The Radox Grand National

 The Radox Grand National

Once again they came from all four points of the horse racing compass and sport's grandest of social gatherings finally made its yearly appearance. For centuries now, the Grand National at Aintree has attracted the kind of fervent following that has become its trademark. Wherever you go, in Britain at least, hundreds of thousands converge on the old course rather like good natured football and rugby fans who simply long and yearn for that early April cultural ritual that is now synonymous with the sport of horse racing. 

And yet for some of us horse racing remains one of those sporting attractions that fails to capture your heart or fire your imagination. You remembered the BBC and ITV coverage of horse racing because it slotted neatly into the weekly Saturday afternoon schedule. There was World of Sport's ITV seven, a rich amalgam of races from Market Rasen, Ayr, Sandown, Thirsk and Uttoxeter. The commentators were endearing and hugely knowledgeable figures who knew every thoroughbred, jockey, trainer and owner in the horse racing world. But it really didn't do anything for you but you doffed your cap in appreciation because the atmosphere, you feel sure, without ever being there at Aintree, has always been special.

There was John Rickman, the cheerful, avuncular and reassuring voice and face of horse racing while all the commotion and lively, off course banter was raging in the paddocks and stables of the day. Lord John Oakesy had become an established and highly respected jockey in his day and had now become a renowned journalist. Both men spoke about their sport with a heart warming affection and exuberant charm that became a by word for horse racing's logical evolution and progression on TV. They were articulate and well informed gentlemen who knew their horses and therefore proud men. 

Yesterday at Aintree, rather like a religious congregation, they turned up at the front of their church, shaking hands with the vicar before entering into the nave and transept and picking up their prayer books. The mighty multitudes were there in their thousands and thousands, deep in discussion, swapping fond reminiscences about Red Rum and Devon Loch, Aldaniti and Crisp, the horse who so valiantly strained every muscle and sinew but tired heartbreakingly towards the finishing post. And then Red Rum galloped towards the winning post and ensured immortality with multiple National winning honours. 

At Aintree, spring blossomed like the traditional cherry blossom while the magnolias, daffodils and tulips danced the samba away in the vast acres of lush green grass which always look so inviting and welcoming. Meanwhile, back in the paddocks and stables, the trainers, jockeys and owners were sharing last minute pleasantries and comparing notes. It is England at her most pleasant and civilised, England at her most well mannered and polite, England simply being decent and deferential. England can do this because, certainly at Aintree, it just loves to dominate TV's sporting landscape. 

Once again, horses from every part of Middle England, South and North and the Home Counties came together. They did so because they've always been there, unfailingly upbeat, relentlessly chatting and gossiping, assessing the odds and then deciding that this is the place they've always wanted to be. It is their spiritual home, the location which makes them feel comfortable and wanted. They love a flutter, a punt since this is the most satisfying of horse races, a thrilling and therapeutic experience that lifts them off their feet and transports them into a land of  money, family camaraderie and general good humour. 

So it was that the Radox Grand National charged forward into that extraordinary stampede that seems to go on for hours and hours but, in reality, lasts no more time that it takes to eat and drink afternoon tea in the corporate hospitality boxes. Firstly, there follows the cavalry charge flashing across our vision. Dozens of horses set out together like old friends who hadn't seen each other since perhaps yesterday or last year. These beautiful animals look so impeccably groomed that had they been humans, would have been showing off their latest pin stripe suit, clean as a whistle shirt, designer trousers and brogue shoes.

Together they proceeded at a stately trot for a while and then bunched together like neighbours over the garden fence. Now the tempo is picked up quite noticeably and suddenly this whole equine community lengthen their stride and go nose to nose, stirrup to stirrup, saddle to saddle. They spread out over the course like a huge blanket of sporting excellence, fiercely competitive and dedicated to the cause. Their heavy breathing, focus and concentration, is quite the most astonishing sight to behold. 

Suddenly, disturbing numbers of horses unseat and dismount their jockeys and just spend the rest of the race simply going nowhere. The fatality rate of the Grand National is now a tragic footnote to the race itself and the whole subject of the horses who have to be put down will continue to rankle with the moral majority who would willingly stop the Grand National tomorrow given half the chance. But, still the Grand National carries on regardless, despite the obvious undercurrent of jeopardy, danger and threat to life.

And so to the race. At 4.00 there was a kaleidoscope of colour, horses of breeding and good stock, racing away, nostrils flaring, powerful fetlocks hunting for victory, four legs cruising at first then getting faster and faster. They pounded across the ground, tails swishing enthusiastically, ears pricked in anticipation of the carrots and hay that would be their fitting reward for their exertions on the day. And how they deserve it apart from the regular buckets of water which wash their backs. The horses are in their element and how we enjoy the spectacle. 

 It is the most rousing and stirring of all sights, Britain engaging in an event that they have always been enamoured of for many decades and gets enormous financial pleasure from. This belongs in the right category for experienced punters but the public, for whom this is just a joy, it is the best jump race in the world. For this is the beginning of the jump season in horse racing and the precursor to so many more. And then the horses simply go for it, flying across Beechers Brook and the Chair as if their lives depended on it. Your heartfelt sympathy goes out to all those stunning horses who have so bravely and successfully negotiated nightmarish fences that must resemble the height of a mountain. They were the stars of the show. 

And now you leapt into the air in joyous celebration. Your horse I Am Maximus streaked away triumphantly to victory in the Grand National 2026. For the first time in a number of years, you finally cleaned up with notable fivers or tenners in your hand. You had won the Grand National if not personally. I Am Maximus, ridden superbly by Paul Townend, trained by Willie Mullins and owned by Claudio Michael, won the race from the back of the field, driving forward towards a stray horse and striving heroically to victory, powering past the finishing post. 

In joint second place was Iroko supported by the highly esteemed McManus family, John P. Mcmanus and trainer Oliver Greenall. Iroko was narrowly edged out by I Am Maximus but it was nip and tuck all the way. And then in joint second place Jordans battled and competed with the front runners, shrugging off all comers. Jordans, ridden by jockey Ben Jones, owned by Cheeky Pups Syndicate and trained so diligently by Joseph O'Brian also entered the winning paddock circle. 

It was though I Maximus who won the honours on the day. In the background the McManus family who were having the time of their lives, hugging each other tenderly and fulsomely. But the Grand National had worked its magic once again. Aintree has now become acknowledged as one of horse racing's favourite and prestigious of all horse races. It looks as though it could be around for many a year and century to come. So prepare those betting slips and tell your local bookmakers that we all love a bet. They'll be delighted.   

Death and my grandpa, my grandma, and great grandparents gravestones.

 Death and my grandpa and great grandparents gravestones. 

It was quite the most extraordinary of days, an unforgettably emotional day, heavy with deep and sombre reflection, silent contemplation, an overwhelming day with a powerful poignancy, very private thoughts and all under the panoply of one sun kissed day in early spring, where the sunshine certainly shone on the righteous. It was the moment I'd longed for so long and didn't quite know how to register at first but then basked  in the glory of it all. 

Death, as we all know, is the most sensitive and delicate of all subjects. And yet death has neither questions nor answers. It remains the last staging post of our lives, the moment of deliverance and judgment when death becomes finality, the final pause and breath of  our lives, that critical conclusion to the end of an epic journey, immeasurable and unquestionable, inevitable of course but extremely moving rather like a grand concerto at a classical music gathering when the drums roll dramatically for the last time and then we depart from this mortal coil. 

We all have different perspectives and reactions on the subject of death and all experience feelings of mortality when age does indeed wither us. But our loved ones, our adored ones, the family that gave us that first foundation stone and the comforting stability when childhood was fraught with mysteries, can often be the people who will always remain in our hearts and minds when the final candle goes out and rivers of tears are shed.

According to the great 19th and early 20th century American classic author and prodigious novelist Henry James, death is the most distinguished thing and that does have the most emphatic resonance to all who regard death as the most remarkable experience of them all. It is, of course both tragic, heart breaking and one of the most melancholy events in most of our lives because the mum, dad, grandpa, grandma, auntie, cousin or uncle you'd always doted on is no longer a visible presence at family gatherings, parties or special occasions. And that's how it felt for me yesterday. The loss of a loved one from seven decades ago still intrigued and stirred my curiosity. I had to find out about my grandpa. 

But on an early spring day in April with blue skies above us and the cherry blossom flaunting and showing off their finest finery on the handsome trees of the season, I wanted to know something that still held a warm sentimentality and personal significance that couldn't be defined. You found yourself in a world of calming spirituality, the smoothest connection to somebody who, although you never knew him, was fundamentally a part of you. In fact it was you because you were named after him. 

And so it was that some good friends of mine and I gathered at Edmonton Jewish Cemetery. My friend had repeatedly informed me that he knew where my paternal grandfather, my grandpa on my late and lovely dad's side, had been buried. We also knew that my grandpa and grandma and great grandparents had also been laid to rest in Edmonton. But for years and years I remained in the dark, occasionally frustrated but reassured that one day the magical day of our meeting would arrive. 

My paternal grandpa was one Judah Morris, a respectable and immensely industrious Hammersmith shopkeeper, one of Napoleon Bonaparte's small shopkeepers. To this day, the stock and merchandise that Judah sold to the public is somehow hazy in your mind but still recognised with much pride 74 years after his death. Reliable sources have told me that he was the manager of a utilitarian shop that sold garden furniture, mops, buckets, cloths, fly or wasp spray bottles, plugs, electrical drills quite possibly, nails and screws among an abundance of most of  the household essentials. 

And this is where my story gets very interesting. It did occur to me that with much nervous fear and trepidation that Judah's gravestone would be either subsiding, sinking into the ground or totally broken and cracked and condemned to obscurity, an unidentifiable gravestone that had now vanished without trace. So here's why I'd resigned myself to the worst case scenario.

Judah Morris has been dead for over 74 years and died in January 1952, a year before our late and much loved Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth's Coronation. It was an interminable wait but, at long last, my patience had been rewarded. How wonderful it was to see you Judah. My lovely dad was utterly traumatised and crestfallen when his dad passed away, his grief almost tangible for my dad. My dad said that when Judah passed away he simply became inconsolable and bereft, a man who never really recovered from his father's death. Their relationship was so close and deeply affectionate that I'm not sure how my dad really came to terms with the magnitude of his passing. But I loved my dad deeply and always will.  There was a plaintive and lasting sadness etched across my dad's face whenever he did mention Judah's name over the dinner table in our kitchen. 

But, just for one day yesterday, my friends and I walked across the moving landscape of row upon row of grey, sepulchral graves, standing in very disciplined order, some so old and ancient that you could hardly see the writing and eulogies on these vast monuments. Thrillingly though, and much to my enormous delight, both my grandpa and grandma's stones were in impeccable and pristine fashion. I had suspected the worst but then smiled widely at the upright solidity of their gravestones. 

So then I glanced across next to Judah's gravestone and discovered my formidable and resilient grandma Dora, an almost frail and emaciated figure with silver hair while she was alive but now proudly placed next to her loving husband Judah. Dora was an incredible, redoubtable woman whose strength of character and indomitable spirit could never be questioned. She did though keep going on and on until her death in April 1978 at the age of 90.

Regular visits to her cosy flat in Shepherds Bush flat would reveal a brave and honest woman, a strong and indefatigable Russian woman determined to overcome innumerable hip replacements and fires. Dora was looked over by an auburn haired woman called Bessie who would do all the cooking and cleaning for her. I can only assume that Bessie looked after my grandma. Sadly, Judah was 52 when he died with Bright's Disease which was then a malignant and incurable cancer. He was in hospital for a couple of months but tragically passed away without seeing his son married. I would never question why because my dad achieve eternal happiness in wedded bliss to my late and lovely mum for 44 years and that's special. 

Let's go a little further back. Abraham Shamansky was my great grandpa who died in 1909, now barely remembered but honoured by a great grandson who remains curious and inquisitive to this day. The lettering on Abraham's grave is only just legible but now flaking away quite alarmingly at the bottom of the grave. I have yet to find any more details about Abraham's background and what he did for a living. The names of his siblings are sources of mystifying conjecture but then again it was 1909 and we can only imagine what life must have been like back then. 

And finally there is Morris Stopnitsky, who passed away at 68 and the missing jigsaw piece in the puzzle. Why, I wondered, did I become Joe or Joseph when my paternal grandpa was a Judah? This is my logical assumption. Judah, in 1962, must have been considered completely inappropriate, unfashionable or the right kind of name for a boy. So the J in Judah morphed into Joe and the rest is history. Now Morris is obviously a reversal of the surname with a first name. So Morris Stopniski was carried through the generations and somebody decided to switch things around and Morris became my surname. 

What of the Stopnitskys? Were they staunch Leninists or Marxists? Russian, of course they were? Did they embrace the politics of the ages, the morals and ethics of the early 20th century? Did they have joyous vodka parties wearing Cossack hats, joining arms and dancing the evening away. Were they Bolsheviks or Mensheviks with leanings towards the left, right or centre? Or maybe somebody had told them about those wretched Communists who kept telling us that Russia was the best and most prosperous country in the world? 

And that takes me back to the present day and the morbid fascination with death on both TV and radio. At the moment some TV channels, of which some of us at the last count, probably nudged the five thousand mark, are forever referring to the whole subject of death. They tend to appear on the lesser known channels but here's my grievance. Why on earth does the conversation keep going back to cremations, funeral services and ashes being kept in family urns on mantelpieces?

Surely life has to be celebrated, elevated to the highest plateau, rejoiced in, cherished, sanctified and loved with the deepest tenderness. For yesterday, the gravestones of my wonderful grandpa, grandma and great grandparents meant so much more to me personally. It was day that will never be forgotten. It is a day I shall always remember.

   

Chelsea move into the FA Cup semi finals comfortably

 Chelsea move into the FA Cup semi finals comfortably.

On a day when the FA Cup finally faced the music and even Robbie Williams influence was hardly enough, Williams Port Vale were handsomely beaten by Premier League Chelsea. Stamford Bridge may have seen its fair share of classic Cup battles but this was not one of them. This was a stroll in the park for the home team. Chelsea were relentless, devastating at times and totally in charge towards the end of this FA Cup quarter final. Port Vale were cowering away sheepishly in their own penalty area hoping and praying that humiliation would be somehow avoided. And then they were thrashed convincingly 7-0 and that was that. 

Sadly Port Vale, now languishing at the bottom of League One and relegation certainties, had nothing to offer but blood, sweat and tears. Of course they fought Chelsea to the bitter end, but now Vale must immediately address the more pressing issues of avoiding relegation. It now seems highly unlikely but by half time yesterday afternoon, even earlier perhaps, the game was over. Vale had been battered and bruised, ravaged and ripped apart by a Chelsea side who, at least yesterday, suggested that their season still has legs and that a top four place in the Premier League may be within comfortable range for them. 

This has been, by Chelsea's standards, a disappointing season, after the kind of flying start to it in August which promised so much and eventually yielded a negligible return to form. Chelsea have failed to hit the ignition button at any point throughout the season although a recent resurgence may have papered over the cracks. The fact that Chelsea were three up by half time probably tells you all you need to know about this ludicrously one sided FA Cup tie. 

The huge and yawning gap in class between Chelsea and Port Vale was so embarrassing that you could have probably driven a tank through Vale's flaky defence and still scored a hatful. Chelsea have become a dab hand at the FA Cup in recent years, having won the competition several times in recent years. This season has been all about consolidation in the top half of the Premier League, improving form and achieving some semblance of consistency. 

All of  Chelsea's goals seem to come in an orderly procession. There was a sad inevitability about all of the home side's goals and after half an hour, the capitulation was complete, the white flag of surrender  waving limply. The boys in blue were imperiously strutting their stuff, almost effortless and models of haughtiness and assurance on the ball. Chelsea shuffled the ball across, wide and then punishingly quick in their close passing. Poor Port Vale must have thought they were victims of a persecution complex. 

With Wesley Fofana, a picture of stylish command on the ball, Andrey Santos revealing all of the delicacy and exceptional vision of a player who knows exactly what to do with the ball and Joao Pedro, linking up beautifully with Estevao and Petro Neto, Chelsea had Port Vale where they wanted them. Both Malo Gusto, Tosin Adarabioyo, Romeo were toying and tormenting the visitors with a cruel brutality and Chelsea were up and running. 

Within a minute, Chelsea went a goal up. A superb corner was plunged towards the near post, and after a collision of bodies, Joe Ahato rammed home from close range. Minutes later, Chelsea extended their lead deservedly. A flicked ball was curled over the Vale defence and Pedro turned sharply in the area before chipping into the net with consummate ease. By the half hour, Chelsea were dancing and prancing, pirouetting, twirling and pulling metaphorical faces at Port Vale, their passing movements like exquisite pieces of jewellery, football to be hugely admired like a classical mahogany cabinet from the Edwardian era. 

Chelsea were now three up. Gusto connected from another a stunning passing collaboration that reminded you of bags on an airport carousel, smoothly rolling around the white shirts of Port Vale. In the end a low cross once again caught Vale in twisted knots. Gusto claimed the goal but this was an own goal and for Vale, this seemed almost felt terribly unfair and a gross injustice. Chelsea approached the second half rather like sun worshippers on a Mediterranean island, occasionally choosing to take a leisurely walk to the bar but neither interested nor disinterested in rubbing salt into Vale's wounds. 

Estevao had now become the most delightful player of the match, an excellent and delicious ball player and his relationship with Joao Pedro was just exceptional, rather like Peter Osgood and Charlie Cooke from that vintage 1970s pomp. Chelsea added another with Tosin's firm header from another brilliant attack from the home side. Now Garnacho joined in with the frivolous fun and games and struck his penalty with venom and menace. A seventh goal almost felt like the last knockout blow for Vale and Chelsea had now reached another FA Cup semi final with much to spare. 

So the buoyant Chelsea fans drifted away in their ecstatic masses once again. Of course Chelsea have now become established residents in the top flight and there is still something of the arty and bohemian about the club that may never fade away. The Kings Road has always been the place to be seen, with both retro and current fashions always to the fore. 

You remembered the night when David Webb rose high to head home Chelsea's decisive winner in that gruelling, stamina sapping FA Cup Final replay against Leeds at Old Trafford. That one iconic moment seemed to represent the beginning of a golden era that never quite materialised. It is only within the last 20 years that Chelsea have accumulated a whole portfolio of domestic and European trophies.

There is surely a penny for the thoughts of one Jose Mourinho whose opinions have always been forthcoming. Blue maybe the colour but Wembley is once again their destination and football is definitely their game. Now both Chelsea and Leeds meet again in this year's FA Cup semi final. Oh for the magic of the FA Cup. Somehow it was fated to happen and how we look forward to it with enormous anticipation. 

April Fools Day.

April Fools Day. 

Today in 1957, most of us were probably going about their business in much the way they've always done so. They were clocking on at their local factory, chasing the train to get into the office as punctually as they possibly could and the kids were rushing into school, satchel in their hands and pursuing the perfect education. There were only two TV channels, the Light Programme was entertaining its rapt listeners and Kenneth Kendall was adjusting his dinner jacket and bow tie before presenting the BBC News. Kendall would sit in front of that huge and distinctive BBC microphone, conveying the news of the day in serious and official tones.

At the time the wireless, as it was affectionately known, was amusing their vast audience with Round the Horne and the wacky, hilarious Goons with Peter Sellers, Harry Secombe and Michael Bentine sending us all into hysterical laughter at home. Britain was still in a state of harsh austerity and rationing while Harold Macmillan was the Prime Minister and reassuring us that they'd never had it so good. 

On the BBC they were preparing their latest broadcasting project. In hindsight, it was all very casual and innocent and none of us were ready at all because we were much more concerned with earning a living or accumulating as many qualifications as possible at universities. In those days those erudite students just had to turn up for lessons without shelling out a single shilling. So we looked forward to the future and then discovered the 1960s. Now that really was a startling revelation. 

But it was the 1950s and Sir Cliff Richard was still Cliff, a fresh faced teenager with a penchant for producing feelgood records like Summer Holiday which was actually released a couple of years later. But he was still very much a 1950s rock and roll kid. So we turned on our transistor radios and flicked a switch on our black and white TVs, drainpipe trousers dry cleaned, polishing our winkle pickers or shoes and drinking from most of the coffee bars in London's Soho. We then picked out our favourite Eddie Cochran record on our jukebox and life was complete as it had been and always would be. 

Then on Monday evening, the BBC's Panorama, a news and current affairs programme, the voice of respectability and seniority, once again did earnest investigative journalism. But, suddenly, we were presented with the ultimate in April Fools Day jokes. The BBC must have thought they'd catch us unawares and we were entirely gullible. And we fell for it hook, line and sinker. We didn't know it at the time but the BBC must have thought we were just pre-occupied or just determined to relax in front of our goldfish bowl TV sets. They hadn't anticipated what would happen next. 

So here's the story as it unfolded. Richard Dimbleby, one of the BBC's most immensely respected and authoritative of all news journalists and broadcasters whose voice would become such an integral part of the BBC's coverage of the Second World War, spoke again on that unforgettable night in 1957. Now according to Dimbleby, there was a prolific growth of spaghetti on trees in some Italian idyllic haven. 

We were told, at some length that thick crops of spaghetti were now being picked in some small corner of Italy. And the editorial evidence was there for all to see. Groups of devoted workers were seen carefully separating strings of spaghetti from rows of trees. It had to be true because the BBC and Richard Dimbleby had told us so. It had to be right. But, this was just absurd, barmy, nonsensical, barely credible and just foolish nonsense. Indeed it was and we were duped, deceived, done up like a kipper. Spaghetti was growing on trees. This had to be the funniest of all April Fools Day jokes. 

And so to the present day. Apparently a procession of giraffes have been spotted wandering down the M1 or was it the M25, grazing casually along the hard shoulder and pinching sweets from excited kids in the back of their cars. Oh yes and orange snow is falling in the Scottish glens and highlands. It has just been reported that rhinos and crocodiles are also floating down the River Thames and the river police are on the case. 

Now the rumour is that the BBC have been turfed out of the Salford Quays media centre and will be announcing tonight's news from a church hall in Manchester. Local vicars and priests have been seen studying all of today's most important events and will all be required to read the latest news because all of the BBC's newsreaders are now sunbathing on some tropical island in the Caribbean.

And then there's the story of a herd of wildebeest stampeding across the Torquay landscape but that was part of an old TV comedy. John Cleese was the disgruntled, agitated and cynical hotel owner of a Torquay guest house called Fawlty Towers who once explained to the late Joan Sanderson that you should be able to see this farcical scenario everyday. April Fools Day has always delighted us for as long as we can remember but at times it maybe hard to distinguish fact from fiction. 

This has just arrived in our newsroom. Circus clowns and high wire trapeze artists have allegedly been elected as party political leaders in the House of Commons and were seen canvassing members of the public for their votes. With the local elections now a month away, gentlemen wearing red noses and cycling on a unicycle are now widely expected to win their votes quite convincingly They were unavailable for comment but it is now felt  that the clowns and trapeze artists will become prominent figures in the House of Commons. The Prime Minister's Question Time sessions will never be quite the same again.

It was rumoured that strange martians from outer space have been seen deep in animated conversation with members of their own family, discussing both the cost of living crisis and the phenomenal price of petrol. At a famous motorway service station, creatures with blue and green and rubbery faces, wearing silver suits and oval shaped hats, were exchanging pleasantries at a Costa's coffee and tea cafe. One was drinking a latte before greedily devouring a flapjack and then muesli for breakfast. The public were told not to approach these gurgling, chuckling and giggling individuals who have been creating a major disturbance with their mysterious whistles and loud, bellowing voices. 

And finally, 98 year old Lord Lucan was seen coming out of a bookmakers in central London, betting slips in his hands, smug and satisfied after his horse had won every race today. He was scrolling furiously on his Smart Phone and then smiling broadly at the public. He then walked arrogantly towards an as yet to be undisclosed supermarket, investing in another  expensive Apple mobile phone. And last night, shortly before midnight, medieval knights in shining armour were allegedly sitting in a famous junk food restaurant, eating cheese burger and chips and drinking chocolate milk shakes.

So it is that April Fools Day has taken its leave for another year. The identity of the Loch Ness monster has yet to be confirmed but, last week, sources  are convinced they saw the Loch Ness monster, brazenly smoking cigarettes and drinking gallons of brandy on some remote island. Now we are all aware of the silliness and tomfoolery which have always been associated with the day. But hey it was all good fun and none of us are foolish and will never be taken in again or ever. Fun and nothing but fun.  

       

Mundo Pixar Immersive Experience

 Mundo Pixar Immersive Experience.

It all took place at Wembley Park which was roughly half a mile away from Wembley Stadium where it all happened for the England football team last Friday and where it memorably happened 60 years ago against the same opponents and 60 years later. Effectively, the England fans were still scratching their heads on Friday at the new Wembley. But this time we were admiring some of Hollywood's most lovable and endearing cartoon figures at Wembley Park. That in itself was enough to send you down the sweetest memory lane and suddenly there it was. Nostalgia. 

The Mundo Pixar Immersive Experience is currently packing them in along Wembley Way and inside Wembley Park, it is a childhood haven. You remembered the old Wembley Stadium and could hardly believe how dramatic a transformation there had been since the days when the Twin Towers dominated the North London landscape. The new Wembley now has the most striking arch which immediately catches the eye and for those who designed the new stadium, this must have represented their crowning moment of glory. 

And yet Wembley used to look like a huge concrete piece of architecture with a basic concourse and hundreds of  burger, hot dogs and exotic food outlets. But Wembley almost divided opinion and when it was demolished at the end of the 20th century, some of us were more relieved than anything else. Now the new Wembley has endless art installations, both innovative and progressive looking, more restaurants and cafes than you can possibly imagine, donut stalls, mini children's playgrounds and so much more. Now Wembley is down with the kids, cool, sophisticated and forward thinking. 

Yesterday, my lovely family and I took the opportunity to visit the Mundo Pixar Immersive Experience. For those who may not know about Pixar, then here's a synopsis of what Pixar is. Pixar used to be called Disney,  as in the home of cartoons, and everything associated with our childhood although families were, of course, included. Suddenly you were back in your early years and it was a fantastic privilege to be among our children and grandchildren while at the same time appreciating the fun and enormous enjoyment they were getting from the day. 

So Pixar conjures up its own symbolic significance in the movie franchise market. It is a young boy perched comfortably on the crescent of a moon fishing the day away. It is the angle poise lamp that swivels around ever so cutely and then shines the brightest light. It is your childhood and now your grandfather's experience because we'd all love to recapture the spirit of our youth because it reminds us of who we were and what we might have been doing as kids, playing on our bikes, picking strawberries with mum and dad, buying vinyl albums and singles and dancing in nightclubs. 

But yesterday we went back to days of more recent vintage. Toy Story has to be one of the most imaginative, superlative, magnificent of children's films ever made. There have now been four Toy Story films and all of them have been just astonishing cinematic masterpieces. Woody, as voiced by Hollywood acting royalty Tom Hanks, is the Wild West cowboy with a natty Stetson hat, country and western checked shirts and trousers and the guy who made you laugh uproariously, smile amusingly and just make you feel good. 

Woody's best friend is Buzz Lightyear and Andy just wants everybody to behave themselves and be happy, lifelong friends without a single malicious word for each other. So Buzz Lightyear is the figure who just keeps everybody ticking over and always ensures that the whole gang at Pixar never step out of line. They're happy and they are united, like all families should be. There's Slinky, Jess and those adorable toy soldiers who sit on one of the tables and are just contented with who they are. 

You move around the whole Immersive Experience and wonder if you may be imagining this but it's true, undeniably so. There's Grumpy from the movie Up, who harbours a private ambition to go flying with balloons to South America and just pulls on our sentimental heart strings. There's Cars, cartoon figures with red bonnets who race each other quite earnestly and competitively because that's what motor racing cars do. Pixar transports us to the world that Disney would have dearly wanted us to join him on. Cars get very upset and annoyed when things go wrong and then they apologise and all is well.

Then, just for a couple of minutes or so, you cast your minds back to your first ever childhood movie. It was Jungle Book followed almost immediately by Bambi. And then there were your precious and beautiful children and now our grandchildren and everything in our world is complete. We are deeply and immensely satisfied. We take photographs of Woody and Buzz, pose unashamedly for the red Cars, smiling and laughing all over again. We buy the Pixar souvenirs and merchandise because the kids love of all that. And then it's time for a relaxing lunch and time to head for home. It was simply brilliant.    

Once again England held by Uruguay- this time in friendly.

 Once again England held by Uruguay- this time in friendly.

Yet again England looked at a reflection of  themselves in the mirror and the images were uncannily similar. Whereas England were held in a vice like trap against Uruguay 60 years ago, now they were stopped in the tracks yet again, driving back out of a frustrating cul-de-sac and finding there was little room for manoeuvre. In 1966, Sir Alf Ramsey's England were caught up in the most horrendous traffic jam and snarl up. Uruguay were England's first group opponents on that sun lit July evening and now they were again in a friendly.

Back then the World Cup were not nearly as high profile as they are now although the mouth watering prospect of holding the Jules Rimet World Cup in England's fair and pleasant land was enough to have most of salivating and licking our lips. The very thought that Brazil, Portugal, Italy, Russia and West Germany were about to leave their wonderfully technical imprint on English shores held the nation transfixed. Winning the World Cup was simply a welcome bonus. North Korea of course weren't even remotely considered because they were both a shock and surprise in equal measure. 

But the goal-less draw between England and Uruguay in their opening group match in World Cup now seems like some weird historical anomaly. In hindsight, it was probably a blessing in disguise because England still lofted high the Jules Rimet trophy and were duly anointed world champions with that famous 4-2 victory over West Germany. It maybe that England will still be thinking about Friday's dreadful fiasco against Uruguay until at least the conclusion of their friendly game against Japan on Tuesday. 

To say England were just an appalling shadow of their former selves on Friday evening would be the greatest understatement. England were simply dire, shapeless, clueless, an abject let down, not even competitive at any point and you wondered if their minds were truly on this game. It was a good 90 minutes completely wasted, rather like a group of Bedouins wandering through a vast, empty desert. In fact this was just awful and atrocious, an ugly caricature of international football at its worst. Somebody should have reminded both England and Uruguay that this was supposed to be a football match.

But for 90 long and painful minutes, England and Uruguay were locked in the most grotesque tactical wrestling match of all time. It was like watching 22 sumo wrestlers slapping their thighs and grabbing hold of each other in some ludicrous contest of highly charged physicality. What ensued was some bizarre sequence of shoving, pushing, jostling and the occasional glimpse of attacking structure and cohesion. None of Friday's participants though seemed to be showing any genuine desire or inclination to actually win the match. 

England were wearing an almost unrecognisable red, a new kit but the same old problems. On Friday Thomas Tuchel's England were almost hiding their trump card against the South Americans. At times this felt like England's shadow squad masquerading as their usual first team. At no point did England ever look a threatening and menacing team capable of scoring for fun. This was not the way Sir Alf Ramsey would have approached a game of this nature. He'd have discarded his wingers immediately and simply gone for broke on the break. 

The problem is that England's subs bench, which will probably take the field against Japan, may be all they have to leave their opposition guessing. Admittedly, the big boys of Declan Rice and company could provide much more of a lethal bite moving forward. But on Friday evening, the fans, who had probably come straight from the pub, must have been wishing that they'd have been in a drunken state before the game. This was not football as any of us would correctly define it as and surely far from intoxicating.

For long periods England lumbered forward over the half way line like a rusty old jalopy that is clearly not roadworthy. There were none of the connections or fluidities that would have made this game much easier to understand or appreciate. But the carburetor was creaking and no sign of the compatibility that England will almost certainly need come their opening World Cup group match against Serbia.

Certainly England will have nightmares about their opening World Cup group encounter against Morocco 40 years ago when Morocco just injected an anaesthetic into Sir Bobby Robson's England. Half way through the game the late and much loved Ray Wilkins had a rush of blood to the head when, in a fit of childish petulance, he threw the ball at the referee and was sent off. England would later come unstuck again when the Maradonna hand sent England packing and home against Argentina. 

Still, if England friendlies are to be taken seriously, then this may have been just a laboratory experiment that flared up in England's face. We are still baffled by the complete irrelevance of friendlies, sham exhibition matches which only trigger resentment and complete indifference.  In the end though England still shook hands with Uruguay and no egos were damaged as such. Maybe somebody will just allow the domestic season to just meander towards its thrilling end game.  

England fielded both Tino Livramento, Djed Spence, the struggling Spurs full back at the moment, the robustly dependable Harry Maguire with Chelsea's Fiyako Tomori shielding England's back four like one of the guards at Buckingham Palace. England were never ever disturbed or scared, nervous or in any way distraught because this was never that kind of a match. And so we were left to debate the pointless futility of this friendly. We are none the wiser and the match against Japan will just complicate the issue. 

Mystifyingly, Tuchel had picked a veteran Jordan Henderson at the centre of England's midfield and you can only assume that Tuchel was testing out his April Fools Day joke days before the event. Henderson now plies his trade at the grand old age of 35 and although a beacon light of composure and exemplary experience, this is not the way Tuchel should be approaching a World Cup with England. Henderson is still a calming influence and a steady barometer but he is not a match winner and, with the best will in the world, it is to be hoped that this is just a one off. 

James Garner, who is now providing David Moyes Everton with a splendid creativity and vision, made his England debut with a thought provoking and influential display to warm the cockles of all hearts. Garner was spraying passes to all points of the Wembley compass rather like a young Trevor Brooking or Tony Currie. Garner is far from being the midfield constant who could challenge the midfield dominance of a Brooking or Currie. But his name is James Garner and perhaps Hollywood may well come a calling one day. 

But with Phil Foden once again falling by the wayside for England and sparking no inspiration at all on Friday night, it was left to Dominic Solanke and Marcus Rashford to get England up and running. That they failed to create anything of any significance against Uruguay probably tells us everything we need to know about England at the moment. England, to their credit, were highly impressive in possession but kept bumping into light blue shirts rather like kids in dodgem cars at the local fair. 

With minutes though England did take the lead and for that we must be enormously grateful because had this game gone on for much longer in this vein, England fans would have been leaving their seats in their masses rather than just a simple trickle. But then England launched their last corner of their game and the ball was floated towards the far post. Amid utter pandemonium  and much pushing, shoving, jostling and pushing, the ball ended up right at the base of the post and Ben White, whose appearance had been the subject of so much pre match controversy, toe poked the ball over the line. 

Uruguay protested loudly and persistently but the goal was given. Uruguay, who surrounded the referee for a foul in the penalty area, were unrewarded. The South Americans had come as more than lightweight visitors who had just come down to London for a quick Selfie legacy of Buckingham Palace. It remains to be seen whether Federico Valverde can hold a candle to the late and great Juan Schiaffino or the immensely effective Luis Suarez of more recent times. But his firmly struck penalty as a result of  Ben White treading awkwardly on Uruguay feet, probably gave the game the right result. Honours even.    

England - Uruguay 60 years later.

 England - Uruguay, 60 years later. 

And so it was that 60 years ago that the England football team emerged from the old Wembley Stadium in their first and, sadly, only World Cup Finals on home soil. It was their greatest moment and their finest hour, that reference point in our lives when time stood still, frozen in posterity for ever more. Now there would be the most glorious coronation since a young, radiant Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth would make that memorable introduction speech before Sir Alf Ramsey's first game in the 1966 World Cup. It was just the loveliest of coincidences, an evening where royalty would come face to face with a football monarchy. 

In the tunnel before that first group match between England and Uruguay, the England players slowly made their way out of the tunnel and onto a sun kissed Wembley pitch, bathing in the glow of an early July evening. They were all ready and prepared and yet the electrifying atmosphere inside the ground would simply become too intimidating for words. But 1966 should have been perfectly designed for England because everybody was waiting and expecting. 

England were fighting fit and fine fettle but first night jitters would prove far too much to handle. Even Sir Alf Ramsey looked worried and deeply wary of one terrible anti climax. His worst fears were confirmed and England's opening group game against Uruguay finished in a sterile, dreadful goal- less draw. This was England's first tantalising glimpse of  South America's most expressive art gallery, football from the baroque and rococo era, football from the most educated finishing school. Or so we must have thought. This was more of a tactical wrestling match, though.

Four years later, Sir Alf Ramsey experienced the real article when the Brazil of Tostao, Gerson, Rivelino, Carlos Alberto and the incomparable Pele gave England its rudest awakening, a masterclass with the most impressionistic brushes. But in 1966, England were drawn in the same opening group including Uruguay, Portugal and France, a broad cross fertilisation of football's most thoughtful minds. It was a world summit of thinkers and studious footballing cultures and England had an unsettling bout of first night hiccups. 

Back in the tunnel, Jack Charlton, Roger Hunt, Bobby Charlton, skipper Bobby Moore, Martin Peters, Gordon Banks, Ray Wilson and Nobby Stiles were nervously bouncing their footballs repeatedly, nervously shading their eyes from the sinking evening sunshine. It had been reported in the weeks and months leading up to the World Cup Finals in England, that Sir Alf Ramsey had taken elocution lessons so unsure and self conscious had he become about his Dagenham East End accent. But Sir Alf had nothing to be ashamed itself at all because his team would do all the talking on the pitch. 

The universal language of football had been adopted and England were in their own back yard. But throughout their traumatic ordeal against Uruguay, England went no further than a series of bewildering cul de sacs before being turned back into their own half by a disciplined and well drilled Uruguayan side. The South Americans were well motivated for the occasion and knew exactly what was required of them. It had been a deeply frustrating evening but a mere blip on England's forward march to the World Cup Final against West Germany where a 4-2 victory ensured them immortality and legendary status. 

However, tomorrow night Thomas Tuchel's 2026 World Cup hopefuls will be hoping for rather more than panic attacks, fluffed lines but perhaps understandable anxieties. Once again England have qualified for another World Cup without a single blemish. Most of us though may well be lulled into a false sense of security because the limited and poor opposition that England have thus far encountered, may well be more of a hindrance than help. 

Then next week Japan visit Wembley Stadium in another odd if perhaps suitable choice considering the world class quality they may have to negotiate in USA, Canada and Mexico. Japan have made remarkable progress in international circles and while not really expected to upset England's apple cart , will still come with notable football credentials. Football in Japan is now a hugely marketable commodity and the Premier League is extensively shown in most of the bars, clubs and restaurants of this Oriental gem. 

But tomorrow we will think for a moment of that special period for English football. It was 1966 and the massive cultural revolution that spawned outlandish fashions can still be remembered with fond recollections by both the Kings Road and Carnaby Street set. England did win their only World Cup to date but were stopped in their tracks by a light blue shirted team who were determined to spoil the party on its first night. 

Uruguay had done what they had set out to achieve and their mission was promptly accomplished. As the red shirts of England trooped disconsolately away from the pitch 60 years ago, most of the nation could only have wondered what was going through the players minds that night. There can be no omens at all because football has never really done superstition. It is to be hoped that Thomas Tuchel will be reminded once again that you can leap off your seat with joy when the final whistle goes because poor Sir Alf Ramsey looked as if somebody had stolen his last fiver at the end of the 1966 World Cup Final. Oh England, England. We have faith in you and may football's purists be rewarded. 

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 for City 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 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 will always 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 a side about to be the victims of 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 Liverpool 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.