal keeping displays. In fact some were considering Day for England recognition. Sadly, that never happened but Day was in cracking form that special day at Wembley. At the back, the defensive unit of Tommy Taylor, Kevin Lock, Billy Bonds and Frank Lampard had anchored the team with a lovely sense of reliability while a blossoming Trevor Brooking, Pat Holland and Graham Paddon were floating away serenely around in midfield. Up front, the Rochdale Rocket Alan Taylor, brought to West Ham for peanuts, would be joined by the spritely, lively and wholesomely supportive Billy Jennings who'd signed for West Ham from Watford. 

The 1975 FA Cup Final came and went without any major incident or singularly little in the way of excitement. Taylor had scored both of West Ham's winning goals and would be appropriately acclaimed as the hero of the 90 minutes. That's all that mattered. When the final whistle went, you were obviously delighted with the result but it all felt a bit overwhelming for this wet behind the ears teenager. So you celebrated privately for a while and then remembered that your education should have been your only priority and football was just a game that just sat comfortably in the background of your imagination. It wouldn't pass important examinations at school and wouldn't determine your future. So you rolled up your sleeves and started swotting up on maths and algebra or French breakfasts or supermarkets.

It's remarkable how certain incidents in your life can appear on your radar when you thought you'd have no recollection of them. But it's now 50 years ago since my barmitzvah and my claret and blue warriors had won the FA Cup and you had seen it on TV for the first time in your lifetime. It's a half a century ago and that really does send a shiver down your spine. Nostalgia can often conjure up pleasant scenarios in our minds because we were there when they happened and nobody could take those images away from us. Ah 1975. Days of schooldays and winning the FA Cup and don't forget the music.

Royal Ascot

 Royal Ascot.

In an idyllic corner of Ascot, you'll find one of the greenest and most treasured acres of land England has ever given to the world. Every summer, Royal Ascot bursts out of its winter hibernation and, of course, presents some of the greatest flat racing you're ever likely to see. Ascot always had a regal grandeur about it anyway but once again it is a sight that every punter who stands next to the rails or the hospitality boxes, always drools over with a love and admiration for all the finer things in life. 

When the current heatwave settled on those handsome blades of grass and the horses had had enough time to absorb the classical atmosphere of Ascot's most famous meeting, we truly believed that summer had arrived. The horses were there, the jockeys were present and correct, silks gleaming in the summer sunshine and the wealthy trainers were just waiting for their moment to celebrate. It is one of horse racing's blue riband moments, a feast for their eyes and a spectacle that is, quite possibly, unparalleled. 

Yesterday Royal Ascot shimmered in all of its uplifting pomp and ceremony, rather like one of those gold royal carriages that had just preceded the main event. There was King George the Third, looking happier if slightly drained by the hot weather, his wife Queen Camilla, who seems to have won the public over completely in recent years, a glowing and gracious figure, determined to enjoy the day. The regular punters who have studied form thoroughly over the years, knew exactly who they wanted to win on the day. The bookmakers of course were either relishing the summery June heat or bemoaning another loss. 

There is the traditional pomp and ceremony, a lavish banqueting suite of flat racing that thrilled the upbeat crowds and reminded us once again that when Ascot does things, it tends to do it with style and panache. For Royal Ascot, has manners, politeness and gentility as its focal point and everybody wants to look their best because this has been the accepted norm for as long as anybody can remember. 

Not for Ascot the casual attire of T-shirt, beach shorts or flip flops because Royal Ascot wears its most impressive top hat and tails. It flaunts itself quite proudly with an almost becoming formality, the most rigorous and highest standards, an almost endearing nobility at times and somehow in a class of its own. Royal Ascot is not just a flat racing gathering of the great and good but a breath taking experience, a traditional celebration of the equine world. And a vast majority do like to dress up for Ascot and whyever not. 

At times Royal Ascot, could be considered somewhat snobbish and condescending since the only elite turn up on the day and they probably appear to be above everybody in the pecking order. Yes, the middle and upper classes look dashing darling, delightful to their shirt cuffs, simply immaculate, too fashionable for words and wonderful company. That suit and waistcoat looks stunning on you, the bow ties neat and stunning and totally you. And don't the ladies look ladylike with their gorgeous hats and shoes from Harrods surely. 

Yesterday Trawlerman won the Gold Cup ridden by the notable William Buck, the obscenely rich Godophins produced a decisive winner in Arabian Story while the King George the Fifth Stakes was won in the capable hands of William Haggas who rode Merchant to victory. In the Buckingham Palace Stakes Never So Brave delivered the goods with a superb triumph. 

And so there you have it. Royal Ascot, in all its finery and flamboyant accoutrements, completed another day as  Britain finds itself on the threshold of the longest day of the year. Ascot always looks astoundingly pretty, prim and proper. June looks impeccable in the sun but even when the dark clouds loom overhead and rain threatens, it does look beautiful whatever the weather. Royal Ascot is here and England has acknowledged its arrival. It simply doesn't get any better. Now what happened to your betting slip? It has to be full of winners or we're off for afternoon tea.   

Here comes the summer.

 Here comes the summer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Fathers Day.

 Happy Fathers Day. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

National Loving Day.

 National Loving Day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Holiday time.

 Holiday time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    

Thomas Hardy would have been 185 today.

 Thomas Hardy would have been 185 today. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A memorable night among West Ham royalty.

 A memorable night among West Ham royalty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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