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 they are, darting mischievously between thirsty hedgerows, bouncing off the branches from trees that may look neglected but look perfectly content to be where they are. It was always thus for the poets of the world and that's who you are. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

National Walking the Dog Day.

 National Walking the Dog Day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

World War Three - be prepared.

 World War Three - be prepared.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Team GB win gold at the Winter Olympics

 Team GB win gold at the Winter Olympics

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sir Jim Radcliffe

 Sir Jim Radcliffe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

National Guitar Day.

 National Guitar Day. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Winter Olympics

 Winter Olympics in Milan

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Munich air crash

 The Munich air crash.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Snooker player John Virgo dies

 Snooker player John Virgo dies

It used to be the case that a love of snooker was the sign of a misspent youth, a waste of an afternoon or a sure sign that you could have been using your time far more productively. For some of us, it was never the easiest watch and only TV provided snooker with a glamour and personality that perhaps we should have done more to get excited about. But when snooker loses one of its greatest exponents, you begin to wonder why you didn't really take it as seriously as you should have done. 

John Virgo, one of the most cheerful and upbeat of all sportsman, possessed a charisma and charm that his contemporaries always valued in Virgo. Yesterday though Virgo sadly died. Virgo was always a classical snooker player always sticking to the orthodox but then surprising everybody in the game with the flamboyant and unpredictable. Like most of his rivals, Virgo was always respectful of his opponents but ruthless when he needed to be. Long after he retired, Virgo was still bathing in past glories and always hungry for victory.

And the annoying stereotypes continued to haunt snooker. It was a pub game that was either played in your local watering hole or some atmospheric hall or leisure centre. Snooker had vast hordes of enthusiastic fans who followed Virgo everywhere. He was their spokesman, their rallying cry, their advocate and champion. He played snooker with a permanent smile on his face and none could question his unstinting commitment to the game, a man for all seasons. 

The lines are now blurred between snooker's divine right to be considered as a sport and those who still regard it with sneering disapproval. How can a spectacle that requires no physical exertion whatsoever still attract hysterical praise and adulation from millions of people who can't get enough of it? But Virgo was markedly different, a humorous joker always laughing along with his captive audiences but also playing snooker with a meticulous attention to detail. 

After serving his apprenticeship in the pubs and clubs of Salford, Virgo rose to prominence and arrived shortly after snooker converted black and white TV coverage into resplendent colour. The BBC's Pot Black was compulsive viewing for a growing audience who were slowly developing a passion for the sport. The likes of Fred and Joe Davis were very much the pioneers just after the Second World War but then the 1970s knocked on snooker's door and a whole host of unknown men captured our hearts. 

There was Fred Davis, Steve Davis, Alex Hurricane Higgins, Eddie Charlton, Cliff Thorburn and, more recently the inimitable Ronnie O' Sullivan, another entertaining extrovert who sets his own rules and boundaries and frequently tests both. But everybody loves Ronnie because he's a national treasure and gets an enormous satisfaction out of beating one of his fierce rivals. 

But John Virgo won the 1979 UK Championship beating Welshman Terry Griffiths followed swiftly with four major titles and trophies. He took snooker to an even bigger fanbase and he did so with an impish chuckle and a complimentary word or two. Snooker revels in its immaculate suit, shirt and bow tie image because snooker has a measured precision about it, a cunning strategy and a thrilling simplicity that requires no explanation.

You sit down to watch the game and that green baize table is simply mesmeric and you are drawn helplessly into its web of  intrigue and mystery. My late and wonderful dad loved a good game of snooker and would insist on watching its changing moods and clever machinations. From the beginning frame of red balls to the striking and vivid blues, yellows, pinks, black, pink and red balls and 147s, snooker has always held us gripped. 

Now for the sceptics and cynics and naysayers, snooker is unbelievably boring, too slow for words and somehow demeaning to the intellect. But what do they know that we clearly do? Snooker is big money, highly lucrative, unquestionably prestigious, a millionaire's dream, the kind of financial windfall that the working man or woman could only dream of. 

In more recent times, Virgo was chosen as the guest on a snooker related quiz show called Big Break. Introduced by comedian Jim Davidson, Virgo demonstrated all of the qualities that we'd always admired. He was the court jester, funny and gloriously facetious at times, quietly modest at times but never less than committed to the sport he'd honed his craft in during his early adolescence. John Virgo, we'll always remember that happy-go-lucky demeanour. Thankyou. 

It's time for some book promotion.

 It's time for some book promotion. 

For those of you who know what happens next, this is the time when your humble self published author and writer reminds you that there's something that might interest you. So, for your further reading pleasure, this is my current book of football poetry. It's fun, quirky, lyrical, descriptive and this could be either your cup of tea, breakfast, lunch or supper depending on your appetite and craving for originality. 

So here we go. My current book is called Football's Poetic Licence and is available at Amazon, Waterstones online, Foyles online and Barnes and Noble online. Of course, football is the universal language of the sporting world. It speaks to you eloquently of the dramas, the melodramas, the wildly contrasting emotions that cross all borders and frontiers. Football is the Beautiful Game and its simple pleasures, traditional highs and lows, fortunes and misfortunes can never be underestimated. 

This summer, the world will gather together in huge congregations, heartfelt communal and tribal gatherings for the World Cup. This year, the World Cup will be hosted by the USA, Mexico and Canada which, in the grander scheme of things, does sound pretty exciting. But there is a novelty value about this tournament because only the USA and Mexico can boast some history and pedigree. Canada may have to search around for their identity because football has yet to break into their market, their publicity machine. Sooner rather than later it will become a vitally important topic of conversation in the bars and pubs of Toronto, Montreal, Quebec and Banff. But we'll be delighted to see them because football loves the underdog and we love Canada.

There is an intriguing undercurrent of discussion murmuring in the heartlands of Canadian discussion rooms. It may work in their favour but, still, the thought persists that Canada may have to be politely introduced to world football's charming hosts. They may get it eventually but the fear is that they won't understand the breathtaking beauty of Brazil, the Latin sensuality and romance of the Argentinian game, nor the technical efficiency and European flair of Germany, Italy, Spain nor France. Or maybe they will and you're being very patronising. Canada will be certainly welcomed with open arms and eternal friendship.

England and Scotland will be at the party because football's sense of international diversity remains its most significant feature. Of course they play the same game and that's the epitome of cool but it needs to be said that football is also inclusive and tolerant, never discriminating or excluding anybody. And the rarefied world of football poetry is different. You feel sure that the esteemed likes of Keats, Wordsworth, Shelly and Wilde would have been quite flattered by homage to football although they might have reserved judgment on football poetry. 

Anyway, the fact is that my book of football poetry Football's Poetic Licence is currently at Amazon. Football embraces all cultures and classes, from the athleticism and physicality of the African game to the more sophisticated narratives of the South America. So here we are my friends across the world, this is my book of football poetry and this is definitely the book for you. It is a warm homage to the world game of football, poetry in motion. 

So here goes. Check out my book of football poetry Football's Poetic Licence, now available at Amazon. I wax lyrical about the FA Cup, Premier League, Champions League, my late and wonderful mum and dad, there's a warm eulogy to my lovely dad, my grandpa Jack who cut the hair of those noble 1966 World Cup winning heroes Bobby Moore, Sir Geoff Hurst, Sir Martin Peters, the World Cup, England, USA, Euro 2020, Europa League, the Carabao Cup, football grounds and Ilford FC, my local team growing up. Tell all your friends and families. Best wishes to the global football community. 

National Curmudgeons Day.

 National Curmudgeons Day. 

So come on, cheer up. It may never happen and probably never will but it could and then you somehow knew it would be so that's a self fulfilling prophecy. There are those people out there who inhabit a world of constant despondency, nothing but incessant pessimism, gloom and doom merchants, misery guts merchants, grumpy, cantankerous, thoroughly objectionable, negative, disagreeable souls who are the proverbial pain in the neck. They're always complaining about something and can never be happy unless they're whinging and moping about the worst case scenario. 

Now, my late and wonderfully delightful father in law Stan was the best in the world, an admirable and hardworking father of two wonderful children. He served the Ministry of Defence as a conscientious civil servant for almost 40 years. He worked hard and diligently because he was dedicated and always knew the meaning of duty and service to the work force.

But, and this is a view widely shared by his loving family, Stan loved a good, old fashioned moan and gripe and was always finding fault with something and somebody in officialdom. But he was the greatest and kindest, most warm hearted and considerate father in law you could ever meet. And yet, according to Stan, there was always something fundamentally wrong with the government of the day, there were far too many injustices within society that could never be righted and there were annoying imbalances that none of us could rectify.

Essentially though, we tend to get all hot and bothered under the collar about the trivialities and insignificant aspects of our life. Now, though, we are incensed about the astronomical fuel and electricity prices, the soaring gas bills, the unfeasibly expensive phone bills and those ever rising rents to landlords that are always a thorn in the side of young students looking for their first property. So it is that we get angrier and angrier, wildly indignant at the declining moral fabric of the British culture and so much more.

We wake up in the morning and the immediate concern is that good, old fashioned chestnut known as the British weather. Now the weather across the United Kingdom has always been one of the most enduring and traditional preoccupations that do so much to dominate our everyday conversation. We have to worry about ephemera, the things that shouldn't really matter but do and we can never tell you why. We despair of rain during the summer when it should be up in the 90s and gloriously hot. Then we look up at the dark, cloudy skies in June and July and wonder how Britain invariably ends up with day after day of wet, soggy pavements. 

But in complete contrast, we open our blinds and curtains during the winter and half expect twenty inches of snow on the ground and are frustrated when not being able to get out as much as we would like. So when it feels like spring in December and there are still one or two tulips in our gardens, our minds get totally confused and befuddled. So we get on our high horse and criticise our highly qualified weather forecasters because they can never be accurate and it's not the weather we're supposed to get. 

There are the pompous, pontificating politicians who, according to some, are a complete waste of time. The trouble is that there can be no satisfying those grumpy grouches who are always blaming someone or bleating about something. They sit all day in the kitchen, leafing through the news in the tabloid newspapers, fuming and fretting, privately boiling and seething, blustering and bickering with insufferable neighbours or telling their local councillors that those wretched pot holes in the road are getting worse and worse. But then again some of our neighbours are full of sympathetic understanding and kindly words. 

We just become exasperated with those council tax bills, the criminally extortionate prices of breakfast cereals, bread, meat, fish and all of those essential foods that keep us alive and well. It's the cost of living crisis at the moment and how are we ever going to cope and afford basic clothing for both kids and their mums and dads? We more or less surrender to the inevitable relegation of our football team West Ham United all the while condemning outright the manager, the chairman or woman, the ground staff and the catering department for our eternal shortcomings. 

And finally we can barely tolerate the unbearable traffic on the road, vehicles restricted to slowcoach pace at roughly 20mph. There are the winding, twisting tailbacks, bumper to bumper cars, lorries and vans that lead to a procession of bad tempers and very patient motorists who just keep hooting their horns just in case this is something of a deliberate conspiracy. So we just keep airing our understandable grievances because nothing is going to get done and may never be however many times we email the authorities.

Recently, our recycling bins reached bursting point and you found yourself shoving tons of cardboard, paper and plastic into a huge orange and black repository that looked as if it was about to explode with excess and rubbish. So you kept your feelings to yourself and just remained cool and composed, recognising the absurdity of what was happening in front of you.

Then you realised that even though we are almost a month into the new year, the dustmen and women still think it's Christmas. They've forgotten to empty the eco waste again.  And yet there is something warm and reassuring about the world of the grumpy people. They're seemingly never satisfied and yet we love them. They are indeed the rich tapestry of life.  Here's to the Curmudgeonly folk of the world. You're brilliant. Victor Meldrew, of course we believe it.

Holocaust Memorial Day.

 Holocaust Memorial Day.

So here we are again. We've arrived at that point in the year when thoughts turn almost naturally to the Holocaust. On Tuesday, the global Jewish population cast their minds, 86 years ago now, to the one apocalyptic event in world history that horrified, terrified and left a vast majority of the world in a state of numbed silence, shock, stunned horror and paroxysms of disgust and fury. The world found itself paralysed, broken, heartbroken and utterly despairing of the immediate future. 

And so it is that January 27th is the date that marks the day when the grandchildren of the Holocaust survivors stare mournfully into the ground because they have no words for there are none that can adequately explain or justify the life changing, momentous and horrific events of the Shoa. These flashpoint moments have now left the darkest shadow over the lives who witnessed it in all its gory, gruesome and blood curdling fashion. This is the day we recognise the admirable sacrifices made by armies, navies and huge regiments of soldiers. 

From a personal point of view, the Holocaust is the one day in the calendar year when you begin to rationalise the irrational, clarify the indefinable and inexplicable and then fill out all the missing details that may have gone over our heads. I remember who they were because they put their lives on the line, felt their brutality and then saw the horrendous savagery of it all and are still dumbstruck by something that seems so barely imaginable. 

And yet, ever year, I pay my respects to my late and wonderful mum and dad at Waltham Abbey Cemetery before wandering off to the Holocaust Memorial. The Holocaust Memorial is undoubtedly one of the finest, most impressive spaces and sanctuaries for those whose lives will always be remembered, dwelt upon deeply, lamented upon with absolutely appropriate grief and then thought about again and again with sadness and sombre reflections. Of course this is a painful process and the psychological scars  are still with you because you saw the tragic repercussions thirty years after the end of the Second World War. 

You are, when all is said and done, a grandson of a Holocaust survivor and the Shoa still hurts almost vicariously, jabbing you in the pit of your stomach, reminding you of the stark reality of what happened. You saw your beautiful grandma suffering the hellish flashbacks, tormented by the murderous terrorists who were the Nazis and convinced they were still in her vision. They were still behind her, still attacking her precious family and she screamed hysterically because she experienced the agony, purgatory, those relentless atrocities, the starvation, the terrible confinement of the concentration camps and gas chambers. 

It all feels so unbearably heartbreaking, loaded with poignancy and pathos, that one moment in history when all normality was suspended for a seeming eternity. But then you think back to your grandma and grandpa's Gants Hill home during the 1970s and you feel sure it was a never ending nightmare. Your grandma was showering her first son with demonstrative affection, spoiling him with crisps, chocolates, sweets and unfailing love, a love that can never be forgotten but felt so gloriously overwhelming. You were hugged and kissed over and over again and now they still return to your memories over and over again.

But then you were taken back to that one horrendous day at the height of the Holocaust. One day, my grandpa Jack set out on one of his many visits to the shops for a packet of cigarettes. On his way back, he was suddenly confronted by those vile and evil Nazi stormtroopers. A group of monsters descended on my adorable grandpa and suddenly all hell broke loose. One of these presumably grey jacketed men, complete with swastikas stitched to the material, ran after my grandpa with a bloodlust that can never be defined.

My grandpa, ever the battle hardened and most stoic, formidable of men, stood his ground and remained delightfully defiant, refusing to be defeated and overcome by force, violence and aggression. He must have lashed out at the Nazis, covered his face but was helpless to the inevitable barrage of punches. So, he fell awkwardly to the ground in a crumpled heap, face contorted with incessant blows to head and the rest of his body. You were not there of course, but the imagery must have been frightening. 

I've now discovered all the missing details, the six million lives who have now been inscribed and carved on the walls of innumerable Holocaust Museum and Memorial walls. Theirs were the lives I may never be able to recall because they were cruelly snatched from those who were adored by their loved ones. Their early childhood and adolescent days would never reach fruition because it was completely out of their reach. So we keep thinking, praying and pondering, chanting prayers clearly and then privately because this is the way we'd like it to be. It is only the way and there are no alternative scenarios. 

And now you gather together all of your heartfelt emotions, compartmentalising all of those innermost feelings because there can be no specific category for anything happened during the Holocaust. It is, put simply, man's inhumanity to man, his entire family and extended family. It is the unforgivable sin that can only reluctantly accept apologies because, several generations down the line, it is still there vivid, harsh, authentic, in my face and bones, sending chilling sensations down my spine. 

Now on Tuesday I will become aware of the historic magnitude of it all, the suspension of belief, knowing clearly that the damage has already been done. Tears have now flowed in gushing rivers and tributaries, eyes reddening and sore with every recollection and remembering your late and lovely mum and dad, grandma and grandpa with love for an eternity. Tuesday will feel both sensitive, repeating itself endlessly in my mind. Their voices will never be heard again. And that's infuriating and frustrating because you dearly wanted and longed  to attend their family parties and social gatherings, their weddings, anniversaries and their children's birthday parties.

But lest we ever forget the Holocaust. It's the most challenging and mentally demanding day of the year because indirectly your ancestors were there and they could never convey the gravity and soul destroying nature of what had just happened. So I'll be closing my eyes and bowing my head in contemplative sorrow and remembering my family and extended family. It'll be extremely hard because it's always been and always will be. But my wonderfully loving and supportive wife, children and grandchildren and family will always be there for me. I have so much to be humble, grateful and blessed.    

Donald Trump- what a character!

 Donald Trump- what a character.

You'd have thought you were watching some ridiculously barmy TV sitcom or some bizarre reality TV spectacle where nothing is how it should be. You have been completely detached from the real world, maybe a parallel universe where all the characters and main protagonists were manufactured or just fashioned from clay or some complicated sequence of computer graphics where only cartoons or caricatures live. 

There is a school of thought the new fangled AI (Artificial Intelligence) technology has gone to work and is now rapidly spreading across the USA like wildfire. Regrettably, the most powerful man in the free world is doing his utmost to create chaos and pandemonium wherever he goes. He is relentless, remorseless, a force of nature and doesn't care who he hurts or damages. And yet these are worrying times for not only Europe but the rest of the world.

Donald Trump, surely one of the most ludicrous and unique American presidents of all time, is simply uncontrollable, speaking from the hip, unapologetic, saying exactly what's on his mind and never pausing for breath. He is tactless, disturbingly opinionated, childish according to some, irritable, petulant , bad tempered and determined to do things his way. He's threatening to turn the world upside down and shake it vigorously until such time as people listen to him. And now he wants to take over Greenland. 

At the World Economic Forum in Davos, Switzerland, Trump was once again putting both feet in it and expressing the kind of statements that nobody wanted to hear and only the foolhardy would ever take  seriously. There is something of the Speakers Corner about Trump's personality that could be construed as wildly comical because he may just as well have been delivering his wacky comments from an orange crate in Hyde Park. We may have thought we'd seen everything we needed to know about Trump but seemingly not. 

All of the most important dignitaries from all corners of the globe have gathered together in Davos and must find themselves in some kind of bewildered trance. They watch Trump blathering and blustering forth like some mad, possessed man who believes that world domination may not be that far off. He reprimands Nato like a parent telling off their six year old for climbing trees without their permission. He keeps pontificating about Greenland and slapping trade tariffs on the country rather like some world statesman who only has Greenland's best interests at heart. 

You look at this pretty and picturesque country covered in snow and resembling some perfect winter skiing sanctuary and can barely believe what an American president is telling Greenland what to do. Yesterday, the Danish Prime Minister faced the public and must be wondering whether it's something Denmark has said. You see Trump indirectly blames Denmark for all the troubles in the world. Well, most of them anyway. So we watch in amazement and then rub our eyes convinced this isn't happening. And yet it is. 

Donald Trump, it seems patently clear, has lost the plot. Of course, in his defence, he did broker a ceasefire and peace agreement with Hamas and lovely Israel and it all looked very rosy complexioned. The Ukraine- Russia conflict is a work in progress and Trump is dealing with this war in house, an internal debate that will take time and patience. But the absurdities that are pouring from Trump's mouth at the moment are just unedited and free to air. Nobody has put a stopwatch on Trump and he just loves the sound of his own voice. 

And when we discover the early evening news, we see a man on who the cynics would tell us is on a mind blowing and vast prescription of drugs. Surely the man has lost control of his senses and there has to be a psychologist or therapist  available because Trump is just traipsing through the concrete jungle of the big, wide world and mindlessly trampling all over our common sense and intelligence. So why is he being allowed to get away with this recklessly aggressive attack on diplomacy and sensible thinking?

You keep thinking of Trump's predecessors and how they would have dealt with this horrible fiasco. The late and much missed Jimmy Carter would have been horrified about recent developments. Both Carter and the pacifist likes of Ronald Reagan would have grabbed hold of Trump's suit lapels and told them exactly what they thought of him. Trump is, quite literally, a bull in a china shop, firing off one controversial and explosive remark in double quick time one after another. His comments are wildly inflammatory, fiercely critical, incendiary and almost spitefully provocative. 

He is an incessant talking machine who now tells us, almost incredibly, that he deserved the Nobel Peace Prize and should have been gloating about it now rather than blaming everybody else for being overlooked. Trump is fed up for being taken for granted and you can forget about that peace mantra. That was Trump looking for pats on the back, global approval and demanding a knighthood from Britain. 

And then there was the newly minted Board of Peace, a splendid idea that is utterly commendable. Trump stood on his platform as if masquerading as one of the world's greatest leaders and Presidents of  all time. Lincoln, Truman, Roosevelt, Kennedy, Carter, Reagan, Obama are mere bit part actors and extras in Trump's world. What did they achieve? As far as Trump is concerned he stopped eight wars from flaring up into a monumental global catastrophe and he is the one who should get all the fulsome praise and plaudits. Nobody else but him. 

We all know about Trump's potty claims to being the most handsome man in the world, those narcissistic tendencies which lead us to believe that he must spend at least two hours in the mirror in the morning just combing his hair. Then his make up man or woman joins him in his private dressing room and powders his face until such time as the President gives the thumbs up. The eyebrows are puckered, the suit cleaned so immaculately and meticulously that it looks as if a menswear salesman has made sure he's made the right choice.

And yet although he looks on the large and rotund side, you feel sure that his golfing days more than make up for any deficiencies in his character and general bearing. Trump, every so often, pops over to Scotland during the summer and plays like Jack Nicklaus. Or so he would probably tell anybody who cares to be within earshot of him. Of course, he's just stocky and well built and there's nothing tubby or chubby about his appearance. So listen to Donald Trump because he knows best. 

The recent stories about his notorious friendship with Jeffrey Epstein and a whole host of dubious X rated celebrities, couldn't have done Trump's reputation any good at all. Trump mixes in the company of undesirables, incorrigibles, dastardly people who just massage his ego and tell him he looks wonderful all the time. So it is that we return to the subject of Davos and the World Economic Forum and Trump's relationship with the cream of world politics or perhaps the lack of one. 

You can imagine them now hiding away in their private rooms, mumbling and muttering their astonishment, questioning Trump's presence in the room. There are no elephants in this space but you do wonder if this is just a follow up to the Truman Show and we'll all wake up at 6am in the morning and follow the same routine every day. The year is barely a month old and already the President of the United States is already hitting the ground and running. Who cares about the rest of the world since he's the one man in charge and nobody else matters? Donald Trump - it's over to you. Keep going. You're doing your best. 

National Disc Jockey Day.

 National Disc Jockey Day.

To quote the late and great Alan Freeman, today is national disc jockey day pop pickers. Not 'alf. Now for those of a certain generation, Alan Freeman was the epitome of cool, professionalism, impeccable factual accuracy and a general bon viveur. Freeman was the ultimate gentleman, a man of supreme wit and humour, jokey joviality and a complete dedication to the world of music, rock music and a man with an enduring passion for all genres of popular, mainstream and classical music. 

Now this neatly leads you into what today is. Yes folks, it's National Disc Jockey Day, undoubtedly so. For most of us, the disc jockey is that invisible, anonymous figure who either wakes us up to the breakfast show or sends us off to sleep with a late night phone in. In between those waking hours, the disc jockey serves up an enticing cocktail of the latest hits in the charts, the nostalgic goodies, country and western, soul, disco from the 1970s, or just incessant often controversial talk where the presenter either gets hot and bothered about nothing in particular or thinks that the political climate in Britain is far too inflammatory, somehow defying comment at times.

Then there are the explosive moments on radio where disc jockeys play those catchy jingles we'll always remember before reverting to an often tedious monologue about themselves depending entirely on your point of view. Some disc jockeys would rather avoid any kind of recognition because it might be embarrassing if they didn't meet up to the public perception of them. Then there are the colourful characters who just dump the rule book unceremoniously and just have some good old fashioned fun in the studio. 

Your mind immediately turns to the one and only but, sadly, late Kenny Everett. Kenny Everett was, by his own admission, crazy and bonkers but in a nice way. Everett was anarchic, obviously non conformist, permanently rebellious, railing against authority, always pushing the boundaries until they were almost broken but, most of all and, perhaps most importantly, hilarious. Everett enjoyed a relationship with his listening audience that spanned the late 1960s and only came to an end with his tragic death to Aids.

Everett's story is one now fondly recalled and that's how we would choose to remember him as an outspoken, cheeky, extrovert, impudent but wonderfully clever disc jockey. He began his career on the illegal pirate ships during the 1960s and just kept going. When he arrived at London's brand new commercial radio station called Capital Radio, all of those sceptical and stuffy radio executives and owners of stations roundly took exception to Everett and thought he represented some outrageous expression of modern culture and society. Everett was their spokesman and didn't hold back. 

But when things settled down and after Radio 1 had seen the back of Everett, commercial radio provided him with the perfect platform to go wild with that gloriously imaginative style of presenting that must have left the BBC Director General simmering over with anger. Everett introduced pop music in a way that was sometimes unconventional but always with his finger on the pulse of London and Great Britain.

In 1975, Kenny Everett discovered on his Capital Radio turntables one of the greatest pieces of music he'd ever heard. The group was Queen, fronted by that spectacular showman Freddie Mercury. We were approaching Christmas and the charts would be shortly be announced to an expectant audience. Nobody saw what would come next. Slipping the single out of its sleeve, Everett dropped the stylus on the record player and the rest is well documented history. It was a rock opera masterpiece.

Queen's latest album was Night at the Opera and a track called Bohemian Rhapsody was discreetly hidden from view. Freddie Mercury, himself, couldn't believe that this one single from an album would become rock music dynamite, a song which would achieve the kind of phenomenal popularity that other contemporary bands could only dream of. Overnight, the name of Queen would become hot property, a worldwide famous pop group who had, unknowingly, released a monster hit that would dramatically change their fortunes. 

And so it was that Kenny Everett's name would become synonymous with Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody because once played on the air, Everett would play it over and over again, enthralled and mesmerised by its artistic beauty. Bohemian Rhapsody would remain at number one for what seemed an eternity and the influence of the music playing DJ would become enshrined in the annals of history. 

Then there was BBC Radio 1, the one station who broke the pirate radio's monopoly on daytime pop music. In 1967, Tony Blackburn, another fresh faced and angelic figure from the pirate boats, introduced Flowers in the Rain by the Move as the very first 45 single ever to be played on the radio. Blackburn, of course, a national treasure and still spinning the discs all those years later.

For the next decade and a half, Britain would wake up to the the sound of the top 40s, Blackburn was a pioneering character who loved to entertain with cheesy but lovable jokes and a fierce supporter of the Beatles, Rolling Stones, the Animals, Manfred Mann, Procol Harum, Cliff Richard, Cilla Black plus the Motown might of Diana Ross and the Supremes, the Temptations, the Detroit Spinners, Stevie Wonder and Marvin Gaye. 

With Radio 2 still faithful to its policy of easy listening music and household crooners who weren't quite as funky and jazzy as Radio 1, Radio 1 gave us a whole conveyor belt of unknown DJs such as Dave Lee Travis, Simon Bates, Paul Burnett, the Emperor Rosko, Noel Edmonds and then more latterly Simon Mayo and then there was John Peel late at night with his very distinctive taste in punk music from the 1970s. Peel was a revolutionary because he found all of that pop music distinctly boring and lacking in originality so he went against the grain and did his thing rather than follow the script. 

Meanwhile Radio 2 could still boast the likes of the late and  much missed Terry Wogan and former 1950s singer Jimmy Young. Wogan was the immensely smooth and likeable Irish charmer, amiable to all and sundry, the very personification of reliability and a natural story teller with a wit, humour and a warm, engaging personality. Wogan became a renowned chat show host, a man with a gentle, delightful sarcasm at times and nothing but good to say about the world. And that, in essence, is how disc jockeys would like to be known for.

But then disc jockeys ventured into the clubs and nightclubs, the late night gigs that would go on until the small hours of the morning if the establishment allowed it. Disc jockeys now became idolised and worshipped, screamed at by hysterical teenagers, smiling constantly while wearing a vast assortment of technicoloured beach shirts, a medallion on their chests and huge racks of initially 45 singles from the charts and then 12 inch singles, EPs, green, yellow, blue and red vinyl with a striking record label.

And so find ourselves in the time where the weekly helping of BBC Top of the Pops first aired. In 1964, Top of the Pops appeared on our screens for the first time live from a Manchester town hall. Sadly, the programme was scrapped a number of years ago but leaves as its lasting legacy an archive of the sublime and the ridiculous. We'd always remember the presenters such as Tony Blackburn, Dave Lee Travis, Ed Stewart, David Hamilton, Noel Edmonds, John Peel, grudgingly it seemed at the time but so wonderfully. Peel loved music but he drew the line at the Top of the Pops. 

Increasingly disc jockeys are stereotypically portrayed as that friendly voice on the radio, the man or woman who dutifully obliges with special requests for members of your family. They'll promise you a substantial amount of money if you can correctly the name of the first ever single ever released in Britain or which famous group once reached the top of the charts with a song about a combine harvester. DJs keep you entertained and informed with constant traffic updates, interviews with eminent rock stars and then the kind of small talk, humorous witticisms and bubbly bonhomie that becomes their trademark. 

Most of us take our disc jockeys for granted but still recall with some affection where we were on the morning that Radio 1 made their first ever broadcast. It was September 30th 1967 and the world was experiencing all the joys of flower power, garish fashions in Kings Road shop windows, and England were still bathing in the eureka euphoria of their only World Cup trophy so far. That Was the Week That Was the progamme  that dared to challenge the Establishment with its political and satirical digs at prominent figures in Westminster. 

But disc jockeys are reassuring when the going gets tough. They take us back into a pleasantly nostalgic land where your back doors were always open and the price of butter would have set you back a couple of shillings. They were always cheerful and never despondent because they were there for us, chirpy, kind and thoughtful people who always looked on the bright side. Disc jockeys sympathise with us when we fail important school exams and then celebrate weddings, anniversaries, the happy gatherings of our lives that disc jockeys want you to enjoy. So never fear the DJ is about to play your favourite song that means so much and the world to you. We'd be lost without a DJ because music reminds us of our favourite memory and there can be nothing wrong with that. 

Local football derbies, Manchesters City- United and Spurs- West Ham

 Local football derbies, Manchester City, United and Spurs- West Ham

It hardly seems like it but local football derbies in Britain are as old as time itself. They date back to a time when Queen Victoria reigned supreme over her dearly beloved UK and the Commonwealth. Some have now been lost to memory because only photographic evidence remains and the British tabloids have perpetuated their images and vivid action shots. They have now become embedded in football's soul and bloodstream.

Yesterday, Manchester United beat their noisy local neighbours City with a 2-0 win that could well prove to be decisive in those final 16 or 17 matches before the season's end. United, still struggling to replicate the extraordinary years of Sir Alex Ferguson, found both their balance, focus and a thrilling rapport with each other that hasn't been seen for a number of seasons now. Reuben Amorim has gone and United are rather like a stalling steam locomotive train who have just hit upon a mini renaissance and are quite happy to be where they are in the here and present.

Interim coach Michael Carrick, with those dulcet Wallsend Geordie tones nicely oiled, stands on the deck of the great ship that is Manchester United and, yesterday, for a while at least, it felt good to be in the groove. Carrick looks as though he's thoroughly enjoying himself even if the gig is a part time one and United are still in transition, waiting patiently for the right moment to set sail on another voyage of discovery.

So, for the first time in what must now seem ages, United were reminiscent of the team who once conquered Europe, won the Champions League with an almost effortless nonchalance, a team joined and fused together rather like electrical wiring. There was a unity and collective ethos about United that some at the Streford End at Old Trafford must have forgotten all about. But victory, of course, sweetened by the flavour of local bragging rights, couldn't have come at a better time for United and Manchester City were numbed, dulled and reduced to wandering souls who had lost their way and needed some friendly guidance.

And then we realised where we were. For well over 100 years and much further back in time, Manchester City and Manchester United have locked horns with each other like feuding stags determined to inflict as much as damage on each other as possible. At Old Trafford, we saw the latest instalment of the local derby that is absolutely definitive in the eyes of those who have been watching this fiery contest for so many years. It has been football at its most argumentative, nasty at times, tasty on others, essentially confrontational, bittersweet on some occasions, heart breaking on others but so often personal that you would think they couldn't stand the sight of each other. 

When Manchester United were known as Newton Heath and Billy Meredith was scoring goals for fun at United, even then there was a pathological hatred and vicious antagonism between them that has endured for countless decades. In Victorian times, the city of Manchester was dominated by the ship canal where barges and boats of every conceivable description would glide up and down the canal sedately and the supporters of City and United would cross bridges before a football match would break out. And none of a nervous disposition would ever dare to come between them. 

City of course for their part, played at Maine Road and even kindly allowed their neighbours United to use their ground after Old Trafford had been bombed to smithereens during the Second World War. But you can imagine them, teenage boys with flat caps, neat and tight waistcoats and the colours of red, white and blue clashing on the terraces. Scarves, rattles and rosettes were still a prominent feature of football's weekly conflicts. Nobody questioned their existence for this was the working class game.

But local derbies are full of spice and rich rivalry, matches with that very distinct air of neighbourly parochialism, communities fiercely divided on the day by two football teams who were probably just a terraced home from each other. During the week they must have shared a factory floor and the metallic grind of iron and steel could probably be heard on the other side of the Pennines. But come Saturday afternoon at 3pm they were sworn enemies, ready to pick up a bayonet, flintlock and blunderbuss and fire off their footballing artillery. 

And then there was that famous Manchester derby when United's world fell apart almost tragically but without any hint of the Greek about it. In 1974, Manchester United experienced the most wretched and horrendous season since the club was first formed. For most of that season, things went from bad to worse to rock bottom. United dropped into the lower half of the old First Division and languished there like a rusting and neglected building that hadn't seen a lick of paint for at least 70 years. What followed next was a disastrous decline into the world of relegation and the old Second Division. 

On the final day of that forgettable season for United, the now late and much missed Denis Law just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. In the middle of an emotional minefield, Law was now wearing the light blue of Manchester City rather than the Red Devils shirt of United where the Scotsman had spent some of his most fabled and legendary years. It was goal- less for ages and then it happened. It was like a flash of lightning or a clap of thunder. 

City, breaking with some speed and regularity, kept pressing United back while United just flapped and staggered around like a drunken sailor at sea for whom buoyancy had now proved impossible. Law, loitering with intent on the edge of the six yard penalty area and with his back to goal, almost apologetically back heeled Manchester City's winning goal and looked totally ashamed of himself. It was never meant to happen like that but United were down and out and heading for the old Second Division.

Meanwhile, back in London and the capital city, there was another local derby and one that defies any kind of geographical understanding. Spurs have always been based in North London while West Ham are undoubtedly situated in East London. For reasons that have never really become abundantly clear, Spurs and West Ham just don't get on with each other. In fact they'd probably challenge each other to a heavyweight boxing match given half the chance. There is an almost unspoken malice and red blooded antipathy between the two of them. 

Yesterday Spurs, drifting through the season and bobbing precariously around the lower half of the Premier League, will certainly not be relegated. But after their 2-1 defeat at home to local neighbours West Ham, a vast majority of Spurs were loudly booing their team for ages before manager Thomas Frank finally emerged for the media, not exactly a broken man but wondering whether Denmark would still throw a warm homecoming reception should he be sacked any time shortly. Spurs fans have reached the end of their tether, disgusted at the team's miserable malaise and slump into the land of nowhere. 

And yet West Ham themselves are still deeply troubled, a team not only fighting for survival in the Premier League but well and truly up to their neck in the murky waters of a relegation crisis. Simply put, West Ham have been the victims of some of the shoddiest acts of mismanagement and after two quick fire changes of manager following the exit of Julen Lopetegui and Graham Potter, the East London club are looking for any light at the end of the tunnel. 

After a 10 match winless run, the Hammers are going through the mill. But at the Tottenham Hotspur Stadium yesterday afternoon, West Ham had the rub of the green and the tea leaves looked very healthy. At long last something clicked and all the attacking mechanisms were functioning. Crysencio Summerville, the Dutch winger who looked as though he'd been frozen out of the team by Mohammad Kudus, who then left for Spurs, picked up the ball after a nimble footed exchange of passes, cutting inside his defender before driving a beautifully accurate shot that beat Spurs keeper Guglielmo Vicario.

Spurs were, by their own admission, both poor and dysfunctional, huffing and puffing in the most haphazard fashion and never really looking like a goal was within their capabilities. But when captain Christian Romero equalised for Spurs, it must have felt a lifeboat had been thrown in their direction. In the 93rd minute though, an Olly Scarles corner for West Ham dropped invitingly into a bus queue of players before Callum Wilson nudged the ball over the line for a crucial winning goal for West Ham.

And yet you can still see those early days of West Ham- Spurs battles over the years. Over on the industrial docklands and tobacco warehouses of London's East End docklands, West Ham would welcome visitors to the old Upton Park. Spurs fans would jump onto a trolley bus, tram or horse drawn landau if the money was good and then traipse down the Seven Sisters Road before disembarking at White Hart Lane, seething with anticipation 

Then the newspaper sellers doing a roaring trade with the Star, Evening News and the still wonderful Standard, would hand out their final programmes, Peaky Blinders caps firmly fixed to their head.  But the London derby between Spurs and West Ham would still baffle the neutral. Spurs came into this world when a group of schoolboys would gather under street lights and discuss the fortunes of their local football team while the iron foundries were hammering out their story at West Ham.

West Ham played at the Boleyn Ground and the historical connection with royalty sounds as if dear Ann would probably have been very flattered had she known that her name would be employed in footballing circles several centuries later. Local football derbies will never lose their enduring appeal and yesterday may well have proved the point. Manchester and London were on the same territory once again and how football was so delighted to be part of the local derby scenario.