Falling Needles and Family Fest Day.

 Falling Needles and Family Fest Day.

Goodness me! What a mess! It is a scene of utter chaos and festive detritus. Your home looks like a veritable rubbish tip. Christmas has come and gone, some of your family are still sitting or lying on your sofa, the kids are still running around your golden palace and the living room looks unrecognisable. It feels as though you've allowed several marauding armies to wreck the furniture, empty your fridge of every conceivable tin of food, the entire contents of every box of chocolates and sweets before depositing yet more wrapping paper around the mantelpiece and the TV. The telly of course is hiding away in the corner feeling sorry for itself. 

Today, as you may well have guessed by now, is Falling Needles and Family Fest Day. There can be no more appropriate description. It is one enormous fall out from Christmas Day, Boxing Day and the now intervening days before the New Year. So you've cleaned the kitchen, put the dishwasher on for the 85th time and that's just before breakfast time. The washing machine has been spinning around frenetically as if it's forgotten what day it is. It is the morning after the nights before. Christmas has well and truly gone.

Today is all about repercussions, reverberations, questions, inquiries, the almost stunned aftermath of Christmas 2025. This is the interim period when Christmas has passed into history for another year and you're wondering why you invited so many nieces, cousins, aunties and friends around for the yearly gastronomic bash, where huge towers of turkey, roast potatoes and Brussel sprouts have been excitedly eaten and don't forget the Christmas pudding while never forgetting that lovely slice of cake or perhaps a goose or duck if you're in the mood. 

Some simply dread the whole concept of Christmas because it's far too much like hard work and all you want to do is slouch around the house and do nothing at all because that suits you down to the ground. It's all that preparation for the big day, the seating arrangements and the counting of the Christmas crackers next to the crockery and cutlery. It's all very well making the effort to get all of this stuff ready for a celebration. But do they have to leave your humble abode in a state of complete disarray?

So it is that we call today the Falling Needles and Family Fest Day. Need you say any more. That Christmas Day tree certainly looks as if it's consumed far too much booze because it's wobbling and staggering around piteously and if you listen closely, it's slurring its words. There is a drunken sore head that is spreading around the room quite metaphorically of course.  The tree has been gripped with a chronic bout of hiccups, the tinsel and glitter almost pleading for a return for normality. But you're helpless. This could take ages to mop up and sweep up so it's time to get the vacuum cleaner out and then the broom again. 

Now the extended family is just exhausted, fast asleep for the third time in three days, sliding hilariously off the settee and then sheepishly flicking away a torn party hat before abandoning yourself to another bout of snoring, sniffling, coughing and general slovenliness. How on earth did we allow this to happen? Was this really necessary and couldn't we have chucked everybody out ruthlessly on Boxing Day? The fact is Christmas is officially over but the remnants are still here, staring at you accusingly, grinning at you relentlessly and then refusing to give you a hand with the dirty dishes. 

But there is something of  a wonderful relief and a sense of gratification about Christmas. Of course, you've all had a great time over the festive period and there's much to be said for the family just being there for you. But the carpet looks as if it need to be steam cleaned a thousand times, there's gravy dripping from the radio and the TV and Radio Times are crying out for a thorough recycling. There are a thousand coffee stains on yesterday's paper, there are the kids toys and games scattered higgledy piggledly all over your home and all you want to do is scream in desperation. Stop this madness but didn't we enjoy ourselves?

On the coffee table, Christmas has reasserted itself and it's not going anywhere soon. The angel from the Christmas tree has been officially snapped off and there are a thousand packets of figs and dates which look as though they haven't been touched since last Christmas. So you climb over slumbering bodies and pick your way through a minefield of sweet and crisp packets carefully and then sigh with exhaustion. 

Essentially though grandma and grandpa have had a jolly good Christmas although the whisky and sherry bottles are now perhaps a shameful reminder of excess. Grandma and grandpa always exercised moderation and restraint but then again it was Christmas. We're all entitled to let off steam and indulge ourselves so go on and have some fun. The cousins are wearing yet another of their festive red pullovers emblazoned with Santa Claus, sleighs and reindeers. If Christmas had been banned for ever, you'd probably have a riot on your hands.

Now its time for another karaoke session. You can't beat a good, old fashioned sing song by the piano, a Knees Up Mother Brown. Dad just wants to go out and renew acquaintance with his car in the garage. Mum just wants everybody to go home and the kids are creating merry havoc. But hey, it really has been good to see the family even though you support the worst football team in the country and there's no sympathy whatsoever. We keep vowing to keep to our New Years resolutions because we always do before realising the futility of this exercise. 

And we now sit in the corner of the dining room, munching soggy cheese sandwiches because we just feel obliged to do so. The roast chestnuts, salty peanuts, After Eight mints and those final, gristly turkey and onion sarnies are just slowly decaying and disintegrating into a kind of mush, ready for the bin. But you're not going to stop now. You're determined to watch as many Netflix, Amazon Prime and Disney films as you possibly can, binge watching the kind of programmes you'd never see on the terrestrial channels. We'll all slump back into our armchairs, shaking off yet more baubles, tinsel, struggling to make head or tail of the last week or two. There can be no rationalising of what has just taken place. But it has.

So that's it for another Santa Claus revelry. All of those giddy expectations of Christmas have now been left in the dusty archives of time, the sheer silliness of it all, at times, has just been exhilarating, the festive frivolity has been a blast, the brief extravagance of it all has been worth it, and finally the endless noshing, piling on the pounds and stones around your waistline and not giving a damn my dear. You are now fit to burst, stomach heaving with embarrassing cholesterol and yet that was the finest and most emotional family reunion. Now here's the plan. Why don't we do the same thing at exactly the same time next year. It's an excellent idea and of course we look forward to it. Happy, Healthy and Peaceful New Year to everybody. Have a good one folks.     

Donald Trump and Vladimir Putin and the New Year

Donald Trump and Vladimir Putin and the New Year.

This was always the time of the year when most of us looked forward to the New Year rather than looking back to those far off days from yesteryear. Then we discover or become aware of those passing years which seem to fly past us without ever pausing for breath, expressing our eternal gratitude for every single day, month, week and year. Our mental and physical health assumes a huge significance and although we take things for granted, we can never be quite sure where life might take us. 

So where are we now? At long last we can also feel the first tentative signs of peace in both the Israel Hamas war and yesterday the Ukraine- Russia conflict. There is a sense here of gentle progress and the first flickering candles of world peace. The idealist in you and for those who cling onto Utopian thinking as a means of  peaceful relations with each other, this could be the right time to get out the party clothes. 

Yesterday, USA president Donald Trump was at his grandstanding best, forever the showman, exhibiting such narcissistic behaviour that you were half inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt. So what if Trump believes that he's the best thing sliced bread because the vanity and vaingloriousness remain a fundamental part of his character. He appeared at an event where he knew his ego would be suitably massaged and he loves to have his tummy tickled.

Whatever you may think of Trump he just gets on with the business in an honest, serious thinking way, not so much  a distinguished statesman more a hilarious comedian who just adores the applause, the adulation, the back slapping and invariably thinks of himself as the saviour of the universe. He walked onto the stage convinced that world domination had been achieved and smiled at his audience rather like some saintly figure who can never do anything wrong. 

The discussion yesterday revolved around our friends in Ukraine although not so much President Putin of the stern, disciplined, every so slightly military Russia. We are now approaching that critical turning point where everything that could go wrong may just go right. Putin is still digging in his heels with the most unrepentant words and insisting that only Russia have won this pointless war and that's final. So we're moving in the right direction and perhaps even Putin can see light at the end of this very dark tunnel. 

But Trump stood next to President Zelensky of Ukraine like a man who suddenly realises that this is his greatest achievement since becoming President for the second time. Not only does he think he deserves the Nobel Peace prize but he believes it should come into his possession as soon as possible. So there can be an argument on that point. And yet it still feels as though Donald Trump cuts a farcical figure, a man of  many grandiose statements about everything we may think are obvious. He still looks the most smartly dressed man in the building but you do worry when the words and sentences start tumbling out quite rapidly. 

For the first time since that ill fated encounter earlier on this year, Trump looked Zelensky in the eye and, as if completely oblivious of that verbal bloodbath, thanked Zelensky for his co-operation and sense of fair play and promised to be friends for ever. It was time to be buddies, mutual acquaintances and forget the poison and vitriol that might have passed between them and get on with the future. There is no time to waste and, admittedly, it does look hunky dory and harmonious or half way there.  

And so the day proceeded with just a hint of agreement and compromise in the air. You can never be entirely sure what any  blustering leader of their country might have in store for us. Putin has, up until his point, kept his diplomatic counsel, a man who looks threatening every so often but in real time is probably a pussycat. The domineering and dictatorial in him  flares up like a firework and we all seem to panic when he informs us of his evil intentions. But then Putin denies emphatically the charge that he just wants to start a Third World War because Europe doesn't bother him.

What seems to be Putin's problem is the rest of the world. In Putin's estimation, Donald Trump is a big old softie, tolerable, harmless and inoffensive. Putin can live with Trump without necessarily agreeing with him. So then Trump gets all hot and bothered with Putin and then they make up within the next week. Trump then does his regular round of aeroplane driven interviews before returning back to the White House for a gentle swig of Bourbon, another awkward looking signature and some earnest and well intentioned sessions of soundbites. 

The trouble is that Trump occasionally drifts off into some incomprehensible land of well meaning comments on the events of the day and then complains that he's been totally misquoted. It's fake, the most horrendous fallacy, completely untrue and grossly exaggerated. So he then lashes out at investigative journalists who happened to be female and wonders why everybody keeps turning against him.  Mr President can never seem to get it right because the tactless side of his personality just detests anybody who questions his pearls of wisdom.  

And so as we head into a brand New Year and we're all poised to gather on the final day of 2025. In front of you is the London Eye which turns a whole spectrum of colours . The River Thames, which has been there since the year dot, awaits its yearly revellers, in a jolly mood, happily tipsy and drunk on life. It used to be Trafalgar Square years ago but health and safety soon saw that idea scuppered. Now the Thames, that vast stretch of water that takes thousands of tourists on pleasure cruises along the river, will become overwhelmed with Auld Lang Syne choristers.

They will huddle by the Embankment, squeezed together somewhat claustrophobically it has to be said before belting out those rousing New Year songs. And then we'll all link hands wherever we may be and you'll be heartily congratulated on that new coat you've just bought in John Lewis in London's West End. And then that iconic moment of the year resounds almost timelessly across London. Big Ben, arguably the most impressive clock in the world, chimes twelve times in a way which may have been customary but has still been observed and anticipated since time immemorial.

So if you're at 10 Downing Street, the White House and Kremlin or any corner of the globe, it's time to wish you the happiest, healthiest and most peaceful New Year. There is a sense that the more traditional moments in our lives are somehow a given and perhaps lost in a fog of obscurity. But our fondest wish is for a permanent world peace. There has to be a complete cessation of warfare, hatred and hostility towards our fellow human being. We have to be kinder, gentler and more understanding with just an enormous helping of compassion. This is our life and it'll always be sweet and precious. Have a brilliant 2026 everybody. 

Goodbye June and Christmas Day TV

 Goodbye June and Christmas Day TV.

There was a point during Goodbye June when you simply didn't want the film to end. What we had here was a movie, so smoothly polished, so beautifully moving and touching and utterly compulsive watching from beginning to the end, that you were transported to some special place where your heart and soul melts and swoons and never stops believing in the warm feelgood factor. 

Goodbye June marked the debut directorial role of Kate Winslet and her son Joe Anders for whom this had to be the most thrilling project he would ever complete. But Goodbye June was just a masterpiece, an exceptional piece of story telling and a masterclass. It restored your faith in humanity although you knew your family would always be with you, loyally and faithfully. Then you were suffused with a blanket of warmth, a duvet of snug satisfaction and ready to greet Christmas Day like a good old friend who would never desert you. 

Sometimes movies just get you right there, an emotional journey that seems to carry and sustain you from the first scene, the first words uttered on the screen and remain unstoppable because you really can't bottle these feelings. They are there on the silver screen next to your tub of  popcorn or hot dog, a delicious concoction of the sublime and ridiculous. Goodbye June was sublime in the extreme, an exquisite jewel, a sparkling diamond and the largest bowl of exotic fruits you could ever set eyes on. 

Of course in the old days, the traditional TV Christmas film would usually consist of a fifteenth showing of another James Bond film on Christmas Day, action and virile masculinity all the way. But if that wasn't in the TV listings then you would breathlessly anticipate the timelessly classical Wizard of Oz which seemed to be shown on Christmas Day every year since the the Battle of Hastings. We almost began to think that Judy Garland was some kind of Christmas angel at the top of our tree so familiar had she become. 

If memory serves you correctly, there was also the spectacular show that was Billy Smart's Circus at tea time on Christmas Day. In the years before political correctness, lions and elephants would be paraded around a circus ring as ringleaders kept cracking up a whip u to rouse an audience of parents and children who could hardly keep it all in, excitement unconfined.  

After the circus, the BBC had to be the essential choice of channel to watch. By now mum and dad, auntie and uncle would be deep in the middle of snoozeland, sleeping off the remnants of a lavish Christmas banquet of food, turkey, roast potatoes and Brussel sprouts still washing around their stomachs. And the kids were still racing in and out of the kitchen, back into the garden, sliding back onto their knees in a dining room that was now reminiscent of a toy and game battlefield and wrapping paper everywhere. 

And then there was Morecambe and Wise followed by The Two Ronnies, those inimitable comedic geniuses who were and remain your all time favourite comedy duos of all time. Morecambe and Wise were masterful funny men, capable of the most physical comedy and then resorting to that face to face opening where Eric would playfully slap Ernie on the face because both just loved each other's company. There was the Andre Previn playing all the right notes but not necessarily in the right order sketch as Eric, smartly dressed, would play a piano in a way that was totally unconventional. 

But yesterday my lovely wife Bev and I settled down to watch Goodbye June on Netflix with the most open of minds. The King's Speech had been delivered with a perfect weight and authority. We must hope that King Charles the Third is slowly making a full recovery from the debilitating effects of cancer and now the King stood most royally in the august setting of  Westminster Abbey. 

We now searched for Goodbye June, a film so cosy, heart warming, heartfelt and sentimentally gushing that somebody should have extended its duration on the screen for at least the rest of Christmas Day. We now absorbed a story that tugged so many heartstrings that somebody should have supplied a box of handkerchiefs to wipe away the tears. In the end you were almost watching the film with the quietest reverence, empathising and sympathising at the same time. You were won over instantly. 

Kate Winslet, first came to our attention in the Hollywood blockbuster Titanic. Winslet is the girl who fell deeply in love with Jack on board a luxury ship doomed to sink. In one of several iconic moments during the film, Winslet hung onto Leonardo DiCaprio with the tighest embrace and then looked on helplessly as Jack drowned and most of the audience were sobbing uncontrollably.

Now Winslet, as Julia, is the permanently stressed out but industrious daughter of Dame Helen Mirren whose character June is dying of cancer. There is an electrifying chemistry between Mirren and Winslet that is utterly compatible. Winslet is constantly at the end of her tether, juggling a thousand plates together as the hard pressed, downtrodden daughter who finds himself frantically multi tasking. Winslet rushes around, dropping kids off at school while overwhelmed with the presence of angst ridden sisters who just keep swearing and accusing each other of a complete lack of co-operation. 

Meanwhile, there is Dame Helen Mirren, a magisterial matriarch who now spends the entire film lying in a hospital bed, delaying the inevitable but cheerfully philosophical, resigned to her fate. Now Mirren does what Mirren does best, face gaunt and haggard and chatting amiably to her grandchildren and children as if determined to die with dignity. Mirren is almost as regal as the Queen she once acted so nobly, tenderly stroking the foreheads of her grandchildren and refusing to allow her family to just fall apart.

There was one scene in particular that tickled the funniest of bones. Sitting in the oncologist's room, Toni Collette, Helen in the film, confronts the medical surgeon with a machine gun of fruity four letter F words and expletives that simply highlighted her frustrations. Every time the doctor kept fiddling with his watch, Helen flew off the handle and poured out her anger. It was one of many innumerable amusing moments that made the film complete. 

There were cameo moments from comedian Stephen Merchant. But the one man who stole the show and once again re-asserted his legendary status was, of course, Timothy Spall who remains one of our most treasured of British actors. Spall, who is just magnificent in everything he turns his hand to, is Bernie, the awkward, slovenly and helpless husband of Dame Helen Mirren's June. By the end of the film, Bernie is at his wits end, wrestling helplessly with the realisation that his wife would die.

There is yet another memorable moment when, as Christmas dawns in the Hospice that Mirren was occupying for those final weeks, we saw the real beauty and immense versatility of Dame Helen Mirren.  A nativity play including the Baby Jesus is performed with much skilful aplomb and the whole family gather around the bed of their dying mother. And then Mirren peacefully passes away. Nana had lost her battle against cancer but most of us were just revelling in the splendour and majesty of Goodbye June. You have to reserve a festive afternoon for this Christmas cracker of a film and don't forget the hankies.      

The day before Christmas Day

 The day before Christmas Day.

So here we are once again, the day before the world brings down its collective shutters and locks up its doors before the yearly festivities, a time for cheerful conviviality, much feasting and drinking, several sore heads by the end of the day and a real sense of perspective. Now, as we count down the hours before the big day, Britain finds itself in that customary state of sheer exhaustion, last minute shopping fatigue and ready to slump on their sofas for the next week without moving a muscle.

Christmas Eve may feel like the lull before the storm but it's time to tie up those loose ends, complete tomorrow's lavish luncheon preparations and seize the chance to wear those frivolous party hats that only seem to come out properly at this time of the year. Christmas was never a time for laziness and inactivity for some households because for the families who take it seriously there can never be enough time. Still, the kids are waiting with that gleeful sense of anticipation and Santa has just popped into a motorway service station on the M1 and just devoured a tasty sandwich from Subways or a latte coffee at Nero's.

Of course Christmas will always hold a wondrous fascination for the children of the world because they'll never lose that innocence and that cheerful disregard for all the bad news around them. And that's somehow admirable because you never quite know whether to laugh or cry at the prevailing news agenda of the day. Some of us are heartily sick of war and anger, death and pain, destruction and carnage. We're almost at the point where breakthroughs are about to be made but then again the cynics have probably heard it all before. 

This year, my wonderfully loving and supportive wife Bev and I became grandparents for the second time and of course we're delighted and thrilled and that goes without saying. If somebody had told you 50 years ago that you would be a grandparent, you would have laughed with a full blooded derision and an air of stupefied dismissiveness. You would have been rolling around on the floor with all the mirth and merriment of this festive season and told them not to be so silly and barely believing that anything like that could ever happen.

But now another year has passed under the bridge and what have you done? Well, nothing out of the ordinary as such but in a way this has been the year of experimentation and turning your hand to something that you would never thought possible and imaginable. It was my Open Mic year, an opportunity to venture out into the pubs and community centres of North London. Here you would stand next to a microphone, pouring out the words from your book of football poetry Football's Poetic Licence which is available at Amazon. And here you were delivering your poetry to a captive audience.

So, after conquering some local pubs with my profound verse and lyricism, you struck out for Hampstead Heath where you were reliably informed that another Open Mic season was taking place. It was one of the hottest days of the year and a Saturday afternoon that just felt immensely rewarding and the perfect summer's afternoon. You stepped onto the platform at Hampstead Tube station little knowing it at the time that this would be a goose chase, a fruitless waste of time because you couldn't find the place you were looking for. Fear not, though. This afternoon was simply joyous. 

Besides, it didn't really matter because the sun was shining beautifully and brightly and, quite frankly, who cared if you could find the place or not? There are days in our lives when, even the most frustrating moments can seem privately stunning. So here you went, plunging into the heart of dark green and thick forest land, sometimes going deep into the foliage and then wandering around like a fascinated orienteer. All you needed was a map, some simple directions and all would be well. 

You were looking for a stage called the Gazebo and fully expected to find your venue and destination in no time at all. And yet, as the minutes ticked away and one hour followed another, you began to tear your hair out with total exasperation. You suddenly met a friendly family who were celebrating with an impressive looking picnic. You discovered that they came from Dubai and one member of the family was heading back home the following week. And that was when the fun began. 

You were told that, unfortunately, the Gazebo was well over an hour away from where you were and that you'd have to be  prepared for a stamina sapping walk through sun dappled glades and vast acres of trees and bushes. It was now that you were told that the family would  happily accommodate you with an impromptu poetry reading. You thanked them for their kind offer but would continue your journey undaunted. It felt like a good idea at the time but you were now thirsty and looked at your bottle of water with utter relief. 

In hindsight, your trip to Hampstead Heath somehow features prominently in your memory. What could have been a very anti climactic experience had now turned into something truly wonderful. As somebody who now commits himself to rigorous exercise in an effort to keep body and soul together, this actually felt quite good. But all in all, it's been an excellent year because you were indulging in a new kind of hobby if you like and this felt quite the most beneficial of experiences.

Anyway, we are now a week away before the end of the year. Every year contains its fair share of contrasting emotions, light and darkness, successes and unfortunate failures, the rich tapestry of life. Towards the end of 2025 my beautiful family lost loved ones and an air of sorrow and sadness has fallen over us that is utterly tangible. You can almost reach out and touch it.

On October 8th my delightful and wonderful father in law passed away at the venerable age of 93. Stan Myers was a most caring, compassionate and understanding man. He lived for Arsenal football club, loved the horse racing from Ascot, Epsom, Fontwell, Sandown and Thirsk, the thrill of a financial gain if one of his horses presented him with a small or large sum of money. Stan, as well as the rest of my family, had an intimate knowledge of my Autism diagnosis because football excited and galvanised both of us. 

And so you look back on these important events in your life and try to put them into some indefinable category because it's hard to know how to rationalise them. Both Bev and I have now lost the greatest parents in the world, a mum and dad who never stopped loving us, doting on us, making a fuss of us, coaxing and cajoling us, encouraging us all the way, listening to our childhood and teenage problems, suggesting new projects and always believing in the impossible. We can never thankyou enough.  

So as we settle down to eat our turkey, roast potatoes and vegetables with cranberry sauce while pulling a Christmas cracker, it is time to look ahead positively rather than being dragged back to the complicated years of your adolescence. Of course there were good times, the family holidays, your dad sunbathing in the family garden while drifting into a world of paradise surrounded by the dulcet tones of Frank Sinatra. But you'd rather forget the darker shades of your early years because those were years of unbearable struggle and horrific sights. Now though life is just the sweetest of all emotions, a gift from the heavens. You're so grateful, humble and blessed.  

Next August, our beautiful daughter and her boyfriend are getting married and once again your focus turns to rejoicing and celebration, a feeling of exultation and ecstasy that will be the best of them all. So wherever you are and who ever you are, have the happiest of all holidays. And if Santa does bring you anything may it come with fabulous mental and physical health for 2026. Have a good Christmas folks.     

Christmas time and the music industry.

 Christmas time and the music industry- Chris Rea.

There was a time when Christmas and the music industry spoke or sung with the same voice, so to speak. Christmas singles and albums by the latest or most popular bands, singers and musicians were certainly worth their weight in gold. Some of these glittering luminaries from the world of pop, rock, heavy rock, prog rock, soul or just very cheesy ditties joined us in a harmonious sing song. It was, after all, Christmas and the festive season was upon us so it was now time to loosen those inhibitions and throw off  those exhausting demands placed on you such as work, paying the bills, bringing up children and cooking the turkey. 

They loved to surround themselves in the traditional Christmas tropes such as carpets of snow, mountain scenery with gallons of the white stuff coating the summits, skiing slopes and people celebrating, cavorting and carousing with unashamed delight. It was a time devoted to family life, emotional reunions with family we hadn't seen for at least a year and then sleeping off Christmas lunch with a huge bout of snoring, snoozing or just slouching around the home looking for another glass of brandy and whisky. 

But for some of us it is a time for recalling the Christmas music that will now announce its presence on Thursday morning when toil and drudgery in shops, offices and warehouses grind to a standstill. Christmas though will not seem the same without Chris Rea though and yesterday the world of music lost one of its great maestros. This morning we'll be grieving the loss of one of its many giants, a titan of the blues, one of the chief exponents of easy listening and pleasant song lyrics, a reassuring, soothing voice tinged with nostalgia. 

Chris Rea, who yesterday died at the age of 74, was one of music's most refined of all practitioners, a modest, often underrated, quiet, reflective, humble and unassuming man. Rea, who never sought publicity or demanded any kind of validation or approval from his peers, passed away amid a flurry of warm tributes and flattering comments. Rea's career though never came with sleazy tales of outrageous behaviour or embarrassing notoriety.

But no one did Christmas better than Chris Rea because one of the most familiar sounds of Christmas came from his back catalogue and everybody could hum it, chant it and remember where they were when it was released. It was around Christmas time in 1986 when Rea and family were on the way back from a gig and found themselves trapped in heavy, almost stationary traffic in Nottingham. Desperately trying to keep warm on a wintry evening, Rea noticed a spare cigarette butt at the back of the vehicle and lit up the cigarette when, suddenly, there was the light bulb moment. Let's write a song about Driving Home for Christmas. The rest, as they say, is history. 

Yesterday reminded us of why the world always came together at this time of the year. We recalled this same period of time with wholesome affection because we always have and always will. Music had its songsheets in abundance from some of the most recognisable and instantly identifiable sources. They were eternally cheerful, endearing, witty, humorous and always smiling. Everybody smiled and grinned at Chris Rea's Driving Home for Christmas since it was something we always did because we were always travelling back from some distant location. And we were just delighted to be back in the place we called home. 

Of course Christmas wouldn't be Christmas without its yearly confection of Sir Cliff Richard. Sir Cliff Richard always presented us with festive compositions. Mistletoe and Wine typified his approach to this time of this year, Christians sitting by roaring log fires with delicious glasses of mulled wine. As a devout Christian himself, Richard knew the meaning of Christmas much more clearly than would otherwise have been the case because he would be in perennial attendance at the yearly Mass service on Christmas Eve. Cliff Richard embraced Christmas with an almost Messianic fervour, a lifelong church goer and full of seasons greetings and bountiful benevolence to the human race.

But Chris Rea's Driving Home for Christmas was a delightful illustration of just what it's all about. A car windscreen would be seen cruising along wondrous pine forests and snow caked trees. Every so often, the wiper would gently brush away the snow flakes before continuing its journey. Up ahead of the car would be a procession of car headlights, flashing away reassuringly before turning around twisting country lanes. 

At the end of this special journey, Rea would finally pull into what looks like a warehouse or depot where, presumably, the Christmas presents would end up. And this was the beginning of Christmas, the time and moment to crack open the alcoholic bottles, a cheeky Prosecco or the sweetest bottle of champagne. The car was now in a happy place, situated in a place of perfect contentment. We moved on and stared out of our windows because the family would be just in time for the turkey and tinsel. 

In contrast, Rea also gave us On The Beach, a gorgeous summer song that was so characteristic of our favourite childhood memories that Chris Rea had just written the most accurate summary of the season. Rea, complete with T- shirt, guitar around his neck, strolled around the shore of a beach without a care in the world. Every so often a girl in a swimsuit would tip toe along the top of a wall before Rea settled on the ground strumming away on his guitar with yet another burst of warm, gravelly, heartfelt and splendidly thoughtful lyrics that painted their own picture. 

Of course there was the Road to Hell which was both angry and passionate but nobody seemed to mind because most of us had experienced many of the same emotions. Sadly, though Rea had some of the most debilitating health problems which hampered him quite distressingly. Most of know about all of these tragic ailments now but you can't help but think how much more prodigious and creative he could have been without these problems. 

Essentially though Rea was on easy going terms with his contemporaries. There was the timeless Christmas classic produced by Noddy Holder's Slade, released in 1973 but recorded in the sweltering summer heat of an American recording studio. At roughly the same time, there was Mud's Elvis Presley tinged It'll be Lonely This Christmas, Roy Wood's I Wish it Could be Christmas and Jona Lewie's anti War contribution Stop the Cavalry featuring battle hardened soldiers climbing out of First World War trenches, rifles in their hands and a multitude of the dead. It was just a compulsory soundtrack to our lives.

Sir Elton John, of course is our most beloved, treasured and rightly honoured of pop stars. John's illustrious career now spans five decades if not more. But Step Into Christmas is a jolly, upbeat piano pounding festive favourite that has never lost its lustre or message. Here John sits by his piano with, at the time, rather respectable glasses but clomping platform shoes. In a plain white boiler suit and nimble fingers, he slides across the keyboard of the said piano with lovely and apposite Christmas words. Then, with a mischievous grin, John, at the end of one chorus, produces his Watford football club season ticket wallet. Then his manager John Reid and the rest of the band, all join in with one last hearty arm in arm, high kicking routine.

Lest we forget of course there was Wham's Last Christmas and Paul McCartney's Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas Time followed closely by the unforgettably resonant Pipes of Peace. Wham, fronted by the handsome heart throb who went by the name of George Michael, appeared angelic and fresh faced. Michael was a female bedroom poster boy, adored and idolised, worshipped and wishing they were their boyfriend forever more. Now this is a classical Christmas song. 

Now, on a winter holiday with friends, boyfriends and girlfriends, everybody gathers together on some picture postcard skiing resort possibly in the Alps. They all board a cable car before loading their skis on board. At once the scene is reminiscent of the perfect collection of boys and girls declaring their love for each other. It is the essence of a holiday of a lifetime. Nothing could go wrong and didn't. 

So both George Michael, Shirley and Pepsi would all hurriedly rush towards a comforting chalet next to idyllic mountains. Huddling around the dinner table, Wham proceed to whip off their gloves and scarves before snapping Christmas crackers, tucking into the yearly helping of turkey and smiling constantly, now besotted with each other and deeply in love. Shirley, of course, would marry Martin Kemp from Spandau Ballet and, sadly, George Michael would pass away on Christmas Day. What an extraordinary talent and voice. 

But now the world of music has lost another of its favourite sons. Chris Rea never fell out of hedonistic nightclubs in a drunken stupor. He was honest, confessional, private, never loud or controversial, boastful or bombastic, self righteous or obsessed with image. He was married to his wife for 57 years, remained faithfully to his Middlesbrough roots and always kept his family out of the limelight. Rea was a wonderful lyricist, a musician of the highest order, car enthusiast and will always be remembered at Christmas time. We'll miss you deeply Chris.  

It's deja vu for West Ham

 It's deja vu for West Ham.

If you're a lifelong football supporter you'll know how it feels. There is an impending sense of doom and gloom. This is the worst case scenario. Familiarity may even breed contempt but then again it may not and you've nothing to be concerned about. Besides, if it's destined to happen then it probably will. At which point it then becomes a self fulfilling prophecy. So here we go, here we go, here we go to quote that now traditional football chant from the terraces. Maybe you should be positive, almost arrogantly confident. 

This Saturday afternoon, West Ham United, the team who you've followed, endured and tolerated since you were a wee nipper in shorts, travel to Manchester to play Manchester City, former Premier League champions for four consecutive seasons and surely there can be only one result. Besides, City have a winning mentality, an impeccable pedigree and that overwhelming aura of champions. If City do lose though on Saturday at the Etihad Stadium, we could begin to laugh off our cynicism, our defeatist outlook and that inherent belief that only occasionally do miracles happen. 

After all, 55 years ago, a West Ham team, including the finest goal scoring striker in the country in the history of the game, headed towards Manchester perhaps fearing the worst. Results for West Ham were occasionally favourable at Maine Road but not as regularly as they would have liked. So it was that Jimmy Greaves, now in the twilight of his career, made his debut for West Ham and once again scored on his debut- this time for West Ham. This had not been entirely unprecedented because the Tottenham legend had done it before and he was more than capable of doing so again. 

So it was that Maine Road welcomed the East Londoners. And here the fun and games began. Maine Road now bore an uncanny resemblance to a mud heap, a mud bath, a gluepot of a pitch, a ground more suitable for the cultivation of beetroot, turnips, radishes, celeries perhaps if you were really hungry and just fancied eating the lot. It would have been no understatement to say that the ground was a boggy marshland, a perfect home for pigs, hippos and animals who just love to wallow in acres of mud. 

If anybody had spotted even the remotest hint of green grass, they might have required the use of several microscopes. But the match went ahead and, at the time, it almost felt acceptable, normal, with no questions asked and given the immediate go ahead by both groundsmen and referees. What ensued was a music hall act, a farce, an apology for a football match, a blatant mockery of the game and, quite possibly, sport. 

You now have to go to You Tube to find detailed information of the match between Manchester City and West Ham. There was the now late and sadly missed Billy Bonds, Trevor Brooking, Frank Lampard, Peter Brabrook, Ronnie Boyce, Sir Geoff Hurst and Jimmy Greaves. On the day, West Ham crushed Manchester City with a magnificent 5-1 win and, in all honesty, it may never happen again. As somebody of a claret and blue persuasion, Saturday's encounter with City may see a complete reversal of that remarkable score line. 

Let's though concentrate on one particular goal that illuminated that 1970 old First Division match. Joe Corrigan, perhaps one of the safest and greatest and most flexible of all goalkeepers, picked up the ball in his penalty area, shirt caked with treacly mud and dirt. Corrigan rolled the ball along the ground before picking it up and fly kicking towards the half way line. Waiting for the dropping ball was one Ronnie Boyce 'Ticker' as he was affectionately called by the West Ham fans. The rampaging centre forward - cum attacking midfielder, seemed to catch the ball perfectly on the volley and the ball sailed into the City net from what looked like the half way line. West Ham ran out comfortable 5-1 winners. 

It was also the day when Jimmy Greaves scored on his West Ham debut, a feat totally in keeping with character of the great man. Now of course West Ham are in the kind of desperate plight where even one goal itself against Manchester City would represent a major achievement given their wretched run of form recently. After disastrously and carelessly giving away a two goal lead twice during their Premier League encounter with Aston Villa, their London Stadium must feel like a haunted castle to them. 

We are now rapidly approaching the half way point of the Premier League season and West Ham look like a team of downhill skiers who keep slaloming around poles without quite knowing where their journey might take them. They could negotiate their obstacles quite easily but, at the moment, it all looks like an experience that could only end in tears. Relegation would seem to be inevitable for the East London club and unless there is a dramatic upturn after the City game, then they may be Championship bound.

But some of us, although too young to appreciate the sizeable margin of the Hammers victory, can only hope for damage limitation at the Etihad Stadium. City will almost certainly win decisively against their London opponents. So the trio of Fulham, Wolves and Brighton will now assume a critical importance for West Ham in forthcoming matches. Lose against all three would spell the end of West Ham's 12 year tenure in the Premier League. Win at least two and an altogether rosier complexion begins to appear on all West Ham faces. 

For some of us though relegation seems to be a standard procedure for West Ham. We have encountered all the calamities and setbacks, the backward steps rather than the forward type. West Ham manager Nuno Espirito Santo has his work cut out striving arduously for survival rather than consolidating the progress the club thought they'd made under now Everton manager David Moyes. What goes around comes around as they say. Under the inspirational guidance of both John Lyall and Ron Greenwood there was always a frisson of excitement in the air. Lyall and Greenwood created the most exemplary template for the club. Who would be in Nuno Espirito Santo's shoes? Will ever see its like again? We must hope so.    

It was the second night of Chanukah

 It was the second night of Chanukah

It was the second night of Chanukah and once again we were united, defiant and harmonious, one big happy family, a religion undaunted by yet another tragedy and convinced that with constructive dialogue, amicable negotiation and just a large helpful of understanding we can get through this one. It doesn't matter how long it takes but we will stop this madness, mayhem, bedlam, this downward spiral into multiple murders, traumatic and unnecessary deaths and, above all, we will achieve peace in our times.

On Sunday morning we awoke to discover that terrorism had reared its ugly head for what seem likes the umpteenth time. In fact it felt as if yet another violent violation of our civil liberties had been snatched away, a crime perpetrated for a figure that is now dangerously close to the hundreds of thousands in recent years. These are undeniable facts.  It could have been happened in any corner of the universe, some random location in any country or state, town, city or village but this time it was Australia. Why Australia. It's inexplicable and unforgivable.  

The setting was Bondi Beach in Australia, the other side of the world if you happen to live in the UK but so close to home for the beautiful Jews of both Europe, Asia, Africa or anywhere on the map of the globe. Once again the despicable scum who tread this Earth are determined to eliminate all Jews and they have failed miserably because we're stronger, prouder, fitter and, above all louder in our condemnation of what took place on an Australian beach as far away from London and Britain as it could possibly be. 

But here we were huddling together next to Parliament Square in the heart of London's political discussion rooms and this was Westminster at its most impassioned, fervent, angry, almost revolutionary. We could hardly have done anything more to express our most innermost emotions. This was the place to remind those who walk the hallowed corridors and lobbies of the House of Commons that the Jews will never go away because we are here to protest against their complete indifference, their pathetic passivity. 

Politicians it would seem can never seem to get it right. If there had been even been the remotest hint of compassion and a genuine commitment to eradicating the horrible cancer of hatred and antisemitism then surely we would have heard about it by now. And yet we were still waiting last night, flying Israeli flags, even the Union Jack and fighting back against the evil and malicious forces of relentless terrorism. We are now slowly recovering from the catastrophic events in the Middle East and we are back where we belong.  

There is though, a deeply uncomfortable silence in the heart of Westminster and all of the mainstream political parties are either world weary, tired or just being plain heartless. Their admittedly sympathetic responses are all well and good but you begin to think that all of these talking heads are just sycophantic outbursts simply designed just to make us believe that they do care. Last night demonstrated an obvious unease, a fury and exasperation aimed at the very people who should be doing a lot more than has hitherto been the case. 

All three parties including Labour, Conservative and Lib Dem, stand on their respective soapboxes and immediately send out their heartfelt condolences, those endless commiserations about the outrageous losses of life, their unyielding support of all Jews across the world. They are more than ready to wrap warm arms around the people of Israel and the Jewish religion and just hug them deeply, resonantly and affectionately because they must know what they're going through. However, it all seems very dutiful and respectful, a touching gesture of course but, after all, we were here to celebrate Chanukah. 

Instead, we had Chief Rabbi Mirvis, a solitary but noble figure desperately appealing for a line to be drawn under the sand, no more war, anguish, bloodied clothes, dying children or broken families. The Chief Rabbi is head of a community crying out for no more incidents like the one in Australia and he must be heartily sick of this mass slaughter. We all want this to end now and never ever happen again. And, if any killing machine is ready to take up arms, this humble little writer would like to remind you that he is the grandson of a Holocaust survivor and we never ever want to see a repetition of what happened during the Second World War. 

Here are moral, ethical and spiritual boundaries that are just being trampled into the ground. We detest violence, we are revolted by the spite, the almost medieval brutality of it all. What unfolded in Australia was symptomatic of a much deeper disease that refuses to go away. We know we can do nothing as such but we were in Westminster and we were livid, incensed, incandescent, fuming, storming the barricades, shouting purposefully to be heard. 

We were surrounded by dogs, the massive presence of the CST, the Jewish security organisation who have always kept us safe. People were wandering around the solemn introspection of a Monday evening in Westminster, searching for answers and not getting the ones they so richly deserved. They listened to the dignitaries but then turned their wrath and disgust on the so called politicians, those angels of good or allegedly so. They roared over and over again almost incessantly when the name of London mayor Sir Sadiq Khan was mentioned. Here was a man who deliberately polarises opinion and now, in the eyes of some maybe emerges as the most wicked man in the world. But this may be too extreme. To all intents and purposes, this does seem to be the case but you couldn't possibly comment. Mr Khan, you're being held to account. 

Khan has made no secret of the fact of his disapproval of last night's events in Westminster. Khan went on record as saying that he didn't want last night's gathering to take place. It hardly seems possible that one man could be so rigidly opposed to not only a meeting place for peace but the celebration of  Chanukah. So we sighed with righteous indignation yet again and demanded the immediate dismissal of Khan as Mayor of London. The man, we believe, is insufferable.

But can we really place in our implicit trust in a body of men and women who burn the midnight oil, passing legislation during the day and then reassuring the Jewish community that they have them onside when it comes to much more serious issues? There is an almost reluctant and grudging acknowledgement of the gunfire at Bondi Beach, the shrieking bullets that so cruelly took the lives of a Holocaust survivor and then are yet more victims of circumstances. We must all take to the streets over and again and say no more please. It has to end now because this now very powerful campaigner on behalf of peace has said enough is enough because we cherish the gift of life. No more and never again.     

Happy chanukah everybody.

 Happy Chanukah everybody. 

It is one of the most celebrated of celebrations, a Jewish festival of lights, the one time of the year when everything feels much more optimistic, encouraging, satisfying, heart warming and just good to be alive. And yet this is the way it should always be. In the Jewish religion, we reserve our happiest moments for the times when the chips are down and the odds are heavily stacked against us. We do understand negativity and nihilism, the bleakest and most heart breaking scenarios. We're conditioned to the setbacks and painful crisis. We get it and embrace those wondrous periods of reassurance and positivity warmly. It can be done and we must maintain those feelgood vibes for they're the best.   

So today marks the first night of Chanukah, that timeless homage to sweetness, excellent food and the most scintillating company. We're Jewish and we love family gatherings, something to look forward to and, above all, stunning lightness and brightness, shining through the wintry gloom, radiating powerful hope to everybody around the world and flickering symbolically from a million window sills. 

It always seemed a lovely coincidence that Chanukah's first night fell at roughly the same time as Christmas. But last year, Chanukah overlapped with Christmas Day excitedly. There was a fleeting acknowledgement that both Chanukah and Christmas were like old friends reunited on the same day and same place. It was the first night for both of these admirable religions and what a party we must have had. 

So here we are at the moment when the year draws to a close and, as proud Jews, we gather together around the roaring log fires of winter around the world and express gratitude and rejoicing in a way we think is right and proper. For millions of years and countless centuries, Chanukah has stood at the end of the year, patiently anticipating those delicious indulgences, those mouth wateringly enticing sweet treats and savoury delights that only we can find particularly special because we deserve it. 

And at tea time today the vast Jewish global population will be gently planting eight candles in our Menorah, softly chanting the relevant prayers, blessing our kith and kin, our loved ones and then abandoning ourselves joyfully to doughnuts and salt beef with latkes(potato cakes). Now it has to be said that nothing beats that first tantalising taste of these delightful snacks or even dinners. At no point during the year do we ever eat these gastronomically breath taking foods as part of a festival. Or maybe we do. Today, though, is different.

Of course both the salt and beef latkes and doughnuts have never done anything for your waistline and they do indeed jeopardise any diet we may have been privately considering. Chanukah is cholesterol heaven for those who simply don't care and can eat anything that supposed to be kind to your stomach and digestive system. But we do Chanukah ever year and we love it, because it is a guilty pleasure and besides we all need something to make us smile and give us a good, old fashioned laugh. 

Year after year we stand respectfully around the Menorah and think of all those Hebrew classes parties as a kid when we sung with heartfelt conviction, hitting all the right notes, quavers and crotchets. In Israel, this is a particularly triumphant time of the year. The ceasefire agreement with Hamas is holding exultantly and, for the first time in what must seem ages, the lovely folk of Jerusalem, Tel Aviv, Haifa, Jaffa, Eilat, Natanya will be waking up this morning without a single sound of a wartime air siren, a blast of gunfire, explosion of bomb and tragic death. It will be time to think of Chanukah. 

It is hard to believe how the Jews of the world survived the Second World War and the nightmare of the Holocaust and still lit candles at Chanukah. There is a flinty resilience and hard nosed character about the Jewish people that never fails us even when everything looks hopeless and woebegone. We just carry on doggedly, undeterred, battling for recognition and identity, reaching out to attractive continents, islands, sovereignties and land locked countries that most of us have never heard of. 

This evening Jewish children and grandchildren will be eagerly clapping their hands, smiling endlessly, joking jovially and exchanging Chanukah gelt(money). There will be the customary distribution of cute gifts and presents and then we look longingly at those doughnuts. They usually come in all of the most gorgeous flavours and are unbelievably moreish, a taste addiction. At long last, after all the wickedness, savagery, suffering, man's brutal inhumanity to man, woman and child, there is something to hold on to. It couldn't have come at a better time. 

There will be something in the air tonight. Jews know how to have a good time. They raise bridegrooms into the air and then lift a chair towards the ceiling at weddings. They dance Hava Nagila, repetitive choruses of Hatikvah, innumerable Jewish folk songs and effusive homages to life L'Chaim. They break bread or challah, drinking wine because that's inherently communal and you can't beat some good, old fashioned booze. Then the rabbis get emotionally involved and we're all swept along  on a tidal wave of euphoria.

Essentially though Chanukah is all about redemption, finding the light amid the darkness, compatible shades of colour, a rich fruition of life's glorious conquests, a time to pat ourselves on our backs and just be content with who we are rather than the way it might have been. Looking back in hindsight may be a constructive exercise for some but Chanukah is a time for eating jam doughnuts, custard and chocolate doughnuts, orange and pineapple doughnuts if they become available. L'chaim and to life for ever.      

World War Three- Never ever again

World War Three - Never ever again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another wonderful day out with your family.

 Another wonderful day out with your family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

World Cup draw

 World Cup draw

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

`Is it really Christmas and Chanukah?

 Is it really Christmas and Chanukah?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Billy Bonds passes

 Billy Bonds passes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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