The news agenda

 The news agenda

Sometimes the news agenda and the daily itinerary of our lives can get totally mixed up in our minds so much so that by the end of the day we can never be sure how certain events are connected and whether there's any logic, rhyme or reason to whatever may have been heard or seen. Horrendous wars in far off countries can often leave us with the impression that the world has gone to hell in a handcart but then you discover that our Royal Family are in the Vatican. And both news stories just seem the most ludicrous sequence of events that came from left field and bore no relation to each other whatsoever. 

On the one hand, thank goodness, the Middle East conflict between beautiful Israel and Hamas, the most evil of all terrorist networks, does seem to have stopped. A ceasefire has been declared and a peace agreement seems to be holding. But there remains an air of uneasy volatility which we can only pray will vanish immediately. Oh for peace in perpetuity and no more bloodshed, historical antagonism, death, pain and suffering. Some of us have just had enough because this is one war that seemed to go on indefinitely. 

Then, in another theatre of war not a million miles away from the Middle East, is the Russia- Ukraine war of words and the most bitter of confrontations. At the moment, President Trump has once again been called into action to bash heads together and looks like a man who thought peace negotiations were something people engaged in at a business conference where deals are made and hefty prices are quoted. Trump would probably give anything just to be in charge of a lucrative financial settlement where he gets at least another million added to his vast bank account. 

And so we park everything we know about Trump in one place and just observe the rest of the world and the stuff that smacks of sleazy gossip and unsavoury goings on.  For instance there is one other vitally important global concern that has to be addressed and even now we'll never quite know why. It could have been consigned to the dustbin of history in a rather shame faced fashion but it's been lingering like a bad smell and we can't get rid of it. It's the Prince Andrew scandal.    

Yesterday though, King Charles the Third, accompanied by his wife Queen Camilla, returned to the public spotlight. They are now in the Vatican city for an audience with the Pope. Now so rare is this meeting of royalty and religion that some of us thought we'd never see anything quite like it again. Charles and Camilla looked properly respectful and full of admiration for the first American Pope in many hundreds of years. There was the pomp and ceremony that we always take for granted on such holy and sacred occasions. 

But then we began to think of all those domestic news revelations that most of us have come to acknowledge as somehow peripheral in our field of vision. The Labour Party in government are still lurching from one catastrophe to another, still dropping one clanger after another, still looking ill equipped for the task in hand. If it isn't the handling of male grooming gangs committing all manner of egregious crimes, then it's the perilous state of the housing market or even youth employment and the lack of opportunities. Then we hear rumblings of discontent about the codes of morality that are never observed by government ministers. It's all very familiar and common so why are we surprised?

There's no point in worrying about apocalyptic wars raging around the world or dystopian scenes of bloodshed and destruction. Surely we should be far more pre-occupied with the repulsive behaviour of Prince Andrew. Much of the news agenda has been devoted to the one member of the Royal Family that her late and much beloved Queen Elizabeth simply adored as her favourite. But then it all came out in the wash, the totally inappropriate relationship with a nasty piece of work known as Jeffrey Epstein, a notorious paedophile, sex pest and revolting human being. 

And yet this story hardly seemed worthy of mention and would have comfortably slipped under the radar and vanished into obscurity had it not been Prince Andrew. Andrew and shady, salacious tittle tattle seem to be going hand in hand with each other. But for those with the highest regard for the Royal Family, this has left a filthy, dirty stain on a hitherto flawless, unblemished reputation. To an outside onlooker, the Royal Family have always endeavoured to present a favourable image to the outside world but not always with the right results. And you were always deeply impressed with that family togetherness, the unity in troubled times and the frequent appearances on the Buckingham Palace balcony.

But amid all the slanderous accusations, the family bust ups, the frosty stares and that sense of detachment from the real world, Prince Andrew is still a disgrace, the naughty maverick who chose to fraternise with the bad sort, the spivs, the chancers, the hardened criminals, the ones who always got away with it. We throw our hands up in horror because we were convinced that, finally, there were no rotten apples in the bag. 

Sadly we now discover that, apart from being ostracised from his immediate family, Prince Andrew may have nowhere to live shortly. The royal duties have been stripped from him and he may have to chase up some reputable estate agents for another desirable property. The lavish mansion in which he thought he could live in for the rest of his life, is now no longer his or so it would seem. It could though have turned out so differently for Andrew had he taken the advice of his wonderful mother. 

Still, we love the Royals or maybe we can't stand them. We still elevate them to the highest of plateaus because, for all the privilege and obscene wealth that follows them everywhere, they still uphold the loftiest of standards. The Prince of Wales William enjoys the most delightful of marriages with the Princess of Wales Catherine, her face always wreathed in radiant smiles and duty to country always uppermost on her mind. Personally the Royals can do no wrong in your eyes and that has to be a good thing.  

We must not forget of course the Duke of Edinburgh Prince Edward with Sophie the Duchess of Edinburgh. At times, it almost feels as if  Edward and Sophie have just retired to some exotic desert island. Modest and shy of any grand fanfare of publicity, they convey an image of both purity, integrity and marital devotion. It is a loyalty to each other that is utterly commendable and never truly appreciated. They go about their business with an unwavering industry and admirable commitment to any cause. 

But here we are again at the end of October on a Friday evening and wondering where the year has gone. Way back in the mists of history, Fridays were all about Crackerjack, that funny and frivolous TV children's programme on BBC One at five o'clock. You had to watch Crackerjack because this was the summit of the week, a delicious piece of childhood marzipan cake to finish off your tea. Crackerjack had crazy slapstick humour, kids balancing cabbages in their hands and a whole pile of random household products. Your reward for winning these games was a pencil and, in hindsight, it must have felt like an insult. But did anybody care or complain at the time? You suspect not. 

And next week it'll be Halloween, all witchcraft and pumpkins followed by Guy Fawkes fireworks night on November the fifth. Time quite possibly passes us by without so much a pause for breath and our perspectives on the year approaching its end will remain much the way they've always been. Before you know it, the Lord Mayor of London will be paraded around the streets of the City of London in a gold carriage and of course it'll be Chanukah and Christmas. We are now rapidly seeing out the concluding months of 2025. Hasn't life been wonderful and sweet as sugar? It has indeed and always will be. 

 

National Writing Day

 National Writing Day. 

For some of us, writing is the ultimate release, that opportune moment to express yourself on the written page. When the clouds of depression and anxiety threatened to overwhelm you, there was an irresistible compulsion to let yourself go, to hit the keyboard and just open up on who you are, your position in the grander scheme of things, the position you occupy in relation to the rest of the world. 

When life became too overwhelming for you in 2012, you found the most reliable outlet for your emotions, a way of dealing with the all consuming complications that had now threatened to leave you helpless and despairing. Writing became your answer to the seemingly insoluble problems, a potential remedy for your psychological difficulties, and the way forwards rather than backwards. 

You'd always written for as long as you could remember. You left school without any academic qualifications but knew that the love for writing was still as passionate as ever. You used to write rambling, discursive, long winded, wordy and verbose English essays that seemed to make sense to you but, in hindsight, may have been incomprehensible to the trained eye.

The chances were that you were trying to impress your teachers with your immaculate command of the English language but then realised that these verbal banalities were just surplus to requirements. So, after leaving school and heading rapidly down into a dark hole that just seemed to swallow you up, writing was still on your subconscious, on the surface of your feelings but never properly within your reach. There was a sense here that you just wanted to write for a living even though you were still only 16 and nobody would take you that seriously. 

So you immersed yourself in the reading of the classics such as Dickens, Orwell, the wondrous Thomas Hardy, Kafka, Thomas Mann, Conrad, Henry James, Proust and Tolstoy, quite an impressive literary line up. You found yourself challenging yourself to read as much as you could but you had no idea why. And then towards the end of the 1980s, you became a tentative scribbler, jotting down notes at first before going back to writing with pen the first paragraphs of football match reports. The bug had bitten you. 

For some inexplicable reason, you would watch the highlights of Match of the Day and the Big Match, two of the most informative football magazine TV programmes. During the 1970s, something prompted you to pick up the pen yet again after pouring out your thoughts onto the written paper during a family holiday in Spain. It was the morning after Scotland had beaten England in 1977 which had resulted in broken crossbars, posts and destructive pitch invasions at the old Wembley. Scotland beat England but that somehow seemed irrelevant.

But now was the time. From somewhere you grabbed a piece of paper and just wrote and wrote. It was all very ordered and structured. Without any knowledge of house style or journalistic flair, you simply painted a picture of what had happened in this notorious battle between the Tartans and Sassenachs. Memory may not serve you correctly but as a first attempt at sports journalism, it wasn't that bad. It was factually correct, thought provoking perhaps but probably quite amateurish.

So you reflected on the masterful works of George Orwell and remembered his reflections on writing both essays and novels. Orwell had captured the popular imagination with his experience as a down and out tramp traipsing the streets of the East End and then his influences. You began to think that here was a man who had something very plausible, serious and fascinating to say. He told us all about his political standpoints, the internal divisions between those who had and those who couldn't afford the basic necessities. He openly criticised the Tories and the Labour party and then spoke in front of a BBC microphone during the Second World War, the perfect medium for everything that was controversial and contentious about the man.  

You though had a completely different canvas to work from. You had never been to Eton or any public school and never had Orwell's aptitude for the written word. So you imagined the scenario of a man with forthright opinions, rousing rhetoric, and detailed descriptions of society, poverty and middle class poshness and affluence. In many ways, Orwell despised the stinking rich and detested pretentiousness, snobbery, outrageous condescension, noses in the air and admitted to a general disapproval of the bourgeoisie, the upper classes.

Now you discovered Thomas Hardy, a writer of such poetic prose and magical, lyrical descriptions of Hardy's countryside that you could hardly believe what you were reading. The whole landscape and topography of rural Wessex and Dorset was brought vividly to life. It was a colourful and vibrant canvas of colours, richly imaginative scene setting where the plot and characterisation took pride of place in Hardy's mind. 

In quick succession, you found Joseph Conrad, Polish- English writer whose sea faring epics were both exhilarating, rewarding to the eye and utterly compelling. There was Henry James, full of grandiose and monumental portrayals of American high society and the amusing gossip that underpinned most of James novels. There was Franz Kafka, full of graphic accounts of his own childhood and tales of court trials while always remaining a beacon of harsh truths and accurate observations. Marcel Proust gave us three volumes of Remembrance of Things Past, a 3,000 page novel that seemed to go on for ever but did eventually stop when presumably Proust was emotionally exhausted. 

But writing is something that you've always done for as long as you can remember. It may have been happened by accident rather than design. You were never quite sure where your writing style would take but then it didn't really matter. You found yourself deep in the heart of subjects that were always open to interpretation. In a sense you were creating your world as opposed to a one written by somebody else. 

And yet we've always written, whether it be in the days of hieroglyphics, poetry, romantic and science fiction. We can often go back to the days when cavemen started carving inscriptions until the 16th and 17th centuries when the writers of the age cultivated a highly stylistic and formal approach to the world of the written word. Samuel Richardson wrote huge quantities of love letters before Tobias Smollett and Sir Walter Scott combined both bawdy and racy language and in the case of Scott's very lively accounts of people and relationships. 

So it's National Writing Day and it's time to blow your own personal trumpet about your very unique literary contributions. Firstly, in 2014, you wrote your personal life story, the development of your character and identity and your first experiences of life from a childhood perspective. You found yourself digging deep to find the reasons for your Autism and  some very reassuring answers because, although you didn't know it at the time, it was your way of coping with a condition that had remained so mysterious for such a long time. 

And then there was No Joe Bloggs, my story about me and there could hardly have been anything more appropriate or relevant to the way you were feeling at the time. You thought it was both moving, nostalgic and full of very honest description. Then there was Joe's Jolly Japes, my take on social commentary, your first children's book Ollie and His Friends and finally my current book of football poetry Football's Poetic Licence. Here you waxed lyrical about the FA Cup, Premier League, Champions League, my late and wonderful mum and dad, there was eulogy to my lovely dad, my grandpa Jack who cut the hair of those noble 1966 World Cup winning heroes Bobby Moore, Sir Martin Peters, Sir Geoff Hurst, Boris Johnson, Thomas Hardy, the World Cup, England, USA, Euro 2020, Europa League, the Carabao Cup, football grounds and Ilford FC, my local team growing up. 

It's National Writing Day folks so feel free to take out your laptop or even the good, old fashioned notebook and just tell us about whatever may be on your mind. Writers can be both private and reclusive, solitary or just busily diligent in their library researches or family archives. You never know in which direction those first words on the page will take you. So if you're thinking about it right now, just go for it. It could be a very special journey. 

England lose critical World Cup qualifier in 1973.

 England lose critical World Cup in qualifier in 1973.

It was one of those fatalistic moments in the history of English football team. The England football team have always been under the fiercest scrutiny, almost a laboratory experiment that could never be understood. But, on one night 52 years ago, England were about to experience that pivotal turning point which would condemn them to years in the football wilderness. English football fans would cry into the beer for the best part of a decade and nobody was there to pick us up from the floor. There was a mournful silence.

It was a gloomy, sullen and morose evening, a dark and melancholy night when the world of Sir Alf Ramsey came crashing around his ears. Ramsey would lose his job as England manager and 1966 would become just a distant memory consigned to the fading archives. All of those stereotypical perceptions of England and the Beautiful Game were shattered into a thousand pieces and poor Sir Alf Ramsey just pulled up the collar of his coat and shambled off the old Wembley pitch like a man who had just stolen a loaf of bread or pint of milk. 

For it was today in 1973 that England were deprived of the opportunity to participate in the following year of the World Cup in West Germany. 1974 was not the year English fans could take any comfort or consolation from. A 1-1 draw against Poland in a critical World Cup qualifier sent us all into a tailspin of disaster, disappointment and woeful frustration. England would not be going to the World Cup Finals hosted by West Germany in 1974 and Scotland would be our only British representatives in West Germany. 

And yet weeks before, in the opening friendly of the international season, England had comprehensively beaten Austria with a 7-0 victory that led us to believe, misguidedly, as events would prove, that England were very much the greatest international team in the world. Unquestionably so. But this was so much of a false dawn that many of us felt robbed, embarrassed and vaguely disenchanted with international football. It could all have been so different had things gone according to plan. Nobody thought this would ever happen. 

So there we were two years away from our teenage years, spellbound by the incredulity of  what had just happened. At the old Wembley Stadium there was a palpable air of stunned bewilderment and disbelief. And yet the year before, West Germany had arrived for a vital European Championship match at the old Wembley against England and then played them off the park with a stark reminder of English defensive vulnerabilities. The West Germans won convincingly with a 3-1 victory and England were gutted, punched in the ribs and speechless. Even Brian Clough called the Polish goalkeeper Jan Tomaszewski a clown but this was far from a circus act more of a minor catastrophe. 

For 90 minutes, England threw the kitchen sink at Poland, plates, cutlery and crockery flying through the night air as if their lives depended on it. In the years that followed, England could never come to terms with the absurd unexpectedness of the events that would unfold like the most dramatic play they would ever experience. At first it must have felt like a Greek tragedy, but then it occurred to you that Homer had nothing to do with international football. So we took defeat on the chin and just got on with the business in hand. The quest for World Cup winning glory would just have to continue and it all seemed so forlorn.

So as the likes of Roy Mcfarland Colin Bell, Tony Currie, Mick Channon, Martin Chivers and Alan Clarke and company all trooped wearily back towards the Wembley tunnel, the realisation had dawned on us. England just weren't up to the job, freezing on the big occasion and resigned to their fate. That air of tired resignation seeped damagingly into England's muddled mentality and mindset and it didn't bode well for the future. England were clueless, anodyne, flat and totally confused. 

Admittedly, England did manage a 1-1 draw which in the modern  narrative might have been good enough in today's game. But only one team were permitted to qualify for World Cups in those days and England had fallen short. Only a victory would ensure qualification for the World Cup and England never really looked like scoring the necessary goals that would rubber stamp our passport to West Germany. 

And so it all unravelled like a ghoulish, haunting, goth spectacle, rather like some sinister and macabre TV adaptation that would send a shiver down our spines. Deep into the second half of the game, England were still knocking on doors, stamping our feet, resorting to a crowbar, anything to blast open Polish resistance. The attacks came in waves, goal-line clearances and frantic urgency just followed persistently. How hard could it be but of course it was. We were making a mountain out of a molehill. This clearly was a formidable obstacle and the Poles refused to budge. In the end, nothing mattered and yet it felt like the end of the world for all English football fans. Life though is precious and, besides, the truth had to be told.

At one point, England looked so desperate and determined that you almost felt sorry for them. There are times when sport just gets to you, an unbearable spectacle that just degenerates into some sorry tale of what might have been. With the match now approaching its final chapters, Poland sensed that something was in the air, worrying and disturbing us all.  There was a nervous tension, anguished apprehension, something we thought would never happen. But it did. There were anxious frowns on the Wembley terraces, concerned faces and a suspicion that there were deficiencies within the English make up of the game, its faults, foibles and familiar failings.

So it was that the worst case scenario revealed itself. Norman Hunter, who was notorious for biting legs and tackling like a bull in a china shop, had hitherto become a Leeds United legend. But wearing the Three Lions England shirt had caught him unawares. On the half way line, Hunter casually took possession of the ball and then completely lost his bearings, fumbling and stumbling horrendously, a tackle that he was never likely to win. 

Within a whirlwind of seconds, Poland broke swiftly along the wing, the likes of Wlodzimierz Lubanski and Robert Gadocha flooding forward at breakneck speed. And then the body blow would be struck with severe wounds in the England defence. The ball would be laid back across the England penalty area and Grzegorz Lato went storming hungrily into space before drilling the ball low and hard past a perplexed Peter Shilton, the England goalkeeper. 

There was the scant consolation of an England equaliser. An Alan Clarke goal from the penalty spot did alleviate our immediate fears but this was never going to be good enough on the night. England left the building by the tradesman's entrance and were now exiting the World Cup. For the next decade, Scotland laughed up their sleeves and there was something of a sadistic giggle and chuckle under their Tartan breath that prevailed for the rest of the 1970s.

Now of course though England have reached another World Cup Finals and rendered that whole traumatic period for the national side as just a temporary blip. Thomas Tuchel is no Sir Alf Ramsey nor a treacherous Don Revie although he may have not been thinking clearly at the time. Tactics, formations, diamond formations and 4-4-2 may come and go. Now is the era of the low block, the pressing game, VAR, draught excluders at free kicks and who knows what else the game has to offer. 

To be sure though England will be in the USA, Mexico and Canada, grappling with yet another load of logistics, scientific data and analytics. We'll be analysing our club's fortunes, celebrating or commiserating depending on the results that have either promoted or relegated us. We will fly off to the promised land, crossing our fingers, sampling LA for a while perhaps, lapping up Florida then quite possibly rubbing shoulders with Hollywood. They will dance to the mariachi beat in Mexico before taking in the sweetest maple syrup of Canada. These are interesting times once again for England. 

England comfortably beat Latvia 5-0

 England comfortably beat Latvia

In the end it was rather like shelling peas, a piece of cake or any other culinary offer of your choice. England have once again qualified for the World Cup and, not for the first time, it was easy as pie, a stroll in the park. Invariably, England always treat World Cup and Euros qualifiers as a simple formality, a predictable sequence of events that always lead to the smoothest progression to both summer tournaments. 

Last night was no different. England could have beaten Latvia blindfolded and still beaten them in convincing style. There is a big argument here for radically changing the whole format of these competitions. Had it occurred to anybody in the highest circles of FIFA that England are playing patsies, lightweight nonentities, poor opposition with barely a flicker of resistance or fighting spirit about them. The realisation may dawn on the decision makers that this is far too easy and England may just as well pour themselves a glass of brandy and light up a cigar when confronted by these teams.

And so we had the same old scenario. For Latvia last night, read the likes of Luxembourg and Turkey who always provided England with absolutely nothing to worry about on the night. You were reminded of bowling skittles being toppled over and those final scores which had the air of a rugby league match about them. There were eight or nine goal defeats, heavy poundings and the sense here that whenever England met both Luxembourg or Turkey, there would be a ravishing feast to tuck into with an almost sadistic relish. 

England have now qualified for next summer's World Cup jamboree in the USA, Mexico and Canada with two remaining games to go before finishing their group qualifiers. Down the years, England have just turned up on the night, gone through the motions and just won their group by a country mile. One day we may be faced by a genuinely demanding, punishing and gruelling set of fixtures before a major tournament but certainly not now because we could have foreseen how everything would pan out.

As things stand now though, England will be distributed with their boarding tickets for the plane to North America next summer. Their hotels and training camps are being organised and everything is once again hunky dory within the England international team. The trouble is that the national team have been lulled into a false sense of security, maybe a false sense of perception of who they really are. In the end, Latvia were quite definitely chasing white shadows. 

Even the picturesque setting of Latvia's tree lined ground couldn't disguise the harsh outlines of this contest. England were head and shoulders above Latvia, a class of their own and by the hour, England were cruising in serene waters, gliding along smooth canals metaphorically of course and just enjoying themselves enormously because Latvia were more or less invisible and anonymous. They almost seemed to get lost in a confusing labyrinth of mazy England patterns and rhythms. If anybody did see Latvia reaching the centre circle then it must have been a figment of their imagination.

The wonder was that it took Thomas Tuchel's England had taken too long to open the scoring. England were weaving and stitching passing movements at their leisure. For the first 20 minutes or so, England had taken their foot off their accelerator, reverted back to first gear and simply familiarised themselves with each other when there was never any need for it. There were sweet, close passing manoeuvres, the neat intricacies, the subtleties, the conspiracy and collusion of passes, the kind of football many of us have been longing for and never really got. 

It was only through the recent tenure of Gareth Southgate when things began to really lift off. There was a sudden recognition that England were going nowhere fast. There had be a real identity, team bonding, camaraderie, a welcome unity and freedom of expression. England were pulling together, discovering a renewed sense of comfort on the ball, eating and drinking together and never afraid to indulge in fancy dan, elaborate passing triangles, careful and patient approach work from the back. We too could play like Germany, France, Italy, Spain, Brazil or Argentina. We too could take our football in radically new and different directions. 

Of course England have lost two successive Euros Final against respectively Italy and Spain but there is a new feeling about the team, an excitement in the air. When the World Cup does come around next summer, they may well need permission from Donald Trump to be the centre of attention rather than the President of the United States hogging the limelight. This is going to be another World Cup of surprises and shocks but England go into the tournament quietly confident of surpassing expectations. But we have been here before on innumerable occasions and we have been to quarter and semi final stages and even major Finals. And we have fallen short, failed agonisingly and that must hurt at times.

Now though England will be getting their glad rags on, packing their suitcases with the usual assortment of beach shirts, flip flops and, quite possibly, garish shorts depicting the Stars and Stripes. It was 55 years ago when Sir Alf Ramsey's England gathered around a swimming pool in Mexico wearing Fred Perry shirts and started playing another game of cards. The air of entitlement and presumption was there for all to see. England thought they'd literally rule the world but then saw Gerd Muller in their mirror, a helpless Peter Bonetti in goal and a dreadful 3-2 defeat against West Germany during the 1970 World Cup Finals. 

We can only hope that another vanity project will not hamper the England team when things look distinctly promising and good. For long periods of last night's World Cup qualifier, England were waltzing the night away, teasing and taunting, tormenting and just toying with Latvia. This was not a proper contest since Latvia were just wandering around dense forests like lost souls. England helped themselves gleefully with the main meal before devouring seconds and then the dessert. At times the embarrassment could be palpably felt and by the end of the game were just flicking rain drops from their foreheads. It was just another day at the office.

Once again the marvellous John Stones, stepped out of his defensive role with the authority of an experienced veteran who had seen it all before. Ezra Konsa and Myles Lewis Skelly of Arsenal were almost completely under employed. England goalkeeper Jordan Pickford could almost have put up his feet on a chaise longue, curled up with a good book and then just dropped grapes into his mouth. Both Djed Spence, a firm, solid and adventurous figure at the back and the ever reliable Declan Rice were sitting on their ottomans, lying casually in front of England's back four and waiting for another glass of wine.

In front of Stones, Rice, Skelly and Spence England were compiling yet another simple plan of action, shifting forwards and backwards steadily and surely, drawing round circles around the home side. Then England began to pick out their most influential players. There were short, sharp passes, passes that had a refinement and breeding about them. The final pass to Bukayo Saka of Arsenal and Elliot Anderson, who had another impressive outing for England, literally touched a chord with many of us. England are building, brick by brick, to some extent rationalising with their weaknesses and concentrating deeply on their strengths. 

England brought back Elliot Anderson into first team action and Morgan Rogers was a dynamic revelation, prompting and probing, finding his colleagues with laser like accuracy. Aston Villa must feel so honoured to have a player like Rogers in their squad. Anthony Gordon, who could take up full time residence on the wing as a traditional winger, had another superb game. Gordon it was ironically who gave England the lead.

The Newcastle winger now looking the real deal and an established figure in England's slowly prospering group, ran intelligently into space from a floated ball over the top from England's bank vault of a defence. Gordon kept up his forward momentum going, coaxing the ball towards himself before checking back inside his defender adroitly and firing a shot that flew into the back of the net. 1-0 after 26 minutes and there was plenty of time for England to inflict even  more damage on a brittle Latvian defence. 

Then Harry Kane, picking up a loose ball resulting from a panicked clearance in the Latvian defence, took the ball down at his feet and swiftly steered a firmly driven shot that was unstoppable. The second England goal had really taken the stuffing out of the home side. England's football had a delicious superiority, upper class haughtiness, gentle gentility about it and a  commanding authority. England are learning well from the rest of their European neighbours and know exactly what to do when in possession. The short passing game is not a mystery or, in the eyes of experts who profess to know about these things, rocket science.

Shortly before half time, an England corner was lofted into the Latvian penalty area, and, although it happened quickly, a Latvia hand was in the wrong place at the wrong time and after a VAR deliberation, Harry Kane, captain Marvel, was on hand to blast home the third goal for the penalty. England didn't need to do anymore since the contest was no longer a competitive one. The second half for Thomas Tuchel felt as if somebody had taken the batteries out of it. England were home and hosed.

England's fourth goal was reminiscent of a quiet country lane after the farmers had gone home and the cows had returned for a late night snack. The atmosphere inside the ground had vanished and it reminded you of a municipal park cloaked in darkness. If only the park keeper had known they would have locked up ages before this game. Spence curled the ball into the penalty area and Andrejs Cigankis unintentionally prodded the ball into his own net for number four. 

The West Ham forward Jarrod Bowen who will almost certainly figure prominently in England's plans next summer, snatched the ball away from a maroon Latvian shirt. Bowen, quick witted and innovative, nicked the ball into the path of Ebereche Eze, the vastly talented Arsenal midfielder who characteristically tricked his way beyond flailing legs before ramming home England's fifth goal on the evening. 

England now face concluding World Cup skirmishes against Albania and Serbia but America, Mexico and Canada is, hopefully, their World Cup treasure trove odyssey next summer. We are at the gates of world football's most prestigious international summer tournament. It is hard to form any judgment or opinion at the moment and predictions are worthless. England are back at the heart of world football's discussion table and the story is incomplete but you never know. 

Their critics don't give them a chance while the eternal optimists are ready to throw gallons of lager into the air if the pub manager gives them the nod. There is not even the remotest sign of celebration at the moment because football and the national team knows this territory like the back of their hands. It could be a historic and iconic summer but now the jury may be out for quite a while. The spectre of defeat looms over England but it will be coming home next year. At long last.              

Stan Myers- a giant of a man

 Stan Myers - a giant of a  man. 

And so tomorrow morning my wonderful family and I will be gathering together for one last time to say goodbye tomorrow to a formidable gentleman, a towering giant, a colossus, a man who never pulled any punches and just never made a fuss about anything. He got on with life because that's how life was back in the grey austerity of the 1950s. You clocked into the thriving world of manufacturing industry and very rarely moaned because the rebuilding process in London was underway and throughout the world there was the first sign of resurrection and rejuvenation. 

You were modest, quietly diligent, dutiful, loyal and always protected your family, supported the family, never able to truly express your innermost emotions because in those days you had to be content with your station in life. You may well have been repressed but privately, you were heartfelt, affectionate, respectful, keeping your nose clean all the time. You worked and toiled from the conventional hours of 9am to 5pm since everybody else did and, in between, there were the briefest of tea breaks, lunch times and a cup of tea with a biscuit or two during the afternoon. 

My father in law Stan was a model of conformity, never grumbling about his work as a map maker for the Ministry of Defence. He put in the most honest of shifts and, such was the nature of his job, tried hard to make sense of the world. Besides, he was the man responsible for clarifying everything that was going around him. He printed maps of the world, arranged all the continents in the right order and made all the relevant adjustments during both the Cold War and the Falklands War. 

Stan told us with enormous pride that at the height of the Falklands War, he was the one who put in the hard, arduous graft, often working into the small hours of the evening and often doing overtime as and when the necessity arose. He loved to boast about the substantial amount of money he would make as a result of the conflict. And then there were the charming stories, those riveting anecdotes that his family would always appreciate and delight in hearing over and over again because Stan always provided for his doting family. 

When he was really at his most delightfully confessional he would tell me the story about former Tory government minister Michael Heseltine. Heseltine was the long standing colleague in former Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher's cabinet. And so it was that one day Stan, busy beavering away in the office, handling vitally important and official war documents and maps, found himself in a lift at work. Ordinarily it would have been just like any other day in his working schedule but this one meant something significant to everybody. 

In between floors, the lift, one of those old fashioned types with shutters and gates, would swiftly take Stan back to his place at the coal face, the home of normality in an often explosive, turbulent world. Suddenly the phone went inside the lift and promptly responded civilly and politely. The voice at the other end wasn't the one Stan was expecting. Stan was talking to Michael Heseltine and Heseltine was convinced he was conversing with some influential, high ranking figure at the Ministry of Defence. Now Stan gently corrected Heseltine, diverting the phone call to the right department. 

At the time of course, Britain was still recovering from the Second World War, a country still recuperating from the deep psychological and emotional scars left by Hitler's murderous henchmen. So it was once again that Stan found himself embroiled in another awkward confrontation. Once again it happened in the middle of one of those frantic and urgent moments during the day when everything was too hectic and there was no room for error. 

With maps now spread over desks and the geography of the world exposed graphically, a stuffy, pompous brigadier general from the military walked over towards Stan. Standing judgmentally over my wonderful father in law, the snotty and overbearing man from the military would point out to Stan the right way to do the job he was concentrating on and promptly lectured him in the most awfully patronising of voices. 

Stan, taking no prisoners, explained in no uncertain terms that if he felt the brigadier general could do any better then he was perfectly at liberty to do so. Shame faced, the brigadier general never interfered again in any of of Stan's difficult tasks. But Stan never shirked his responsibilities and stuck to the work he was assigned to do so. And then he would jump onto the train in the early evening, glowing euphorically at a day of job satisfactorily completed. 

My lovely and late father in law and mother in law lived in Stepney Green and belonged solidly in the warm embrace of the working classes. Stan was just one of thousands who never complained about the early hours of the morning and did everything that was required of him. He was focused, determined, shirt, suit and tie, immaculately clean, hair brushed, washed and ready to go. 

But then come Saturday afternoon during those late, autumnal days and the following winter, Stan would completely loosen his inhibitions and shrug off the severities and restraints of working life. Now Stan would embark on the weekly expedition that was the football season. Stan was a permanent Arsenal supporter and would make no secret of the fact. Rather like any of those teams in the old First Division, there were the highs and lows, the trials and tribulations, the setbacks and triumphs. 

He would wrap his red and white scarf around his neck, place the familiar cap on his head, possibly a rattle in hand and cheer on the Gunners hoarsely and raucously. These were the days of that natural leader of men Joe Mercer, effortlessly inspirational and captain supreme, Don Roper and Jimmy Logie, a successful and eye catching side and one Stan could always identify with. Arsenal were always a force to be reckoned with. 

However, you try to imagine how overjoyed he must have been when Arsenal completed the League Championship and FA Cup double in 1971. He did go to that unforgettable title winning game at White Hart Lane and simply wallowed in Arsenal's noisy neighbours Spurs obvious misfortune. The late and much loved Ray Kennedy glanced his header into the net for Arsenal's decisive title winning winner. Arsenal had won the League and Cup double and Stan, you feel sure, must have danced all the way home back to Stepney Green. 

Of course the fallow years would follow for Arsenal. But then in 1989, dour Scot George Graham sat nervously on his bench at Anfield, home of the all conquering Liverpool. With only a minute to go of a memorable encounter, Liverpool were poised to win the old First Division championship once again. But then a swift break down the flanks eventually ended up at the feet of Michael Thomas and the always rampaging and foraging midfielder brought the ball down with admirable expertise before sweeping the ball stylishly into the net for Arsenal's winning second goal on the night. Arsenal had won the League for the umpteenth time just to prove the doubters and cynics wrong. 

By now Stan was approaching his retirement years at the Ministry of Defence but he was still busy, putting in the hard yards, assiduous, tireless and still going strong. After retiring from the MOD, he worked as a messenger for a silversmith company taking valuable engravings to a whole range of companies including the celebrated London venue of Mappin Webb. And still the enthusiasm would sustain him, keeping him mentally stimulated and physically fit.

During those often tragic months and years of the Second World War, Stan by now an established member of the Paras and beret on head, would shoulder arms and fight heroically for his country. A friend of mine tells the story that, at the height of war and conflagration, Stan would siphon oil in Germany and emerge with flying colours. By the end of the war, Stan was, of course, exhausted. 

Shortly after the War, Stan would begin to socialise with his peers at his local Jewish youth centre and then, happily, meet his wife to be Rita, my stunning diamond of a mother in law. During the early 1950s, both Stan and Rita would become heavily involved in amateur dramatics, frequently holding funny plays and then whimsical, theatrical acts. In a photo just unearthed, there is an image of Stan complete with a vicar's dog collar looking like some Chesterton Father Brown figure. There is a distinctive giggle and chuckle on his face. Stan Myers, we'll never forget you. I have so much to thank you for. And your loving family will always remember you with effusive joy. Simply the best father in law in the world. 

My lovely father in law Stan passes at 93.

 My lovely father in law Stan passes at 93.

We often scan the obituary pages of both the Times and Telegraph newspaper if only because we might want to read about the colourful and highly esteemed lives of military colonels from the Second World War or famous painters, writers, sculptors, actors and actresses we may never have heard of. We peruse at some leisure the lives of people who have never stolen the public limelight. These are the ambassadors, scientists, mathematicians, professors and teachers whose careers have never impacted on us and remain elusive. 

And so I turn to a gentleman whose life touched his family with enduring, lifelong affection, caring, consideration, thoughtfulness and glorious tenderness. He never craved fame or celebrity, never made the gossip columns and never ever came anywhere close to notoriety. He was the greatest, loveliest, finest, modest, self deprecating, amusingly opinionated, delightfully funny father in law and great grandpa. The importance he attached to family was unquestionable, unwavering and steadfast. He was my father in law Stan Myers, an honourable man, law abiding, respectable and friendly. 

In the early hours of Wednesday morning, Stan Myers died at the venerable age of 93, venerable because he was enormously well respected, both adored and adorable. Stan was my devoted football conversationalist, a lifelong Arsenal supporter and probably much more of an authority on the offside law or VAR than me. He made his debut on the Highbury terraces when Cliff Bastin(the boy Bastin) was racing up and down the wing with commendable speed and dexterity while the dazzling wing wizard Alex James used to tear up and down the wings thrillingly.

This was a time when Arsenal were feared, and still are, throughout the land. Herbert Chapman, Arsenal's no nonsense, patrician manager, wore a hat and a waistcoat for all of Highbury's old First Division Championship titles. Stan could never give you chapter and verse on those halcyon days of the 1930s but must have been in awe of such memorable achievements.

He could also tell you what happened on the day of that remarkable friendly in November 1953 when the Magical Magyars of Hungary, starring Ferenc Puskas and company, humiliated Billy Wright's England on a foggy afternoon in London. He was there at the old Wembley, the day when the winter mists descended  and everything went wrong for the national side. English footballing arrogance and insularity had swallowed up England and not for the first time, they were taken to the cleaners.

Stan tells the story about the day when he first set eyes on the remarkable George Best, arguably one of Britain's purest and finest natural talents. It was a League game at Highbury and, of course, Stan believed that, even in his coltish youth as a babe in arms player, Best was the complete article and consummate genius. Stan loved his football and loved his family with a pride and passion that now moves me to tears. Thankyou Stan. You're a gentleman and scholar. 

For almost 40 years, Stan was a hard working, conscientious and dedicated civil servant who worked industriously and purposefully for the Ministry of Defence. He was an accurate and meticulous map maker whose contribution to the Civil Service must always be recognised and admired for an eternity. He married his beautiful wife Rita in 1955 and was the best and most outstanding mother in law any son in law could ever have wished for. 

Both Stan and Rita were married for 46 years and they were both brilliant and fantastic parents to my gorgeous wife Bev and my wonderful brother in law Jon. But Stan always had time for his children, always available for pearls of wisdom, guidance and advice. Stan though also worked diligently in London's East End markets, serving up hundreds and thousands of burgers and hotdogs in Petticoat Lane and, quite frequently, outside the old Wembley stadium with able assistance from yours truly. He knuckled down to his task with that admirable work ethic.  

Stan had no airs or graces, affectations or any hint of snobbery because he was genuine, down to earth, chatty, talkative and extremely sociable when the subject turned back to Arsenal or football. He loved a bet or punt and would regularly pop in to the local bookmakers with the most gentle of flutters. He was never a gambler but completely conversant with the horse racing literature of the day, the jockeys, the trainers, the movers and shakers in the world of the Racing Post.

Stan saved my life when I had the most horrific mental breakdown in 2012. He quietly guided me back in the direction of Jewish Care, a quiet and courteous man, both private and solid as a rock. He was compassionate, helpful, a major source of inspiration, a beacon of honesty and integrity. He paid for my lunch at the Jewish Care Day Centre in Stamford Hill and I'll never forget what he did for me when life looked so dark and ominous.  

But then Stan's wife Rita, sadly died in 2003 on Independence Day in America. On the same evening, the great and legendary soul singer Barry White passed away so I think my dearly beloved mother in law Rita may well have regarded this as just about the right coincidence. Stan went everywhere and did everything with Rita and I'll never forget how I was so warmly embraced and welcomed into their family. It was a privilege to know Stan because he was an exemplary role model to us all, putting family first all the time  and prioritising family when their welfare was often discussed. Stan and Rita stood me with me under the chupah when I married Bev 32 years ago and, along with my late and elegant dad, looked the business, dapper and debonair in the smartest attire.

He was there when our perfect children Sam and Rachel were born and he was the man who converted Sam into an Arsenal enthusiast.  My brother in law Jon had a considerable and beneficial influence on Sam's football allegiance and, quite frankly, it didn't bother me in the least because I just found his enthusiasm for the Beautiful Game truly inspiring. And of course there was my always supportive sister in law Jo, a magnificently loving figure who always greets me with the warmest of hugs. I feel so blessed to have such a glorious family.  

And there you have it Ladies and Gentlemen. We do appreciate the cohesion and togetherness of the family unit. But when our parents, grandparents and grandchildren die, a part of us weeps openly and copiously. Our appreciation for their devotion, tireless loyalty and unconditional love can never be measured because they are the ones who were always available, accommodating, faithfully believing in us all the time, never disappointing us and just there on all occasions. Stan Myers. I'll always love you and of course you'll always be in my heart. Some of us are hoping that Arsenal win the Premier League by a country mile and the Champions League because the Gunners will be there for you when the Champions League trophy is lifted. Come on you Gooners. Always thinking about you and loving you, Stan.  

 

The Vigil on Trafalgar Square.

 The Vigil on Trafalgar Square.

We stood there, united in one common cause. We were there because we had to be on this one very important occasion, an event of almost vital significance. We were surrounded by history and tradition, the heartbeat of London's West End, a specific location that had something momentous about it and filled with poignancy. Wherever you looked, there were hundreds and thousands of people hoping against hope, praying privately because most of us had trodden this road repeatedly without anything that could have restored our faith in the human race. But we knew we had our families and that was reassuring and wonderful.

For as long as any of us can remember, Trafalgar Square has been the official residence of  nosy, inquisitive pigeons, trotting around earnestly, desperately searching for bird seeds from obliging members of the public. The whole area became a breakfast, lunch or teatime for our much loved feathered friends. They were persistent, always hungry, perched almost precariously on our shoulders, fluttering around children because the kids loved the pigeons and their loving parents felt under obligation to feed them. 

But on Sunday afternoon, Trafalgar Square played host to one of the most emotional days in our lives. We were here to recognise the barbaric brutality of war, the senseless murder of innocent civilians who just wanted to live their life in the most dignified fashion. We were here because we needed time to take stock, recovering from a trauma we had never personally experienced but with whom a common connection had just been achieved. 

It was a vigil for Israel, the land of milk and honey, a country cruelly tormented and tortured by war, death, suffering, broken and bereft, and today we will settle down in synagogue(shul) for another meeting of like minded souls. Today is the beginning of Sukkot for the Jewish families of our world, a vast community of men, women, children and extended networks of brothers, sisters, cousins, uncles, aunties, husbands and wives, girl and boyfriends just praying for a peaceful, happy and healthy New Year. 

Two years ago to this day, youngsters travelling from the Nova music festival were ruthlessly killed, shot down in cold blood and, then, horrifically racked with grief and desolation, condemned to die because they were the persecuted and downtrodden ones. They were hated and despised, marginalised by monstrous terrorists whose only objective was to wipe out the Jewish race. Hamas were completely focused on total annihilation before leaving a gruesome legacy of chaos and devastation in their trail quite unashamedly. Sukkot is the festival of fruit and the shaking of the lulav and etrog lemon, the distinctive symbolic act of the day. 

And yet over the weekend we were reminded of who we are, the way we've always been and would choose to live our lives. Trafalgar Square was the place where once we wrote heartfelt messages on the ground, an exhibition of pavement art we would remember in perpetuity. And fittingly, as we gazed out over the iconic fountains and the commanding Nelson's Column, there was something very touching and moving about it all,  that indefinable air of solidarity, defiance and dedication. We were single minded in our pursuit of the perfect world, a world without arms and ammunition and full of love and truth, honesty and permanent friendships.

We couldn't help but notice the new extension to the National Gallery in pristine new stone. There were the striking buildings that have been there for as long as any of us can remember. These were the vast edifices that housed the official business of the day, homages to commerce and finance in equal measure. Then there were the art installations back in Trafalgar Square, crowds of individuals with stunning blue and white Israeli flags, celebrating freedom, the ultimate release from captivity. We belonged, we had conquered, we had won this battle or we'd like to think we had. We are almost there and shortly, we will embrace each other with even greater fervour. 

We considered everything in a much sober perspective than might otherwise have been the case. We acknowledged that all around us was the common consensus, the vast majority of the Jewish population who just felt as if they wanted to be heard around the globe rather than the heart of the West End of London. Opposite us was the main stage where speeches from dignitaries boomed out resoundingly. There was the aching plea for disarmament, the plaintive pleas for the downing of guns, bombs, the lethal shriek of bullets to end once and for all and the end of those destructive, thunderous explosions. No more did we want to hear about the demolition of shops, cafes, restaurants, the livelihood of precious families, where their raison d'etre, their existence, their gift of life is still uppermost in all our minds.

And then you noticed those modern red Route Master buses trundling around Trafalgar Square, stopping and starting almost hesitantly before moving off at the nearest set of traffic lights. Presumably there were the tourists from all points of the world compass, Jewish friends and families hugging each other with the most touching tenderness, a set of emotions whose body language could be seen from miles away. They were just delighted to be in each other's company because they knew that this was the perfect opportunity to re-kindle relationships that would never be allowed to wither away. 

Finally, there were the life affirming, soulful, heartwarming singing, chanting, spine tingling choirs of melodious, age old Israel songs, Hatikvah, the Israel national anthem sung with whole hearted, full throated and lusty sincerity. There was a feeling that could never be felt by anybody else since this was our moment to be among each other, sharing humorous tales of childhood perhaps, the weekend's football results or the latest Smart Phone on the market, possibly the latest and most sleek of all cars. 

Maybe the Jewish population just wanted an end to all war, no more tears shed because loved ones and hostages were still being held against their will. We wanted all Israeli hostages to be released now and not tomorrow or the day after that day since Hamas were just being annoyingly stubborn. But our hostages are about to released, the ones we'll have parties with, bar mitzvahs and bat mitzvahs, weddings of course and the most ecstatic celebrations. We will be back among our closest relations, kith and kin, next to us, on our side, sticking up for us loyally and never to be worried about or agitated because you hadn't seen them for ages. We can feel it in our bones, peace and reconciliation, goodwill and good times. Trafalgar Square, thankyou so much. What joy to be Jewish and life L'chayam to you all.  

Yom Kippur outrage.

 Yom Kippur outrage.

We prayed and yet we were speechless and dumbfounded. We were shocked and outraged but somehow we knew it would happen. We were haunted by history but knew, in our heart of hearts, that the threat was both real and ever present. These are horrifically recurring themes. My wonderful Jewish religion was once again under attack, quite possibly the victim of circumstances but then we shook and trembled, open mouthed with horror because we have been before, visiting that same nightmare. It hit us in the face with a ferocity we could barely believe and then we grieved, shuddering and shaking, distraught and crestfallen. 

It was supposed to be a Yom Kippur rather like any Yom Kippur. In 1967, the Yom Kippur War in the Middle East brought everything to a frightening, grinding halt and the Israeli military infrastructure was attacked. But it failed to destroy the country's impregnable morale. Now though it found itself in yet another traumatic conflict. Yesterday, our worst fears were realised and  the despicable forces of terrorism  had reared their ugly head yet again. 

For yesterday was Yom Kippur and as the congregation gathered at Finchley Reform Synagogue, we heard and saw events unfolding in all their shameful, grotesque, painful ugliness. During yesterday morning, on one of the holiest days of the Jewish calendar, the Heaton Park Synagogue(shul) in Manchester came under fire by a murderous terrorist whose intentions became patently obvious. He was targeting the vast Jewish community, a cohesive, tightly knit and spiritual people who love to be Jewish and were there in defiance, meeting and greeting loved ones and about to observe the 25 hour Fast. 

There were families, friends, children, teenagers and adolescents, huddling together in a stunned silence and wondering where to go next and not really knowing how they could register this disgraceful violation, man's inhumanity to man, woman and much more. They fell into each other's arms, wrapped their arms comfortingly around each other and didn't know what to do. So there was a sharp intake of breath, an abundance of tears and sorrow, before we abandoned ourselves to complete mourning, a sense of mortification that none could put into words. 

For the whole of yesterday evening, when Jews around the world emerged from dusk, there was a genuine air of darkness and heartfelt solemnity which left many of us feeling crushed, emotionally traumatised, severely punched in the ribs. Initially we wandered around the Saracens rugby union club in North London, relieved and pleased to see each other and then devoured huge piles of honey cake. But then it all became excruciatingly unbearable. We were all informed of the ghastly developments that had taken place in Manchester and we buried our heads in our heads. Privately, we must have suspected but never thought for a minute, that the evil monsters who perpetrated this horrendous act of barbarism would ever do this again. Surely. 

In Manchester though, huge armies of police, counter terrorism officers, ambulances and vast acres of red and white tape have cordoned off those still potentially dangerous areas around the shul, streets are like deserted libraries and there's an eerie quiet about North West England that is both terribly distressing and heartbreaking. Constantly we are bombarded with the same impassioned rants, those dreadful diatribes about the blame game and that the fault lies with the enemy. And then we are subjected to another wave of vile accusations and recriminations. It just seems to get lost in the translation and then we keep condemning the unnecessary brutality of it all because we know it might make us feel so much better. The fact is that this is some cliched vicious circle. 

But we then go back to our North London community Finchley Reform Synagogue where all was calm, friendly, welcoming and accommodating. FRS looked resplendent in all its well lit glory. An impressive looking statue of a former Sarries rugby union legend stood proud and upright. There was what looked to be the familiar burger van that nourishes the souls of thousands of Saracens fans. And then there was the souvenir shop with its huge variety of club merchandise, shirts locked away and closed but nonetheless the most attractive of sights. 

And then my lovely wife Bev and I walked into our shul, our meeting place, our social pilgrimage to a land of milk and honey. Rows upon rows of straight backed chairs were spread out across what is normally the home of the Saracens players relaxation space, drinks and food at their disposal and convivial banter ready to exchange. The sombre ambience that pervaded the room on Kol Nidre was immediately followed by the devout worshippers and prayer folk on Yom Kippur. 

Here we had everything. There were the female rabbis and cantors, an Israeli representative and a gallery of guitars wherever you looked on the bimah. In fact there were so many guitars that you'd have been forgiven for thinking that you'd just walked into Denmark Street, Tin Pan Alley in London's bustling West End of London. But this was not Charing Cross Road but the most perfect venue for any religious ceremony. 

So we went whole heartedly into the Morning Service, Mussaf, the Afternoon before arriving at the fading light and Yiskah and Neilah, the final concluding chapter of the day. But we remembered the stunningly ornate paintings on the wall depicting fathers with their sons on Saracens terraces, flat caps firmly in place and the men in action mode at their respective scrums or mauls. One in particular looked like a homage to Lowry, which almost sounded too poignant for words given the industrial heritage that Manchester has always boasted. 

Men and women stood side by side in the bright white tallit, draped so fittingly around their shoulders, kipot or couple on their heads. This was an all inclusive, non sexist gathering where the presence of both women and men lifted our hearts to the highest point. Now they chanted tirelessly and mellifluously, sending a warm glow down your spine.  We hugged each other warmly and continued throughout the day acknowledging the most important and critical points of the day. 

That sense of wonderful belonging and camaraderie seeped deep into every part of our naturally concerned minds. But we got through it all as we normally do so because we were still walking in the shadow of tragic death, suffering and inconsolable humanity. It was the worst and most harrowing episode in the lives of our lovely Jewish like minded people. 

We still had to admire the old, almost ancient laced up rugby union shirts, dozens of gleaming trophies in their rightful cabinets, yellowing and brown programmes that looked like precious parchments, lists of players, football memorabilia, a Saracens European Champions painting and so much more. Outside, the Sarries were hard at work at a vigorous training session, preparing intensely for their next game. There was the delightful juxtaposition of sport and religion in harmony. Our friendly, technical man spent the whole day diligently pressing buttons and twiddling knobs so that the lighting on the day was just right. 

And finally we trickled away at the end of Yom Kippur. Suddenly, we were surrounded by both the strength of the light and the rich tapestry of life. Neilah made way for the memorable sound of the shofar, as we now approached the gates and found our ultimate destination. The day long journey of course had been epic and cathartic, the finest of all therapies. But Manchester is still coming to terms with its loss, full of desperate yearning for the sanctuary of peace and life, wonderful life.

Our security and youth leaders, the people who have always mattered throughout this tragedy, will always restore our belief in the human spirit. As Jews, we will always fight against the malicious deeds of those nefarious terrorists because we will never be defeated. Of course we will have reservations on the subject of those Stand By Israel marches because, although we can't be certain, it does seem these vehement protests are just counter productive. Of course we are proud Jews and we will never go away until the arms are put down for an eternity and peace has come to fruition. Wishing all of my Jewish friends and families a Happy and Healthy, Peaceful and Sweet New Year. Chag semach to everybody.