Happy Birthday Thunderbirds and Radio 1.

Happy Birthday Thunderbirds and Radio 1.

One was perhaps the most deeply loved of TV children's programmes and the other was a radio station who broke the illegal monopoly of pirate radio, pioneering at the time and almost welcomed warmly as a radical departure from the norm. Both were immensely entertaining, hugely enjoyable and wonderfully reassuring at a time when some of us were about to tackle the academic complexities of primary school. To say we dreaded that first day at school would be the grossest of understatement. 

Today though, we celebrate the 60th anniversary of one of the greatest, most remarkable and loveliest of all children's programmes for that was target market, the kids who couldn't believe that the days of black and white could produce something so prophetic, forward thinking and futuristic. We remember it because we were there to witness those stunning puppet figures and, quite amusingly, the puppeteers pulling the strings. 

It is now 60 years ago to the day since Thunderbirds hit our TV screens. For some of us it was a golden childhood moment and one we'll always use as a kind of cultural reference point. We came home from school barely aware of the wider world because we were so engrossed in Thunderbirds. There were no high tech gadgets, no distractions such as I phones or Smart Phones, no screens, nothing to pre-occupy us in a way that back in 1967 would have been considered tedious or degrading. Thunderbirds was pure escapism, a thrilling kids adventure story, puppets in excelsius and marvellous graphics.

The brainchild of husband and wife team Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, Thunderbirds was quite literally go on this day in 1967. For four years, Thunderbirds was spellbinding and humorous with extremely flexible characters who could adapt so easily to any given situation and had American voices. The Andersons, from the start, were determined to give the children of the late 1960s a wondrous playground of space age figures, a closely knit family unit and absolute togetherness in all crisis.

Thunderbirds always ticked all of our boxes because it somehow felt like an extension of our childish lifestyle, a period of time that gave us even more toys and games. Up until then, we'd always been accustomed to Etch A Sketch, Lego and Meccano for our birthdays and then came Thunderbirds. So, we probably sat down excitedly in front of our dependable black and white DER 12 inch TV set. Now, from what you can remember, there were only two channels up until the impending arrival of BBC Two in the same year and numbers around the dial which represented both the BBC and ITV. 9 was ITV and the BBC was, for all we knew, 65.

What you had to remember is that in those days we had a TV aerial on the top of the wooden box that was our TV and, as we all know, that TV aerial had a mind of its own. It would serve us admirably for the best part of ten or fifteen years. Or it might have been slightly longer but by then we didn't care. The picture was always terrible and fuzzy, there were hundreds of squiggly lines on the screen and there was a slow deterioration into decrepitude, the TV itself just refusing one day to show anything, not working at all anymore. We mourned the loss of our black and white TV because we knew that somebody had just invented colour TV.

And so was born Thunderbirds. On Tracy Island, there was father Jeff Tracy, sitting permanently in some luxurious pad surrounded by weird and wonderful objects that either rose up from the table he was sitting at or just develop into some sophisticated piece of equipment none of us had ever seen. Jeff Tracy had four sons Scott, Virgil, Alan and Gordon, who were always there for each other, the best of friends. It was a relationship that made us feel good about the cohesive family unit. Scott was probably regarded as the leader of the pack, good fun, while Virgil was dedicated and committed to the cause and Alan was similarly loving and supportive and so positive. We liked what we were seeing. 

Meanwhile, in what seemed like some kind of study or a scientific laboratory there was Brains. Now Brains was a clever intellectual, always resolving confusion, always ready to come up with sensible and practical theories or solutions to knotty problems. Brains was a cool guy, a smart dude, reliable and quite thorough in his analysis of anything that didn't seem to make any sense. 

And then there was Lady Penelope and her chauffeur Parker who were always required for emergencies, contingency measures in case the evil villains threatened to blow up Tracy Island.  And there were villains, horrible individuals you would never invite to your dinner party. They were baddies who kept scheming, conniving, plotting behind the Tracy family and hellbent on killing them. It was all we could have wished for in children's TV. In fact, apart from the brilliant Blue Peter and Magpie, it was all we had but did we complain? No, we didn't because Thunderbirds had it all.  Heroes and villains. None of us could ask for more and we were deeply satisfied. 

There was also the other children's TV national treasure of a similar ilk. Captain Scarlett and the Mysterons was in many ways, mysterious but fascinating, another set of puppets to treasure. Captain Scarlett was the he man, masculine, untouchable, unbeatable, a strong and powerful boy comic character who always rescued damsels in distress from explosions and potential disasters. Captain Scarlett was accompanied by the obligatory mermaid. You had to include mermaids on TV and Marina was no exception to the rule. Aqua Marina was soft and feminine, gliding across the bottom of the ocean with effortless ease. 

And finally we also celebrate the 58th birthday of Radio One. Now Radio One was the culmination of a BBC project that, for years, they must have been desperate to complete. While Radio Caroline and London were still ruling the waves of pirate radio, the Beeb were getting all hot and bothered about things that were illegal, prohibitive, forbidden and deeply repulsive. How do they broadcast pop music from a boat next to coastal waters in Essex with a huge transmitter soaring into the air? Who gave them permission to have funky, groovy DJs playing 45s vinyl records and, predominantly, tracks from heavy rock albums?

So was born Radio 1 on this day 60 years ago. Tony Blackburn, a pirate hijacked by the BBC, sat in front of a control desk of turntables with Robin Scott, by then much older than the twenty something Blackburn at the time. The very first record to be played on Radio One, as is also fairly well known, was the Move's Flowers in the Rain. In the years following its arrival on the 247 medium wave band, yet more jolly, funny, at times eccentric and controversial DJs, kept us entertained. Disc jockeys were the voices behind the microphone, invisible presenters but witty and articulate who occasionally stepped over the boundaries of what might have been construed as disgusting and morally unacceptable. 

There was Dave Lee Travis, the recently late and much missed Johnny Walker and Noel Edmonds who deposed Tony Blackburn from his breakfast show hot seat. There was Paul Burnett, Paul Gambaccini, David Hamilton, the superb Emperor Rosko and, more recently, the late but unforgettably magnificent Steve Wright. Radio 1 always kept its fingers on the pulse of modern thinking, never slacking in their quest to pander to the whims of a teenage audience, promoting new bands and sounds, hungry for more and more listeners and introducing the Top 40 on a Sunday evening with Tom Browne at the helm during the 1970s.

Saturday lunchtimes were the exclusive property of Australian DJ Alan Freeman, a lovely, jokey, and always upbeat gentleman who presented Pick of the Pops, a show combining the very best of the retro chart run down from the 1950, 60s, 70s and 80s, juxtaposing both the modern and nostalgic market.  And then there was Canadian DJ Kid Jensen and the deeply respected John Peel who did his utmost to give a proper window of opportunity to up and coming punk bands. Peel loved to be a champion of the obscure and esoteric.

Yes, we all recall what happened on that now far off distant autumnal morning in Ilford, Essex. You walked down to a couple's house where their son was preparing for his first day at primary school. In the mind's eye you can still see the frantic hustle and bustle as the son packed his satchel and milk was hurriedly poured over Corn Flakes or whatever brand of cereal was available. 

Then, mum lovingly switched on the kettle for another cup of tea while dad threw his work papers into the most compact of suitcases. Here was the epicentre of much industry and diligence. But this was 1967 and you can convince yourself that the Beatles were still on the way to the iconic Abbey Road recording studios with George Martin masterminding all of the orchestrations and production values of the Fab Four.  In the fondest imagination, this had to be an authentic memory even though you were only four at the time. Young children are so receptive to the sounds of 1960s music or we'd like to think so. 

But it's happy birthday to both Radio 1 and Thunderbirds. You were like childhood friends in our early youth, accompanying us all the way through to adolescence and teenage years. Thunderbirds was just a fantastic revelation in those early infant years. Puppets were our pals, our buddies on the sofa or those flickering images on a TV screen. And, for all the warm exhortations from our parents pleading with us to move right away from the telly, we invariably thought we were in the land of TV fantasy. Indeed we probably were.       

Graham Potter is sacked as West Ham manager

 Graham Potter is sacked as West Ham manager.

It had to happen because his position had become untenable. He looked like a man who had been tied together with a thick piece of rope and had no idea when he'd be released from captivity. For the last week or so now, former West Ham manager Graham Potter was walking on the most precarious tightrope, hovering over a tank of a piranha fishes. And to complete the metaphorical journey, Potter was also treading on hot coals before just relinquishing his duties because his West Ham team had been beaten too many times for the board's liking.

Last week- and probably a fortnight or two- Potter had gone to great lengths in stating that things had been tough and that West Ham were still looking for a solution to their problems. They were sticking together and pulling for each other, always hoping and never despairing. Then he discovered that he'd just hit a brick wall and could no longer resolve this crisis and had to fall on his sword. The metaphorical journey had ended.

At Friday lunchtime Potter took his seat at his club's weekly Press conference and repeated the same mantra over and over again. He knew West Ham were in the doldrums and struggling desperately but promised that, given time, this horrendous predicament would blow over eventually. But it has persisted and, as West Ham prepare for another vital Premier League encounter with Everton at the Hill Dickinson Stadium tomorrow, they must be aware of the magnitude of their thankless task. Potter has left the building but Nuno has arrived and the new manager must feel like a conductor of an orchestra who doesn't know whether he'll be able to get a tune out of his new ensemble. Somebody is bound to play a duff note on the piano. 

Since the beginning of the season Potter has been a marked man, a victim of circumstances who knew he'd be in relegation trouble because the summer transfer window had been a deplorable one. There was the acquisition of two centre forwards whose combined age was 60 plus, two midfielders who might just save the club and a defence that would crack open at free kicks and corners. 

So, after three successive London derby defeats to both Spurs, a heavy thrashing at home to Chelsea and last week's humiliating loss at home to Crystal Palace, West Ham are slowly sinking without trace. Around them, legions of otherwise loyal and trustworthy fans of the club are storming the barricades and voicing their dissatisfaction in no uncertain terms. Before the Premier League match at home to Crystal Palace, West Ham fans joined together in their droves, loudly protesting and demanding an immediate removal of owners David Sullivan and Karen Brady. 

It almost seemed a dreadful throwback to yesteryear when the wheels came off the West Ham wagon, form deserted the club, defeats multiplied and suddenly the sack of a manager became an occupational hazard rather than an inevitability. There seemed a brief summer hiatus when the signings were signed, sealed and delivered, the trip to America was moderately beneficial but then something went wrong. Despite the wins over Everton and Bournemouth in the United States, the machinery began to creak and there was an air of cynicism and morbidity about the club. You couldn't put your finger on it but it was there out in the open. 

The opening day of the season defeat at newly promoted Sunderland was perhaps forgivable because West Ham had never done particularly well on the first day of a new season. But then the club faced their first London derby against Chelsea and just collapsed, disintegrating like a wobbly old shelf in your living room. The 5-1 defeat at home to the Blues now looks like the darkest moment in the club's season thus far. There was no fight, bite, tenacity, resilience, guts or fortitude. By the end of this debacle, West Ham looked out on their feet and heading towards a painful post mortem. 

But now West Ham have appointed their latest manager Nuno Espirito Santo, a Portuguese gentleman who had recently been dumped unceremoniously by Nottingham Forest. The irony is of course that Nuno was in charge of Forest right up until Forest's 3-0 defeat to West Ham at the City Ground so we may be back in the land of deja vu. So the vicious circle revolved again. It's time to play the game of managerial pass the parcel and embark on a merry go round.

Where though do West Ham go from there? It does look a case of history repeating itself but then the club have been here before so this is no surprise at all. Before one game during the first David Moyes era, West Ham were hammered by fellow claret and blues Burnley 3-0 at the London Stadium. Half way through, a disgruntled West Ham fan ran onto the pitch and stuck a corner flag indignantly on the centre circle spot. 

West Ham were still regarded as a glamorous club rather but one who just muddled their way through the season and were just content with mid table mediocrity. Two years ago though Moyes, on one of the most glorious nights the club had ever experienced, got it absolutely right. West Ham met and beat Italian side Fiorentina in the last minutes of the UEFA Conference Final. West Ham had won a European trophy, the summit had been reached and everything had fallen into place. The celebrations that followed were something the club would never forget. This was the perfect pinnacle and the flag had been planted.

Perhaps the club has now been spoilt because none of us had realistically considered success at any level ever again. Now though the East London club are back at square one, wading in treacle, grasping at the nettle, perilously close to the bottom of the Premier League and looking for some kind benefactor to bail them out of their obvious plight. The fans voices are getting louder and if things don't change shortly and preferably immediately, there could be a monumental revolt. 

The club that had prided itself on its unwavering faith in their managers, has now racked up so many bosses that it barely seems possible. For well over 25 years, West Ham had in their possession two of the quietest and most charming footballing men in the history of the game. Ron Greenwood was a coach at Arsenal at the beginning of the 1960s.West Ham saw his burgeoning potential and snapped up Greenwood, who became one of the most thoughtful coaches and managers in the game at the time. 

When Greenwood left West Ham in the late 1970s, there was a hollow gap, an aching echo, nobody who could apparently do the job half as well. Greenwood was destined for the England job. West Ham were left twiddling their thumbs, worried and concerned. John Lyall, whose playing career had been abruptly curtailed too early, had obtained all of the appropriate coaching FA badges and a job at his boyhood club became his. Lyall almost won the old First Division League Championship for the Hammers in 1986 only to be denied at the last hurdle by both Everton and Liverpool. 

But there was such an easy transitional period for West Ham 50 years ago. Spurs had stood firmly behind Bill Nicholson and Keith Burkinshaw when Spurs came a cropper and were relegated to the old Second Division, Manchester United did briefly panic when the club went in the same direction and although Chelsea once fell of the map during the 1980s, Ken Bates, their bluff and amiable chairman, rescued the club from old Second Division obscurity. 

Now though, there is Nuno Espirito Santo, the man now given the poisoned chalice that is the West Ham job. It will be impossible to form any judgments on the former Wolves boss since there is nothing in a script yet to be written. Santo looked very tactically shrewd and forward thinking while he was at the Molineux but then the club's patience ran out when the team kept losing. Yesterday, though, Nuno was all smiles and wide eyed enthusiasm. West Ham's Rush Green training ground in Romford was suitably excited and allowing West Ham the luxury of one extra day to be ready for Everton tomorrow night. 

And yet there is nervous trepidation at the London Stadium but, at the same time, trembling excitement. Nuno of course loves the purity of the Beautiful Game and is almost word perfect when it comes to the technical football manual. He knows how to organise his defence, encouraging his teams to pass the ball with immaculate fluency through the lines and scoring goals at the right moment and time. Portugal are now a renowned footballing nation and Nuno came through the Portuguese youth academy system as if born to the passing game. 

Tomorrow we'll know for sure where West Ham are now in what could be the most dramatic rehabilitation process if indeed this is the case. It could be that any lasting damage has already been done. For those who have followed the club through thick and thin, in both adversity and triumph, this is not entirely unusual territory. We have followed them through both the Greenwood and Lyall revolution with bitten finger nails and, at times, total bemusement.

'I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles' has never seen so apt a description for West Ham United. Bubbles were always flying high and invariably reaching the sky. Some of us will be hoping for an instant revival at David Moyes Everton tomorrow. Now that would just seem such a huge boost to the club's dwindling spirits. Come on you Happy Hammers. 

  

The Labour party conference, the Ryder Cup and the women's rugby union World Cup Final between England and Canada.

 The Labour party conference, the Ryder Cup and the women's rugby union final between England and Canada.

There is so much going on this weekend that it is hard to know what to concentrate on. In fact at some point during next week, the global and beautiful Jewish community will also be gathering together in their droves. So here goes. Let's see what's first on the cultural itinerary before events unfold and we all brace ourselves for the final days of September. Of course Earth, Wind and Fire immortalised this month with stylishly jazzy homages to September and Facebook is currently offering its celebrated platform to all manner of dances, dance routines and happy go lucky people determined to enjoy the fruits of the autumnal harvest. 

But today it's all kicking off but in a pleasant and civilised fashion. The women of the England rugby union team will be assembling for what could prove to be one of the most momentous and significant sporting occasions of recent times. The ladies of this fair isle will be pitting their wits against Canada, a nation who we genuinely believed had no rugby union heritage. So please forgive your scribe's ignorance but you had no idea that the country that gave us maple leaf flags of patriotism and grizzly bears in forests, had what it takes to become world sporting champions. So come on girls, we can do this one. 

Meanwhile, in the United States of America, the golfing Ryder Cup is up and underway and Europe has got off to a flying start. This is the traditional confrontation between Europe and the USA when the first leaves have fallen and sporting egos are exposed for all to see. A number of years ago, it all got rather heated and antagonistic when both the Americans and the British got all uppity, annoyed and livid with each other. Voices were raised and the putting green at the final, decisive 18th hole turned into a childish flailing of fists and handbags at dawn.

Still, they'll be swinging their meaty, red blooded drivers, irons, woods and clubs from the driving range and a sigh of respectful admiration will be heard from the gallery of fans who follow their every swing and chip from the fairway.Then, a gentle murmur will descend on the green as the players lean forward and hunch their bodies in preparation. But the Ryder Cup is personal and quite spiteful at times because sport matters and this goes much deeper than we might have thought. And maybe that's the point when sport loses all perspective and gets carried away with itself, oblivious to the outside world. 

Back in the wonderful city of Liverpool, the combined forces of the UK government were brainstorming, exchanging witty bonhomie, gossiping and, above all flying the red flag. The Labour party have now been in charge of Britain for well over a year now and the natives are restless. They're sharpening their tools and hunkering in their bunkers like a well drilled army. The delegates and hardcore members who have been Labour supporters ever since the days of Clement Atlee, will be furiously taking notes, gazing across the main debating chamber and wondering what exactly they might be doing that isn't quite right.

Sir Keir Starmer, Prime Minister was supposed to transform the fortunes of the country, boosting the morale of a party that had hitherto been going nowhere and just revolutionising the Labour party in a way they must have thought they'd never see again. After the glamorous days of Tony Blair when everything looked so rosy and righteously idealistic and Gordon Brown when things seemed to take a plunge, there was a 14 year period of Tory domination when things went rapidly downhill. 

But now Starmer is in control and once again the critics are shredding all of those well intentioned ideas from Labour HQ. Firstly, there was the cost of living crisis followed swiftly by hard, hitting, draconian winter fuel allowances cuts on the elderly, poor and disadvantaged. It all just seemed to collapse around Labour's ears like a pack of cards. Then we realised what we'd done or hadn't done. We'd elected a new government rather like a gambler who walks into a casino and hopes they'll become prosperous almost immediately. It was all very haphazard and pointless. Then we discovered the roulette table wasn't working, the one armed bandit fruit machines were malfunctioning and what could we possibly do?

So Keir Stamer kept resorting to his foreign policies and found an unlikely ally in Donald Trump, surely one of the most comical and absurd Presidents of the United States of all time. Or was he? The bloodthirsty wars around him were attacking the remnants of Trump's sanity and Starmer simply lent a compassionate voice and ear. For the British Prime Minister things weren't working out at all well. So he came back to 10 Downing Street and now finds himself between a rock and hard place. 

The outsiders and potty mouthed orators are blathering and nattering away like feuding neighbours, threatening quite seriously to take away Starmer's leadership and demanding a General Election. That brand new party the Reform UK are blustering away in the background, pleading with Starmer to send those illegal immigrants back to their country. Nigel Farage is the cheerleader and suddenly Starmer is public enemy one. Put them back on the boats and send them back from whence they came because Britain doesn't want them and they don't belong in Britain. It's time to take those visas away from them. 

These are trying and very worrying times for the Labour party because they must have thought that all of those well entrenched Socialist ideologies were functioning beautifully. Labour were the party of the working class, the men who grafted away industriously in the mining collieries and pits and always did a decent shift for their country. Your dad voted for Labour and so did the shopkeepers, the factory workers, the builders, the cleaners, the barristas in coffee shops and the people who got their hands and fingernails dirty. 

Now though Britain is still at war with its government and never quite sure where the country might be going. For 14 years, the Tories made all sorts of mistakes and financial blunders that could never be rectified. Poor Boris Johnson just looked on helplessly during Covid 19, crashing recklessly into highly inappropriate statements and horrible hypocrisy. Theresa May, for a while, came across quite favourably but then Brexit sent her tumbling into a tailspin before she had to resign and Liz Truss was here today and gone tomorrow. Her tenure as Prime Minister had to be the shortest in history but none of us knew whether she cared one iota.

And once again Labour are back in control of the purse strings and general welfare of the country and nothing seems to have changed. The party that once boasted the most famous pipe smoker of all time Harold Wilson, was simply disappearing into a hole from which there seems no escape. Wilson gave us the White Heat of Technology and the Open University, promising that while he was Prime Minister, Britain would never struggle or strive, agonise or ever stagnate. Britain would be comfortable, well off, affluent, bright and breezy.

Sadly though the unions announced themselves and destabilised Wilson or was it really their fault? Surely not. However, today the beer and sandwich brigade among the Labour rank and file will be shouldering arms, raising a glass for the proletariat and sounding off about everything from the price of milk and bread to the parlous state of the economy. 

Liverpool has always prided itself on its proud maritime past but this week the Albert Dock will be resounding to the beat of thousands of Labour party feet, treading on hot coals metaphorically of course and then applauding rapturously when the names of Neil Kinnock, Tony Blair, Gordon Brown and Michael Foot are mentioned in conversation. This is going to be a difficult and problematic week for the government but when was this never the case regardless of party colours?

Even now the social commentators, newspaper columnists and clever magazine writers will be hovering around Merseyside, laptop in hand, cheeky, scathing and acerbic words at their disposal. The Labour party will go through the motions and know exactly where their loyal friends are. Some will be climbing walls and sniggering, snarling, chewing the cud before exploding with anger.

 Liverpool is not, essentially, a political city but by the end of next week, we will know much more about the Sir Keir Starmer who had such ambitious plans for the country on day one as Prime Minister. Fear not Mr Starmer, and to quote one of his predecessors, things can only get better. Now where have we heard that before? We know Tony Blair coined this golden phrase because he was an eternal optimist and that's all that matters. 

The first political party conference of the season and British TV.

 The first party political party conference of the season and British TV

You can always tell when autumn has arrived. It's that first party political conference of the year and we all begin to think of the entertainment value associated with British TV. In other words, what's on the box this autumn and winter. As a kid, it was always that moment when the TV Times listings magazine would find its way into the home of your wonderful mum and dad and brother. It was a soothing and comforting feeling because, without this essential piece of literature, we would never have known what to look forward to watching in that week's viewing.

Every Wednesday mum would unfailingly scan a vast multitude of programmes, documentaries, plays, sitcoms, comedy specials, soap operas, hard hitting news, shocking investigations into the sleazy world of politics and corruption while, of course, there were the people who mattered most. These were the actors and actresses, former music hall comics who had now been transferred to the little box in the corner of our living room. 

There were all action films, period dramas, compelling plays about social upheaval, domestic bliss and disagreement, family rows, punch ups, bust ups, explosions, delightful car chases and cop programmes that highlighted the inherent violence and all that pent up aggression which exploded on a forgettable August Bank Holiday weekend in Brighton during the 1960s when the mods met the rockers and the rest is history. 

But now, by the seaside once again, the Liberal Democrats Lib Dems, as they're affectionately known in political circles, have dug their first spade into the sand and then filled up their buckets with the just the right amount of water. Yes folks, the Lib Dems leader Ed Davy has arrived on the sprawling promenades and esplanades of Bournemouth, full of fun, frivolity, general silliness, good humoured pranks and the most electric smile on his face. Davy, of course, is a proper politician and therefore never to be taken at all seriously. And the court jester was it again, marching with a jolly brass band and throwing his baton into the air rather like an American football cheerleader who'd probably eaten far too much popcorn. 

You simply know when government and shadow ministers are in town. Huge groups of party disciples wander along streets and roads, gleefully thrusting posters and newsletters into the hands of the public, full of crusading zeal. There they go, grandstanding, showboating, freely dispensing glad tidings and foolish antics that somehow defy description. In a matter of seconds, they've preached to the converted, becoming accomplished propagandists, schmoozers, utterly persuasive voices and, for some, just a pain in the neck. 

Meanwhile at home, the good folk of the United Kingdom will settle down to the TV, the goggle box, the one piece of furniture in our homes that just seems to sit haughtily in the corner of our living room like some Victorian duke ready to play the piano in a classical concert recital. Now of course TV remains perhaps surplus to our requirements because the 21st century has given us Netflix, Amazon Prime, Disney plus, Apple TV and Now TV. 

If we do get bored with TV, we can always switch on our devices, bring up our screens, plugging into a wide variety of Smart Phones, I phones, Tablets and of course the unmistakable mobile phones which are so much of an urgent fashion accessory that we'd probably be lost without one. But the TV landscape is pretty timeless. A surge of electricity powers its way into millions of homes during the winter and all of those household favourites flash and flicker like a hundred gaming rooms or amusement arcades. 

During the summer, TV seems to go to sleep, wrapping itself in a blanket of hibernation, studios, now more or less, empty and deserted because nothing of any real note, seems to happen. All of the shows, comedies, quiz shows, arresting detective murder mystery series and fascinating nature programmes combine with cricket, tennis and the dizzying array of summer sports and celebrity- driven reality telly that both infuriates and delights in equal measure.

In the old days, some of us had to prepare ourselves for just two channels and very few alternatives that were both appealing and pleasing. Sometime in the first couple of weeks of September when most of us were hurled wildly back into the world of school and academia, the BBC lit up our eyes like an imposing chandelier. It was a Saturday evening and the late Sir Bruce Forsyth introduced us to a game show that had been imported from Dutch TV called the Generation Game. 

Now if memory serves you correctly, the Generation Game would never appear at the height of summer because the assumption was that every home across Britain would be busy enjoying itself on holidays, family barbecues and just drinking leisurely glasses of alcohol outside pub gardens. What had probably happened was that the Generation Game was probably recorded when the first springtime cuckoos and tulips would have first made their first uplifting presence felt. 

Roll forward to this current Saturday evening TV schedule. Saturday evening is now dominated by a fabulous fandango of flamboyance. Strictly Come Dancing is the modern adaptation of the 1960s Come Dancing, that strict, regimented and orderly BBC One national treasure. Here, men in very smart and sartorially correct shirt, bow tie and tails would be swept away imperiously by an equally as dapper woman with flowing taffeta or organza dress. The cynics called Come Dancing stuffy and conservative, maybe a tad too straight laced and disciplined. There was Angela Rippon, the famous female newsreader, Peter West, cricket commentator par excellence and the late but much loved Terry Wogan, all presenters of the highest stature. 

And so we make the adjustment to the winter TV line ups, a fusion of the bizarre and brilliant, the sublime and ridiculous. But these are like cosy roaring log fires that keep us company along with your family and of course, your adorable dog who loves to curl up on your sofa and doze dreamily. Here we are rapidly approaching the end of September and October just can't wait to come out and play. Brace yourself because it could be a visual picnic of familiarity. We've seen them before and we'll never tire of them because that's the way it's always been and how we welcome the glittering jewels of British TV.

Before you know it, we'll be bombarded with yet another clutch of supermarket campaigns ready to remind us of the inevitable turkeys, boxes of chocolates, biscuits and then back on TV, slushy American Christmas related films on Christmas TV. Then there's just a glut of glitz, glamour and masses of festive merchandise, all those goodies that were somehow designed to be made available during the middle of October. Isn't British TV wonderful?   

 

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. This 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 on 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 chullah 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 stunned 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 and 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 him 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.