Happy and Healthy Jewish New Year.

 Happy and Healthy Jewish New Year.

Yes folks. It's that time when your correspondent and humble scribe turns his thoughts to the beginning of the New Year. But, surely not. That has to be a huge chronological mistake, a stupid anomaly based on the evidence that we are now approaching the end of September and there are no signs of limp tinsel and glitter from the Christmas festivities and no hearty renditions of Auld Lang Syne in the air. And we're not going to wait for Big Ben to usher in the New Year because that's just daft and totally inappropriate.

But as a proud Jew, you adore the communal harmony in our local synagogue or shul, the reverential chanting of the prayers, the stirring hymns from the chumash prayer books and the lovely feeling of togetherness and solidarity engendered by the belief that family and the family unit always comes first in the Jewish religion.  

And so it is that this Tuesday, yours truly and his wonderful family will gather together once again to acknowledge the chag. i.e. the holiday, that sacred moment in the year when we unite under the beautiful canopy of that majestic building known as Finchley Reform synagogue. It is a time, of course, for solemn reflection of the year that has just passed by and perhaps introspection since the world around us may not be in the condition we'd like it to be. We will ask probing questions of our political leaders and those warmongering terrorists who continue to disfigure this gorgeous planet. We will despair of the rest of humanity and hug our family to our bosom because they're precious. 

Sometime on Tuesday morning we'll be exchanging the familiar pleasantries with family, friends and those who pass regular comment on the Jewish people. They must know that we embrace Judaism with a passionate tenderness that remains as solid as it was thousands of years ago and throughout the generations. Being Jewish is the best feeling in the world because at Finchley Reform shul we'll be all as one, singing from the same hymn sheet, male and female, young and old. 

This is the starting point again, another chapter of our lives, the future that unfolds like the thrilling first few pages of your novel, your identity, your plans and ambitions or maybe the simple contentment of who you are. Of course the Jews have endured so much that is painful and uncomfortable. The persecution complex goes back centuries and millions of years. But we can beat this one and we will. 

We've suffered the slings and arrows of outrageous misfortune to misquote the Bard, William Shakespeare.  But, we will be defiant, determined and courageous. This is in our DNA. Jews are paragons of virtue, law abiding, respectable, considerate and sympathetic people, men, women and children with something very meaningful to give back to society. And then we'll tell our children and grandchildren to get out there and prove everybody wrong, to make their indelible mark on the world. 

On Tuesday we'll be ushering in Rosh Hashanah, with its traditional apple and honey symbolism, the prayers for health and happiness, the widespread rejoicing, the vocal congregations with our proud singing voices, the redemptive and rich, honeyed resonance that will boom out across the globe. And then there will be Succot, the Jewish Harvest Festival where the fruits of the earth will hang joyfully from the Sukkah and sweet wine will be sipped before yet another generous helping of chulllah bread just to underline the lavish abundance of everything that is good in our lives. 

Simchat Torah of course will bring back so many painful memories of October 7th from a couple of years ago. It was the day when Israel and the rest of the world hung its head in shame and horror at the violent attack on youngsters returning home after the Nova music festival. Even now it hurts terribly and the 1,500 lives lost in Israel on that fateful day will always remain on our minds. But as the proudest Jew in the world, there will be no room for terrorism and murder and we will stand by Israel. 

So wherever you are in the world, a happy, healthy, sweet and peaceful New Year, a Rosh Hashanah that will always keep you for company because it's so uplifting and good to be Jewish and always will be. Chag semach and l'shana tova to you all. 

Donald Trump again in Blighty.

 Donald Trump again

In the newspaper industry, this time of the year used to be referred to as the silly season. But since there have been no sightings of dolphins leaping out of the River Thames, or crocodiles swimming casually near the Lake District, it would be safe to assume that all is well and normal. But yesterday we had to hold ourselves back from giant gale forces of laughter.

We had to compose ourselves and pretend  that it wasn't happening but it did and the sudden realisation dawned upon us that the President of the United States was on British soil again. Oh not him! In ordinary circumstances we'd have been delighted to hear that the leader of the Free world was treading upon British terra firma but some of us were dreading it, hoping against hope that he'd changed his mind and would go back to America. 

Depending upon your point of view, the sight of one Donald Trump would have been enough to send blood pressures soaring and leave behind him utter disgust in equal measure. For what seems like an eternity, Donald Trump has been in charge of a country that used to celebrate its Presidents rather than reviling them. But Trump was back in Blighty after a brief flying visit to his famous Scottish golf course and insisting that he was the most stylish golfer in the world and Gary Player is just an average club player with a mediocre swing. 

But yesterday Donald Trump, accompanied by a thousand security guards, a mighty police cavalcade and his wife Melania, flew into a British airport and then stepped gingerly onto the ground as if he owned most of the Pennines and the Yorkshire Dales. We thought, for a minute, that Trump would strut into the airport lounge and reveal the most outlandish Union Jack waistcoat with St George hat and flags ready to be proudly unfurled. 

For the great Don has never been short of self confidence or bluster, bravado, or, according to some, outright arrogance. Trump attracts publicity like a moth to a light and he does genuinely believe that he is the finest, greatest, most pre-eminent, remarkable and fantastic of all Presidents. Trump maintains that had he been slightly more self assertive, the current war between Ukraine and Russia would have been over within half an hour of its starting point and that Ukranian leader President Zelensky is just an ungrateful, blundering fool.

And yet amid the muck and bullets, the destruction and carnage, the horrendous loss of life and the complete erosion of human and civilised values, Trump will keep lighting the touch paper. By now we should be hardened to the eccentricities, the strange hand gestures, the sheer verbal banalities, the seemingly surreal statements that may have been made up on the back of a cigarette packet. We are no longer astonished at what sound like the half complete ramblings of a man who hasn't a clue what he's talking about. There is the childish petulance when things go wrong and the it's all the fault of the rest of the world. 

But yesterday Trump embarked on his latest diplomatic expedition. It was off to Windsor Castle where King Charles the third and Queen Camilla were ready and waiting. Now the last time Trump was invited over to Britain, our glorious but late and much loved Her Majesty the Queen was, it has to be said, completely humiliated, as Trump shoved Her Majesty aside while inspecting the royal guards. And for a while, it felt as if Trump hadn't learnt any of the royal protocols that are now delightfully traditional. 

In fact, Trump probably leaves whole countries in a state of utter panic and bewilderment. He tries to do the right honourable thing but then plants his feet in it. Admittedly, Trump was just being Trump so maybe we shouldn't have been that surprised. He was smartly suited and booted but then that was simply being polite and respectful. But the business like and serious demeanour disguised much more than met the eye. Every so often the orange blond hair would wave like a British cornfield and there was a hint of ruthlessness in his eyes, perhaps a sinister menace had you looked that carefully. 

Once again though the very appearance of a man who just loves his own image in the mirror and everything he says or does should be given immediate approval, just couldn't be made up. There was a moment though at Windsor Castle when even we were left speechless and dumbfounded. After walking around huge banks of the red jacketed royal guards, Trump simply found himself in what could have turned into a quicksand of embarrassment. 

It all felt that all the formalities had been successfully negotiated until Trump just lost in a world of confusion, locked behind a door from which there was no escape. Approaching one guard, Trump was required to raise a sword and then drop it onto the shoulder of the aforesaid gentleman. At first it looked as if Trump was being asked to let go of a grenade since the President of the United States seemed convulsed with nerves and terrified of what was about to take place.

Thankfully, no harm was done and there was King Charles, chuckling under his breath and giggling with boundless hilarity. Our gracious King had to stifle yet more guffaws because he knew who he was dealing with. Donald Trump, who sometimes acts with all the tact and discretion of a British politician after several pints of lager, continued on his merry way as if nothing unsavoury had been done. 

And so we all greet the President of the United States with the warmest welcome. In several pockets of the British population though, there was anger, bitterness, outrage, venom, hatred and downright resentment. They were taking to the streets forcefully with their bold banners, their inflated babies with nappies. There was a raw detestation of a man who represents everything that is supposedly bad and wicked about Trump himself. They will shout and make themselves heard categorically and do their utmost to make hiim feel completely unwanted and uncomfortable, a nasty blight on the landscape.

But then Trump will dismiss their outpourings of daft protests and tell them to just accept him for who he really is. Sadly, this may be more than delusional wishful thinking. Still, let us watch the latest episode of this never ending soap opera with hands clasped in front of our eyes. It could get funnier and more absurd by the day but at least, it'll all be worth watching. Oh to be a Donald Trump observer.     

Gerry Harrison football commentator legend dies

 Gerry Harrison football commentator dies

In the days when football on the TV was confined to  only to a small, select and limited audience, the name of Gerry Harrison may not have been instantly recognisable and the chances are that he may have been sadly forgotten now. But he did feature prominently on London Weekend's flagship football magazine programme The Big Match introduced, of course by the legendary and much respected Brian Moore. 

Way back then, football was almost incidental to the rest of TV's vast landscape of period dramas, comedy shows, sitcoms, soap operas, hard hitting documentaries, news and current affairs programmes and celebrity driven interviews. Harrison, for his part, began his broadcasting career in black and white, those days when football was still learning how to cope with a slowly expanding fixture list in the old First Division. There were the scheduling problems and players whose egos were so disproportionately larger than that of the working class man and woman that none of us could really identify with the household names on the pitch. But the players had colourful personalities so we didn't really care. 

And yet we loved those dulcet, hugely enthusiastic TV voices from yesteryear. Harrison, although not as widely known as his contemporaries at the time such as Kenneth Wolstenholme, Brian Moore, Barry Davies and John Motson, had to be listened to and watched.  Gerry Harrison was the smooth, measured and restrained voice of Anglia TV, a regional commercial network who covered the whole spectrum of Suffolk and Norfolk with commentaries from both Ipswich Town and Norwich City. 

Harrison died last month at the age of 89,  a sturdy, upstanding yeoman of the footballing guard, a giant among the fens and farmlands of both the Tractor Boys and the Canaries. Not many of us really acknowledged that fluent and polished delivery because he just became part of the furniture of TV's  welcoming dining room. Harrison was the man who got extremely excited during those glorious seasons when Sir Bobby Robson's spirited and plucky Ipswich Town rubbed shoulders with the great and good at the top of the old First Division and almost won the old League championship. 

There was nothing out of the ordinary about Harrison because he was just one of the lads, excitable at times but in a good way and then lifting the tone of his voice when goals were scored. Harrison covered epic FA Cup encounters, League Cup corkers and spectacular European nights for Ipswich. He was confident, authoritative, knowledgeable about the non League game and supremely assured at the microphone. Then there was Norwich, who under John Bond, were one of the most entertaining sides in the old First Division but never really fulfilled their burgeoning potential at the highest level. Harrison had the utmost respect for Norwich City as well.

In more recent years, Harrison stepped away from the limelight, becoming more more analytical and reflective, returning to his journalistic roots. Recently, Harrison had become a regular contributor to the excellent retro magazine Back Pass. A keen amateur footballer himself, Harrison made the easy transition from life as a player to the commentary box. He always enjoyed the bouquets of praise and plaudits from fellow commentators and contemporaries but never sought hysterical adulation. 

To the outsider, football commentators have always appeared those lovely wordsmiths who sit high above on a TV gallery while the noisy and vocal supporters almost render the commentator helpless and inaudible. Their job is to convey the essence of the game in a way that is relatable, easy to understand and never patronising. They sit there patiently explaining the pictures they can see in front of their eyes- the breathless goal-line clearances, the mad, frantic penalty area scrambles and the divine goals that somehow beggar description but only commentators can communicate with such accuracy and honesty. 

Nowadays, football reaches out to a responsive audience who can't get enough of either Sky Sports Football, TNT football, ITV, BBC, Channel 4 from time to time and Channel 5. It may have achieved saturation coverage now and the statistics would probably prove as such. Maybe there is too much football on TV but when the likes of Martin Tyler, Sam Matterface, Guy Mowbray, Jonathan Pearce, Steve Wilson and Clive Tyldesley get to work in dissecting fact from fiction, you believe implicitly in what you may be hearing and watching. 

And yet football has lost another of its impartial observers and students. Gerry Harrison accompanied you through your adolescence and for that, you feel eternally grateful. After lunch, you would settle down in your loving parents kitchen and watch the Big Match. There were no fanfares, cheerleaders before the match or any kind of pre-match entertainment. There was the wonderful professionalism of Brian Moore, the always exuberant Hugh Johns and the infectious love of the game from Gerald Sinstadt who oozed excellence and a natural feeling for football's more eccentric moments. Keith Macklin, of course, once provided the alternative commentary for the 1966 World Cup. 

But there was always Gerry Harrison, friendly, articulate and just very straightforward. There were no airs or graces about Harrison because he never pulled any punches with his descriptions. If a goal was indeed a goal, then Harrison would tell you immediately. But if there was an element of doubt about a nasty, dodgy tackle, he would bring it your attention with emphatic emphasis. So Gerry Harrison, we'll miss you and Sunday afternoons as a teenager will always mean a lot to us. Thanks Gerry.      

The Last Night at the Proms, the Royal Albert Hall and Remembrance service

 The Last Night at the Proms, the Royal Albert Hall and Remembrance service.

You do know what tonight is. You'd have been forgiven for thinking that it was just an ordinary night on the British calendar. But this is much more aesthetically appealing than you might think. It is the one night of the year that the British decide to celebrate patriotism although the extremists might think that this is nationalism gone mad, too British, uniquely English and therefore totally unacceptable. Besides, we've been holding this one event for what seems like 150 years and we should be used to it. 

Yes Ladies and Gentlemen, tonight marks the Last Night at the Proms. The Last Night at the Proms is simply the most culturally stunning spectacle of the year. It is time for those who will be there at the Royal Albert Hall to get all excited, wave Union Jacks and sing Rule Britannia. So why is it that we find it so difficult to whip up any enthusiasm for these grand occasions, these superbly pleasing extravaganzas that fall so perfectly on our discerning ears. We know that it makes us feel so good about being who we are and living in a country, that, although divided at times, still finds the Last Night at the Proms to be the most unifying force.

After a summer of masterful orchestral work, gloriously melodic symphonies, wondrous sounds and historical harmonies, the Proms reaches its final night at the Royal Albert Hall, a venue so deliciously appropriate for this memorable occasion that you wonder how Britain would ever survive if it weren't there. Come September, when the autumnal leaves are falling like yellow and brown confetti, a huge audience will fill those vast rows of plush seats and those wedding cake tiers of royal boxes. It will just take our breath away because it always has and, hopefully, always will do.

And yet tonight the sheer eclecticism of the Last Night of the Proms will once again be in evidence. The sheer variety and diversity of musical styles will leave us totally exhilarated and the feelgood factor will probably still be there on Christmas Eve. With the statue of Henry Wood looking on, the man who set the ball rolling for the Proms all those centuries ago, the Proms has always brought with it that special flavour, a cinnamon scent of music at its purest. It's left us with a sense of achievement that we should all feel because we, too, should feel connected, we too could produce the kind of music that the Proms has always given to us quite freely and openly. 

But tonight Sir Brian May, brilliant guitarist of Queen and his fellow drummer Sir Roger Taylor, who formed one of the finest rock bands of all time, will be there all guitars and drums in perfect unison. You will think back to that iconic moment in pop music history when Bohemian Symphony reached number one in the charts during the 1970s and stayed there for what seemed an eternity and deservedly so. May and Taylor will know that they are in the presence of musical greatness all around them. The Royal Albert Hall will turn into one of their most rewarding evenings of all time. 

We knew that we could never play the violin, the double bass, the cello, the guitar, the piano, the trumpet, trombone, clarinet, the dramatic drums, the harp and glockenspiel with quite the consummate ease of the masters, the professionals. So we reserved all of our deepest admiration for their technical wizardry, the nimble fingered dexterity of the string section and their natural aptitude for just playing music. We've all heard about the precocious geniuses of Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, Debussy, Strauss, Stravinsky and Handel. But these were gifted composers, men of the highest stature and polish, men for whom the writing of chords, quavers and crotchets became second nature. 

But tonight is markedly different. Following hard on the heels of exquisite jazz riffs and improvisations, there are still the classic film scores, simple folk compositions, world music, soft and heavy rock interpretations of those great bands and singers from yesteryear. Tonight it'll get very stirring, fascinating, breath taking and just the most compulsive watch you could ever wish for. For those whom classical music never really stimulated us or left us wanting more, the Proms somehow gives us a gentle tuition class, reminding us once again that music can take still take us on so many emotional journeys and never tire of its simplicity. 

Above all, the Royal Albert Hall will resound to our yearly renditions of Land and Hope and Glory and Jerusalem. During this glittering homage to music of all genres, we will think of  the familiar appearance of our military men and women at the Remembrance Service in November. There will be the noble Royal Air Force, so wonderfully served by my late and lovely dad, the Royal Marines, the Royal Navy, the Paras and innumerable folk wearing medals on their jackets and berets on their heads. And the Royal Albert Hall will look at its most genteel and just suited and booted for the occasion. 

But then a moment of sweet joy and almost classical silence will stop us in our tracks. We suddenly realise that the Royal Albert Hall can also be the venue for Remembrance services. From the ceiling at the Royal Albert Hall, the main stage below will be awash with red. Red poppies will flutter down from above gracefully, almost deferentially. Hold on, though, this wonderful ceremony happens on Remembrance evening service in November.  We'll think of the soldiers who fought so manfully and valiantly during the World Wars. The Royal Albert Hall is so versatile and multi talented that it can accommodate any occasion.  

World Trade Centre catastrophe and Charlie Kirk

 World Trade catastrophe and Charlie Kirk.

It is 24 years to the day since the world took leave of its senses and humanity sunk to its lowest level. It was the one incident that still leaves us feeling as cold as ice, shocked, horrified and full of revulsion. It was one of those shameful episodes from history that can never be erased from our vision or consciousness because it's just there, agonisingly painful in the memory and sadly haunting all who saw it.

It happened when we least expected it to and then there followed the inevitable questions, the disgraceful images just tormenting us for ages and then the endless repercussions because they're still being felt. It was the day when sanity and normality simply vanished without trace and tyrannical terrorism crippled our emotions and made us feel  fragile and vulnerable, deeply hurt and ashamed of ourselves. We now know the well documented facts but we'll never know how or why it was allowed to happen. 

On just another ordinary working day morning for the good  folk of New York, tragedy devoured the USA, shaking not only America to its foundations but the world population. One minute there was a comforting peace and silence and then chaos, calamity, panic before everything collapsed around the country. The perpetrators of this horrific crime sent shivers down our spines, traumatised us for ages before going into an extensive period of mourning. 

Today in 2001, the World Trade Centre was completely demolished by an evil, murderous terrorist network known as Al Quaeda. While everybody was going about their business and about to start another day of work, the monsters were plotting the downfall of one of America's most iconic of buildings. They were watching from a distance knowing full well that this barbaric attack on our freedom had achieved its single mission to destroy and kill thousands of people. It remains one of the most abhorrent, disgusting, reprehensible and savage of all atrocities. 

It has now become known as 9/11, the day a terrorist attack, without any conscience or remorse, soul, feeling or sentiment, took it upon itself to blow up the Twin Towers in New York. The news report at the time barely seems credible or imaginable because we'll never know what possessed human beings to carry out these horrendously unforgivable acts of what can only be called genocide. But this was just another example of the human race at its worst and most inhumane. Any other interpretation would suffice but the events of 9/11 must have felt like the end of civilisation as we know it. 

So we try to relive what happened to the World Trade Centre. At roughly a couple of minutes before 9am on a mellow New York autumnal morning, two planes were seen heading towards this proud symbol of America's identity. We must have assumed that the aforesaid planes were just flying towards their intended destination. We didn't know it at the time but these planes were on course for what proved to be the ugliest death spiral of all time. In a matter of minutes, America was reduced to heartbreak and tears, charred ruins, thick black plumes of smoke shooting into the sky, sheer mayhem, madness and pandemonium about to ensue.

Suddenly all hell broke loose in the always welcoming and hospitable city of New York. We can still see the first plane crashing into the World Trade Centre, a full complement of passengers dying in one huge explosion, helpless casualties in a wickedly destructive abomination. Firstly there were brief cries of alarm as one side of the World Trade Centre fell to the ground, then screaming, gasping, running desperately for cover, anywhere and somewhere that would offer sanctuary. 

Seconds later another plane hurtled towards the World Trade Centre. By now one side of this noble skyscraper was on fire, all consuming flames attacking the very heart of America's core and backbone. Then, much to our astonishment, another plane was spotted right behind the first one. Now half of the World Trade Centre was slowly and painfully crumbling onto the pavements or sidewalks of New York. The damage had already been done. Soon, the people below were sprinting for their lives, hands over their mouths, hairs coated in ash and dust then, distressingly, jumping out of burning windows to their death.

By now of course thousands had been declared dead in the aftermath of this pernicious assault, this becoming the most dreadful day in the history of a country that has always offered the warm hand of friendship to the whole world. We were now clasping our hands over our eyes, barely taking in this apocalyptic event, a September morning that will now permanently be registered in our minds as something we could never comprehend, our thought patterns gripped by fear and the solemnity of sorrow.

And yesterday we witnessed yet another moment of senseless tragedy. Charlie Kirk, a member of Donald Trump's government and a rational voice of reason when all seemed inexplicable, was cruelly assassinated at another political rally. Kirk was simply speaking on behalf of democracy, reflecting the way America was beginning to look at itself. But then, we were back in the land of John F. Kennedy when, 62 years ago, a handsome looking President of the United States, was shot dead. It is hard to know why Kirk was killed so viciously by a sniper's gun but what we do now know is that America has once again been plunged into a grave state of sombre contemplation and grief.

There are times when the human race just defies any kind of analysis because it keeps going back to the same tried and trusted methods. We are all loving and wonderful people. But when hate and intolerance creeps back into our conversation and we point accusing fingers at the innocent, it doesn't end well. So Charlie Kirk was killed in cold blood, a single bullet to the neck that must have been the only language this deranged gun toting villain could understand. Of course murder should never be tolerated or justified under any circumstances but Charlie Kirk died yesterday and the world is still baffled.      

England beat Andorra in World Cup qualifier

 England beat Andorra in World Cup qualifier

It was never going to be easy for England because this is the way it invariably turns out for the England football team. This was yet another rude awakening for Thomas Tuchel's England, another demonstration of plodding dullness, uncomfortable postures and static progress towards what the whole of England must hope will result in yet another World Cup Finals in the USA, Mexico and Canada. Once again England were reduced to slow motion, lumbering awkwardness and indecisive musings on the ball. 

Here are the facts. England narrowly squeezed past a team whose nation normally provides the scenic backdrop for our winter holidays. England, to be blunt, overcame a team whose spiritual home is one of many a skiing resort. This was very a much downhill slalom slope for England since Andorra are not world beaters and never will be. They sit in the Pyrenees like some snow capped mountain just waiting for summer and hoping that nobody will take their football team seriously. 

And yet on Saturday evening, England were lazy, lethargic, lackadaisical, lifeless and reminded you of a team who were still in the middle of a rigorous training exercise, some desultory five a side kick about where possession is almost constant and nobody wins anything. At some point England will remember where they are and what they're supposed to be doing but sadly are no further forward than that mini disaster and defeat to Senegal in a friendly last season. 

September and England internationals have never shared the same page and sentence as many of us would like so this hardly came as a shock to the system. You were reminded of Ron Greenwood's laudable England team of the late 1970s when a early September friendly against Switzerland ended in a tedious goal-less draw. Greenwood's first experimental eleven consisted of seven Liverpool players, who, as now, dominated English football if not quite in the same way although Liverpool were still a work of art back then. 

But on Saturday evening, England, though in charge of their World Cup qualifying group, must be hoping that nobody really expected anything more than they actually got. This was an England side who couldn't quite understand the script they were supposed to be following. Somebody had thrown the familiar chloroform over them and England resembled a group of tiring ramblers who had run out of energy and were traipsing very carefully across boggy grounds and marshlands in the middle of the countryside. In fact some might suggest that it was like watching men stuck in treacle, wading across muddy wasteland and achieving nothing of any note. 

Whatever Tuchel said to his players before this no show against Andorra, it didn't seem to register properly in the minds of the players. England laboured painfully in and out of small pockets of space, crawling haphazardly towards the half way line and just for a minute, it felt as if the batteries had been taken out and the electrical cables switched off. This was a desperately painful watch by any standards and if England are to reach the World Cup Finals next summer, then significant improvements must be in place by then.

Tonight England travel to Serbia for yet another game of stick or twist. But this time the cards which they will be dealt with are bound to be trickier and more cunning. Serbia will never be regarded as one of the greatest of international household football team but if England think that tonight will be the proverbial piece of cake, they may have to revise their judgments. Why on earth do either UEFA or FIFA keep giving England such lightweight opposition for these seemingly interminable qualifying matches when we know what's going to happen?

But so it was that England gathered together at Wembley on a Saturday evening and privately yearned for a repeat of Dixon of Dock Green, once the Saturday tea time TV staple diet. Some of us would have quite happily, given half the chance, arrested and spoken to this England team in harsh, judgmental terms. This was just not good enough. England cruise through these traditional qualifying sparring contests and this is perhaps where England lose their way. The chances are of course that they will be in New York at the beginning of next summer but this really is a phoney war. 

World Cups of course are stressful and harrowing experiences for any England fan or faithful follower. They muddle and improvise their way through the group stages before hitting that daunting, frightening wall. Come the second round, quarter final and semi final stage, England become a bundle of nerves and we're all on tenterhooks, desperately hoping that they don't get stage fright. Still, there's a long way to go at the moment anyway and, besides, these are the preliminary skirmishes, the private dress rehearsals where tweaks are made and formations suitably adjusted. 

Still at the back, Rees James of Chelsea, the towering Dan Burn from Newcastle, the unsettled Marc Guehi, who would have given anything to be at Liverpool this summer but remained at Crystal Palace and Miles Lewis Skelly, a blooming home grown product at Arsenal, were all dependable safeguards. For much of the game they were never needed at all so this match is impossible to use as a litmus test for the real contests facing England because they had nothing to do of any consequence. 

Declan Rice, also shoring up the defence handsomely both at Arsenal and England and provided much midfield ballast. Rice England nicely with his fellow Gunner Ebereche Eze who looks a wonderful discovery for the England team. Elliott Anderson has also made smooth and streamlined progress in the middle of the park and looked elated to be called up for the senior England squad.  Morgan Gibbs White, who was also the subject of much transfer speculation during the summer, had a touch of modest subtlety and class that bodes well for the future of the national side. Tino Livramento and Anthony Gordon also gave valuable contributions when they came off the subs bench. 

And so it was that England tapped out their now customary Morse Code messages across the Wembley pitch, achingly stop start football, staccato, stationary at times, pausing for breath for what seemed an eternity. Then there were neat triangles, clandestine, hush hush moments, football that was almost secretive and covert. There were rectangular, geometric angles, an abundance of side to side passes, movements that defied description. 

Thankfully England did score but not without seemed the longest wait of all time but even that was an own goal by Andorra.  After a dizzying, bewildering daisy chain of passes through the feet of Rees James, Marc Guehi, Ebereche Eze and Elliott Anderson, James broke forward down the flank.The Chelsea full back then sent a swinging, immaculately judged cross to the far post. Declan Rice, racing up from the back, came storming into the penalty area, planting a firm header into the Andorra net most impressively. 

Maybe, perhaps misguidedly, we thought this opening goal for England would open up the floodgates. Sadly this was a misleading impression. For the rest of the match, England kept indulging in a game of pass the parcel, threatening to score frequently but only ending up with egg on their faces. There were endless sequences of recycling the ball, pat a cake football designed to keep the purists entertained but leading to nowhere in particular. Then it all fizzled out in a shuddering anti climax. 

With the game in its final stages, England just seemed blithely content to hold onto what they had. But some of us realised what was going on here. England were genuinely struggling to score against Andorra. You remembered another World Cup qualifier of recent vintage. After seven seconds against San Marino, England went one down thanks to the worst back pass of all time. Admittedly, England did go on to demolish their hosts 7-1 but there were disturbing echoes of that game. 

So it's Serbia tonight for Thomas Tuchel and England may well expect but this could be another ordeal by football. Serbia will provide proper, credible opposition for England.  There are visually graphic reminders of England managers of a bygone era. There was the hapless Graham Taylor who looked so furious and indignant in his dug out that you felt sorry for him. That was the 1993 World Cup qualifier when Ronald Koeman curled a mesmeric free kick over England goalkeeper David Seaman and the Netherlands went to the World Cup Finals in, ironically, the USA, the following year.

 And of course there was Sir Alf Ramsey who did win the World Cup for England, sheepishly leaving his job at Wembley in October 1973 when Poland came to the capital city and left England on the ropes with utter embarrassment. A 1-1 draw was never going to be good enough and the Poles went to West Germany the following summer's World Cup, finishing a respectable third. 

The Wembley crowd, for their part, didn't know whether to laugh or cry, deeply disappointed but relieved to be given a couple of more opportunities to prove their point. Of course this game against Andorra was completely forgettable and hopefully an asterisk mark. At some point during this World Cup qualifying campaign England would ideally like a replica of their friendly 7-0 victory against Austria weeks before the Poland debacle and Sir Alf's final swansong. We can but hope. 

Angela Rayner quits

 Angela Rayner quits

So here we are literally weeks away from the party political conference season and those very public figures we place our implicit trust in behave like naughty miscreant kids who keep pinching apples from their neighbours garden. They hope they won't get caught and then protest their innocence because they didn't do it because it wasn't their fault. 

And yesterday the Deputy Prime Minister of the United Kingdom accidentally put her foot in it and had to meekly apologise for her misdemeanours. She didn't mean to do what she did but she can explain everything. She can and she will but not before she was pushed over the edge and forced to quit. Some politicians are so naive and gullible that you just wonder how they reach such honourable, dizzy heights in their profession. 

But that's what happened to Angela Rayner yesterday. There was she was just casually doing the right and proper thing before she went toppling into the muddiest ditch and fell on her sword. You can  choose any cliche of your own choice but the unmistakable truth is that Rayner just happened to take the wrong kind of advice and suffered the consequences of her own actions. She was drawn into this trap, this embarrassing imbroglio, this spot of bother that got her into terrible trouble and there was no way back. 

We all know about Rayner now. She's hard working, conscientious, dedicated to her job but she does like to party, drinking and vaping in moderate doses of course but she does take her job seriously. She does, you know. Last year she was spotted on holiday raving the night away and spinning records with a local DJ, throwing shapes so the popular vernacular goes. And yet of course she's entitled to have a good time. We would never begrudge her this golden moment in the sun. So she boogied the night away and everybody was happy. 

She's a single parent caring admirably for her disabled son Charlie. Then she decided to buy a holiday home in a bracing seaside South Coast home in Hove. Nothing wrong there you would have thought but then all of the incriminating evidence came out in the wash. She hadn't paid enough tax on this idyllic seaside retreat and that's where she came unstuck. That was the cardinal sin. When the tax people come knocking on your door, you try to defend the indefensible. Angela Rayner had failed to pay the stamp duty on the tax for the flat. The wrath of the great British public fell around her ears like the most horrible noise. 

Rayner's shamefaced admission cost her the most highly prestigious job in Britain. Whether she liked it or not, tax dodgers or those who deliberately avoid paying the requisite amount, inevitably get their just desserts. Of course she was badly advised and that much became patently obvious. But surely she should have known better, this well respected government minister at the very zenith of her political career. 

But dear Angela Rayner has brought disrepute and shame on her country and office. Now that our fine, upstanding politicians are back from their summer holidays you'd have thought they'd just want to walk back into their classrooms and listen attentively to their teachers. Rayner, of course had no alternative but to hand in her P45, departing Downing Street with a brave if, quite possibly, heartbroken face. 

At the moment one Nigel Farage, that Guinness drinking anarchist who leads that brand new political party Reform UK, is on the campaigning trail. But maybe you do him a disservice by referring to him by that description. Farage is clearly a dissenting voice, a rabid and patriotic believer in everything British and English, patriotic to the core and standing up for the United Kingdom with a broad back and showering the country with fulsome praise. 

Then we gather that Farage is wallowing in the Labour party's latest setback and horrendous blunder. In face he's getting a sadistic thrill out of this whole dreadful fiasco. So he tells his country to prepare for a General Election in two years time when, in fact, it's maybe four years away. Farage is probably airing his grievances now because he believes, rightly or wrongly, that his England is about to stolen away from us and the rest of the world thinks we're the laughing stock. 

Now the truth is that both Farage and Rayner are typical examples of Westminster's often farcical conduct within the corridors of the House of Commons. Of course politicians work their fingers to the bone and they never shirk their onerous responsibilities. They're always available at their surgeries at every opportunity and they'll hear you out. Undoubtedly so. But some  look for loopholes in the payment of their taxes. 

When was the last time though, that they were there to sort out the rubbish bins that haven't been emptied for ages, the recycling products that should have been dumped ages ago? When are they going to address noise pollution in your neighbourhood, the builders who have been making that unbearable racket at two o'clock in the morning? So come on government minister where were you when we wanted you?

Party political conferences are both serious, business like spectacles while also being funny, frivolous comedy halls where a thousand voices can be heard simultaneously at times and you couldn't make this one up. Both Sir Keir Starmer, the Prime Minister and Kemi Badenoch, the Conservative Shadow leader of her party, face unenviable tasks. Shortly, they'll be fulfilling that yearly obligation on behalf of their parties.  They'll stand up proudly at their lecturn before delivering their impassioned rants, their fury, their righteous indignation and telling us how they both detest each other.  Not personally of course but they're not exactly amiable buddies. 

The Prime Minister maintains vehemently that there's nothing wrong with the UK, that patience is a virtue and of course the Labour party are on the right road to redemption and complete prosperity. We'll leave behind talk of cost of living crises, chronic unemployment, a permanently struggling and underpaid NHS and an education system for our children that leaves a rank, bad smell wherever you are. So if we hang on for a while and just take a deep breath because all will be perfect and well. 

But the political battlefield that is the party conference season is the one chance of the year where our dear, reliable politicians can always let it go for a week, shouting, bawling, lecturing, reasoning and then persuading their camp followers in the audience that the country is going to hell in a handcart. They'll point their fingers in a whole variety of directions, bang their hands forcefully on the desk in front of them and reel off a bewildering sequence of figures, percentages and statistics. 

Yesterday my lovely wife Bev and yours truly were listening to our car radio and expressed disgust at the latest announcement from Westminster. David Lammy had become the new if temporary Deputy Prime Minister at which point my wife could hardly contain her anger. David Lammy is so useless and incompetent that how he achieved such an elevated position seemed completely beyond us. You agreed and then questioned the whole political system. Why on earth do we elect these sham and fraudulent characters into the highest echelons of power? Or maybe they're just decent and honest, law abiding individuals and perhaps Lammy is terribly misunderstood. 

Shortly, both Labour, Conservative and Lib Dem parties will be gathering in their huge droves, settling themselves down in their comfortable seats and exchanging age old cliches and platitudes. We've heard them all a million times but the jokes are as old as Methuselah and probably even worse than the last time we heard them told. 

Behind the scenes, there will be those softly spoken focus groups, private rooms where lively discussions about wars and the economy will take their place. Occasionally, there will be whispers of agreement before somebody says something debatable and contentious. Suddenly, there's uproar and it's on the TV evening news or the papers the following day. In some very quiet corner of the world, Angela Rayner will be wishing that she could just be left to her own devices. Oh to be a politician.   

National Dessert Day

 National Dessert Day

You must remember those heavenly days at both school and home when desserts were eaten with an almost voracious relish and enjoyment. You'd queue up at the Nissan hut that we called our dinner hut and were then dutifully slopped up the most mouth watering sweet desserts that were irresistible and left us with huge piles of timber around our waistline. At the time we didn't know any better but were unknowingly damaging not only our waistline but increasing the cholesterol levels almost irreparably. 

After the traditional helpings of meat, mashed potatoes and assortment of vegetables, we were suddenly confronted with delicious roly poly puddings, Spotted Dick with thousands of currants and raisins and the wonderful honey cake which we invariably looked forward to with the most eager anticipation particularly when they kindly added a generous topping of apple strudel.

There were innumerable puddings, the dreaded semolina which seemed to contain horrific looking layers of skin on the top of the semolina and, quite possibly, apple pies but it's hard to remember them with anything like the clarity that they probably deserved. There were three very maternal, middle aged dinner ladies, women with dainty aprons and headscarves who were always pleased to see these blossoming examples of male adolescence and hoping for just a semblance of appreciation from the boys but were never really given the credit they must have merited. 

So today is National Dessert Day and how sweet that sounds, hey!  Most notably, there were what looked like huge milk churns of custard swimming around in a sea of yellow. Suddenly, the aforesaid dinner lady ladled up the custard, spreading the dessert with a glorious flavour and fragrance that would last for the rest of the day in your stomach. But then there was the dreaded realisation that you'd just added at least five stones to your waistline and although you'd felt bloated and heavy, it was still a hot and nutritious meal. And that's where the likes of Jamie Oliver and a whole host of concerned chefs and dieticians came in. 

According to government ministers in high places, a whole generation of teenagers and very young children are eating far too many packets of sweets, ice creams, chewy toffees designed to leave you with hundreds of fillings in your mouth and an abundance of creamy cakes that can't be good for you in the long term. So the Labour party and Prime Minister Sir Keir Starmer bombard us with sanctimonious speeches about the ruination of our school-children because they're just vast, fat and obese. 

For years now governments of various hues have jumped onto the bandwagon of childhood obesity, that vitally important period of their maturity and development where they have to be aware of their mental and physical health. Besides, all of those cream sponges, rice puddings with blobs of jam and all manner of clearly fattening desserts are just bulking them up and before you know it, they'll be getting on to their bathroom scales and showing the most ghastly amount of weight that just seemed to accumulate alarmingly by the stones and pounds.

But now more than ever desserts are simply the most guilty of all pleasures. During your teenage years, mum would always reserve that 1970s staple diet that had to be the most stunning food treat you'd ever tasted. It was called an Arctic Roll and it was just out of this world, a culinary special and feast for the eyes. The Arctic Roll was a stunningly thick sponge with the most remarkable slab of vanilla ice cream that once consumed, was never forgotten. 

Then there was the celebrated Angel Delight, another blob of pink jelly like substance that resembled a a blancmange but never really appeared on the family menu or at least that always seemed to be the case. Desserts were often a fusion of chocolate cream confections with hundreds of thousands sprinkled on top. There was the famous Knickerbocker Glory, that astonishing looking dessert commonly associated with the Wimpy fast food burger outlet that still populate the high streets of Britain. Trifles were savoured with huge quantities of jam, lashings of strawberry additives and whole variety of yet more chocolate. 

Personally you always looked forward to Yom Kippur, the divine meal after the Jewish Fast. Mum would be there with your sweet cup of milky coffee and the scintillatingly beautiful honey cake which is still something that most of us can't wait to devour after the Shofar is blown resoundingly across the world. Your wonderfully lovely mum and dad always kept whole packets of biscuits in her bread bin and some of them could often be described as mini desserts, overflowing with sugar  and represented everything that was bad in our diet at the time. But hey ho. It's National Dessert Day so tuck into that apple pie or Black Forest Gateau with complete impunity. You deserve it and. besides, everything in moderation.   

Joe Bugner dies at 76.

 Joe Bugner dies at 76.

To all outward appearances Joe Bugner bore no resemblance to the traditional image of a heavyweight boxer because he had far too many pounds of flesh around his waist and was just ridiculously overweight. And yet we made allowances for the flabby midriff and the unmistakable fat that accompanied him on his epic journey to the top of British heavyweight boxing. Bugner though was always upbeat, jovial and good humoured about his appearance because the boxing aficionados accepted him for who he was and so did his loyal public.

Bugner was a formidable opponent, a giant of a prize fighter who embraced his sport with a passion and appetite that always stood him in good stead for all his major fights. Bugner was Hungarian and never shied away from any of the difficult obstacles that had to be overcome. He loved the big occasions  because he was indeed, the ultimate showman, almost an exhibitionist at times. He was never underestimated since he always made the most memorable of all entrances into the ring.

There was something very endearing about Joe Bugner because there was an earthiness and authenticity about his rugged approach to the sweet science of the boxing trade. Bugner oozed controlled aggression inside the ring and none could argue with his credentials. He may have been criticised quite unfairly about some of his more unorthodox tactics but Bugner's relationship with boxing's  promoters and agents never became strained or problematic. 

During the 1970s, Bugner came face to face with some of the toughest and most troublesome opponents in a way that must have inspired generations of youngsters who could only hope to imitate him. There was a beefy robustness about him, an enormous upper body strength and a remarkable stamina to stay the distance. His confrontations with Henry Cooper and the often invincible Muhammad Ali left us with some of boxing's most intriguing contests as he built up his repertoire of cunning upper cuts that looked like rabbit punches but were strategically unleashed to make the most effective impact. 

Essentially, though, he was a much loved character and although ridiculed for what looked like chubbiness, Bugner was in the vanguard of boxing's best and finest. His classic fight with Ali will be genuinely remembered for both its novelty value and the total mismatch air of the encounter. Bugner, perhaps attracted only by the lucrative nature of the pay off on the night of the fight, was totally motivated by a simple desire to bump up his now substantial bank balance. But maybe not. 

We will look back on Bugner's career with the fondness it undoubtedly deserves if only because it fully merits  repeated mentions in dispatches. The man from Hungary, oozing confidence and conviction at every level of his sport, may have been accused of being over ambitious, perhaps even delusional in his belief that boxing was a sport designed for heroes and he may have been absolutely right. 

Joe Bugner had guts, an enduring love of boxing and just wanted to be acclaimed as one of boxing's purest exponents, a man who knew all about sport and its endless capacity to thrill  before dropping  into complete obscurity. Tonight we will honour the esteemed likes of Bugner because he may well slip off our radar and never be recognised for his charm offensive. He was, though, a one man publicity machine at times because respect and greater global recognition somehow eluded him. But here's a toast to the man himself . Boxing will undoubtedly miss you Joe Bugner.