Crystal Palace reach the FA Cup Final, beating Aston Villa in the FA Cup semi final.

 Crystal Palace reach the FA Cup Final, beating Aston Villa in the FA Cup semi final.

Crystal Palace were rewarded for their perseverance and the FA Cup once again remembered that it still has a romantic soft spot. For all the world, it did look as if Manchester City had taken out proprietorial rights on all of England's available trophies, sweeping aside all comers and forgetting that football's beating heart was still throbbing away in a private corner. There is still a corner of England that is forever unfashionable, discreetly hidden away from the public eye. Now we can easily recognise one of its more modest inhabitants, a team who have never won anything and might, finally, win the FA Cup.

Yesterday, Crystal Palace were in the most astonishing form of their lives, a team sprinkled with stardust, criminally unfancied and never hogging the back page headlines. Crystal Palace are in the 2025 FA Cup Final. Now how good does that sound. They've made several visits to a Wembley FA Cup Final and never quite been able to thrust themselves over the finishing line. It often seems that the underdog will always be underestimated but Palace will return to the FA Cup Final in a couple of weeks time. 

In 1990, Palace were eventually overwhelmed by Sir Alex Ferguson's swaggering Manchester United side, a United sniffing the rarefied air of success for the first time before greater achievements awaited in future years. Palace were crushed underfoot by the likes of Mark Hughes and company in an FA Cup Final replay after Ian Wright, who first came to prominence with Palace, had made an immediate impact for the Eagles in both the first game and then a replay which would go against Palace.

But 35 years later and Palace are back in the glamorous bright lights of Wembley Stadium and an FA Cup Final is theirs for the taking should they want it. Either Nottingham Forest or Manchester City will be their opposition although Palace will have no preference because they must understand better than most that the middle classes of the Premier League are always content with their station in life. City will be going flat out to prove that they can still win trophies even though the Premier League has now escaped them this season. Forest are just desperate to win the FA Cup for the first time in their history. 

Once again an FA Cup semi final did live up to all its traditional expectations. For those who recall the enchantment of a visit to either Villa Park or Hillsborough, the choice of Wembley Stadium as the now yearly venue for both FA Cup semi finals does have an air of inappropriateness about it. And yet the practical value of taking the game to the national stadium does make some sense. For Crystal Palace there was an earthy air of authenticity about the Cup's magic. Palace could feel it and reach out for it. 

There were those FA Cup semi finals when the alleged minnows almost proved everybody wrong. Plymouth Argyle were once 90 minutes from an FA Cup Final before Graham Taylor's Watford spoilt their party. Then there was Chesterfield who could hardly believe that they were a match away from the pomp and pageantry of an FA Cup Final. Then Middlesbrough dumped them unceremoniously out of the competition in the semi final. It almost felt too good to be true for the men from Derbyshire. For Crystal Palace, this was their big chance and they embraced it for all its worth.

But Palace will always be associated with those flamboyant days of both Malcolm Allison and Terry Venables. Quite how Palace came to be acknowledged as the Team of the Eighties beggars belief. True they did have that classical, dashing and exciting winger Vince Hilaire in their ranks. They had the Hinshelwood brothers, Jerry Murphy, Peter Taylor scurrying up and down the flanks as well, all deceptive trickery and dropping shoulders. Dave Swindlehurst led the line admirably and consistently but Palace were distinctly lacking in regal grandeur and never more than run of the mill. 

On a Saturday springtime evening though Palace beat an Aston Villa whose season has sadly run out of steam. After their gallant exertions against Lyon in the Champions League and defeat to the French team, Villa are in the hunt for another place in next year's Champions League. But Villa simply fell short against Palace and, for all their eye catching passing movements, there was a stale rustiness about yesterday's display. The claret and blue had a sour taste about it rather than a vintage one. 

At the back Marc Guehi has a shining England potential about him and Palace will need to hold onto Guehi if they are ever to harbour any realistic hopes of Premier League survival or much beyond. Both Maxence Lacroix and Daniel Munoz gave the Palace defence an immaculate authority without ever flinching any challenge. With Chris Richards looking stern, unyielding and oozing the security at the back Palace were hoping for, the Eagles were a well oiled machine. Tyrick Mitchell was full of the exuberance of youth while Ebereche Eze is a sensational talent and should be wrapped in cotton wool for England's latest attempt to finally win the World Cup again next year. Ishmaila Sarr was all magnificent suppleness, athleticism and devastating pace, an energetic livewire who broke any Villa resistance. 

It wasn't long before Palace were in cruise control and firmly in charge of proceedings. They took the lead with their first sustained attack of the game, a gem of a goal and so richly deserved. Sarr, always involved in all the good things that Palace had to offer, ran purposefully forward at the Villa defence, shrugging off claret and blue shirts as if they were simply invisible. Sarr found Eze, laying the ball square across the edge of the penalty area and Eze thumped the ball low past Martinez, the Villa keeper, with bludgeoning force.

Villa had no answer to Palace's conveyor belt of attacking prowess and the likes of John Mcginn, Boubacar Kamara, Ezri Konsa, Lucas Digne, Morgan Rogers and Ollie Watkins were struggling to come to terms with a Palace attacking juggernaut that simply rolled along both smoothly and forcefully without ever being challenged by anything Villa had in their repertoire. 

For Palace, the contribution of Adam Wharton was simply a magnificent masterclass. Wharton was full of bite, doggedness and tenacity, his interceptions as smooth as syrup and tackling a joy to behold. Palace extended their lead thanks to Wharton's bullishness and bravery. Wharton won the ball courageously outside the Villa penalty box, prodding the ball into space and Sarr glided into space before drilling the most powerful of shots past Martinez.

It seemed that Palace had been completely unruffled by the penalty miss from Jean Phillipe Mateta. Villa at the time must have feared the worst but Mateta's spot kick was both feeble and sloppy. Briefly, Villa rallied but were then pinned back into their own half by a Palace side now showing both a verve and panache that couldn't be held back. 

In the second half, quite notably, Palace's Eze and Mateta up front, were in the most breathtaking form, Eze now sliding and slipping past Villa players with a sense of entitlement and class. Eze was both stylish and authoritative, a quality midfield attacking player whose positional awareness of his colleagues was almost instinctive. Palace were now flying and as the match ebbed away from Villa, it became increasingly apparent that the claret and blue shirts were now drained and devoid of any ideas.

Palace could afford the luxury of bringing on the former Arsenal forward Eddie Nketiah without disturbing their flow. Nketiah, sensing that Villa were holding onto the metaphorical ropes, sent a outrageously perceptive, drilled through ball past a tiring Villa defence. The portcullis then opened up, Sarr gobbling up the acres of grass before moving onto the pass and blasting home Palace's third goal, the icing on the cake. 

High up on the Wembley terraces and seats, there were vast walls of red, white and navy banners and flags. Palace's fans, some of the loudest and proudest in the Premier League, made themselves conspicuous by their presence. They sung resoundingly, chanted vociferously and then abandoned themselves to rapturous cheering. Saturday evening must have been their most unforgettable experience, when all those years of agonising failure became a joyous drunken stupor. None could deny them their moment in the sun. Even Oliver Glasner, Palace's boss could afford himself a pat on the back. Let those Eagles fly high.      

The Penguin Lessons

 The Penguin Lessons

We could hardly believe what we were watching. This was quite the most extraordinary film we've seen for ages and at the end of Steve Coogan's latest film The Penguin Lessons some of us were reduced to buckets of emotional tears, weeping unaccountably and not really understanding why a film about an English teacher and a penguin had set off so many powerful emotions. So we watched with a mixture of delicious curiosity and much amusement. My wife Bev and I were suitably enchanted. 

In hindsight there could hardly have been less moving and poignant about The Penguin Lessons but it did leave you  crying and not really knowing why. Besides the penguin died at the end of the film and why should that fact alone matter in the least. It wasn't your pet penguin and you didn't invite the said penguin into your family home. You didn't feed the penguin, care for it in the most sympathetic manner and introduce it to a classroom of rowdy, mischievous and disruptive schoolboys in Argentina. You paid to see the film with a cosy tub of of popcorn, a drink and a small bar of chocolate. 

So let's set the scene here and give you a detailed description of what happened in the Penguin Lessons. Steve Coogan, who plays the appropriately scholarly, sarcastic and cynical English teacher Tom Michell, arrives in Argentina in 1976. Argentina is riven by a nasty and sinister military dictatorship, the streets densely populated by aggressive soldiers in uniform and the ever present threat of war. Coogan is the man given the responsibility of handling a group of testosterone fuelled teenage boys who are intent on creating havoc and rebelling fiercely against the system. 

Coogan rocks up at his new job as English school teacher against a backdrop of police arrests on the streets of Argentina, bloodthirsty brutality and general mayhem. He meets Jonathan Price, the learned, professorial, ever so slightly snobbish and condescending head teacher who lectures the Steve Coogan character and leaves us in no doubt that he doesn't trust Tom Michell. The boys are hoodlums and reprobates who need to be sorted out and taught the meaning of the word 'sarcastic'.

Then Coogan, with a restless spirit and an insatiable taste of adventure, flies into the tango cafes of Uruguay where his fellow teacher Bjorn Gustafson, the science man, doesn't really approve of Coogan's love of the high life and his declared passion for wine, women and song. Coogan now settles down in his new flat and finds some kind of domestic stability back in Argentina.

Meeting the first Uruguayan women at a bar, he seduces her with sweet nothings but then finds that she's married and it was all a horrible mistake. It is at this point that the story takes its most bizarre twist. Walking along a beach at dusk, both Coogan and his lady friend accidentally discover a group of heart breaking penguins, one of which is seemingly drowned in an oil slick.

Now the Penguin Lessons takes on a life form of its own. Our friendly penguin, now the central feature of the film, follows Steve Coogan and refuses to go away. Much to the annoyance and embarrassment of Coogan, the penguin now decides to observe Coogan's every day activities. He joins him for breakfast, wandering hither and thither, waddling from side to side in quite the cutest fashion. Now we learn that Coogan's character was married but had lost his daughter in a tragic accident. 

Then Tom Michell, our highly respected English teacher, befriends a mother and daughter Vivian El Jaber aka Maria and Alfonsia Carrocio Sofia. Innocently minding her own business, the daughter is snatched and kidnapped by the Argentine military junta. Coogan looks on helplessly and the action moves back to our friendly penguin who becomes increasingly like a metaphor for the film itself; interested in everything and inquisitive about the human race. 

Eventually Coogan, determined to rid himself of the penguin, wakes up to the sound of marching band and warlike music on the radio, and then decided to take him back to a penguin sanctuary. The sudden realisation that the newly named penguin Juan Salvado would now be confined to a cage for the rest of his life stirs an empathy in Coogan and his conscience is pricked sharply. Juan Salvado can stay and now proceeds to spend time listening to the Jonathan Price character and flirting with Maria and Sofia.The penguin now joins in with the boys playful exploits in the school classroom and wins the hearts of everybody.

But then one day, returning to his flat, Tom Michell finds, much to his horror, that Juan Salvado is dead and some of us were just devastated and mortified. Barely believing what had just happened, Coogan crouches down on the floor tearfully handling all of Juan Salvado's toys. Our lovable penguin, after one final swim in a pool, now lay prone on the veranda floor. It is one of the most heart breaking conclusions to any movie and if you're in the mood for a tear jerker and something gentle and inoffensive then the Penguin Lessons is definitely for you. Enjoy. 

Football in the Championship.

 Football in the Championship.

The English football season may be drawing to a close but there is a fascinating scenario at the top of the Championship and another slowly unfolding at the relegation end of the Premier League. It does seem likely that the teams who were promoted from the Championship may be heading back from whence they came. Life often throws up some of the most charming coincidences and football has a habit of following suit. But this one seems too good to be true. We're not quite there yet but it does look as if history may be about to repeat itself and that wouldn't be for the first time. 

The three teams who were promoted to the Premier League- probably through no fault of their own or maybe it is- Southampton, Leicester City and Ipswich Town are hovering over the relegation trapdoor too precariously for words. All three look destined to go down to the Championship and that may not speak volumes for the current quality of squads now prevailing in the Championship. And just to rub salt into the proverbial wind, the three clubs in contention for a place in next season's Premier League have also sampled the high life in the top flight in recent times. 

Both Leeds United, Burnley and Sheffield United were once well established and prominent names in English football. In the august and learned drawing rooms, pubs, bars and supporter clubs of  football's most active discussion rooms, the word is that we've seen it all before. It is rather like watching the same, stodgy diet of daytime TV programmes with the sound turned down. This is not a case of familiarity breeding contempt more a realisation that some things never change in football.

But now both Leeds, Burnley and Sheffield United are battling it out for the right to compete in the most fiercely competitive and unforgiving League of them all. A couple of seasons ago Burnley treated the Premier League rather like kids at a birthday party trampoline. Under the shrewd guidance of Vincent Kompany they stormed the barricades of the Championship and were promoted back to the Premier League in no time at all. Then it all went disastrously pear shaped and they were relegated back to the Championship the following season. 

This season the Clarets of Burnley,  who once won the old League Championship 65 years ago, are tasting another bottle of vintage bottle of champagne. Former West Ham and Chelsea midfielder Scott Parker, a smooth, hard working and composed player, has taken up the reins at Turfmoor. If all goes according to plan, Burnley will be high fiving and mixing it up convivially with the upper classes once again next season. Burnley are just one example of what can happen when you think you've cracked the code and then discover that it was all an elaborate hoax and you've been caught out, tricked and hoodwinked.

For Leeds United, top flight football in the old First Division became an almost permanent fixture for decades when Don Revie was manager. Then we realised that there were skeletons in their cupboard as well. During the 1970s Leeds were both lovable and despicable in the same sentence. Their football was captivating, beautiful at times, delightfully compelling and just stunning at others. Then there were times when their fans could have cheerfully throttled them although not literally, you understand. Leeds, with tigerish, feverish and hot headed Billy Bremner lashing out with both fists and ferocious tackling, became thuggish, eleven white shirted terrorists who were intent on creating havoc.

And yet several seasons ago now, Leeds hit rock bottom and went through quite the most horrendous ordeal any once legendary team could have been subjected to. Leeds were in the old Third Division and scraping the bottom of a barrel that became increasingly more repulsive as time went on. But stability has been restored to the Elland Road club. Sadly, the likes of Lorimer, Bremner and Charlton, once held in the highest esteem and almost idolised, are no longer here to watch the modern generation and only the very sophisticated Johnny Giles remains from an unforgettable era. 

Leeds United are now literally a match or two away from promotion back to the Premier League and for the neutral fans who could only look on with the deepest admiration during the 1970s, there is a sense that Leeds somehow belong in the Premier League. Of course comparisons with the Leeds of old are just preposterous so we can only form a judgment when the new football season dawns in August. The nightmarishly traumatic 44 days of Brian Clough seem like some historical anomaly, something that was mistaken in the translation and would never be repeated again.

Finally, there's Sheffield United who, rather like both Leeds and Burnley, can never seem to make up their minds about their place in the greater scheme of things. Sheffield United have been like the traditional yo yo in recent seasons, up one minute and down the next. Sometimes you think to yourself that the widely mentioned parachute in footballing circles should be provided to all those teams who keep bouncing between the Championship and the Premier League. 

But such is the current infrastructure exists that in both Premier League and the lower divisions it is hard to imagine how any of those aspirational teams can ever dream of a comfortable residence in the top flight. The financial incentives on offer to the likes of both Burnley, Leeds and Sheffield United are both mouth watering and deeply enticing. TV money from the money tree that is both Sky and TNT sport is dictating the way in which most of the big boys will be conducting their business. We wish both Leeds, Sheffield United and Burnley the heartiest of good wishes.  

Good Friday and the Easter break

 Good Friday and the Easter break.

This is normally the point in the year when most of us descend on our supermarkets and attempt to load as many Easter eggs and hot cross buns in our trolley as we can feasibly can. Then we search frantically for those frozen legs of lamb that we know will complete the Sunday roast and keep the entire family happy for the whole duration of the holiday weekend. It is the perfect culinary experience and eventually we all spill out ecstatically into the garden and leave the kids to kick their football into the neighbours garden with an almost amusing regularity. 

Essentially, springtime in England has now officially been declared because the tulips and daffodils are out in their smartest attire, petals fluttering nervously in the gentle breezes of April before a chill nips at our fleece coats. We then invariably complain about the cold again because we somehow long for warmer weather and the height of summertime. Then the sunshine breaks through the cotton wool clouds that keep playing chess in the blue skies, one moment drifting languidly across our startled eyes before swapping places with another set of nimbus cumulus and then into another neighbourhood.

But, across Britain, the furniture and do it yourself warehouses will be alive with the sound of ringing cash tills or cashless as is very much the case nowadays. Everywhere dads, uncles and cousins will be opening up their garden shed for yet another display of their haberdashery selection of tools, lawnmowers, pruning secateurs, water hoses, remarkable looking bags of manure and compost, rusting boxes of seeds, old Daily Mail newspapers and a transistor radio that was probably last turned on when Marconi was but a lad. 

Inside the home, the kids are excitedly ripping open their Easter eggs with tons of chocolate boxes of Maltesers, Mars bars and a varied assortment of everything that is supposed to be bad for you, damaging your health almost immediately and leading to all sorts of medical complaints in later life. But you remembered your lovely grandma and grandpa opening up their drinks cabinet and revealing those mouth watering chocolate indulgences. It is a cholesterol paradise and yet you never rejected the opportunity to stuff your face with huge quantities of sweet brown confections that you could never get enough of. 

And yet why is today Good Friday? The mystery seems to deepen with every year and you wonder what's so virtuous and excellent about this Friday in particular. It is life of course undoubtedly so. We are now familiar with Good Friday's religious connotations since most of Christianity is suffused with a warm glow, devout churchgoers huddling together in their orderly rows of pews as the vicar preaches in the holiest of worship. Then the hymns flood out of the stained glass windows of many colours and we all sing harmoniously from the same sheet. 

There is something timelessly reassuring about Easter that never fails to hit the right spot. On the TV, we scratch our heads in obvious bewilderment once again at the lack of Easter Parade with Judy Garland. Besides, it is the most appropriate film you could ever wish to see at this time of the year. But the TV schedulers have missed the moment so perhaps dad can finish fixing the bookshelves again or  some more mahogany cabinets, the hanging of exquisite paintings on the wall and don't forget to use the drill and screwdriver, nails and brackets.

This is very much the time for getting out to nature, exploring woodlands, rambling along country lanes in search of the friendliest country pub in the world. It is a time for renewal and resurrection, waking up to the sound of the amiable robin who perches itself on your nearest fir tree and guards your home with an almost touching affection for human property. 

For some of us this was quality time for meeting up with my wonderful family wife Bev, son Sam and daughter in law Lucy, the loveliest people in the world and most precious. And of course there are our stunning grandchildren Arthur and Rosie. You are most humble and grateful for everything that life has to offer. We tend to take our family for granted and then realise just how important they are to us, our connection to the world we live in.

 But Good Friday will now precede another Easter weekend where football begins to slowly wend its way to its natural conclusion. Soon the crack of the cricket red ball against willow bat will be heard across the parklands, garden centres, quaint tea shops and those whirling wind turbines that now dot the landscape of every motorway, roundabout and hard shoulder of Britain.

This is Britain flinging open its curtains and blinds on this Easter weekend. Soon the caravans and motorhomes will return back home from the seaside since we do know how to be by one. This may not be quite the time for abandoning ourselves to deckchairs and ice creams with knotted handkerchiefs on our head but Good Friday is good enough for all of us. You can almost hear the cricket and tennis season. We can see it from every angle and perspective. It is so life affirmingly sweet. 

 

 

Rory Mcilroy at the US Masters

 Rory Mcilroy at the US Masters.

The Irish gentleman with a twinkle in his eye walked out onto the driving ranges and tees of Augusta, Georgia and hundreds of his fans cheered themselves hoarse. Golf was meant to be a good walk spoiled but then what did Mark Twain know about golf?  There are probably prettier sights in the whole wide world of sport but Augusta takes a lot of beating. But the man from the Emerald Isle was smiling from ear to ear, his day complete and mind quietly satisfied. 

Rory Mcilroy ventured onto the first tee at Augusta for the US Masters and even the legends acknowledged his style and regal majesty. Mcilroy is surely one of the most accomplished, refined and polished golfers the world has ever seen. Time will tell whether he can emerge from the likes of Justin Rose and Bryson De Chambeau with a stirring victory and official possession of the Green Jacket. But it all felt so right for the Irishman yesterday and the signs were so good and positive. 

Amid the unforgettable azaleas and dogwoods which decorate the Masters course, you found yourself in complete awe of a man who makes everything he does look so easy. There was a time when most of us must have thought that Gary Player, Lee Trevino and Jack Nicklaus were the only the golfers with an air of statesmanship and admirable composure. Nobody could possibly emulate or surpass the achievements of those from yesteryear but then there was Rory Mcilroy.

But Mcilroy stood in the middle of Georgia, completely detached from all the fuss and commotion, oblivious to fear and anxiety before completing a second round at the Masters that reminded you of the most lyrical poetry ever heard or seen. Wearing both grey shirt and sweat shirt with a white cap and cream coloured trousers, the Northern Irishman repeatedly and consistently birdied with an effortless nonchalance and then executed some of the most difficult looking shots, treating the whole experience as just another day at the office. 

With a near flawless round of under par six with a 66 and 72 in the locker, Mcilroy headed towards the clubhouse like the man who strolls into a gentlemen's menswear outfitters, tries on a pin striped suit and then pops a carnation onto his lapel. For most of Friday afternoon the brilliant Irishman just breathed genius and leisurely insouciance, a calm, measured spring in his step and only thoughts of becoming a champion again. 

Over the years Britain has produced some of the greatest golfing talents ever to bestride a golf course. There was Tony Jacklin who once achieved a hole in one at the British Open, Sandy Lyle and Colin Montgomery, colourful characters with well rounded personalities. There was Nick Faldo, who was allegedly the temperamental bad boy of golf and Peter Ooseterhuis, a smooth and immaculate golfer who just seemed to glide around the fairways and bunkers with all the time in the world. 

But yesterday Mcilroy did everything he was supposed to do. He drove from every hole as if the whole exercise was something that came naturally to him. Standing upright, he addressed the ball with the steadiest of approaches before swinging elegantly, hips swivelling in perfect time and then lifting the heel of his shoe as if barely troubled by any care. Then there were the awkward shots from the pine trees, the ones loaded with complexity but presenting no problem at all. He chipped from shady corners, clipping delicately from the unlikeliest of angles and then putting from immensely long distances to some miraculous spot near the hole. 

Sometimes the great ones never bother about their demanding challenges. This is because golf is all about precision and accuracy, a sport elevated to its highest plateau. There is still something of a middle class, elitist feel about golf, perhaps a petty snobbery and a hint of exclusivity about it, a game simply designed for the wealthy and entitled. 

And yet finally Mcilroy finished the second round of these US Masters with not a bead of sweat pouring from his face. Today in Augusta, springtime will feel like a glorious summer for the Irish master. The job has yet to be done but when the sun sets on Augusta and the strokes have been made, it may be that Rory Mcilroy emerges with a Green Jacket. Britain and golf will welcome him like the all conquering hero and sport will also take off its most respectful cap. It will mean the world to Mcilroy.  

National Hug Your Dog Day.

 National Hug Your Dog Day

Now it is that spring is here and nature has awoken to its sweetest melodies, this may be time to acknowledge man and woman's best friend. We spend a great deal of time singing the praises of our dogs and it's no coincidence that today is National Hug Your Dog Day undoubtedly. Besides, dogs have formed such a close and companionable bond with the human race throughout history that it would be easy to take them for granted. 

Every morning we get out of our beds and there they are patiently waiting for us by the front door or just wandering around our homes, anticipating their breakfast with a presumptuous air, almost expecting to be fed and watered because they love us unconditionally and the feelings are definitely mutual. How often do we look at our dogs in the morning and think how privileged we are to have in our possession an animal that really does understand our capricious moods, our innermost emotions and our everyday behaviour? 

And so it is that my wife Bev and I greet our dog Barney, a poma poo with the warmest of receptions, our adorable canine who is now the grand old age of three. When he first joined our family he was just a tiny package, a black ball of fur no larger than the average matchbox and utterly terrified quite naturally. Poor Barney must have thought he was in the most alien environment he'd ever known and nobody could sympathise with his predicament because he'd suddenly found himself in a frightening world that didn't really make any sense. 

Of course we offered him a home, compassionate human parents oozing affection, acceptance, delight and a home where everything was safe, secure and nurturing. We all know about the therapeutic value of welcoming our dog friends into our homes because we've been doing it since time immemorial. Dogs keep us mentally alert, wonderfully calming influences when things go wrong and just there when we need them. They offer comfort and solace in our darkest days then immediately switch a radiant, beaming light on us when the problem has been rectified and it's a fabulous life and you're on top of the world. 

So what is it about dogs that have such a transformative effect on our everyday lives, how do they know when we're down and depressed, anxious and agitated. There has to be something about our body language that transmits itself to our dogs and just responds in a crisis. The truth is that Barney is completely and emotionally involved and attached to our family at all times. He looks at us in a way that speaks a thousand stories, knowing, wise, attentive and responsive at all times. He then turns on his still puppy eyes and tells you that he knows what's going on in your crowded and congested minds. 

The truth is that our Barney sits and then lies down on my lap quite comfortably and shares toast and jam or cereal for breakfast. He knows you've just woken up in the morning and you're not as alert and quick witted as perhaps you should be. He knows that you need his company because he'll never be judgemental or critical. He'll be there as a completely neutral presence, a model of impartiality, a lovely friend of the family who just wants to support you, believe in you all the way, trusting your instincts and offering silent guidance while just staring into your eyes with a tenderness that can't be defined.

And then we take Barney for invigorating walks in the spring sunshine, venturing out into the streets and roads before heading for parks, wetlands, bushes and trees which just happen to be his favourite hunting grounds. Barney will gingerly tread towards where he wants to be, tugging on his lead and then dutifully trotting along with us with a comfortable spring in his step. He may just be seeking a place for doing what comes naturally to all humans or just marking his territory. He'll sniff scents in bushes with that gloriously inquisitive nose but then proceed in an orderly fashion. 

Over the centuries, dogs have always hunted in packs and run across vast tracts of land blissfully content to be with their closest friends, family and the increasing numbers of dog walkers. But essentially Barney is our game changer, the catalyst for positive activities in our lives. We may not realise it at the time but Barney clears our minds, influencing all the time our immediate responses and reactions to any given moment in our day. He is a morale booster because he needs us and we need them. Dogs need our undivided attention and we need them because they've never let us down or disappointed us.

And so we come to today. Today is National Hug Your Dog Day. Of course it is Everybody knows that and so do we all. It is a day for expressing our complete adoration for our doggie friends, for telling them that they are the greatest creatures on Earth. They are the animals who came to our rescue in dire moments of emergency or crisis, licking us to pieces, approving of everything we do. They offered us protection from hurt and pain, stretching out their loving paws with full on reassurance.

Barney has now been with our family for three years and during that time he's been a blessing, nuisance, stubborn, childish at times, outstandingly co-operative and just a good, old fashioned dog. At times Barney has been a pain in the proverbial neck since he is not one to go out for a walk without a fight or an annoying refusal to do so. Barney will, quite amusingly, hide behind clothes horses or chairs and tables, obstinate and consistently intransigent before growling, snapping and baring his teeth in defiance. 

For me the very act of owning a dog is something of a revelation. But now that Barney has settled in, he is the perfect extension to our family unit. We are a family of dogs and long should that be the case. Barney must privately know that when we do go out for a walk, he knows instinctively that his canine acquaintances will be out and about, running after tennis balls their owners have kindly thrown for them, gathering around in a circle with other dogs and sharing mutual pleasantries. 

There is something very uplifting and stimulating about a dog's presence that remains a constant source of wonder. Why though do they sit on the tops of sofas or armchairs, casually lolling around our homes,  simply snoozing and sleeping the day quite contentedly without a care in the world. Initially, Barney had terrible separation issues and whimpered the day away like some lost and heartbroken dog who'd been deserted by everybody. But we'll never stop loving our Barney.

For days, months and weeks, Barney would start crying poignantly because there was nobody in our home to look after him at such a critical time in his puppy life. He was scared, petrified even, nervous in isolation and just longing for a hug. And so it is Ladies and Gentlemen that we National Hug Your Dog Day, a day of cuddling your dog and for conveying quite clearly all of those signals of understanding, appreciation and sitting next to him during another evening of watching Crufts dog show for the umpteenth time. 

And then on Sunday morning you might head for the local forest or idyllic piece of woodland where your dog is at its liveliest and happiest. You'll have a handful of sticks and bones and you'll know what he's thinking and they feel much the same. Your dog loves the outdoors and will break into a tentative jog into thick marshlands, muddy patches of grass and sprint for their lives. They'll stop for a while with a contemplative stroll around a duck pond and several upstanding geese, sizing up their next move and then running after the aforesaid birds, shooing them back into the water and then looking very satisfied into the bargain. 

But essentially dogs are ideal alarm clocks in the morning, jumping onto our beds excitedly at the crack of dawn before even the robins have had time to yawn and tweet. There they are again, bounding around the kitchen downstairs, darting around the living room in the most playful fashion before leaping up the stairs and begging for somebody to play with their toys and games. You may be still fast asleep at six o'clock in the morning but your dog wants to play catch the ball immediately. 

So go on let's hug your dog, make it feel as deeply important as royalty. Your dog is a dog for life, to provide you with emotional assistance, to feed in the morning, taking priority in your breakfast arrangements since your dog is starving and famished and needs to eat here and now. Your dog wants to be friendly with the whole of humanity, reaching out with their paws and making a fuss of you. Never underestimate your dog because they are your assistance dog and a dog for ever more. Barney is an integral part of family life and that's official. Hug your Dog and spoil your dog something rotten. They're always there for you permanently. We love you Barney.     

The Grand National.

 The Grand National. 

So it is that the spring equinox dawns brightly and beautifully on Aintree, scene of one of the greatest, loveliest and, undoubtedly, the most stunning horse race in the world. Across all the social classes, backgrounds and lifestyles, we will gather around en masse to watch what has now become one of the most endearing of all rituals. For those who only put a bet on either the Grand National or the Epsom Derby, it is a race that transcends all boundaries and one that any jockey or horse can win.

Today it is that the yearly Grand National explodes in a riot of colour, elegant fashions, expensive food and drink in the hospitality boxes and huge quantities of drama, melodrama, glamour and high profile names, riders with distinguished reputations and trainers who have been plying their trade for innumerable decades. 

The Grand National is now officially one of the oldest and most highly respected English national treasures, firmly established in our hearts and still one that captures the imagination of even the most impartial observer. It is sport at its most natural and authentic, possibly quite cruel and barbaric in the eyes of those who belong to the animal rights supporters. But, needless to stay, it's still quite astonishing, barely believable at times, utterly compelling, irresistible and heroically gripping. 

Throughout the years and centuries, the critics have bombarded us with fierce criticism and condemnation. How can you possibly subject one of our most delightful animals to such anguished agony and painful purgatory? Why do we treat our horses so appallingly and callously, traumatising and torturing them with cracking whips, driving them on relentlessly as if their lives depend on it. But this is the Grand National and, besides, it has always been this way. 

In 1956, a horse called Devon Loch approached the final fences at Aintree almost brazenly confident that it had done enough to win the Grand National. Then tragedy struck. Devon Loch, leaping over the final fence with an almost arrogant certainty, landed awkwardly, stumbling, staggering, panicking before collapsing on the hallowed acres of Aintree's grass and had to be put down. It was one of the most horrendous sights we had ever seen in any sport but we were rudely reminded of its ever present life threatening dangers.

Then during the 1970s, one horse emerged from its paddock and stable to become one of the most gorgeously proportioned of all horses. The horse had class, refinement and breeding, the most infectious enthusiasm for the big race and a personality that was both engaging and charming. It was a horse who knew it was important and yet unaffected by all the fuss and commotion and cool as a cucumber. If it could talk and communicate it would probably go into chapter and verse about the history of Aintree. 

For three consecutive years Red Rum dominated Aintree, almost took a mortgage out on the racecourse and firmly believed that it was untouchable and unsurpassable. The very presence of Red Rum could swell the numbers on any race meeting by the thousand since it was the smoothest, silkiest and stylish horse the world had ever seen. 

In 1973, a horse called Crisp was miles away from the pursuing pack, heading frantically towards the finishing line. This looked like a formality, a one horse race with no horse even remotely close to it and all Crisp had to negotiate were the final fences before sprinting for victory. Then Crisp completely ran out of steam, energy seeping away, flagging forlornly and gasping for breath. Crisp became slower and slower, legs now buckling under and clearly betraying the trust of the punters who had backed it in the bookmakers. 

Meanwhile, behind Crisp, the horse who would achieve legendary status Red Rum, started galloping flat out with real conviction and just determined to hunt down Crisp with an unforgettable turn of pace that was quite startling. Once it had got going there was no stopping Red Rum. Tommy Stack and Brian Fletcher, who would become one of the most polished jockeys Britain had ever produced, did what they had to, bodies purposefully hunched over in the saddle, playfully slapping Red Rum on the back as it flashed past the winning line. It was one of the most uplifting and rewarding moments horse racing had ever seen. 

For the next two years Red Rum would win the National with an almost effortless ease and an inner confidence that defied belief, a suave gentleman who had just walked into the Garrick, spread out the Financial Times in front of him, poured himself a triumphant brandy and then lit up a cigar just for good measure. Red Rum even appeared on BBC's Sports Personality of the Year as if he belonged in exalted human company. Red Rum had deserved this one evening in the TV spotlight. Who could argue?  

And so we move seamlessly to the present day. The names of the horses are still unfailingly amusing, beyond comprehension and evocatively poetic.  There was Coko Beach, Twig, Duffle Coat, Appreciate it, Broadway Boy, Three Card Brag, Chantry House, Hyland, Stumpton, the wonderfully comical, sublime and then the ridiculous such as Monbeg Genius, Intense Raffles, BravesmansGame and finally not but least Meeting of the Waiters. 

Sadly last year's winner I Am Maximus, which does sound gladiatorial and confrontational, failed to repeat the victory of 2024. But the Grand National had succeeded in moving its traditionalists if only because the event was still held on a Saturday afternoon tea time. The seasoned thoroughbreds and not so experienced had retained their place in Britain's affections.

This afternoon Nick Rockett , ridden by son Patrick Mullins, under the guidance of dad Willie, romped home to win the Grand National at 33-1. Second was I Am Maximus who had to be content with the runners up spot while Grangeclare West clinched third place. Aintree then declared itself content with the business of the day. The hardened punters who had been picking winners for years at Aintree flung their hats in the air, cheered hoarsely and then looked gleefully at their betting slip. Then there were the folk who had lost their shirt and just slumped over a bar with several beers at their disposal. You win some, you lose some. The Grand National had got it absolutely right. 

Autism Awareness Month

 Autism Awareness Month. 

During your childhood you were never entirely sure what was going on inside that complex mechanism known as your brain. There were frequent moments when it all felt perfectly normal, straightforward and your behaviour was perfectly acceptable. There was nothing out of the ordinary. You learnt how to walk, talk, articulate toddler's emotions,  learning about all the basic rules and regulations, the laws and customs as they applied to your wonderful parents and what to do when the world expected you to abide by them. 

April marks Autism Awareness Month and as somebody who was diagnosed with Autism in 2009, this is one issue that has to be addressed. You feel sure that we have to be enlightened and discussions on the subject have to be out there in the public domain. Personally this has been a difficult, challenging, problematic if rewarding life journey since living in ignorance of Autism was perhaps the most awkward experience I've ever had. 

But now I have the most wonderfully loving and supportive wife, children and extended family you could possibly wish for and that's all that matters. My whole family have offered unconditional love and affection and for this I can be immensely grateful. The fact is though Autism can often be lost in translation, beyond my understanding and a general pain in the neck. Every so often your patience is tested to the limit since nobody can make head or tail of your body language.

This all goes back to your childhood again when you found yourself in a bewildering environment where friends, family and neighbours saw you in a perfectly rational light, the kid who just wanted to lead his life in much the way they were. And then complications set in very slowly but surely. I was painfully shy, reserved, withdrawn, lonely, solitary, self conscious and with none of the friends that my contemporaries had taken for granted. 

The truth is that the medical profession had suddenly discovered a condition known as Autism because this went much deeper than an obvious breakdown in communication. For those who have experienced Autism in all of its different forms, then you'll know what I'm talking about. There's the insistence on routine and structure, the nagging necessity to be at any specific location at a particular time. Sometimes it's just exhausting and occasionally demoralising since you certainly have no idea why life has to revolve around you. 

I now have my everyday coping mechanisms since Autism is now a fundamental part of life and, although not a source of interference, still makes demands on you subconsciously. You find yourself longing for familiarity, the comforting knowledge that everything is right and going well, craving reassurance should that be necessary. 

This is not to suggest that those with Autism are unusual although they can be unconventional and somehow unique. In a sense we function in the way that most people without Autism conduct themselves in public. But the list of tasks and responsibilities that Autistic people may have difficulty in undertaking are innumerable. Still, I do have a healthy acceptance of the Autistic condition and know all about the trigger points. 

At parties and family gatherings, I used to feel terribly uncomfortable, deeply isolated and confused about looks on faces, knowing the exact moment when to make the right comments in a private conversation. Of course I'm not tactless nor do I make appropriate references but there may be something in our dialogue that somehow goes over your head completely. 

Then there are the moments when you read between the lines in something people may say. Autistic people are, from my point of view, always searching for a deeper meaning to something that could be considered as trivial. And yet Autistic people are far from being conspiracy theorists believing that the outside world is saying nasty or unsavoury things about you behind your back. 

So there you are. This is Autism Awareness Month, whose generous patron is the Duchess of Edinburgh Sophie, whose eloquent support of this condition is much appreciated. Autism has been very good to me and there is a realisation that I'll never be alone in a world that maybe cruel and unforgiving, callous and indifferent at times. It's a mental health issue that has to be high up on the agenda of our supposedly kind and considerate politicians. Maybe just maybe it will always be their foremost concern and priority. We must hope. Thank goodness for the diagnosis of Autism.