Manchester City beat Arsenal in the Carabao Cup Final.

 Manchester City beat Arsenal in the Carabao Cup Final.

Just when you thought you'd seen everything it becomes patently obvious that you were wrong. Is it true that Manchester City, rather like a stately gold carriage, just move through the crowds like footballing royalty, occasionally acknowledging the cheerful waves lining the route? And yet the kings of Manchester up until last season, are still sitting on their regal throne and refuse to be deposed. It could hardly have gone any better and worse for Arsenal. 

Yesterday, Manchester City, still members of the Premier League's aristocracy, met their equally as highly esteemed lords of the manor Arsenal in the 2026 Carabao Cup Final. Although City are not quite the formidable force of old, their 2-0 victory over Arsenal at Wembley Stadium is still a superlative achievement.  This was supposed to be Arsenal's time but, for the moment at least, silverware still eludes them. But it can surely be only a matter of time before the Emirates stadium will be rocking and shaking with celebration and jubilation. The Premier League trophy is surely bound for North London and you feel sure Arsenal know this. 

And yet at Wembley the blue and red landscape had a rousing familiarity about it. But then you realised that you had been here before because both Arsenal and City had faced each other in the same competition before at the same stage. In 2018 Kevin De Bruyne, a superbly gifted and wonderfully creative midfield technician, teamed up with Vincent Kompany to drive Arsenal into the ground with an even more convincing 3-0 victory. The game was virtually over before it had even started. 

Sadly, and maybe subconsciously for Arsenal, minds were pre-occupied with more important issues. There was a sense here that this was one distraction too many for the North London club. There can be little doubt that Arsenal are a side of rich substance, top flight breeding and possess an obvious air of classy refinement. They have won innumerable old First Division championships and Premier Leagues while barely breaking sweat at times and the unbeatable Invincibles season will be spoken about for years and years with an almost effusive admiration. And how they deserve every compliment since Arsenal are still standard bearers for some of the purest football seen in any football stadium.

Unfortunately though there are some critics who will insist that the Gunners have dragged the game back into some prehistoric dinosaur age. Their set pieces, including their corners, have been strongly condemned for appearing very bland and predictable. This is not of course a throwback to the utterly detestable, despicable and reprehensible style which Wimbledon once relied upon for their livelihood. Arsenal are far from being exponents of the long ball more a stunningly imaginative one touch football team to drool over and cherish.

But, apart from the first twenty minutes or so when the team from North London held the upper hand, Arsenal seemed to vanish from sight. The likes of Ben White, Piero Hincapie, Martin Zubimendi, Declan Rice and Gabriel were stifling Pep Guardiola's attacking cavaliers and throwing a huge red blanket over City's swaggering strollers. Arsenal were controlling without dominating possession, frequently engaging City in that inevitable chess match. Suddenly Arsenal's bishops, knights and pawns were invading Manchester City's queen and castle. It looked for all the world as if City would have been quite happy to concede defeat and that check mate might have become a harsh reality before half time. 

This though was very stodgy, cagey, cautious and circumspect football from both Arsenal and City. Arsenal seemed to be pinning City into the tightest of corners, trying desperately to overwhelm Pep's Manchester City with force of character and no little flair. And yet King Canute kept holding back the tide and City were resilient, charismatic and dogged. It was their day and nobody was about to snatch victory from their grasp. Pep Guardiola simply couldn't hold himself back. It was a trophy, another day and the perfect excuse for a hilarious dash down the touchline, arms in the air in much the way that Bob Stokoe had once galloped onto the old Wembley after Sunderland had won the FA Cup in 1973.

Deep into the second half though there was a cultured fluency about City's football, an effortless artistry in possession of the ball that became readily apparent. At times there was an arrogance about City and when one of their stylists decided to play keepy up with the ball, Guardiola's face turned to thunder. But it was now that the vastly experienced Bernardo Silva began to venture deep into the half and City gelled and clicked automatically. Rodri, surely one of the most elegant of all midfielders in the Premier League, stamped his almost poetic beauty on the game, controlling and regulating the temperature of the match with deliberate and measured passing. 

At times Rodri reminds you of why you became so besotted with the Beautiful Game. He was always composed, never rushed, authoritative and by far the most commanding influence on the afternoon. Occasionally he looked like one of those feudal landowners in the middle of the 19th century who would survey their empire with an air of entitlement and privilege. Rodri was superb and comfortable with a ball in the way that an artist that looks at his palette of colours and wishes that he too could be a Picasso. 

By now Matheus Nunes had combined forces with the silky skills of Ryan Cherki who always passed the ball with unerring accuracy and admirable maturity beyond his years. Antoine Semenyo was toying with the Arsenal defence unashamedly like a child with a rag doll and Jeremy Doku just unstoppable. Eventually Arsenal surrendered, crumbling under sustained City's relentless attacks. And so the breakthrough was achieved, a goal for City.  

A glorious diagonal crossfield ball from Rodri found Silva whose neat reverse pass led to Doku sweeping into space and his low cut back cross found City's very own homegrown product Nico O'Reilly who stooped to head home the simplest goal from close range. City were now just easy on the eye, ridiculously confident and simply opening up Arsenal like the peel of an orange. You did feel desperately sorry for Arsenal because what promised to be their afternoon to remember became like a punch to their metaphorical ribs.

Minutes later, City were varnishing and embroidering the game with their unique brand of tika taka, possession based football that left Arsenal giddy and dizzy. Jeremy Doku was tormenting Arsenal with a samba and salsa shaking of the hips. Doku was weaving in and out of Arsenal red shirts as if determined to inflict total humiliation. Doku it was who proved the central sparking plug on City's wing, turning and twisting his men, rolling his defenders as if he'd been executing the same movement since he was a kid. He now floated across the edge of Arsenal's penalty area before offloading to two more City shirts before another peach of a cross to City's new kid on the block O'Reilly who flicked his header into the net.

The game was up for Arsenal but they can now surely console themselves with the knowledge that they've much bigger targets on their mind. They will now surely wrap up the Premier League title by, quite possibly, just after Easter.  There can only be a psychological obstacle on their minds since City may feel they have too much ground to make up. Surely this time is the right one and Arsenal will prosper with considerable style. 

 Arsenal have been here over and over again during the last five seasons or so but the impression is that London will be bringing back the Premier League trophy back to the capital. Arsene Wenger, their most decorated of all managers, will have a special bottle of champagne ready and waiting in the kitchen and Mikel Arteta could finally get his just desserts. The Emirates await their triumphant heroes.  

Three days to go before the Spring Equinox.

 Three days to go before the Spring Equinox.

This Saturday we find ourselves in that blissful world of renewal, regeneration and the rebirth of a new season, a period of fertility, abundance, fresh beginnings and the first chapters of the Spring Equinox. At the moment the heavens are shining brightly, the skies as blue and upliftingly transparent for months to come and, if you close your eyes for long enough, it feels like the opening production of a spectacular West End musical destined to run for ages. It'll keep running and running and you'd like to think that today's early Spring warmth will continue to decorate our personal landscape with a broad canvas of hot sunshine.

And so across most of Britain and the rest of the world, the dedicated and conscientious farmers of society will be traipsing around their immaculate and orderly garden, before inspecting their groaning sheds complete with secateurs, spades, lawnmowers and several bags of manure and compost. Right at the back of your shed there may well be decaying newspapers, coffee stained mugs, old, rusty chairs and perhaps a transistor radio you may have forgotten all about. 

If you fancy your chances you may well be tempted to put all of your horticultural knowledge into practice because that grass is in urgent need of tender loving care. Those seeds have been planted in the ground carefully, lovingly and solicitously with maybe a spot of attention and cultivation of your land. You'll dig away at muddy grounds, clear away all of the twisted twigs and then set about the daunting task of injecting a new lease of life into those admittedly forlorn looking branches. 

At the moment the tulips and daffodils are about to be liberated and sent out into the world, achieving all of their heartfelt ambitions since winter may well have decided to forget all about them. Here in sunny North London, cherry and white blossom are set to come out to play. You can probably see them, cheerfully expressing their happiness and just delighted to be here. It is their time to present to the world a good old fashioned air of renaissance, feeling good about ourselves before bursting with optimism. You can't wait to just get out there for summer. 

And then there are your allotment sites, at the moment neglected during the winter but still ready for inspection and ready to yield the first crop of carrots, strawberries, tomatoes, potatoes, lettuces and cabbages. Britain is rightly proud of its green fingered expertise. We love to be out in the open, breathing  in the invigorating air with immense satisfaction and enormously privileged to be associated with the first saplings of the Spring earth. Then you can see the first signs, those tentative buds and petals of red and yellow roses, swaying one way and then dancing in the breeze against a background of gentle, whistling, whispering winds.  

On Saturday though it'll all reach its fruition. It'll be the first day of Spring although next week the clocks will go forward and the days will get longer and longer, brighter and brighter. The agricultural heartlands will be ready for action, tractors and combine harvesters preparing to spend all day, all evening and perhaps most of the night making sure that everything is as it always should be. 

Of course there will be bumper crops and the yellow sunflowers. You'll suddenly see row upon row of nature's finest harvest just waiting to be picked gleefully and yielding something quite extraordinary. And then you'll be reminded of those cultural events that have dominated the thoughts of humanity for as long as any of us can remember. In Britain, we'll be rubbing our hands with glee because we know what's coming next. 

In a couple of weeks time, the jockeys, horses and trainers will be patting the backs of  their noble animals and hoping that Grand National day at Aintree will represent the height of their careers. Ever since the 18th century, the Grand National has entertained millions of people with that familiar spectacle of horse and man in perfect harmony. Scattered across Aintree will be those monumental, if terrifying fences such as Beechers Brook and the Chair. Every year the Grand National welcomes its visitors with its yearly diet of excitement and anticipation. And then the gruelling stampede begins. 

The critics have always disapproved of the Grand National because they believe quite sincerely, that's it cruel and that some horses lose their lives and that it should be banned immediately on those grounds alone And yet during the 1970s Red Rum won the National with an almost regal grace and style and nobody complained then. 

There is of course the Boat Race, that celebrated testament to stamina and endurance. Every year the post and under graduates of Oxford and Cambridge university will stare across the rippling waters of the River Thames, before spotting the delightful bridges of Tower, Hammersmith and Putney. The ladies and gentlemen of the rowing world will take their seats in their boats, slapping each others backs inspirationally and then going for it. 

They plough through placid waters, oars chopping through the waves as if their lives depend on it. And then one of those highly academic universities, suitably enlightened about the world, will be driving hard towards the end of the Boat Race, powering their way forward to the finishing line. And then we'll let out gasps of astonishment because this is what England has always done best and always will do so.  It's England at its most reliable, England at its most indulgent and England observing its most traditional etiquette, always polite, never flustered but just getting it right. It's a couple of days before Spring and how we love the changing seasons and life.       

Hamilton- the musical

 Hamilton - the musical.

The critics loved it, adored every single second, minute and hour of it and then applauded thunderously because they'd seen something that would always live in their memory permanently. How does the West End of London do it year after year? This hardly came as a surprise because once again a musical had caressed the discerning ears of a public who always know how to respond to a theatrical masterpiece. They stood and cheered themselves hoarsely whenever the vast repertoire of songs had finally rung out.

My lovely wife Bev and I had acknowledged the superlative magnificence of Hamilton- the musical that transported us back to a time when all of the social issues that had so dramatically affected America in its dim and distant past had now been adapted to the big West End stage. And so it was that Hamilton broke into song and kept singing and singing, rhapsodising and rhapsodising, belting out those classic numbers in quite the most remarkable homage to one Alexander Hamilton. Had you heard of him? No, nor had we.

There was a tempestuous period in American history when everything seemed to kick off, when men were men and women were women. These were formative and learning years for America, a young country  still learning the political ropes. One man though broke all boundaries and spoke out on the country's behalf,  patriotic as the Stars and Stripes and a determined man, a man of firm resolution and steadfast principles. 

When the American Civil War or the Revolutionary War broke out, Hamilton stepped forward into the limelight and delivered some of the finest speeches about slavery and its abolition. He was almost putting his name forward onto the dangerous parapet of American politics. Hamilton was the leader without a single flaw or blemish in his character who praised America to the skies, arguing fiercely for its independence, reminding a violently racist America that he was still there for them, on their side. 

And so he took his pride to the highest authorities and continued to bluster his positive and favourable rhetoric. There was a time when the America of the 1960s once banned a black woman from travelling on a bus. Rosa Parks though beat the system and united all races, classes and backgrounds. She sat at the back of a bus and refused to budge, defiant and intransigent, sitting there unmoved and demanding the right to be considered an equal. The repulsive smell of racism and segregation had now stunk the place out but Hamilton stood his ground in forthright fashion and took on the Establishment. 

Hamilton - the musical was a fabulous West End musical with a brilliant variation on a theme and the kind of music that was both refreshingly innovative, a dazzling exhibition of dancing, singing and just performing with a glorious abandon and foot loose, fancy free choreography. It was a stirring, immensely gratifying and rousing show full of music that just sent a joyful tingle down your spine. It had everything that you'd expect in a West End musical; exhilarating entertainment on another level. 

But Hamilton was quite literally a musical, a vast homage to hip hop, blues, jazz and rap. There were moments when the inclusion of the extraordinary Bob Marley would not have seemed out of place. The whole of Hamilton was like a huge tableau of riffing, rapping, free word association with rap poetry that left you stunned and drooling with overflowing admiration. The story of Hamilton was straightforward and  fluently executed. We were not disappointed and we just delighted in the expression of the West End theatrical spirit. 

Hamilton was one of the first central characters who believed forcefully that slavery in America was a disgrace, a tale of blatant exploitation. Alexander Hamilton was the Treasury Secretary campaigning on behalf of those who were oppressed, repressed and discriminated against for ages. Hamilton joined forces with Thomas Jefferson, the President of the USA in their collective attempt to turn the tide in the Revolutionary War which was tearing America apart.

But Chris Jackson as George Washington, Lin Manuel Miranda as Alexander Hamilton, Jonathan Goff as a camp and effeminate King George, Daveed Diggs as the Marquis de Lafayette and Jasmine Cephas Jones as Peggy Schufler all combined in one fantastic song and dance production, a classical collaboration of most genres of music that just kept the electric momentum going until the final curtain. 

Here were men dressed in the traditional military clothes of the American Civil War while the ladies wore the bustle and rich fabric of billowing skirts that reminded you of a time when everything and everybody was dignified and decorous. Then the action unfolded on stage with performances of immaculate timing, magical lyrics that were right up to date, every word rhyming wondrously and admirably.

There were astonishingly imaginative numbers, rap compositions that felt as if you were listening to one of your Open Mic sessions where the local rap poets poured out Caribbean words of wisdom, every word perfectly measured and balanced, beautifully modulated words that had slang, rhyming couplets and magnificent showmanship. For a minute you could have been on a paradisial beach in Barbados where the rum was flowing and the coconut juices were available in plentiful supply. 

And so the show reached its memorable climax. Hamilton is shot dead, the whole cast gathering around the deceased body now lying prostrate on the ground. There were tears and emotions, raw grief felt painfully and a sense that a generation had passed sadly into history. So treat yourself to another warm, feelgood musical and let the rest of your family and friends know as well. If you have seen Hamilton then you extend your heartfelt congratulations.   

 

Cheltenham

 Cheltenham.

Meanwhile, in one of the prettiest corners of Gloucestershire, there was heartbreak, yet another tragic fatality in the world of horse racing. We all know this is unavoidable, that the sport that so ultimately hinges so much on the financial investment of your hard earned money, can be so cruelly exposed to daunting fences and once again dominate the back pages of this morning's newspapers. But let's face it, you love a flutter on the horses, that frequent trip to the bookmakers and a bet on those seasoned thoroughbreds.

For centuries, horse racing has given us raw excitement, thrilling finishes in those final furlongs and then the spectacle of the winning horse trotting around the paddock, jockey in colourful silks, horse breathing out  huge vapours of exhilaration and then the incessant patting on the back from delighted trainers and families of the owners who know they will rarely experience another day like this. 

Yesterday, though at Cheltenham, HMS Seahorse had to be put down so sadly that you wondered whether anybody within the horse racing world could ever live with their conscience. Why do we do this to our beautiful animals, subjected as they are to the brutal punishment of the relentless whip, the kind of barbaric treatment that if the roles were reversed, would leave us disgusted and shocked? And yet it happened again at Cheltenham and we bowed our heads in despair, failing to understand why or how.

And yet come every springtime, we gather at Cheltenham and the Irish community wax lyrical about the joys of the yearly meeting of those powerful looking horses with athletic bodies and supercharged enthusiasm. Shortly, the Grand National will be in our radar, fully equipped with the same hopes and expectations and our Irish friends will once again be hoping to see resounding victories at Aintree.

These should be halcyon days for the sport of horse racing and yet they come at a cost. The sad demise of HMS Seahorse reminded us of the race's sometimes tragic overtones. Today, the Cheltenham Gold Cup will become one of the most important and prestigious of races on the equine calendar. Some of us are still slightly bewildered at our sheer fascination with a sport that always looks so frighteningly dangerous and remains so fraught with fatalistic complications for the horses. And yet it's a tradition, an old fashioned ritual that has to be observed. 

This afternoon, the experienced punters, wearing their smart waistcoats and equally as fashionable hats, will be standing next to the rails at Cheltenham, screaming and yelling their very vocal encouragement. They'll wave their betting slips, cheering on their horses to the finishing line with such animation and passion that you wonder if their lives are completely dependent on the outcome of one horse race. It does mean everything and could be the difference between another extension at the back of their houses or a holiday in the Seychelles. 

The truth is that the Cheltenham Cup represents the very pinnacle of sport at its most excitable, competitive, emotional and deeply poignant. For those who just can't keep away from William Hill and Paddy Power and have to win thousands of pounds every day, it is a drug, a disturbing addiction and obsession that just eats away into their bank balance and, at times, leaves them penniless.  But do the horses taking part at Cheltenham care? Of course they don't and that's why both the Cheltenham festival and the Grand National continues to leave us spellbound. 

But they would never have it any other way because they just adore those fleeting moments when their horse, their wager, sprints towards to the winning post and the jockey promptly flings his or her fists into the air as if the National Lottery has once again been achieved. They let go of the stirrups, stand up proudly and smile broadly at their hugely profitable afternoon. It is sport at, quite possibly, or so the critics might say, at its most mercenary, profound and meaningful. 

Then the winning steeds strut around like the proverbial peacock, puffing and panting and just relieved it's all over. And amid all the back slapping, vociferous congratulations and the promise of carrots and straw for the horses, the jockeys and trainers will slip away quietly into the background. They will all huddle together in some cosy, timber beamed pub in Gloucestershire and down a thousand pints of Guinness.  They will be feeling rightly pleased with themselves because the fruits of their labours will seem like the ultimate reward and they really do deserve their day in the spring sunshine. 

The Cheltenham festival, while never attracting quite the snobbery and so called upper class elitism of either Glorious Goodwood or Royal Ascot, still holds an age old fascination that never loses its shine, sheen and lustre. Cheltenham is the curtain raiser to spring, heralding the arrival of those lovely tulips and daffodils and the precursor to Aintree, the Grand National and yet another sporting extravaganza. We do know why Cheltenham is so highly valued by its wealthy businessmen and those people who just want to rake in vast sums of money. And so we thoroughly check form and fancy in the Racing Post and we know who to look out for and those we should avoid. All the best to Cheltenham.     

Liverpool beat Wolves, moving into the quarter finals of the FA Cup.

 Liverpool move into the quarter finals of the FA Cup, beating Wolves.

We are now deep into the crucial stages of this year's FA Cup. The Non League brethren have made their traditional exit  and the competition is heading towards the back straight before hitting the front. Mansfield Town, who have spent most of their history bobbing up and down in the game's lower division backwaters, were promptly given their marching orders by an Arsenal side who fervently believe that this season will be fourth time lucky and the Premier League winning trophy will be theirs to hold aloft at the Emirates Stadium. 

There have been very few surprises and shocks in this season's FA Cup and all the contestants have boasted the most impeccable pedigree. The chances are that Wrexham will probably be feeling quite upbeat, positive and chipper since very few must have fancied their chances against a Chelsea side who have had more managers than hot dinners in recent times.

For a while there were one or too earth tremors at the Racecourse Ground yesterday but class is permanent and reality does have the final word. Chelsea eventually blew their victorious trumpets yesterday but not without a moment or two of Welsh defiance. Perhaps the stardust of Hollywood magic will be sprinkled all over the club. Ryan Reynolds seemed to think so and Wrexham are now poised for a quite remarkable achievement. Promotion to the Premier League may be fanciful thinking but who knows?

Meanwhile, at the Molineux on Friday evening, the locals will probably cry into their beer for quite a while. Wolves must have been feeling utterly overwhelmed and not just because they were beaten by Liverpool in the FA Cup fifth round. For most of the season they have been spinning into a disastrous downward spiral where relegation from the Premier League now seems only a matter of time. Wolves have been awful, shapeless, desperately poor, completely lacking in any kind of identity and tumbling headlong into a humiliating no man's land, the darkest of holes. 

But just for a while against Liverpool, Wolves must have felt just a little better about their dire predicament. Things can hardly get any worse so it may be as well to just accept their fate, resigned to an existence where only pride is the predominant emotion and who cares about the immediate future? So Wolves rolled up their sleeves and just got on with it, rather like one of those executioners during the French revolution. Poor old Wolves have been here before on innumerable occasions and it doesn't improve with age.  

Still, at least, Wolves can relax in the knowledge that the damage has already been done and, besides, the FA Cup was always likely to be a frivolous distraction. You remembered the Wolves of old, the Wolves of Derek Dougan, Kenny Hibbitt, John Richards, Mike Bailey, the Wolves of Steve Daley, and much further back, the inimitable Billy Wright who was married to one of the Beverley Sisters, a morally upright defender of towering authority and majesty. There was the Wolves of Bill Slater,  Jimmy Mullen and Johnny Hancocks, attackers of pace, power and proper, cutting penetration, incisive and decisive.

And then there was the Wolves that claimed the old First Division championship, the Wolves who were feared and revered throughout Europe. The last time Wolves won the FA Cup was now 66 years ago when they beat Blackburn Rovers at the old Wembley Stadium and there's been nothing since. They have gazed mournfully into the abyss, only briefly threatening to do the same all over again but finding that somebody had locked up the shop and never opened up again since.

Certainly on Friday there were no reminders of those unforgettable nights at Moulineux when the Russians of Dynamo Moscow came armed with flowers and the floodlights gleamed radiantly. But Wolves have never really been the same since the departure of the stern, ruthless disciplinarian who was Bill McGarry. McGarry never beat about the bush or minced his words because football was the most important livelihood and results took precedence to entertainment. 

True, Wolves did win the League Cup on a number of occasions but the FA Cup does have an overarching superiority about it that the now Carabao Cup perhaps lacks. The FA Cup has an animal magnetism about it, a sense of the mythical fairy tale that none of us can quite explain. Wolves were privately fantasising about a visit to Wembley in the FA Cup Final but priorities lay quite obviously elsewhere. But not this season because relegation seems to be Wolves only destination. 

And then there were the demoralising and devastating years when Wolves must have felt like a hot air balloon plummeting to the ground in the most dramatic slump. Wolves dropped through the divisions to their lowest point in the old Fourth Divsion only to make the most stirring of recoveries towards higher altitudes in the Premier League. Now though, Wolves have lost the plot again.

For a while the likes of Yerson Mouseka, Santiago Bueno, the lively and mercurial Toti Gomes, Jean Richner Bellegrade, Jao Gomes and Jackson Tchatchoua and Mane wove pretty triangles of passes before surging forward athletically with finesse and flair in equal measure. But this was the look of a doomed team, spirited and gallant in defeat but no more than admiring onlookers at Liverpool's artwork. 

Rob Edwards sprinted ecstatically the length of his managerial dug out when Wolves beat Liverpool in the Premier League fixture last week but now there was a grim and sullen stare into the middle distance. Edwards will of course provide his Wolves with a morale boosting spoon of medicine as they launch their promotion bid back to the Premier League. But Friday night in the Midlands simply felt like a temporary redemption. Wolves have nothing to play for and almost felt as if a weight had been taken off our shoulders, a sigh of palpable relief in their every pass, tackle and shot. 

Liverpool, for their part, will now look back on one of the most underwhelming Premier League seasons for a while After winning the Premier League last season, Liverpool have looked pale, troubled, careworn, lacklustre, their performances now a sad parody of last year. Mo Salah, who almost resembled Kevin Keegan and John Toshack on his own with goals of sensational brilliance, has barely registered up front and the lorryload of goals seemed to dry up. But the plaudits of praise from the devoted Kop at Anfield could be heard clearly at the other end of Stanley Park on Friday night. 

But in this fifth round FA Cup tie against Wolves, Liverpool were sleek, streamlined, gorgeously artistic on and off the ball, a harmonious unit, full of wit, touch and vision, a team with a compatibility about them that knew exactly what they were supposed to be doing.  The red shirts had an instinctive awareness of each other, passing of the most symmetrical kind and the type of finishing that eventually left Wolves desperate and forlorn in the second half.

Once again Dominic Szoboslai delivered the tastiest helping of Hungarian goulash with a typically consistent and hugely impressive display. Ryan Gravenberch, gave us a passing impersonation of Ian Callaghan or Brian Hall but you could never compare the two. Gravenberch was central to everything created and fashioned, darting in and out of spiders webs of passes between his colleagues. Alex McCallister, an Argentine diamond, oozed invention, forward thinking innovation and seemed to have an accurate compass in his feet.

And so to the goals themselves for Liverpool. Andrew Robertson, surely one of the finest full backs in the country, was both the sculptor and goal scoring hero. The ball was moved beautifully and precisely across the pitch from Gomes and then Salah. A carefully controlled movement at speed led to Roberston driving the ball into the Wolves net convincingly, unhesitatingly and handsomely. 

A minute later and Wolves had gone completely, flattened like a heavyweight boxer who simply topples  helplessly over the ropes when the punishment becomes too much. Another roulette wheel of passing from Liverpool's most expansive back catalogue, bore fruit. Robertson burst forward powerfully down the line before laying a peach of a low cut back cross to Salah. Salah came charging in from nowhere and simply passed the ball into the net. There was a sudden delay in the award of the goal because VAR, now reinstated into the FA Cup, had seen a toe that had strayed offside. But the goal was given and Liverpool made this tie look plain sailing. 

When Curtis Jones, one of Liverpool's own and now a polished academy product, cut back onto his favourite foot after yet more dazzling pearls of passing, you knew a goal would always materialise. And so Liverpool's third had put this FA Cup game to bed and the formalities were out of the way. Liverpool now give the impression of metal detectors searching for a valuable Roman coin. Surely the FA Cup may be their sweetest consolation prize. 

They are now in the last eight of the FA Cup and Wolves were left to commiserate with each other. For now Wolves are a team in turmoil and without a sympathetic voice from their most hardened critics. One day though, it'll all come up roses again and of course they'll smell the coffee again. But the FA Cup will completely forget about Wolves. You feel sure that their day will come and the status quo will be restored. Their place in the limelight will be theirs for the taking sooner rather than later.   

   

World Book Day.

 World Book Day.

It is one of those days some of us feel to be entirely relatable and identifiable. It just feels as if the subject under the microscope today may have been taken far too seriously and much more moderation should have been exercised. Reading could never have been regarded as an obsession but books were rather more than a simple pleasure because, to be honest, reading was my ultimate escapism, the mental salvation when there was nothing else to do. And maybe you shouldn't have read so much. But today folks, books should still be considered as one of the most important building blocks in any child's development. 

Today is World Book Day, as it always has been for as long as you can remember. During your childhood, you built a brick wall of rebellion against reading. Reading was always something adults did rather than you as you were growing up. It was boring, pointless, irrelevant, sadly lacking in any kind of stimulus and a complete waste of time when you could have been in the early stages of inventing, pioneering or creating something that would leave us breathless and dumbfounded, suited only for the six o'clock news, the main story. 

Books represented something much more than a golden world of literature that had to be explored from a young age because mum and dad naturally assumed that if you continued to read as many books as possible you'd probably end up as a rocket scientist, professor, the Prime Minister or one of the world's greatest financiers. If you read sufficiently, your prospects of promotion to the highest echelons of society would be considerably better than if you'd decided that you just wanted to be a dustman, milkman, train driver or a cleaner. Or maybe this was just lazy stereotyping on your part. 

Then again if you did start taking books out of your local library and carefully compiled as much information as possible, the chances were you'd be on the right road to success, well paid affluence, a job in the City on the Stock Exchange, a mathematician of remarkable intellect, an economist who would grease the wheels of capitalism, a best selling writer of some renown or a celebrity par excellence. 

For many of us, books were the first foundation stone of your early development when the world perhaps seemed to be both frightening and bewildering. You were a reluctant reader for the very reasons mentioned above. You didn't have time to wander into a wood panelled library with rows of boxed tickets as you entered and shelves heaving with enlightenment, learning, scholarly erudition or maybe just adventure stories, reference books, encyclopaedias, brilliant books on science fiction, romance, horror or maybe the days newspapers.

And all those decades later you can still see the distinctive columns outside the entrance of Gants Hill library. These are indeed the chief characteristics of Gants Hill library in England's finest Essex suburb. You can still smell the scent of studious contemplation, reinforced by the gentle coughing and sneezing from local residents browsing the many shelves. But there was something special about Gants Hill library because inside there was a reverential silence almost belonging to some mystic religious order.

Then the magic happens. You enter the building and are faced with either the chief librarian or a member of staff standing there smiling dutifully at you behind the counter. Suddenly you're confronted with rows upon rows of boxes of tickets with your name, your address and the random set of numbers on each ticket. It may have been the equivalent of today's QR code but this was your passport to the fantasy world of books, hundreds of books sitting next to each other in disciplined formations like well drilled soldiers. 

Of course you were stubborn non reader as a kid although you did know your mum and dad were right because eventually you had to find about what exactly made the human and animal universe worked. Soon primary school furnished you with the knowledge of adding up and subtracting numbers, multiplication, division and long division, the rudiments of English grammar and vocabulary, the ABC followed by secondary school. 

Eventually you developed your passion for reading when it became a vital necessity. As a class we boys read William Golding's Lord of the Flies currently trending on BBC One on a Sunday evening. At the time there was a basic understanding of what the story was about. But there was no real idea of what we were supposed to be doing as a result of reading out loudly during English lessons. It was only in later years that you became aware of the book's premise, detail and concept. 

Personally, you stumbled on Redbridge library next to Ilford Town Hall during the early 1980s. A sense of guilt and embarrassment may follow you because you should have been in full gainful employment. Circumstances dictated otherwise and soon you were occupying every single waking hour after lunch eagerly grabbing and then embracing the great British classics. It was never an addiction but you somehow felt obliged to read as much as you could without bothering to wonder why you were doing this. 

First there was the eminent German author Thomas Mann who gave us the best in Teutonic language and mention of his dog Basha. There then followed the mighty colossus who was Charles Dickens, where you read most if not all of his repertoire including Hard Times, Great Expectations, Nicholas Nickelby, David Copperfield, Oliver Twist, Barnaby Rudge, Dombey and Son, Little Dorrit, the fantastically amusing Martin Chuzzlewit, the lesser known and heralded Sketches By Boz and the Christmas stories. It was the most wondrous of discoveries. 

Then there was the masterful literary genius of Thomas Hardy, the one author who changed my whole opinion on the big, wide world. Subconsciously, you were living in Dorset and you too were farming in the agricultural heartlands of Wessex. You too were planting the seeds, harvesting the crops and then fraternising with Hardy's powerful and resonant characters. You too were living in the quaint timber thatched cottages and drinking gallons of mead, beer and cider if you were particularly thirsty.

You couldn't help but immerse yourself in the Mayor of Casterbridge, Far From the Madding Crowd, Jude the Obscure, A Pair of Blue Eyes, The Trumpet Major, Return of the Native and the man's delightful short stories. Hardy was the man you were looking for when you needed to know everything there was to know about human emotions, the triumphs and positive narratives. Hardy was the finished article who started life as an architect but then established different narratives with suitably dramatic plotlines. 

There followed James A. Michener, Franz Kafka, Marcel Proust, Leo Tolstoy, Joseph Conrad, the elegant Henry James and the wonderfully eloquent George Eliot who embellished the English language with a descriptive flair and polish which took us effortlessly through Middlemarch, Mill on the Floss, Adam Bede and Felix the Radical which was equally as poetic as the rest of Eliot's masterpieces. You did read the Brontes, Jane Austin and have now completed most of the American back catalogue of William Faulkner, Ernest Hemingway and Scott Fitzgerald.

And so it's World Book Day and we should be celebrating the joys of reading to our children and grandchildren. It is the most fascinating of pastimes and hobbies, a genuine pleasure if you've a spare moment during your day. You become totally absorbed in the imagery and symbolism of books, the literary journeys that can transport you to exotic South Sea islands. You were now with W. Somerset Maugham, the man who took you inside the minds of eccentric colonels, spies, plantation officers in the middle of the Borneo forest, cunning card players, spivs or wealthy lords and dowagers living in ostentatious wealth. 

Today is World Book Day, a day for being reminded of what it was like to pick up your first book of nursery rhymes, fairy tales, lovable characters such as Thomas the Tank Engine, Postman Pat, Harry Potter, the Gruffalo before arriving in Disney where yet more childhood companions live. Literature on the written page is always to be valued and then heavily examined by its harshest critics. We all have our favourite authors such as James Patterson, Lee Child, Jo Jo Moyes and the Sophie Kinsellas of the literary canon.

Essentially books are all about acquiring the fundamental skills of reading, laughing at prose of stunning originality, word construction or just enjoying the word pictures painted by the mainstream writers of the modern day. So please curl up on your sofa, pick up your favoured choice of author, allowing yourself the luxury and freedom to experience the joys of the written word. Enjoy folks. It's World Book Day.       

  

Spring on the horizon.

 Spring on the horizon.

So here come the joyous moods and mannerisms of the passing seasons. The wintry stillness and sleepiness of those long gone days of November, December and January days are constant reminders of human hibernation, comfort foods and indoor activities, warming our hands by roaring, crackling log fires at the first breakfast of the day and then long, therapeutic walks along nostalgic country lanes, crunching purposefully through thick blankets of yellow and brown leaves and then slowly blooming, beautiful parklands. It is such a privilege. It is a scene we've always found ourselves in during so many days of leisure and relaxation through late Christmas hours. We do it this year and will always do again and again for eternity. 

But here we are at the end of February and yesterday it felt like spring and then we sensed its encouraging omens, felt its soothing rhythms, touched its magnificence, and then abandoned ourselves to its pretty patterns, its picturesque possibilities, the awareness of its stunning revelations, its revealing and tantalising insights, the subtle suggestions of  long, hot summers. It may be February but in June and July we could be back in the rarefied land of 1976 when the glorious heatwave seemed to go on indefinitely. 

At the back of our minds, we are reminded of our youthful solitude and painful shyness, the way it used to be but no longer is. But springtime is just under a month away now and soon we'll herald its arrival with rousing trumpets and bugles. We'll fling open those blinds and curtains and welcome its pristine splendour and glory through wistful windows, the way we always allowed in the honeyed rays of sunshine from early childhood to mature adolescence.

Then we know that something special and auspicious is in our midst. We can see that first carnival of spring's yearly parade, tulips and daisies dancing the bossa nova, the samba, the salsa, the stately waltz. Behind them lies the percussion and windwood section, winds gently blowing and then wafting through doorways, halls, school playgrounds, ageless village churches, rippling excitedly over placid, docile lakes and rivers. It's almost springtime and let's celebrate for the rest of the year and forever more. 

Across Britain, the Commonwealth and the rest of the world, we saw the first oil paintings and watercolours of spring at its most playful and flirtatious, sunlit mornings and afternoons teasing us and then laughing, giggling, acting out children's games of hide and seek. There it is, the sun, darting mischievously between thirsty hedgerows, bouncing off the branches from trees that may look neglected but look perfectly content to be where they are. It was always thus for the poets of the world and that's who you are. 

So why do you choose to be poetic at the moment? Yesterday it just felt so appropriate and totally correct. You forgot about political infighting, gang warfare in the House of Commons, the conflicts and confrontations, the bloodletting, the name calling, the blatantly insulting industrial language in the heated corridors of Westminster, the endlessly insoluble wars, disasters, man's inhumanity to man. Yesterday you walked along pavements bathed in the luxuriant yellow glow of sun kissed streets and roads, inhaling deeply the sweetness of life and then something even more rewarding. 

Soon the flora and fauna of nature's loveliest manifestations will be among us. We will see the flamboyant theatricality of the daffodils, red and yellow tulips, the dainty daisy chains delivering their first eloquent sentences. We will sing joyful rhapsodies at the sight of those majestic buds of roses, red blossoms of colour nodding amiably at each other rather like we do when we see that first combine harvester and tractor, acknowledging their existence with a cheerful wave and smile.  

And then we will look forward to those first exciting sounds and acoustics of springtime melodies, perhaps playing our first game of tennis of the year although that may have to wait a little longer. We will hear the delicate, whispering winds of springtime, soft breezes whistling musically, the first harmonious orchestras of the year, nature showing off its first choruses and verses, reminiscent of the classical pianos we played as children and the violins that were always thoughtful and peaceful. 

In a couple of days time, the global Jewish population will be taking to the streets with the festival of Purim and our faces will light up at the Charedi populations who love this time of the year. The children will dress up in fancy dress and the adults will imitate their off spring. Before you know it, thousands of Jewish families will wear the traditional uniform of policemen, Superman, Superwoman Batman, Spiderman, Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, inflatable mobile phones and smart phones. They will eat their Hamantaschen with poppy seeds and delicious, sweet flavours, triangular shaped biscuits that you could eat permanently and are irresistible. How good is it to be Jewish and so wonderful. 

But, for the moment at least, it is not quite the time for inviting spring into our home. The preparations and plans are underway and soon children across the world will be gleefully ripping open boxes of Easter eggs and the cuckoos will be exercising their plangent vocal chords. The early mornings will be considerably brighter and you won't need a raincoat or mackintosh anymore, removing at once those pullovers or cardigans immediately before skipping out of the front door with a song in our heart.

So Ladies and Gentleman. It did feel like spring yesterday and our thoughts turned automatically to the past. We found ourselves day dreaming just for a while because we're optimistic and remember 1976. It was 50 years ago that Britain sizzled every single day in record breaking 100 degrees of heat from the beginning of May until the August Bank Holiday. From the moment you woke up to late evening, we witnessed unbroken blue skies, sweltering sunshine, cloudless days, weeks and months and the school summer holidays. It happened every day and how good it felt.

For the moment it's still February and the shortest month of the year which means that we can see March waiting in the wings, rehearsing its lines, imagining idyllic scenarios. February is an excitable child who can't wait for their parents to buy them an ice cream, a ballerina on her first night at Covent Garden, a famous celebrity singer with the voice of an angel. Then the London Palladium explodes into rapturous applause because this is perfection, flawless and absolutely exquisite. Yes, it felt like spring yesterday and that's what it's like and that's the way it'll always be. It's so breath taking.         

National Walking the Dog Day.

 National Walking the Dog Day.

But of course it's Walking the Dog Day. You knew that and we didn't have to tell you anymore on the subject. National Walking the Dog Day is the most pleasurable human activity you can possibly think of. It's something humanity has carried out with unconditional love ever since dogs roamed free on hillsides and fields in the English countryside thousands of years ago. We know we love our dogs because, quite frankly, apart from our loving and supportive family, dogs just happen to be our best friends as well, simply adorable. 

They are the one animal we feel obliged to be associated with because they can read human body language and are both non judgmental and totally unbiased. They are the one animal who never criticise us when we look at our worst after a heavy night at the pub or a rotten day at work, school or college. Dogs are just deeply caring, sympathetic, worldly wise and acutely sensitive to all of our moods. They read our mannerisms, watching us carefully in case we get upset about something because they're on our side. Life will always be lovely with our doggie friends. 

Now, in the grander scheme of things you would never ordinarily think of dogs as the one topic of discussion to dominate a family gathering or a convivial party. But we do and it's just infectious. Once your poodle, Great Dane, golden retriever, Pomeranian poodle, Dachshund, Jack Russell, German Shepherd and Alstatian trots into a living room or kitchen, you know the kind of reaction you'll probably get. Aunties, uncles, cousins, mums and dads, brothers and sisters, grandchildren in particular, daughters and sons will collectively sigh with an unwavering admiration that verges on adoration. 

Throughout the centuries, dogs have become hunters, rescue dogs, police dogs, playful, easy going creatures who just love the company of people. They'll never be able to tell you what exactly may be going through your mind but they do know what you may be feeling. And that's the perfect relationship. We do like to think that we can communicate with our dogs because that distinctive, fast moving wag of the tail says much more than the conversations that humans have always been able to express our feelings with.

Dogs feel for us, they long to chase the tennis ball, a game you so excitedly agree to be a part of. On any beach, dads unfailingly chuck anything they can get their hands on and simply keep the family dog occupied and engaged. Dogs play the game you play with our children, relatives and grandchildren because it's just fun, innocent, carefree, instinctive and just immensely entertaining. At times, dogs are our mental salvation because we look at our dogs and are convinced that nothing else in the world matters apart from our dogs. So they know who you are and can relate to you in a way that's gloriously moving.

 And yet there are those who treat our canine friends with the savage contempt that fills you with horror and disgust. Dogs are an extension of the family unit, the presence on our sofas who just jump around joyfully as if wholly connected with who we are. They collect bones, thickly knotted pieces of small rope and tennis balls, before heading out into the family garden. There they romp around tirelessly, bounding across the grass, dashing and darting without a care in the world. 

During the 1960s, TV gave us Lassie, a border collie who captured the hearts of every child around the world because Lassie was brave, fearless, heroic and understanding. He came to the rescue of people who became trapped in caves or were completely lost and hadn't a clue who to turn to. So Lassie became a movie star, a constant companion and a charming ally, somebody who would always be there at the first sign of danger. 

There were always dogs for the blind and once again dogs were our guiding influence, models of reliability when things got out of control and never disappointed. Dogs had compassionate eyes which always looked after you and made you feel at home. Dogs are cute and sentimental and bark their heads off when you desert them because they'd been left on their own for too long. Dogs curl up in their baskets when the rest of the family have settled in for the evening and they love their own company. They stare at you with that delightful look that means everything in the world is fine. 

Of course dogs can be naughty and disobedient, stubborn and clearly in complete disagreement with you because you just want to walk your dog. And today of course is National Walking the Dog Day and dogs do look forward to both the weekend and Sunday most significantly. They know that there are several enormous parks and pleasure gardens near you, forests and woods full of potential mischief, vast acres of space to explore with that inquisitive air that always becomes readily apparent. They leap over fences, hiding and then teasing you, waiting patiently for your next move before sprinting across streams and rivers with the kind of canine charisma that always makes you laugh and smile. 

So here we are on a late Sunday February evening and you've eaten your roast or gorged with relish in your pub carvery. The chances are that your dog would love nothing better than a long, satisfying walk with you and the family. So you casually pick up sticks or tree branches, tree twigs that just happen to be in front of you and are immediately available. The dog can sense your readiness to play and becomes hugely responsive before suddenly stretching away into the distance, thrilled to be considered a member of your extended family. 

Four years ago, Bev and I bought our first dog. He was a pomeranian poodle and we called him Barney, a name that just seemed so right and correct. And now Barney goes with us everywhere. We feed him every day and then he dips his nose into a silver bowl of water and everything in our and his world is just hunky dory. Now it has to be said our pomapoo bears no resemblance to the breed we were led to believe he was. But our entire family love Barney and just adore him because that love is reciprocal and natural. So we hope you've taken your dog or dogs on their constitutional because they will appreciate it and they'll never let you down. It's National Walking the Dog Day folks. Enjoy your dog because he or she will always enjoy you.  

World War Three - be prepared.

 World War Three - be prepared.

So, according to the Daily Express, those renowned purveyors of doom and gloom, crisis and disaster,  World War Three is imminent, probably closer to breaking out at any moment, shortly. You can't say that you weren't warned because this has been coming for ages and the Express were convinced that war was just around the corner ages ago. But here we are on the verge of a major global conflict and this may be the time to think about retreating to either your nuclear bunker or re-establish one of those Anderson shelters so commonly used during the Second World War. How about some solidarity though.

Now the situation is that some of us are now far too old for taking up rifles or joining either your lovely and late dad's Royal Air Air Force with full grey uniform and then firing all of that deadly ammunition you never thought would be necessary ever again. And then there's the realisation that you could occupy the famous role of the great Bill Pertwee in BBC One's splendid war time comedy Dad's Army. Pertwee was the self appointed busybody and air raid warden who detested Captain Mainwaring aka Arthur Lowe. Then you became aware of something that was much closer to home. 

If you were to believe half of the speculation and rumour drifting out from media outlets who love to wallow in misfortune, you'd better be prepared and ready to fight for your country. The world around us is not only dangerous but petrifying and terrifying. The presidents and military leaders of the world are growling like grizzly bears and the winter of discontent in Ukraine and Russia could escalate into something far more fatal and deadly.

 And yet of course this is avoidable because it doesn't need to degenerate into something akin to Armaggedon or the great apocalypse. We can stop this needle and anguish. We don't have to be armed to the teeth or hiding under the kitchen table because we can reach an amicable compromise and we can be friends across the sea, ocean and continent. And yet the Russians are just scrapping for a bloodthirsty fight. President Putin can't wait to release the first round of bombs and bullets that would both destabilise and cripple the rest of the world permanently if he has his way.

It hardly seems possible that once again the spectre of a Third World War is threatening to bring about the end of civilisation as we know it. Following hard on the heels of the war in Vietnam during the 1960s, the emergence of the Cold War, the evil dictatorships of both Idi Amin in Uganda and Pol Pot in Cambodia, once again the world is facing its greatest calamity since the end of the Second World War. We thought we'd seen the back of war and religious hatred when the IRA put down their arms of death and destruction at the end of the 1990s. Northern Ireland had, though, found contentment and tranquillity again.

But then war let out its most barbaric sound when Bosnia and Kosovo in the old Yugoslavia reached its lowest nadir when thousands of innocent civilians were murdered, starved to death, humiliated and then slaughtered again and again. It was the most horrendous war to end all wars.  By then the damage had become both collateral and psychologically permanent. Vast communities in Bosnia and Kosovo were brutally wiped out, the sight of families with children and their extended family now devastated by death and estrangement, division and anger. 

And now we reach today's latest developments. In the USA, Donald Trump, although violently opposed to any kind of war, is probably resigned to the worst case scenario. His patience has now been severely tested and he may crack under unbearable pressure. In Iran, they would rather keep out of any confrontation with the enemy but may be dragged into some nasty bloodbath. Around the world, there is a repulsive smell of cordite, poisonous and chemical elements and you can barely believe that so much pent up anger could boil over into muscular aggression and outright chaos. 

In the United Kingdom we still think our current Prime Minister and every other incumbent from yesteryear is the worst they've ever seen. Sir Keir Starmer is no Arthur Lowe and bears no resemblance to Mainwaring but war seems the least of his problems. Dear Margaret Thatcher seemed to get a warped thrill out of the Falklands War and we can still see Mrs Thatcher rumbling across enemy territory with a tank straight out of Dunkirk. But Starmer has now been attacked for both his sheer incompetence and his pathological inability to cope with problems is deeply worrying.  

It is hard to imagine Starmer in khaki or any wartime garment. There are no Churchills on the military horizon and the Luftwaffe, those cold eyed assassins, are now thankfully consigned to the dustbin of history. Some of us never want anything to do with any mention of Holocausts or Nazi stormtroopers because this was simply the most unforgivable crime against humanity. But there are quiet whispers, murmurings of a total breakdown in global communication. The voices of foreboding are getting louder and louder.  

The Daily Express, it seems, have been predicting  snow in the middle of July since the beginning of time. Then the Express tell us to be on our guard in case there are  hugely disruptive tornadoes and earthquakes at any given time before alerting the rest of the United Kingdom to something we should have known about and taken emergency measures to avoid. England, though, now is on the brink of World War Three. But then again, never and never again because our children and grandchildren have to live in peace and harmony with each other.  

So here's some sensible advice to the good citizens of both the United Kingdom and the rest of the world. Don't panic because the leader of Dad's Army would be horrified in the event of over reaction and paranoia. Personally, it's time to batten down the hatches, flee for the local Tube railway station platform and just keep calm. This is not the time to summon the rallying cry of Dame Vera Lynn and we'll always meet each other again some sunny day because World War Three will never ever happen and, besides, Dad's Army has now officially passed its sell by date. Don't worry folks, it's perfectly safe. Keep living the sweetness of life and keep laughing and smiling.       

Team GB win gold at the Winter Olympics

 Team GB win gold at the Winter Olympics

It seemed almost as improbable as a hastily assembled team of British baseball players taking on the USA in a fiercely competitive World Series match and actually beating the Americans without breaking sweat, decisively, comprehensively and conclusively. And yet this will never happen in anybody's lifetime and, realistically, it is a pipedream and it'll remain a flight of fancy and fantasy. And yet for the first time on snow, Team GB won their first ever gold medal at this year's Winter Olympics in Milano Cortina. We were dumbfounded and just lost for words. 

Every winter, we look out of our windows hoping that Britain will wake up to vast piles of snow on its skiing slopes and then are disappointed when the mountains, although resembling a Christmas cake, are not even remotely suitable for a Winter Olympics. You think of Aviemore in Scotland where it seems to snow in huge quantities at different stages but it's never enough. 

For decades and years now the collective slopes of the Alps, Andes and Pyrenees receive just the right amount of snow to be accepted as regular hosts of the Winter Olympics. Both Switzerland, France, Canada and Japan have always been grateful recipients for these seasonal Olympics. And then we turn our thoughts to the ice skating rink and recognise, as we did with Jayne Torvill and Christopher Dean, that this is well within our skillset and field of expertise. The late John Curry and then Robin Cousins, of course brought home, the gold medal on the ice and we began to think that gold was a real possibility. We were right. 

So far Team GB have only been admiring eyes at these Games. The superior nations, though, will always stand out and they are the ones simply surrounded by huge snowfalls in their own geographical environment every year. But yesterday Team GB completely broke with tradition and did something that none of us could ever have dreamt of. We knew that Eddie 'the Eagle' Edwards had actually dared to take part in the Winter Games. And then, much to the amusement and scepticism of the British public, Edwards did fly off a ski jump and undoubtedly created British skiing records. Edwards did participate in the Winter Olympics and none could ever deny his bravery and athleticism.  

Over the weekend, however, both Charlotte Bankes and Hugh Nightingale stepped forward into the sporting limelight. It hadn't been the best of weekends for sport since Scotland had thumped England in the Six Nations rugby union and only unfashionable Mansfield Town had upset the odds with a shock win in the FA Cup. So it was that Bankes and Nightingale stood poised on their snowboards, legs slightly splayed out but standing on their snowboard as if they'd rehearsed this manoeuvre a million times. It was sport at its purest and most unblemished, sport doing something completely spontaneous without the aid of drugs and any doping supplement. 

So often throughout the years, Britain have always pinned our hopes on those we think are just delusional, mad and crazy. But in the same breath, we find that these are the sportsmen and women who have always harboured ambitions since they were children and kids love to believe in the impossible. And yesterday we looked out across the Italian mountains and convinced ourselves that even Britain has a gold medal in its bucket list of capabilities. 

After a bewildering series of preliminary heats where the good and great were gathered again, we scanned the idyllic winter scenery and thought we were in our personal postcard. There were vast, monumental mountains, overwhelmingly beautiful because this is our perception of what a good Winter Olympic Games should look like. The snow seemed to cling onto the mountains with a tender, affectionate loyalty that we almost take for granted. The mountains soar into the air and are here to stay for the duration of these Olympics. They're not going anywhere. Here they dominate the landscape, huge quantities of snow, the tops of the mountain summit glistening, shining brightly and then sparkling iridescently.

At various times of the day, they're like commanding sentinels standing guard proudly, undulating and then spreading across the skyline with a handsome symmetry. It is almost as if the whole of Italy has found itself in its most special light.  The downhill men and women are slaloming in and out of poles effortlessly skis digging into the snow and bodies efficiently, while crouching brilliantly into tight, aerodynamic motions if only to achieve greater speed and propulsion. It's a breathtaking spectacle which, at first sight, looks truly terrifying. You really wouldn't fancy even a single moment on this snow caked paradise. Then again perhaps you would. 

In the world of Charlotte Bankes and Hugh Nightingale, a gold medal at the Winter Olympics must have been the ultimate achievement and for Team GB, this was a moment we'd like to bottle forever because this one wouldn't get any better. Here we are in dear England, never remotely imagining something like this could ever materialise in front of us. But Bankes and Nightingale, complete in yellow and blue padded outfits were miracles of balance, speed and movement, racing around the course with immaculate timing and then up and over frighteningly daunting banks before jumping again and again. Arms held akimbo, they leapt repeatedly, approaching corners as if they could have completed the whole course blindfolded.

Sport rarely provides you with that moment in time when you fear that it might go catastrophically wrong only to find that you had nothing to worry about in the first place. At some point we may have to just suspend belief and just bite our fingernails because it is the most remarkable of sporting sights. When they go back to their Olympic village chalets, Bankes and Nightingale will once again bite their gold medal, smiling perhaps for the rest of the year and just basking in the glory of it all. Now we know what must have been going through the mind of Torvill and Dean in Sarajevo 1984.

This maybe the time to take a closer look at these Winter Olympic Games. We will watch open mouthed with amazement as the same snowboarders flip up their boards with an acrobatic grace that is just stunningly memorable and then form our own personal assessment of something we would never attempt to copy. Then the ice skaters will glide across the rink and elevate winter sport to a new level. It'll be ballet, theatre and drama on ice and we will applaud vociferously since we've no idea how sport had reached such a rarefied height of supreme excellence and artistry. Milan, still the main capital of avant garde fashion, will still be cheering itself hoarse long after these Games and so will you.  

Sir Jim Radcliffe

 Sir Jim Radcliffe.

There must be a time when tact and diplomacy has its right and proper place. In football, such qualities can often be found quite frequently. But then, there are those who simply find it impossible to hold themselves back. Some of us believe that, in the midst of yesterday's verbal indiscretion and moronic ignorance, football can still be a life force for good, a wholesome and healthy product that always makes us laugh and smile.

Yesterday Sir Jim Radcliffe, the part owner of Manchester United and a billionaire to boot decided to test the waters, pushing the envelope, provoking comment, just being controversial because it was a slow day for news and there was nothing else to say or do. The truth is Radcliffe has gone too far and probably needs to be told off, severely reprimanded and forced to apologise for his bluntness and honesty. At times, it's probably best not to say anything even when you can't help yourself. Radcliffe strayed over the line, transgressed the boundaries and spoke his mind quite forcefully and ruthlessly. 

Manchester United are now currently enjoying an excellent Premier League season despite the slowest of starts to this campaign. They may have struggled under Reuben Amorim who was subsequently sacked when it looked as if United were dropping like a stone and plummeting towards the bottom half of the Premier League season but Michael Carrick, their once stylish midfielder, has applied the stabilisers. The chances are that United will finish quite handsomely high in the Premier League. But then, an outspoken voice within the Old Trafford hierarchy blurted out what he thought was the truth. 

And even now there is a nasty smell, a foul odour, an uncomfortable feeling that somebody has broken the law, crossed the line, said something so obnoxious and offensive that none will easily forgive him.  Sir Jim Radcliffe, if this is what we should call him now, is now regarded as a racist, xenophobic, bigoted and self righteous fool whose views belong in the age of the dinosaurs and some prehistoric land where women were both undermined and underrated while the men went out to work and earned a decent living.

The truth is that Radcliffe should never have been allowed to get away with yesterday's explosive outburst, implying quite clearly that the immigrants who have colonised this country should go back home to their own country rather than inhabiting our islands. According to Radcliffe, those people from other parts of the world, should go back to where they came from. And of course this is deplorable and despicable racism, utterly distasteful and repellent because we know Radcliffe should crawl back under the stone from whence he came. Or maybe we're being too harsh and should leave things as they are. 

For a moment, your mind wandered back to the days when Martin and Louis Edwards were in charge of Old Trafford. Those were the days when chairmen and the board of directors invariably sung from the same hymn sheet, conducting their business with civility and decorum and the bottles of scotch, brandy and whisky were always available just when the discussion became a little too heated. So then Sir Matt Busby was told quietly and sensibly that the fans at Old Trafford were angry and restless and not to panic because the storm would pass and, besides, United were and, still are, a national institution, footballing giants. 

And then you thought back to the days when football chairmen and owners thought they knew best and adamant that they were in the right. Burnley, who once won the League championship or the old First Division, were owned by a domineering, troublesome, dictatorial and autocratic butcher whose name was Bob Lord. Lord, apart from his meat cleaving prowess, was also an interfering busybody who thought it was his responsibility to pick the first team for Burnley on a Saturday afternoon. Lord was no nonsense, direct and forthright, a damaging influence on the club who stagnated for years afterwards.

Manchester United have also chosen the wrong kind of men to lead them into the promised land. During the 1980s, a businessman named Michael Knighton guaranteed United years of prosperity and trophies. On the opening day of one season, Knighton was seen trapping the ball on his knee and playing pretentious games of keepie uppies, close ball control of the highest order. But then it all exploded in United's face and football became a horrific spectacle, anathema to those who used to revel in the Busby Babes and Sir Matt Busby's greatest. 

But now there is Jim Radcliffe. Radcliffe was the man who gave his blessing to Reuben Amorim of Portugal as manager of United. He also sanctioned the signings of Bruno Fernandes of Portugal and Casemiro of Brazil. And this is where the Radcliffe logic and double standards have now taken root in his broken and prejudiced mind. So it's time to stop our friends from around the world immediately from entering customs at Heathrow airport because they're not British, culturally out of their depth in dear Blighty and should never be allowed to settle their family in Manchester or any major British city. 

And then there were thinking that the days of colonialism and exclusion were a thing of the distant past. Those far off decades when the map of the world was pink and the empire was only British, are now an ancient anachronism, some old fashioned piece of distorted geography that only the insularity of the English or British could lay claim as their own.  So we were the bosses, we were the governors, those stubborn authoritarians who should rule this fair land forever more. 

However, Radcliffe seems to be out on his own this morning. The rest of the world have been fierce in their criticism and outright condemnation. Sir Keir Starmer, Prime Minister of the UK, was furious, deeply offended and echoed the sentiments of many of us. Radcliffe meekly apologised and sought remorse and contrition but then seemed to stick to his original point. The words tumbled out incorrectly and the language was garbled and too emotive for any of us. He had put his foot in it and was still wearing the same shoes because he maintained that his incendiary remarks were designed to shake everybody up. But then we remembered who Manchester United were, are and will always be. 

Manchester United are one of the most celebrated, globally revered, admirable and progressive clubs in the Premier League. They have now won both the old First Division championship and Premier League a record 20 times, they have won the European Cup and Premier League on a number of occasions now and their legendary status can never be questioned. 

Manchester United are a marketable commodity around the world with gleaming souvenirs and merchandise, fans in India, Africa, Australia, Brazil, Argentina and Asia. They have huge marketing departments in Hong Kong, Malaysia and, quite possibly, the Borneo rainforest and they are the connoisseurs of the Beautiful Game. They were purists and aesthetically pleasing to the eye and when Sir Alex Ferguson was the head honcho at United, they had Sir David Beckham, Nicky Butt, Paul Scholes and Ryan Giggs, a fearsome and hugely gifted generation of young players who achieved that perfect chemistry and understanding. 

Sadly, one Sir Jim Radcliffe blotted the copybook, muddied the landscape and just thought he could act  with complete impunity. His proposal for the colonisation of people from abroad, still leaves a bitter taste in the mouth. Football is currently examining itself, feeling pretty delicate and fragile, under attack from all quarters. Radcliffe is dragging the game through the mud without, seemingly saying sorry at all. He thinks he should have been entitled to put across his view because we do live in a country which advocates free speech.

But Manchester United are a club of the highest class, status and stature. Surely Radcliffe has both recognised and realised what exactly he's done. Unfortunately, somebody will have to take him to task. In the next week or so the dust will, of course, will settle and United will give Michael Carrick the chance to maintain their good form and finish the season strongly. They will distance themselves from the ludicrous statements of Radcliffe and get on with the business of playing football. It may not be too much to ask for.    

National Guitar Day.

 National Guitar Day. 

You've all been waiting with bated breath so let's surprise you. You would have never known what National Day it is so it is time to put you out of your misery. Ladies and Gentleman and for all those musicians who so diligently ply their trade with complete dedication, today is National Guitar Day. Now the chances are that for those who don't play the guitar, it isn't really the most important day of the year. Still, you can come out of your recording studio and enjoy the fruits of this acknowledegment of National Guitar Day. 

So where do our thoughts take us when we think of that very recognisable sound of the guitar? Do we think of Tin Pan Alley in Denmark Street, the heart of London's always bustling West End? Or perhaps we might venture into Charing Cross Road where the guitar still takes you back to the age of rock and roll, Lonnie Donegan's skiffle during the 1950s and all of those electric guitars of varying sophistication. Guitars tick all the right boxes because they were the distinctive soundtrack of the late 1950s and 60s in London where pianos, violins and drum kits still sit very impressively next to the guitar. 

Back in the early 1950s one man paved the way for a thriving, booming industry, a pioneering figure who today's generation still look back fondly on as the man who started it all, a sparking plug and catalyst for those who just loved writing songs that were simple. They had to be accompanied, though, by guitar solos or a subtle backing track for a song that just seemed so right and totally evocative of the period, maybe reflective love songs that took you right back to that first date in a candle lit restaurant. There was one, though one man and man only who made all the difference in the world of guitars.

His name was Bert Weedon and Weedon was the man who created the magic, a guitarist with the nimblest of fingers, somebody with a natural aptitude for finding new chords and colours within the framework of a guitar driven composition. Weedon quite literally taught the world how to play the guitar with skilful thumbs and joyous freedom. Weedon possessed a natural comfort and dexterity with the plucking plectrum that gripped Britain. None had really captured the essence of guitar playing until Weedon arrived. 

And so Weedon gave us his unique masterclass in that magical sound of the guitar. So it was that when Britain entered that seminal and life changing decade known as the Swinging Sixties, an all guitar group leapt into the music pop music consciousness, both owning and revolutionising the way the guitar could be played and would continue to do so for some time.  

The Shadows were an all British guitar band who elevated the guitar to a deliciously pleasant level that was choreographed to perfection with those wonderful feet shuffling movements of the Shadows. Both Hank Marvin, Bruce Welsh, Brian Bennett, Jet Harris the bassist and Tony Meehan would lend a polish and an air of finesse to the art of guitar playing. Hank Marvin, with his trademark glasses, would later carve out a film career with Cliff Richard and the Shadows and their appearance in the movie Summer Holiday will remain a treasured memory. Summer Holiday was a jolly and uplifting film about Cliff Richard and the Shads travelling in an old fashioned but classic Red Route Master double decker London bus and just enjoying life. 

But the Shadows gave us Apache, the superb Wonderful Land, Sleepwalk and Kon Tiki, smoothly effortless and the kind of music that the teenagers of the late 1950s and early 1960 would take to their park and listen to intently on their transistor radio with a shameless admiration and appreciation of that simple twang of the guitar. And the Shadows certainly knew how to twang their electric guitars because it was their definitive trademark. The Shadows wore sharp suits, smart trousers and were the boys every girl wanted to introduce to their parents. They were clean cut, respectable, knowing instinctively where their music was taking them to. 

Then, at the beginning of the 1960s a band from Liverpool called the Beatles stopped everybody in their tracks. John Lennon and Paul McCartney composed most of the Beatles most resonant and poetic lyrics. Lennon and McCartney were tailor made for the guitar, the instrument wrapped around their shoulders and then being held onto with a tenderness that was both moving and electrifying. Lennon and McCartney and Lennon gave the Sergeant Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band, its quirkiest acoustic and both Yesterday, Hey Jude and the guitar textured Ticket to Ride would become one of many of their greatest hits. 

McCartney though as a front line guitarist had so much imagination and invention in his head that you wondered whether you would ever hear anything like it ever again in the future. Lennon was just John Lennon, seemingly too casual and blase about the Beatles phenomenal success and convinced that even the Rolling Stones would have difficulty in matching, emulating and surpassing them. When the Beatles broke up in 1970s, Lennon pursued a solo career, spent a week in bed with Yoko Ono in a shop window, grew his hair to an impossible length, developed a beard and just kept producing song after song of unsurpassable genius. 

Burt Bacharach's Something, a George Harrison classic, had those mellifluous guitar backing tracks that Lennon would have given anything to write. But the Beatles kept going through the 1960s because they knew they were pathfinders, discovering key changes in the guitar that few of their contemporaries could ever get the better of. Lennon and McCartney loved the guitar because it was liberating, exciting, energising and just ground breaking. 

At around about the same time during the 1960s Eric Clapton, from that wonderfully transformative and creative period of song writers, emerged into the spotlight. Clapton was a brilliant and stylish rock guitarists and Layla somehow defined both Clapton and the way he brought his guitar to life. When Eric Clapton, who joined the band Cream, arrived on the scene, the guitar became like a philosophy, a mantra and slogan that everybody could recognise. There was a vibrancy and vivacity about music during the late 1950s that everybody could dance to in first the coffee bars of Soho and the much wider world.

Twenty years later, one of the most dynamic rock bands of all time exploded into a decade that probably hadn't seen them coming. They were genuine rock guitarists who crafted some of the most ingenious lyrics of all time, a group at first glance who were, allegedly, so outrageous, gaudy and garish that it seemed only a matter of a time before burn out would set in and the group would have a limited shelf life. And yet Queen were and still are a breath of fresh air and the critics would have to keep their feelings to themselves. 

But Queen were sensational, spectacular, glamorous and fittingly fashionable. Freddie Mercury, Brian May and Roger Taylor, were superlative musicians who embraced the guitar with the relish of youngsters who were determined to follow in their footsteps.  We Are the Champions, Seven Seas of Rye, their first single, Radio Ga Ga, A Crazy Thing Called Love and, above all, the remarkable Bohemian Rhapsody dramatically changed the landscape of  the rock guitar community. 

Brian May, now a distinguished astro physicist, remains one of our most famous and prominent mainstream guitarists. May attacked every Queen song as if his life depended on it. With long, frizzy black hair and electric guitar in his hand, Brian May made his guitar screech, scream and shriek with purpose and conviction. He would hold his guitar up in the air as if it were some birthday present his mum and dad had just given him. Then there the wild, extravagant chord changes, the respectful smiles and glances in Freddie Mercury's direction and Roger Taylor who pounded out the drums with a relentless ferocity.

During the 1970s there was Bread's Guitar Man, George Harrison's While My Guitar Gently Weeps and those gently tranquil Spanish guitar symphonies of sound that made us think of the English countryside, musical streams and wide, expansive acres of meadows, cornfields and late night jazz gatherings. The guitar sound always reminded us of where we were in childhood and then followed us into burgeoning adolescence.

And so today is National Guitar Day. The fact has to be emphasised in much the way the guitar either prompted us to play it playfully or simply at the end of the day with a smooth cappuccino, latte and my lovely and late mum's milky coffee. John Williams and Jeff Lynne's ELO are yet more legendary names from the high society of the guitar world. But if you should happen to have an old guitar in your attic and you're so inclined then this may be the time to express yourself for no other reason than it's the greatest musical instrument of all time. You are the Guitar Man or Woman. Enjoy.

Winter Olympics

 Winter Olympics in Milan

There was a time when the sport of skiing was always regarded as the one activity that only the rich and privileged could afford. Then again the middle class took one look at the wealthy bourgeoisie and just sniffed disdainfully at the commoners and peasants, shamelessly showing off their latest ski boiler suit and claiming to have watched Ski Sunday introduced by David Vine every week without missing a single trend or fashion.

Over the weekend the Winter Olympics of Milan began that well trodden journey towards the land of sportsmanship, goodwill to all mankind, equality of the sexes, no racism or discrimination of any kind, tolerance and understanding. Then again the whole Olympic movement has always tried desperately hard to rid itself of deceit, illicit drug taking, doping and corruption. And look what happened when that didn't work. The cynics accused the Olympic committee of being cheap and tawdry, a sleazy sham and full of shifty eyed, fraudulent behaviour. But that was enough about the summer Olympic Games. 

Anyway, the Winter Olympics has parked itself in Cortina Milan and although the critics are still darkening its corridors with accusation after counter accusation, we know otherwise. Somehow, you just have to pinch yourself at some of the events that have always decorated the Winter Olympics. For a fortnight, Italy will be packed to the rafters with world class downhill skiers, delightful skaters, the bobsleigh, the luge and the toboggan or the tea tray as some would affectionately call it.  

In the general scheme of things, the Winter Olympics never really had the desired impact as the summer Olympics because we are now in the depths of winter and there's a different aura about the Games. Once again we look at those snow clad mountains in Milan and just shiver because we think it's cold. But hold, on the kids of Britain and the world love the snow and nobody takes any greater pleasure in the snow than the children who pray for the snow because it's fun and you've got the day off school and once again you can slide down hills surrounded by snow. 

Anyway, there is something strangely comforting about the snow and the Winter Olympics. It is perhaps the only time of the year when we can all be warmly insulated in our well heated homes and not envy the ones who are probably accustomed to the freezing conditions anyway. So we wrap ourselves in our blankets on the sofa and wonder if it'll ever stop raining outside. So we look at those crying windows with acres of dripping rain spots and just yearn for spring and summer. It simply can't come quickly enough. But then who cares about the rain and snow, anyway.

And so it is we turn to Team GB's latest hopes of ice skating glory. Lilah Fear and Lewis Gibson will be hoping to follow in the distinguished footsteps of Jayne Torvill and Christopher Dean 42 years ago when the hopes of a nation fell on them. Torvill was a very feminine figure, all toothpaste smiles and a winning personality. Dean was, and still is, an upright, tall, commanding and reassuring policeman but was now Torvill's partner, never flustered or bothered, just content to be creating a massive slice of history into the making. 

So there we were there in Sarajevo in 1984 and we must have waited ages for Torvill and Dean to underline their signature on a momentous night in what used to be Yugoslavia in another age. Their performance incorporated everything we'd been hoping from them. It looked like an ice skating marriage made in heaven. In fact, for those who probably believed there was a romantic dalliance between them, it almost seemed too good to be true. There was indeed chemistry between Torvill and Dean and they were compatible but not close enough to be married to each other. 

Come the early hours of the morning, millions of folk in the United Kingdom couldn't wait to put the kettle on, smarten ourselves up in front of our TV and just pretend we were there when of course we weren't. But it would have been nice to think that we were. It was Nottingham's finest hour apart from that episode in Sherwood Forest when Robin Hood and his merry men appeared on our radar. Torvill and Dean were simply magnificent, outstanding athletes, the personification of grace and majesty with beautifully choreographed movements. Nobody had ever seen Bolero performed with such dignity and class.

And then of course there were Team GB's other Olympic heroes and stalwarts. John Curry's story was a  triumphant one but tinged with heartbreak. Curry had already come out as gay and this had been well documented. But when Curry sadly died of Aids and the world just wanted to put a sympathetic shoulder around Curry's family, you simply remembered the man himself and his remarkable achievements.

In the 1976 Winter Olympic Games of Innsbruck in Austria, Curry pulled out all the stops, gliding serenely and almost graciously towards his gold medal winning performance. The flowers that Curry was showered with were a pleasant and uplifting metaphor for what Curry had done on ice. It was a decorative and dainty performance, full of rich technical skill and supreme artistic merit. John Curry may have passed but he left behind him an indelible Olympic legacy. 

Then there was Robin Cousins, another ice cool craftsman of his trade. Four years later in Lake Placid, Cousins would perform with identical panache and the most immaculate interpretation to the music he'd been given. After Cousins had retired, he would go on to spread the gospel by teaching and influencing millions of youngsters who perhaps had never really given ice skating any consideration whatsoever. 

And so we return to the present day and Lilah Fear accompanied by Lewis Gibson. This time the British public are waiting patiently for another Torvill and Dean moment at one o'clock in the morning. The Winter Olympics may not quite the same kind of box office cachet as the summer edition but it does look both exciting and, at the same time, terrifying. So here's what some of us might do. 

We'll watch those downhill skiiers flying down those slopes, weaving fearlessly between the poles and glad that it isn't us. We will look on with nothing but endless admiration at those terrifying tea trays or toboggans, hurtling around bends at 200 mph and then feel even more relieved. Then there are the acrobatic events such as the breathless snowboarding which, to the outsider, looks mind blowingly dangerous and ski mountaineering which makes its Olympic debut.

Ice hockey of course has been around for decades and will once again be dominated by those countries who have always excelled at the sport. Now as an impartial observer, ice hockey just looks like violence on ice, a convenient excuse for a riotous punch up. The sight of experienced Canadian ice hockey players bundling each other into a corner and trying to punch their opponents into submission, just looks morally unacceptable. It is a kind of mini warfare where nobody benefits at all. 

So it is that the Winter Olympics are now here for a fortnight or two. During the opening ceremony of these Games, we were treated to the sight of Italian coffee pots dancing around the San Siro. Now San Siro is the home of Inter and AC Milan, still recognised as two of the most respected and adored football clubs in Europe. But the ceremony was never going to be festooned with football references because this was the Winter Olympics and that would never be the case anyway. 

And then we recalled Eddie 'the Eagle Edwards, an eccentric British gentleman who, as a kid had always wanted to do ski jumping for a living. The story has been told repeatedly but never loses its lustre and shine. It was a rags to riches, a dogged determination in the jaws of adversity. Edwards took on the might of the Olympic establishment and did take part in the Winter Olympics of Calgary in 1988. Of course there were those who thought he'd lost any sense of reason and commonsense. But Edwards wasn't mad and he wasn't silly. He did take part in the Winter Olympics and he defied the odds admirably. And that encapsulates the spirt of the Olympics. Look at the opposition in the face and tell them it can be done and it will. Edwards remains the Winter Olympics fearless cheerleader. Never give up

The Munich air crash

 The Munich air crash.

It was football's darkest hour. None of us could have foreseen just how great a tragedy could still have the capacity to affect us almost seven decades since it happened. But it has and will continue to live in the memory of all who witnessed it at the time. For some, it may haunt their every waking moment from the time they get up in the morning to the time when they go to sleep. We must pray that it never happens again in anybody's lifetime and therefore it is enough that we recollect the event with painful clarity. 

For today marks the 68th anniversary of the Munich air crash which claimed the lives of the Busby Blues of Manchester United, one of England's finest collection of enormously gifted individuals. Even now, the scale of what took place on that snow bound Munich airport runway remains simply incomprehensible and conceivable. It almost feels as though the accident itself was so avoidable that every time you look at the dusty black and white film footage of the air crash, all of those horrendous memories keep flooding back. 

However hard you try, you can still see Bobby Charlton, he of the thunderous shot and one of England's youngest natural talents at the time, lying in a hospital bed on a drip, fighting for his life. And then there was the extraordinary Duncan Edwards, the one United player who briefly represented his country with peerless distinction, a player of world class refinement who, some suggested, would have become England's captain for years to come. But sadly and heartbreakingly this was never to be the case. 

And yet the weekend before, Manchester United had gone toe to toe with Arsenal in quite the most astonishing League match in the old First Division. They had beaten Arsenal 5-4 at Highbury and even now the game is still remembered with an emotional intensity that, in hindsight, now feels like the hollowest of reminiscences. How could one match be followed with another whose aftermath would be so shocking, so appalling and so devastating that it keeps drifting through your mind and refuses to go away? 

But tomorrow at Old Trafford and every Premier League game throughout the country we will bow our heads with a reverence and solemnity that will be both apt and heartfelt. At six minutes past three tomorrow afternoon, the United players of today's generation will drop their heads, hands clasped behind the backs and, for some, this will be the most private and personal moment in their lives. They will think of the Busby Babes, closing their eyes tightly and praying for the families who may still be grieving. It will be the hardest couple of  minutes of their lives.

What happened in Munich this day 68 years ago is another sharp reminder of football's vulnerability, its humility, the sombre recognition of the Busby Babes who died when, quite obviously, this should never have been the case. United had just beaten Red Star Belgrade in a European Cup tie and were looking forward to greater riches in the competition. The intervention of fate dictated otherwise and on a cruel day in the history of Manchester United, the heartbeat of that team was stopped abruptly and brutally. 

The players who died still sound like an agonising and plaintive cry from yesteryear. There was Roger Byrne, Dennis Violett, Tommy Taylor, Eddie Colman, David Pegg, Bill Whelan, goalkeeper Harry Gregg, the aforementioned Bobby Charlton, Duncan Edwards and Geoff Bent. On reflection, we now know that that plane should never have been allowed to take off in such extenuating circumstances but it did and more is the pity. 

On three separate occasions, air traffic control had given United permission to fly back to England for United's home game against Wolves on the following Saturday. Repeatedly so, the nagging voices who ordered United to come home, will resonate with us for ever more. That crusty reactionary Alan Hardaker warned United that if they didn't return to England immediately, they would be docked points in the League and sanctioned with the heaviest of fines. 

For the last time, the United players settled back in their seats and the authorities were breathing down United's necks. Ploughing along an icy, slushy runway, the plane attempted to take off but then slid out of control before plunging towards extinction. With fuselage and the main body of plane hurtling towards a hut, the plane then crashed on impact and a majority of the Busby Babes were dead. There were flames and ashes everywhere, shrapnel scattered across smoky ground and it looked undoubtedly terrifying.

And so, 68 years later, the Manchester United team of caretaker coach Michael Carrick will step out with the present day United squad for their Premier League encounter against Spurs. Football will hardly seem relevant or important at all for the minutes silence before the game. Football will become the least of any of our worries or concerns. Of course United will be totally focused and ready to concentrate on victory or so they must hope. But the seconds will linger forever tomorrow and the clock at Old Trafford will tick round inexorably and achingly. 

Of course there have been League championship titles, Premier League titles, FA Cup Final victories and European Cup Final triumphs since that fatal day in 1958. Football has to continue because it has to and we have to move on. There will be a time for gravity and moroseness tomorrow and the grandchildren of those who lost their great grandfathers will look on with a stunned bewilderment. How on earth did this one event leave so many psychological scars for ages? We will try to understand the traumatic consequences of  the Munich air crash but will never do so. We'll do our utmost and hope for the best.

There is though the comforting knowledge that the Busby Babes could have blossomed into one of the most stunning Manchester United sides of all time. We will never know now but, tomorrow, United will walk out of the tunnel against Spurs with their heads held high. It won't be easy and nobody ever said it would be but for both the Matt Busby and Sir Alex Ferguson years, it'll be a time for healing and positive thoughts for the future. We must live with nothing but optimism since life is indeed beautiful.