International Women's Day

 International Women's Day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Donald Trump and that argument

 Donald Trump and that argument.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brazilian carnival week

 Brazilian carnival week and March.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Premier League latest.

 Premier League latest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   

My book of football poetry Football's Poetic Licence

 My book of football poetry Football's Poetic Licence.

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

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

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

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

James Bond

 James Bond

For well over 60 years, cinema audiences all over the world have been both entertained, astonished, shocked, horrified and amused at the outrageous antics of one man- James Bond. Of course Bond is a fictitious character who only existed in the fertile mind of Bond's prolific author Ian Fleming. Bond was the most daring secret agent, a man of macho virility, wondrous athleticism, the ultimate ladies man and sex symbol, extraordinary flexibility, little regard for his own safety but always there to save the day. 

Yesterday marked the end of an era for the whole franchise when control of the Bond franchise was handed over to Amazon, an online retail merchandise phenomenon par excellence who could hardly have imagined that they would be the one organisation properly suited to accept such a huge responsibility. For years, Bond was under the sole control of the Broccoli family. 'Cubby Broccoli', surely one of the most familiar faces in the movie industry, was one of the major creative influences behind every decision made when a Bond film went into a Pinewood studio or any venue considered an appropriate location for Bond actors.

When Daniel Craig was supposedly killed off in the last Bond film, it was widely felt that Bond had outstayed his welcome, well and truly passed his sell by date. Ian Fleming, who once wrote one of the most famous children's films and books 'Chitty Chitty Bang Bang', sitting back in his Caribbean retreat and counting his substantial profits and millions from the James Bond conveyor belt of films, may well have wondered what all the fuss was all about. Fleming had made his money and fame from cinema's most recognisable he man and fearless hero. But how far could Fleming take James Bond?

For some of us, the best and finest of all James Bond is a matter of opinion. The first Bond was Sean Connery, a rugged Scotsman who was little known at the time, but soon endeared himself to a whole new generation of movie enthusiasts who had been brought up on a traditional diet of exciting war time films and Carry on comedies made in Britain. But then came James Bond, a brave and romantic character who escaped near certain death and extinction on so many occasions that some of us were open mouthed with wonderment. 

Here was a man who survived countless train journeys by leaping across carriages and then hiding away from gun fire or a bloody death in dark rooms. Here was a man who somehow negotiated a vast array of killing devices such as red hot, burning furnaces, the edge of erupting volcanoes, innumerable buildings with a thousand explosives about to go off and electrical conveyor belts about to crush him. Then there were the evil villains with dastardly deeds, terrible teeth and the deadliest of knives. 

Bond was the most victimised and persecuted of all movie characters and when Connery bowed out of the role to make way for the dashing and debonair Englishman Roger Moore, the whole Bond bandwagon just rolled on relentlessly, a now enthralled age of Bond converts now simply hooked. Some of us perhaps felt it a singular duty to roll up to our local picture house, shell out our shillings and new pences for a bucket of popcorn and the compulsory Coca Cola for leisurely consumption. 

There was Doctor No, On Her Majesty's, Service, the Spy Who Loved Me, Moonwalker, Live and Let Die, Goldfinger and a whole series of fabulously ridiculous and yet pulsating silver screen adventures. This was all about complete suspension of belief and intriguing plots so far fetched that you may just as well have  been snatched from your weekly comic. Bond was barmy, zany, crazy, but lovable figure, a derring-do, devil may care action man, a crusading saviour of the universe committed to the elimination of all the baddies and no good terrorists. 

But yesterday felt like a handover of the keys, a changing of the guard, a new beginning, perhaps a complete reinvention of the Bond persona. This was the man accountable to M or Q, the man or, more recently Dame Judy Dench, a national British treasure, who handed out all of the instructions to Bond on all of those vitally important, make or break missions. And then it happened, exploding all over that vast cinema screen, the evocative music, an always elegant Bond with all of those cute gadgets that nobody would have otherwise dreamt of inventing. 

At the moment, the future of James Bond hangs in the balance. In the old days, we almost expected to be informed of the latest Bond movie because there was a natural break and delay before the momentous announcement. However, this was just a brief hiatus since Bond became a frequent occurrence. Within a couple of months or perhaps weeks, Broccoli and family would always have a neatly packaged bundle of fantasy, fun and sheer escapism in the can. 

But when Amazon came calling, Cubby Broccoli became one of those cuddly, avuncular film producers with a far sighted imagination and bank balance the size of a continent. It will be an interesting time for James Bond because we may have assumed that the likes of Connery, Moore, Dalton and Craig should now have rendered Bond a permanent dinosaur, conventional super heroes with a taste for the high life and danger but now just history personified. 

For those who have probably seen too many variations on a theme, the whole concept of James Bond may be completely dated and irrelevant. We have seen the death defying escapades, the heart in the mouth exploits, hair raising, gripping, nerve racking, epic manifestations. We know that Bond was the most charming of charmers, the man who never gave up, thumping and punching his adversaries, then chucking them off mountains and cliffsides as if it were just another day in the office. 

Now we await further developments in the canon of James Bond. We must have thought we'd seen everything when Daniel Craig jumped over huge acres of crumbling concrete and Roman colosseums, pillars and columns crashing and then subsiding under Craig's feet. Then we remembered the memorable opening sequence of Moonraker where Roger Moore went ski-ing down the most breathtaking slope surrounded by a magnificent mountain range. Then Moore went flying down a cliffside and you had to watch the film consumed with fascination. So our best wishes go to Amazon and James Bond. This could be the most harmonious partnership of all time. Keep going Mr Bond.  

Donald Trump- hero or zero?

 Donald Trump- hero or zero?

It is hard to know where this one is going. We are now a couple of months into the second term of Donald Trump as President of the United States and the jury is still out. Are we watching a re-enactment of a typical war movie where the gallant soldiers are led over the top by a domineering sergeant major barking out orders only to find that the enemy are still firing missiles at them. Trump is still oozing confidence and bravado, still seemingly in charge of his mental faculties and yet there is something inherently wrong here. 

On the one hand, Trump's intentions are honourable but there is a nagging sense of cynicism about his latest bombastic outbursts, his very public threats and grievances, the impassioned rants, the ill judged statements designed to wind up and antagonise. The story of Donald Trump is now so well documented that we have now seen the film about him which he so despised and we know both his blood group and leg measurements. Everything about Trump is now an open book and widely available for social documentary, for comment and reaction.  

You can't hide his past and his future looks pretty transparent as well. In fact most of us can probably predict his next course of action in much the way that crystal ball gazers can see what might happen in six months time. For a while it looked as if Trump was both positive, proactive, admirable, sensible, even, quite possibly, constructive. It did look as if rational thinking had kicked in and the planet would be a safe place sooner rather than later. But now he seems to have made a rod for his own back. 

On Saturday we witnessed the release of three more Israeli hostages from captivity. Some of us were just overjoyed and mightily relieved since this could be the precursor for yet more good news in the Middle East. Hamas menacing body language and infuriating stubbornness suggested that the ceasefire was over and we were back on a war front. But then there was a volte face, a sudden change of heart and mind so the ceasefire between Israel, Hamas and Hezbollah was still intact. 

This morning, peace is still a blissful reality, a heartening sight and sound but then we begin to listen to Trump's more up to date ultimatums, the olive branch of peace to both Ukraine, Russia and President Putin. And yet there is something missing in the jigsaw piece. On Sunday evening, Trump took up residence next to a plane again and blurted out yet more worrying pronouncements about war, brutish belligerence and if Russia ignore him, the Trump card has got a problem and he's the grizzly bear.

There is something dark and sinister about Donald Trump when somebody insists on getting on his nerves. In fact at some point Trump may yet explode in front of TV news cameras and it won't be a pretty sight. This morning, Trump came out with some ridiculous nonsense about the mentally disabled or words to that effect and everything about the man has the air of a freak show. But once again this may be a gross exaggeration, a complete fallacy. Perhaps he's a saint and paragon of virtue. Who are we to say?

You can't help but think though that rather than showing the dynamic leadership qualities one has every right to expect of the President of the United States, Trump simply loves soundbites and controversies. He can't get enough of them. The man who used to be completely dependent on social media for some of his more outrageous words of wisdom, is still bleating, accusing, threatening again, blasting the eardrums of anybody prepared to indulge him. 

In fact, you remain convinced Trump sounds like a man forever rehearsing for a lengthy run in a mainstream TV soap opera. There is a bizarre theatricality about him that almost becomes patently obvious at times. Everything is a dramatic moment in his life, the indecipherable finger gestures, the endless gesticulating, the underhand handshake with fellow prime ministers and presidents and the limited vocabulary when matters of state demand a more rounded eloquence. 

And then you notice his behaviour behind the Oval Office wood panelled desk. He sits at the said desk with a number of vitally important papers and documents which have yet to be signed. Essentially, everything looks normal but the handwriting looks an awkward and laborious operation. He picks up the pen and then scrawls on the page painfully. The result may be a legible one but calligraphy experts may think otherwise. 

Now it is that the words spill from his melodramatic tongue like acid from a scientific test tube. Trump is ruthless, uncompromising, angry, irascible and moody. It is as if he deliberately wakes up on the wrong side of the bed. Initially, there is the understandable diplomacy, the right time and place. But then we briefly forget who we are dealing with here. Trump gets all niggly and unpredictable, rather like somebody being poked with a red hot poker.

The truth is that Trump comes across as a mass of contradictions and paradoxes, nice as pie one minute and fairly decent before losing his temper with that maddeningly argumentative tongue. At the moment, everything is still at the discussion stage, hundreds of ministers and talking heads trying desperately to hold everything together. 

Sadly, one of the warring countries has been left out in the cold. Ukranian president Zelensky, a likeable and patient man, has been cold shouldered by Putin and Russia as if the man were somehow invisible. While the rest of the world wants peace, normality and stability between the Ukraine and Russia, the sullen and sulky Vladimir Putin just mopes around the room like some discontented prima donna who keeps playing up before a big show. 

Meanwhile the man with the orange hair continues to give the impression of a man who is convinced that everything he does is right but then gets stuck in the revolving doors of a hotel going around and around. Suddenly Trump is attacked, criticised relentlessly for tactless drivel, putting his foot in it. As the days and weeks pass, Trump will certainly divide opinion and then resemble the village idiot. But don't panic everybody because Donald Trump is here to stay and at heart, a colourful character who will never bore us. In Trump we must have faith. Smile America, this is happening now. We're living it.   

Valentines Day.

 Valentines Day. 

Was it Aphrodite or Eros who once said that if you get down to Sainsbury's or Tesco early enough or your local florist, you'll find a beautiful bouquet of roses for Valentines Day? They might have also suggested that you consider buying a purple box of Milk Tray chocolates or something expensive and pretty like a Thornton's selection of the finest chocolates. And just to complete the evening, both Aphrodite and Eros might have recommended an intimate, candle lit restaurant just for two. They'll tell you that you simply can't go wrong with that lovely Italian eaterie in the high street where the food is of the highest standard. 

So what is about Valentines Day that sends a vast majority of men into an apoplectic panic on this day of all days? Every time February 14th dawns, the entire male adult population begin to look as if they've just seen a ghost or that they just won't have enough time to raid their local florists and card shops for a Valentines Day gift. The excuses are so plentiful that you wonder why they bother but they do and never fail in their mission to bring unalloyed joy into homes where gratitude becomes the over-riding emotion. 

 Of course, they've been on their feet all day or just labouring in the office, hoping against hope that their darling girlfriend or wife will be thrilled to receive their loveliest of largesse. Then they discover that they've been doing the same thing for as long as they can remember and have come to the conclusion that men are either incurable romantics or silly sentimental types who have spent far too much money. It is the one day of the year when declarations of eternal love are poured out from men unconditionally and the compliment is reciprocated by women. 

My lovely wife Bev tells me that you shouldn't need one day in the year to express your undying love and affection for your partner whether they be a long term boyfriend or girlfriend you've known since the high school prom. Or maybe it was that memorable moment in the park next to the oak tree where love hearts are carved indelibly on the bark or that face in the crowd at a lively bar where the music seems to drown out your most heartfelt sentiments. 

But never mind because true love will always flourish regardless of the background distractions. Men and women have always known how to go down on knee and propose both marriage, adoration and worship of the ground each other walks on. They will spend every conceivable hour, day and month in their company, just floating on fluffy white clouds of happiness and kissing one another shamelessly in front of anybody who knows them. 

Our parents, it should be said, set the most exemplary template over 50 or 60 years ago when both would sit in discreet corners of Wimpy bars drinking oceans of strawberry milk shake and holding hands over a double cheeseburger and chips. Then mum would slip a precious couple of shillings into the juke box and suddenly Bill Hayley and the Comets or Eddie Cochran would rock around the clock. Then dad, in his cool teddy boy outfit, would sweep mum off her feet and escort her with great chivalry to the local cinema where Humphrey Bogart would whisper sweet nothings into Lauren Bacall's ears. 

And then mum and dad would proceed very properly and excitedly to the village dance hall for a joyous night of jive, perhaps the twist if they were sufficiently athletic and yet more soft drinks. It would be a night of sweet conviviality, the male and female joined inseparably at the hip and just delighted to be in the same room as each other. Now the end of the evening would invariably usher in the ultimate of romantic waltzes or slow ballads. Boy would look into girl's fluttering eyelashes and they would stare at each other longingly and admiringly, smiling, smitten, besotted and wrapped in an embrace that may never be broken. 

They say that love makes the world go around and today that outpouring of true love and endless devotion will find its outlet in emotional bouts of hugging by the lights of the River Thames. Roses will be red and violets will be blue and thousands of both local and national newspapers will once again dedicate columns of messages that range from the sublime to the ridiculous. The centre spread of today's Times will no doubt dedicate itself exclusively to spreading the gospel of love. 

And so we find ourselves back at the souvenir shop where man or woman will be immersed in the act of rummaging through Valentines Day's cards. Racks of cards with saccharine sweet red hearts will be displayed in all their glory and splendour. And then there are the soppy, frothy and frivolous words designed to make us all laugh. Meanwhile, somewhere else in the shop, a group of lovestruck 20 somethings will be giggling openly at bunny rabbits or teddy bears yearning to be bought. 

But there are those cynical enough to believe that Valentines Day is just a cheap exercise in shoddy commercialism, rampant greed and a convenient moment to just turn on the charm. We may look upon the whole exercise with a good deal of scepticism since universal love and peace may be qualities the world has always needed in abundance. Once again we can but hope that both Ukraine and Russia and Israel and her Arab neighbours will find common ground and much needed reconciliation sooner rather than later. 

So come on everybody. It's time to open up that massive bottle of champagne or that mouth watering bottle of red and wine, to once again feast your eyes on the glorious Sleepless in Seattle and watch Tom Hanks searching the length and breadth of the United States of America for the woman of his starry eyed dreams. It's Valentines Day folks so let humanity open up its warmest hearts and just confirm that love is a global language without any barriers or boundaries. May this always be the way for ever.       

Aston Villa knock Spurs out of the FA Cup.

 Aston Villa knock Spurs out of the FA Cup. 

Aston Villa, founder members of the Football League way back in the mists of history, sent beleaguered Spurs crashing out of this year's FA Cup and the club have now been driven out of two consecutive Cup competitions within a couple of days. Last week, Liverpool demolished Ange Postecoglou's North London warriors at Anfield in the Carabao Cup, highlighting all of the weak spots and deficiencies in Spurs latest collection of foot loose and fancy free adventurers. 

But on Sunday night Aston Villa, who are still in this season's Champions League, are still motoring along the highways and byways of the Premier League, challenging for another place in Europe next season. The possibility of reaching another major European Final still remains a real prospect although you suspect it could be out of their reach in realistic terms. The superb 1-0 victory against Bayern Munich in the 1982 European Cup Final, with the headed winner scored by Peter Withe, still lives on at the Holte End at Villa Park with the most triumphant banner but similar exploits this season could be wishful thinking. 

The FA Cup of course has always represented that elusive dream for Villa for almost 70 years ago and the FA Cup Final victory against Manchester United in 1957 reminds you of a yellowing piece of parchment paper. In 2000, Villa came agonisingly close winning the FA Cup again, although they were simply played off the park by a rampant Chelsea on the day. So here was another opportunity for Villa to assert their authority on this most famous competition and Spurs were never going to get in their way. 

From the very off Villa came flying out of the blocks with football of the most stunning co-ordination, easy on the eye fluency and the kind of expansive, free flowing football that at times it looks too simple. During the 1980s, Villa, under the permanently grim and emotionless Ron Saunders, played some of the most thoughtful and progressive football seen in many a season. The old First Division League Championship trophy was thoroughly deserved and teams dreaded visiting Villa Park. 

The likes of Denis Mortimer, Chris Nicholl, Tony Morley, Gordon Cowans, Des Bremner and the late and much missed Gary Shaw had a look of invincibility about it, a team refined by the finest materials. Cowans was both architect, craftsman, chief engineer and draughtsman at the heart of Villa's midfield and Morley on the wing was almost unstoppable. But back in the present day, their football has been buffed up and polished to such an attacking potency that, for much of this Premier League season and certainly the last, Villa have injected life back onto the Villa Park terraces. 

Unai Emery, who was almost inexplicably regarded as a complete failure at Arsenal, has now found a claret and blue vintage maturing at a rapid rate. Emery is now the complete tactician and technician at Villa and looks an assured and comfortable figure in his coaching dug out. He is no Sir Alex Ferguson or Arsene Wenger but there is something of the inspirational messiah about him that is so reassuring that Aston Villa must be thinking that something special will turn up sooner rather than later. 

Immediately, Lucas Digne, Ezra Konsa, Leon Bailey and Andres Garcia looked as safe as houses at the back for Villa, tightening up the nuts and bolts in their defensive unit. Then, the back four ventured forward so often that there was never any chance that Spurs would find Villa short and lacking. All gaps were securely plugged for Villa and their attack began to look after itself. This was a Villa at their most cohesive and reliable, a side with a clear objective, pattern and structure. A place in the next round of the FA Cup was never in doubt. 

In midfield, there is  Marco Asensio, a brilliant signing, the cultured Youri Tielmans who looks like the classiest player Belgium have ever produced and Scottish midfielder John Mcginn, hard working, tireless, combative, energetic and busily involved. The direct and penetrative running of Morgan Rodgers is a joy to watch and, if Tomas Tuchel is looking for his next generation of England players, he need look no further than Rodgers. 

But Villa are now rather like that stately liner at sea that just cruises through exotic waters without a care in the world. Their natural passing football has the look of freedom and spontaneity that seems just off the cuff without any training ground rehearsal. The difficult seasons before Emery are now ancient history and Villa are stitching their football together like the most eye catching embroidery. 

And so Villa took the lead just minutes into the game. After a typically intricate network of short, sweet passes, Morgan Rodgers handsome, threaded pass through was taken perfectly in his stride by Jacob Ramsey. Ramsey powered through on goal before driving low and accurately into the net. From that point onwards, their monopoly on possession and attractive football was rewarded with further chances to increase the lead. Remarkably Spurs, just completely out of sorts on the evening, did all they could to just hold Villa at bay without so much as laying a glove on Villa. 

For Spurs, the wobbling back four of Archie Gray, Kevin Danso and Dejan Kulusevski were never entirely sure of their bearings and kept unravelling like a cotton reel when Villa attacked en masse. Their midfield boiler room of Djed Spence, Lucas Bergvall and Rodrigo Bentancur could never get to grips with a now rampant Villa attack. For a moment you were convinced that James Maddison was desperately needed to bring a stylish edge to Spurs midfield but then recognised that Spurs were fighting a losing battle. 

Eventually the North London just threw in the proverbial and cliched towel. Another nimble, quick witted passing movement across the pitch ended up at the feet of Morgan Rodgers. By now the Aston Villa midfield player was gliding over the grass with the greatest ease. Rogers, jinking and dancing, found the Dutch forward Donyell Malen who, in turn, picked out Leon Bailey and Rodgers, moving telepathically into space, slid the ball into the back of the net from close range. Villa were home and hosed. There was no way back for despairing Spurs. 

And so it was that Spurs Australian manager Ange Postecoglou gazed out into the middle distance rather like a man who has no idea what the future holds for him. Postecoglou has understandably been blunt, prickly, irritable, brusque and standoffish with the media. Some of his comments are the obvious reactions of a man under extreme pressure. It is now the Europa League or nothing at all for Spurs since the Premier League became a busted flush for them ages ago. It may be time to concentrate on another season. 

President Donald Trump

 President Donald Trump.

We are now over a month into 2025 and the new President of the United States is already creating havoc. We thought we'd seen it all before, all of that blustering, barking, bellowing and judgmental nonsense about nothing in particular. But some leopards never change their spots and Donald Trump is no exception to the rule. Essentially, Trump is one of those comical, now almost unintelligible, preposterous and outrageously foolish characters who could only have stepped out of the pages of Private Eye magazine.

In his last tenure as President, Trump threatened to build walls to protect America from invading Mexicans who were trying to enter the United States without his permission. So what does Trump do next? Through a process of arrogant alienation and wretched irrationality, Trump tells Mexico to get lost and stay where they are. How dare Mexico cross their borders and therefore seriously jeopardise the economic stability of Trump's proud America? Then he gets all hot and bothered about Covid 19, warning the rest of the world that things could get considerably worse unless they drink domestic bleach and stop panicking.  

There are moments of lucidity such as the insistence on world peace which is something most of us have been seeking ever since the beginning of time. The current if temporary ceasefire in the Middle East between Hamas, Hezbollah and Israel has everything to do with him and he alone. Trump was always pro Israel and advocated the relocation of the US embassy in Israel to Jerusalem. Shrewd and admirable thinking, you may believe and you'd be right.

But the last time Trump was in power at the White House, Trump fell out with the entire world media over issues that he felt the media were simply not taking seriously enough. There were the heated confrontations with Fox News, an American news channel so stubbornly opposed to every decision Trump may have made that eventually the President started picking arguments with Fox and hurling spiteful accusations about their annoying political agenda, of which he so violently disapproved. 

Then of course there were the conspiracy theories, the sense that everybody was bullying him and ganging up against him, making facetious remarks about the colour of his hair perhaps. Then Trump gets increasingly agitated about his so called colleagues and sacks one or two for not listening to him. And then there's the rest of the world including Russia and Ukraine. Trump obviously tells Putin what he thinks of him and promptly tells us in the same breath, quite openly. 

To add insult to injury, Trump, meeting her late and much beloved Her Majesty the Queen, smashes royal protocol to smithereens with the kind of behaviour so embarrassing and disgustingly reprehensible that you wonder if Her Majesty told Trump, quite categorically, to pack his bags, get back onto a plane and go home. The incident is one that barely seems credible in hindsight but it did happen. 

Then the President of the United States in a complete breach of royal protocol, inspecting the Guard of Honour and the Coldstream Guards, discreetly moves in front of Her Majesty. Trump walks very sedately along a row of soldiers, shaking their hands vigorously. Then, the Queen follows quite properly and serenely as she'd always done so in the past. But Trump, in a moment of complete madness, shuffles up alongside Her Majesty, delicately steps in the way of the Queen of England and thinks his conduct utterly becoming. The Queen plants a withering and furious stare at Trump in the President's direction and everything gets socially awkward. 

Trump of course thinks this is the way the English have always done things at royal gatherings. You discreetly push the Queen to one side and think that your overweening vanity takes precedence to everything else. Trump was the most important dignitary on show and the Queen was just a courteous monarch with good, old fashioned manners. But then the disgraceful Trump allowed his vast ego to get in the way of everything and thought the Queen was somehow beneath him although he'd probably deny as such. 

Now though Trump is back in office as President yet again and flexing his political muscles, shouting the odds and posturing yet again. This time he's got the needle to neighbouring Canada and most of the globe if pushed to comment. The whole business of imposing trade tariffs has become so divisive to all concerned and triggered Trump to such a large extent that even Canada have now got it in the neck. Canada has become public enemy number one and yesterday we witnessed restrictions, even bans on the sale of Canadian whisky and alcohol. Suddenly, Trump is on the warpath and nothing can stop this one man force of nature determined to tell the rest of the world what to do and how to do it. 

Pouring salt onto another world, Trump, standing at an airport, blasts a bullet at the EU(the European Union) a destructive broadside at Europe, implying that they're an atrocity, a mindless nuisance and totally ineffectual. In another ludicrous swipe at the UK, he thinks they may be more of an hindrance than anything else, a waste of time and space. But he will give Sir Keir Starmer, the British Prime Minister, should be given the benefit of the doubt. Besides, America and the UK have always been loyal allies, the best of buddy buddies and diplomatic relations have to remain in place. 

So this is where we are with our new President of the United States. One day, America will choose a skilled negotiator, a tactful and sensible leader of the Free World, a hugely intellectual mind and a man capable of leading his country to noble glories. The fact is Donald Trump is clearly not that man or maybe he is and we've underestimated him. Trump is almost 80, the speech is not nearly as fluent as it used to be and there's an obvious fragility about him that is much more noticeable than before. But America, you'll always be our friends and we do indeed salute you.      

National Dark Chocolate Day.

National Dark Chocolate Day. 

You'd never have known what day it is today since very few would claim any knowledge of its significance in the general scheme of things. It's a little known fact and besides there have been no reminders and you could have spent the whole of Saturday innocently minding your business and just curious to find out. It wouldn't have mattered had you not been informed but it would have been nice to be told. 

So let's put you out of your misery and just tell you. Ladies and Gentlemen. Today it's National Dark Chocolate Day and some of us are dancing from the rooftops. Crikey. Now that's a pleasant surprise because some of us just adore dark chocolate and always have done so for as long as you can remember. Yes folks. Chocolate, as we all know, is simply delightful, one of the best tea time treats of all time or any time and the childhood indulgence most of us couldn't get enough and are still in thrall to whatever the occasion. 

But this is no ordinary celebration of chocolate. This is much more specific and so utterly delicious. When you were a child, your wonderful grandparents, grandma and grandpa, were always ready to greet their first grandson with plentiful bars of chocolate because it was their favourite chocolate and they naturally assumed that their lovely grandson would appreciate the finer textures and flavours of good chocolate. 

And yet who of us doesn't like chocolate? You often think this was part of a whole conditioning process as a child, that formative introduction to the sweetest of all foods. But dark chocolate was always pretty special. As soon as you walked into their large, spacious house in Gants Hill, Essex, the polite requests would come thick and fast. Grandma and grandma actively encouraged you to eat it so why not? The choices were always available almost immediately. Did you want a huge bag of crisps, chocolate or a lager shandy from the cocktail cabinet? Somehow you were enormously spoilt and felt so privileged. 

But the dark chocolate but not quite so dark and mysterious was Bourneville. Now to an impressionable kid, chocolate was a daily reward for your arduous academic endeavours. If you were a good lad at school and had behaved impeccably throughout the day then chocolate was something your mum would never hesitate to buy you. And that's when it all started. It was literally like walking into a sweet shop and ogling with wonderment at the phenomenal variety of chocolates and sweets. 

In front of me were well ordered rows of bars of chocolate neatly stacked together in all of their mouth watering, enticing splendour. At the time, nobody had heard of the damaging side effects that could potentially impact on you, the health hazards, the distressing quantities of sugar and fat in chocolate and the substantial amount of weight you could put on as a result. If eaten on a regular basis, you'd probably spend most of your life making constant appointments with your local doctor. Your midriff and stomach was expanding by the minute and the stones would pile on. 

Before you knew it, chocolate would land you in terrible and serious trouble. Surely though there was nothing wrong with chocolate because that first bite into Dairy Milk would guarantee smiles and pleasure all around. Personally, it was a toss up between Mars and Milky Way, those staple bars of chocolate that were just irresistible, bite sized but enough to stimulate your appetite in a way you could hardly have expected as a new born. 

And then there were the simple charms of sweets such as Love Hearts, Pastilles, Jelly Babies, Lemon and Strawberry sherbets that would stare at you seductively from their jars. In the freezer there were the choc ices, chocolate ice cream on a stick, chocolate of every conceivable shape, size and design. But, despite all the sensory temptations it was always Bourneville. Bourneville had a sharp, bitter tang that was just out of this world but it was good chocolate, classy chocolate, chocolate that had style and substance, chocolate from the finest stock and aristocratic background, chocolate that melted in the mouth and left indelible memories. 

So it was that you were hooked, besotted and made for life. You began to develop a lifelong relationship and friendship with Bourneville. In that traditional red packet and shaped like a modern I Phone or calculator, there were small square fragments of chocolate that you would either snap off enthusiastically or could be bitten into with a ravenous relish. You could eat it at any time of the day and just enjoyed since it just made you feel so good. 

There was, if memory serves you correctly, a wonderful bar of dark chocolate in Britain called Jamaica Rum or Old Jamaica Rum. Now here was something different and original. For the first time as a child, you would find raisins and currants in dark chocolate. What a magnificent combination and it didn't get any better? You'd have to go a long way to find anything more perfect and complete. So you settled down at tea time and then find the same ingredients being employed in biscuits. 

One day you came home from school and would open up your mum and dad's bread bin for this was the place you would invariably find your dark chocolate Digestive biscuits, a moreish and madly addictive chocolate sweet treat that could leave you floating on a high for ages. That first crunch and savour of the dark chocolate biscuit would leave you on cloud nine for what seemed like an indefinite period of time. There were always Fry's dark segments of choc and nowadays Thornton's have captured the most expensive end of the market. There are dark chocolate versions of Galaxy, Green and Black and a various boxes of Celebrations and Quality Street. 

It can't be denied that dark chocolate has held a warm place in your heart for years and years. Today is the day when you can just take it easy because it is the weekend. It'll be Saturday evening and there probably isn't a great deal worth watching on TV. But there's been a large bar of Bourneville in the cupboard and you've been longing to unwrap it. There can be no better time than now to devour that smooth dark brown slice of heaven. You shouldn't really be looking for the kind of comfort food that thousands of dieticians, nutritionists, food scientists have never tired of telling us is highly inadvisable and bad for you. But personally, dark chocolate is the most unbeatable taste sensation. Go on. It's highly recommended.  

Holocaust Memorial Day.

 Holocaust Memorial Day.

The images have now become painfully familiar, the memories horrifically permanent and the faces tortured with pain, suffering, heartbreak, poignancy and unimaginable trauma. This is not a day for blame, anger, recrimination, hatred, intolerance or slanderous accusations. We have heard this mantra over and over again, the one where the social commentators insist that we never seem to learn the lessons of history. We know this to be true because surely this is stating the obvious. 

Today the world marks the 80th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz, that seminal moment in time when the Holocaust officially came to an end. After six years of punishing, excruciatingly unbearable death and destruction, the world finally breathed an enormous sigh of relief. As the years and decades have gone by, the questions seemed to multiply and the post mortem reflections and reminiscences grow louder and even harder to explain. Of course the Holocaust may be completely beyond our understanding and rationale but, for a vast majority of us, we can but pray that it may never happen again. 

Once again, the yearly gathering of  prime ministers, religious leaders, presidents, dignitaries, ambassadors and political figures of every denomination will be present in Auschwitz. They will be there not out of any obligation or necessity because that would be regarded as an outrage. They will be there as benevolent members of humanity, as caring, compassionate individuals, people who are there to pay their deepest respects for the one of the most despicable violations of man's inhumanity to man, woman and child. 

When Adolf Hitler, accompanied by his evil henchmen, Goebbels and Eichmann, had finally surrendered in 1945, damage limitation had been accepted as an inevitable consequence for a global catastrophe that nobody could have predicted. But once again the world unites under a huge canopy of shared mourning, spine chilling solemnity, grave prayer, introspective thoughts, quiet privacy and just being in the moment. 

There will be hours of haunting silence, stunned stares into the middle distance, rivers of tears and a generation whose lives were torn and paralysed by fear, terror and constant apprehension. There will be a gruesome sense of loss, desolation, desperation and deprivation, an aching sensation that may never go away. And then there were those who lost mothers, fathers, parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, children and those who will remain irreplaceable. 

And yet we will never forget those filthy, pinched faces, the millions of adults and children wearing the now tragically distinctive striped clothing, the grubby pyjamas, the weak and lifeless, the drawn and haggard, sunken cheeks, the weeping, sobbing, crying multitudes. They stood by the electrified barbed wire that history will never forget for all the wrong reasons, thin, petrified, trembling, pleading for mercy and stretching out wasted muscles and arms to anybody who may have been listening and watching. 

The Holocaust is now frozen in time, long forgotten by those who would rather bury their heads in the sand. But the reality is that six million Jews were murdered in the gas chambers, mercilessly locked away in disgusting squalor. Of course there were the gypsies, the gay community and those who were dismissed as supposedly imperfect, totally unconnected to the Aryan ideal of mental and physical supremacy. 

But for those of us who remain steadfastly proud members of the global Jewish population, we should never forget those grey and dark buildings, the terrifying lamps by the side of the Auschwitz rail line and the cattle car that carried millions to death and annihilation. Of course we should always remember those vividly obscene chimney stacks where the black smoke of mutilated bodies would provide the Holocaust with its most horrendous backdrop. 

Of course we should never eliminate from our minds the humiliation, degradation, starvation, the endless beatings, the bloodthirsty savagery, the evil dehumanisation. For those of us who are grandsons of Holocaust survivors, this is much more personal than any could ever hope to imagine. The gory details have been endlessly documented and recounted over and over again. Time has been a great healer but every so often you are reminded of the grief and ghastliness of losing loved ones helplessly. You could be filled with resentment but you slowly realise that the crimes of our ancestors have to be put into some semblance of perspective. Never ever forget the Shoah and the Holocaust and never, ever, ever again. 

The Lawman dies- Denis Law dies

 The Lawman dies- Denis Law dies.

Last week, Manchester United lost one of its last links with the Holy Trinity of Best, Law and Charlton. Pat Crerand and Alex Stepney remain one of the last survivors of that unforgettable night at the old Wembley Stadium when United ground down the great Benfica side of Eusebio and eventually outclassed the Portuguese giants with a masterly 4-1 win that brought the European Cup to England for the first time after Celtic had won the same competition a year earlier.

Denis Law was undoubtedly one of the deadliest and liveliest strikers in modern football and along with the likes of Best and Charlton, could turn a match on its head with a match winning goal of the most classical quality. Law was always in the right time and the right place and could study the geography of a football pitch in a way that few could. In fact there was an internal map in Law's mind that would take him straight to the heart of the six yard box in a crowded penalty area. 

But the lasting image of Law would be that of the deeply emotional and upsetting moment when Law, playing for neighbours Manchester City, scored the vital goal which sent his former club United down to the old Second Division. In front of a feverish Old Trafford on a bright spring day, Law, positioned perfectly for a cut back across the ailing United defence, back heeled the ball almost insolently past Alex Stepney and United had been relegated from the top flight in a matter of seconds. 

Law was heartbroken and distraught and his mixed feelings could be seen almost immediately. Law lifted his arm almost grudgingly as if in a state of private mourning. In fact the raised arm salute would become Law's distinctive trademark but now the Lawman was in a genuine state of anguish. For years, Denis Law had become one of the most identifiable figures in a red United shirt, blond hair bouncing around his neck, long sleeved shirt never turned up and hands firmly clenched together on dark wintry evenings. 

Only the ever perceptive Bill Shankly could have unearthed this natural centre forward. Law had served his apprenticeship at Huddersfield and even as a willowy thin 15 year old, it was obvious where the young Scotsman was going- to the very top of his profession. The goals began to flood into the back of the net and such was his princely grandeur as a player and his clinical touch in front of goal that it only seemed a matter of time before the likes of Manchester United came hunting for this classy striker. 

In 1967 though, after the most horrendous famine at United, the club finally came up trumps with their first League Championship trophy- the old First Division, since the beginning of time.  It had seemed an eternity since their last triumph at the end of a gruelling League season but it was better late than never. In that same year and summer, Law drew a sadistic delight in scoring for Scotland in the famous Home International match against England at the old Wembley. Scotland beat England and the school of thought at the time was that the Scots had won perfect revenge for England's World Cup winning exploits a year earlier. Retribution may have been sweet but for Denis Law this meant the world to him. 

And then ironically there was the European Cup Final victory against Benfica which, sadly, Law missed through injury but the marker had been set. Here was a powerful, hungry forward who loved to go shoulder to shoulder with his defender, running directly at him and then leaving his opponent gasping for air. Law had an innate strength both of character and physique, ghosting past players effortlessly and stealthily as if they weren't there. 

When his appetite for British football had dwindled beyond recognition, Law decided to up sticks and move to Italy with Serie A Torino. Here the Scottish stick of dynamite excelled for a while and the usually conservative Italians could hardly believe what they were watching. Law scored goals for fun and that was his forte. His relationship with the Italian fans became both affectionate and moving.

By the 1980s Law had retired from the game he so treasured, becoming a cheerful TV pundit, a profound analyst of the game's mechanics and never afraid to express an opinion when he felt it was merited. Then the after dinner speaking circuit beckoned and the United legend had now felt entitled to both criticise and praise as and when appropriate. 

Now though old age had begun to wither him and in recent years dementia and a heart condition began to take their toll. In recent years he began to look tragically haggard and drawn, one of the regrettable symptoms of both medical conditions. On reflection though the Scotsman, who played for his country with a notable distinction but probably too late on his career, now stood as judge and jury. Football had been good for Denis Law and to those who were honoured to be in his presence, the memories would always be there for both his family, children and grandchildren. We will miss you deeply Denis Law of that there can be no question.  

The Bahamas- sheer paradise.

 The Bahamas- sheer paradise.

You know what it's like. You're about to take off on your Virgin Atlantic plane and you're about to head home back to Britain on the highest of highs. You're sitting comfortably when, suddenly, the cabin temperature in your plane reaches its hottest point. It's unbearable  and the sweat is pouring off you profusely. Then your capable and competent pilot, an experienced man who can always be relied upon, tells us that the plane's air conditioning system is busted and therefore your flight has to be cancelled. 

There are some things that push your patience to the limit but, after the most fabulous cruise to the Bahamas, my wife and yours truly were expecting the smoothest journey back to Heathrow airport. But complications set in almost immediately and our voyage became hellish. After what seemed a lifetime trapped and marooned in a plane that was clearly going nowhere, our pilot came back onto the microphone. Despite repeated attempts to take off, the engineers had failed to fix the problem. 

Ladies and Gentlemen were regrettably informed that they had to vacate the plane and we were to be located to who knows where back at Miami International Airport? Having now wandered almost the entire length and breadth of said plane, bewildered passengers, by now totally stressed out and agitated by events unfolding around them, gathered on the first floor and did some more milling around and traipsing about, comparing possible destinations to either Atlanta, Paris or some exotic shore where the banyan trees sway sensually in the gentle Caribbean breezes. 

By now, some of us were either panicking, scratching our heads or just looking forward to a couple more bonus days and nights in downtown Miami. Some had already booked their hotel and were just hoping that wherever they were going to sleep that night wouldn't be accompanied by unwelcome insects or dodgy sanitation. My wife and I effectively gave up when we were told that a hotel inside the airport might become available. All of those loud announcements and hundreds of holidaymakers just walking past your front door would surely have constituted a major inconvenience. 

But two days later and a surprisingly unexpected tour of Miami and the Everglades, we concluded our cruise to the beautiful Bahamas. We spent just over a week in the most delightful sunshine nudging the 80s at times and sailing serenely across the Pacific Ocean as if the world was doing something completely different to us and we didn't care one iota. We were indulging in the most luxurious experience you could have ever imagined. We were being treated like royalty and how grateful we were all. 

Our first port of call was Ocean Cay, a small parcel of islands that looked as though they'd been cocooned away in neatly drawn squares. Ocean Cay is part of a much bigger preservation project where the environment is one of sheer bliss. The trees were waving to us warmly and all you could hear were diligent construction workers drilling, sawing and hammering away at new eco systems. There were no houses and flats that we could see but you did see those colourfully co-ordinated wooden walls with pretty gabled roofs. 

Now our obliging guide took us on a whirlwind tour of Ocean Cay in his buggy. We tore around the edge of the island at a fair rate of knots, admiring innumerable beaches that looked as though they belonged exclusively in heaven. There was a flying visit to see the iguanas simply sticking to the rocks, gazing out into the middle distance with ample sun factor 35 on their skins.  There were beaches that were now being developed as we drove around at top speed. There were hidden lagoons with turquoise waters that probably looked like a mirror if you looked closely enough. There were languorous sunbathers under the shade of huge umbrellas, rum and punch sellers, pineapple cocktails with every conceivable flavour. We were told stories about Ocean Cay that would have made your hair stand on end if you were prepared to allow it to.

Our second day was spent in Nassau, the capital city of Bahamas where we now witnessed the most exquisite sight you were ever likely to see. It was both the most memorable experience of all time. Nassau is rather like most capital cities throughout the world only this one was surrounded by vast stretches of water, sea or ocean. Now we were introduced to a small community of pigs that just took the breath away. Yes pigs in the Caribbean, folks. Some of us were totally disbelieving until we saw the evidence of our eyes. A family of pigs, numbering perhaps five or six pigs, father and son, baby pigs and a select circle of the porcine population, came running over towards us.

What now followed was a joyful revelation. Two of the teenage pigs started scurrying all over the place cocky and convinced that they would be the first to be fed. So we held out our buckets with what can only be described as pork scratchings on a stick or scraps of pate. Now every single pig came surging towards us, dipping their heads into the bucket as if they hadn't eaten since Christmas. Our friendly guides couldn't have been more helpful or generous with their time. 

Our visit to San Juan in Porto Rico was rather like those street festivals that we didn't really have time to appreciate. We strolled around the back streets, moseying around clothes shops, souvenir stores, cafes, restaurants, breathing in the magical Latin atmosphere. Our ears were caressed by salsa music, rumba music and speakers blasting out stirring renditions of old Bob Marley standards. We sipped coffee and cappuccino, caught tantalising glimpses of art and graffiti on the many walls and just immersed ourselves in the Caribbean culture. 

And then there was another stunning highlight of our cruise. On Puerto Plata, we were taken to see those delightful dolphins, beautiful creatures of the sea who look permanently happy to see you. We were now ushered over to the dolphin encounter area. Sitting on the edge of the pool, we were now introduced to one of the oldest female dolphins Nasarina

 At various moments, she started flapping her fins in the most playful fashion, almost applauding herself for being so well behaved and polite. Next we were lined up together so that Nasarina, our debonair dolphin could show off again. She circled around the pool, whistling with that distinctive high pitch squeak. In an amazing show of bravado, she sneaked out into the main pool where, leaping with vast enthusiasm, she somersaulted in mid air before diving back into the water with an effortless back flip. 

We must have thought our cruise of a lifetime had now officially ended. We returned back to Miami and assumed that that was indeed our lot. We hadn't seen Don Johnson of TV's 1980s cop thriller Miami Vice but that was just a forlorn hope anyway. The technical gremlins had meant that we were given the opportunity to see the spectacular Everglades. Before, we were provided with our first sighting of America's finest crocodiles. Now of course we were told to keep a safe and respectful distance from the crocodiles because if we'd come anywhere even remotely close to them, we would be their lunch.

For the second time around, my wife and I boarded our Virgin Atlantic plane confident that lightning would not strike twice. We'd met some superb people, heard a whole audio of nationalities and accents and the cruise entertainment had once again excelled itself. We hadn't seen the sharks or the seals but we'd soaked up the heat, the effusive hospitality and, this time successfully, had gone back to London, England. Travel had indeed broadened our minds.   

Rod Stewart is 80.

 Rod Stewart is 80.

When Sir Rod Stewart left the Small Faces many moons ago, flares were just a fashion concept and glam rock was about to explode onto the pop music consciousness. Most of us though assumed that life would never be the same for the then Rod Stewart. Would Stewart be able to rock on his own? Nobody knew though, that today he would still be entertaining the global public, his devoted fans still packing the open air stadiums, the big concert venues and embracing TV celebrity. 

Today, Celtic and Scotland's most famous supporter will be celebrating his 80th birthday and he still performs with all the uninhibited exuberance of a teenager swinging his microphone around a stage as if he'd just passed his driving test or added yet another girlfriend to his growing number of admirers. The long hair and leopard print shirt and trousers may have gone but the love of showbusiness and music may never fade. Rod or Sir Rod Stewart has still, undoubtedly, got it and isn't afraid to flaunt it. 

There must have been a time during the last decade or two when Stewart would have been forgiven for slowing down, for taking time out from his busy, punishing schedule and just chilling out. But not Sir Rodney, certainly not. It takes a lot to hold back this irresistible force of nature, since the man defies description. The energy is boundless, the desire to please has never been doubted and there is a frightening commitment to give his best every time he bounds onto the centre of a stage, body and soul in perfect harmony.

Just a couple of Christmases ago, Stewart suddenly arrived at St Pancras station with a whole entourage of musicians including a superb set of trumpeters and a small female trio as backing group. We were simply stunned and surprised since none of us had seen anything like it before. Then, Stewart grabbed his microphone and was accompanied by the ever stylish Jools Holland on piano. The rest is etched into music folklore. Both Stewart and Holland launched into a smooth old American songbook ballad and now the secret was out. 

At the beginning of last year Stewart and Holland collaborated brilliantly on an album which included many of the songs that Rod Stewart's father had sung and then collected the album from which those great lyrics had been written. It was now that both of these consummate musicians declared a passion for model railways and now we were lost for words, an accusation that could never have been levelled at both men. 

Throughout his colourful career and private life, Rod Stewart has always been at the heart of music's evolution from the hippiedom of the 1960s, through the commercial fame and fortune of the 1970s, well into  the the prolific 1980's and 90s when music just became a toy and vehicle for even greater expression. There was always a vaudeville impudence and jack the lad outrageousness about Stewart that has never left him. Stewart has always delivered with a straightforward sincerity. There are no airs or graces about Stewart, just a powerhouse vitality that threatens the longevity of Sir Mick Jagger and the Rolling Stones. 

His back catalogue with his old mucker Ronnie Wood and the Faces now seems just a yellowing page from history. But when Sir Rod went solo during the 1970s, it was privately feared that few would take to the gravelly voice that sounded as though it had been rubbed down with sandpaper. Those croaky tonsils and growling delivery was unmistakable. And then in the early 1970s, there came the memorable Maggie May, a song so heartfelt, personal, poignant but full bloodedly rocky that you could tell that Stewart meant it from the heart. 

Then in the mid 1970s there was the single that came to define and guarantee him Hall of Fame immortality. From the iconic album Atlantic Crossing which sold in phenomenal millions, there emerged the classical 'Sailing'. For what seemed the whole summer of 1975, 'Sailing' just dominated the number one spot in the BBC pop charts. Once again, Rod Stewart had nailed national popularity across the whole of Britain. 'Sailing' was emotional, lyrical, beautifully crafted and polished, another ballad that had a lovely, lilting feel that could never be forgotten. It was a record that would become a compulsive listen at any party, wedding or barmitzvah. 

The First Cut is the Deepest, Do You Think I'm Sexy, This Old Heart of Mine and countless other  gorgeous standards continued to sell in prodigious quantities. The 1990s marked a less consistent presence in the music charts. But Rod Stewart keeps coming back and showboating. He keeps announcing and promoting himself as a performer and remains peerless as one of Britain's finest all rounders. 

At his palatial home in Chigwell, Essex, Stewart remains mine host at a giant five a side football pitch. Here some of Sir Rod's closest friends and celebrity acquaintances lark around joyously as if Celtic were locked in a permanent match with Rangers. Last year, Stewart led the campaign to get rid of the pot holes that were suddenly appearing in his local roads. It was somehow typical of a man who has never shirked controversy when necessary. He is now happily married to former policewoman Penny Lancaster and is surrounded by doting children and grandchildren. We love Sir Rod Stewart because he's never pretended to be anything other than Sir Rod Stewart. Happy Birthday Sir Rod.

West Ham manager in danger of sack.

West Ham manager in danger of sack. 

Last night West Ham manager Julen Lopetegui was on the verge of being sacked. Now where have we heard that one before? The precarious nature of football management is such that you have to worry for their welfare and livelihood. It can be a lonely business, traipsing up and down the touchlines, hands in pockets, grinning, despairing, grimacing, pacing up and down, lowering your head and then burying it in despair when their team are playing awfully and nobody cares about them. 

For much of the first half of the season, Lopetegui has carried the air of a condemned man, resigned to the worst of all fates and questioning his own experience and prowess. In short, Lopetegui's first encounter with the team from East London has been nothing short of horrendous. The genial Spaniard is, of course, a decent and honourable man and he has been moderately successful with both Sevilla and Real Madrid in a coaching capacity but even after a brief spell with Wolves, this has not gone well for Lopetegui. 

At the end of the last season, West Ham bid farewell to David Moyes after the Scotsman had left the indelible legacy of a UEFA Conference trophy and a notable European achievement. Moyes also oversaw top half Premier League finishes in three consecutive seasons while not forgetting a Europa League campaign. So it was a case of parting with such sweet sorrow because, essentially, Moyes had been one of the most successful managers in West Ham's recent history. 

But when the air had cleared and Moyes was gone, West Ham eventually came across a man they thought they could trust, a foreign manager with an educated, cerebral footballing mind firmly committed to studious, possession based football and whose attacking principles were second to none. Sadly, after only half a season, West Ham have now discovered that the decision to appoint Lopetegui was both ill advised, rash and completely wrong. 

After only six wins thus far in the Premier League, West Ham are now looking up at the others around them in a lowly 14th place and wondering exactly whether a grenade might have gone off when least expected. Besides, West Ham are now, allegedly, a big time club with European aspirations, a club to be regarded as genuine contenders for beautiful trophies and global recognition. Now though, there are worried frowns around the London Stadium and the dormant fear that somebody will mention relegation to the Championship at some point, is never far from the debating chambers and discussion rooms of social media.  

But football is a cruel, heartless and unforgiving sport where only the survival of the fittest counts and even the greatest can fall from grace within a flicker of an eyelid. Manchester United, surely one of the wealthiest and most glamorous clubs in the world game for many a decade, are a classic example of what happens when you lose a much loved manager and find it impossible to replace him. Like West Ham, United are struggling under duress, fighting desperately to keep their battered morale and ego in one piece.

On Sunday, Manchester United went up to Anfield and gained a valuable point against Premier League leaders and pace setters Liverpool, when all the odds were stacked against them. Recently, their Dutch manager Erik Ten Hag was booted out of the club after failing to understand the fundamental values and ridiculously high standards that United have set over the years. United's new manager Ruben Amorim is the latest candidate at Old Trafford to face the firing squad. The Stretford End will not tolerate average performances and mediocrity. Only genius and consistent excellence will be the only stipulation at United. It's written in stone and the statements are carved into their archives. 

For West Ham though, a club that once prided itself on remaining loyal to their managers through thick and thin, are now hiring and firing on a fairly regular basis. In the last 25 years, the club have seen come and go the esteemed likes of Harry Redknapp, a coach and manager of the highest order. Then there was the late and much missed Glen Roeder preceded by Lou Macari, Billy Bonds, Avram Grant, Gianfranco Zola and Sam Allardyce. The gallery of the great, good and totally forgettable have passed through the hallowed corridors of Upton Park, West Ham's once adorable old ground and those in the know have sighed mournfully.

Yesterday, Julen Lopetegui faced up to the inevitable prospect of being fired for both his managerial incompetence and complete lack of any kind of leadership at the club. The Spaniard has simply misunderstood his role at West Ham, muddling through the early months of the season with players who just weren't responding to both his tactics and less than desirable approach to management. When the early home defeats to both Aston Villa, Chelsea and Manchester City punctured a massive hole in their ambitious plans for the season, everything just fell apart at the seams for the Hammers. 

Another heavy thrashing at home to Liverpool in a 5-0 defeat at the London Stadium led to yet more rumblings of discontent in the East End. There was the 5-2 home defeat to Arsenal, the even more humiliating 3-0 defeat at Leicester City and on Saturday, another demolition at the Etihad. Their 4-1 defeat to Premier League champions Manchester City may be the final door to be slammed in Lopetegui's face. Nine goals have been conceded in two consecutive games and slowly patience is wearing thin behind the scenes at West Ham. 

For those who grew up with the stability and continuity of Ron Greenwood, who spent 20 years at West Ham and then the much under rated John Lyall, the more up to date developments at the club have been truly disturbing. Managers can never be seen to do the right thing whoever they are but at least Greenwood gave the club a real sense of direction, a steadying rudder to keep West Ham afloat. Regrettably, Greenwood spent too much of his time, extinguishing potential fires, wrestling with a relegation haunted team and permanently fending off accusations of inadequacy and unfulfilled potential. 

True, Greenwood did taste FA Cup winning success in 1964 when West Ham beat Preston North End in the FA Cup Final. Ronny Boyce's last gasp winning goal clinched the Cup for West Ham. The following year Greenwood enjoyed perhaps his finest hour. West Ham had conquered most of Europe in the European Cup Winners Cup and their 2-0 victory against German side TSV Munich 1860 in that famous Final at Wembley in 1965 probably gave Greenwood much more pleasure than any of us could have imagined. But for the next 13 years he was just unable to take the club much further forward and, after a couple of seasons of hardship and unproductive toil and trouble, West Ham were relegated to the old Second Division.

The managerial qualities of John Lyall were, more or less, a surprising discovery, serendipity personified. Lyall was the local boy whose playing career had been unfortunately brought to an end by injury and was now installed as manager. For those of us who were just privileged to be there on the night, West Ham's final match of the season at home to Ipswich Town, will live long in the memory. In 1986, West Ham almost won the old League Championship and in hindsight, it still feels like some weird dream that almost came true. A 2-1 win to West Ham against the Tractor Boys was thoroughly deserved but then Liverpool and Everton intervened and West Ham finished the season third in the old First Division.

Now though after employing a number of foreign coaches including the inexplicably morose Israeli Avram Grant, West Ham are back at square one. The chances are that Lopetegui will leave West Ham under a cloud of disgrace after a series of embarrassingly heavy defeats. Nobody likes seeing a fair minded and respectable man suffer in this way because the Spaniard has probably made more friends than enemies at the club. 

But there's an internal dissent and disconnect between Tim Steiden, the club's technical director and go between and management, the smell a repulsive one. Nine players were bought during last summer and none have really hit the ground running apart from perhaps Aaron Wan Bissaka, the full back with a genuine turn of pace and a natural ability to deliver an accurate cross into the six yard box. The rest though are, more or less stuck in glutinous, gooey treacle, promising at times but about as useless as a chocolate tea pot in the important games. 

Brian Clough, that notable miracle worker, eloquent after dinner speaker and splendidly opinionated manager of Derby County and Nottingham Forest, was ruthlessly no nonsense and dogmatic. On the subject of chairmen and bossy know it alls, Clough once said, at Brighton, if memory serves you correctly, that he would gather around a table for a discussion with his chairman, and, after much deliberation, would decide he was always right and should never be contradicted. 

Nowadays loyalty is almost non existent to any new, incoming manager and the days of Ron Greenwood, Bill Nicholson, Bill Shankly and Dario Gradi at Crewe, are almost as antiquated as trams or horse drawn carriages even Victorian barouches. Contracts signed with good intentions are about as meaningless as the paper they're written on. Managers are marketable commodities with a fairly limited shelf life and it does seem possible that there are times when they'd be forgiven for seeing red. 

Julen Lopetegui will no doubt settle down, having left West Ham, with a late night cup of coffee and a classic recording from John Coltrane, reflective jazz oozing from his downloaded music collection. Or maybe he'll shake his head aggressively at both sides of an AC DC or Def Leppard heavy rock riff album. Managing a football club has always been an emotionally demanding ordeal and you have to get it out of your system somehow. Perhaps the truth is that Lopetegui has probably had enough of the Premier League for the time being. If that were the case then you could hardly blame him.