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.