The weather- yes, a very good friend.

 The weather- yes, a very good friend.

You're not going to believe this. To be honest nor were we. It almost felt that the great British summer had lived up to its name. We were just so thrilled that it had stayed for the duration. Of course we'd made comparisons with the last hot summer of 1976 but then we probably felt we'd never see its like again. So how pleasantly surprised and amazed we were by an almost identical rerun. Thankyou summer you've stepped up to the plate and you've smashed it out of the park. Well done. 

Yes folks it's our favourite topic of discussion, our almost obsessive preoccupation and, although we joke about the subject almost constantly, we can't get enough of it or can we? It dominates our everyday thinking because we always feel we have to chat about it, consistently analysing its contrasting moods and patterns. There is almost an obligation to talk about it, referring over and over again to the weather in our everyday conversation. We go through the same procedure at bus stops, with passing strangers in the street and then there are those railway stations, as the commuters wait patiently for the 8.00 train in the morning. 

And yes back by popular demand, it's that time in the year. The August Bank Holiday weekend is upon us and, amid much excitement, the skies above us are turning a battleship grey and darkening quite rapidly. The clouds are gathering en masse and after another astonishing summer of record breaking temperatures, one heatwave after another and sub tropical warmth, it's all coming to an end or so they tell us. It couldn't have gone any better because, around the country, we've all seen the documentary evidence. But this is wonderful because we do privately love the rain.

Day after day the news agenda has relayed the tragic repercussions of a hot summer. Now we should be full of gratitude for those warm, hot days when everything seems so perfectly enjoyable. The roses in our gardens are flourishing and have never looked prettier but those same patches of hallowed green grass have turned to dust, a concrete bowl replete with what looks like straw and whitish patches everywhere. Naturally Britain is struggling but then it always does when it doesn't quite know what to do with a phenomena it can never really make head or tail of. 

Of course we love the heat, warmth and sun because it makes us feel better, uplifted and energised, verging on excessive exhilaration, dancing on the rooftops, celebrating with the conga around Trafalgar Square, Piccadilly Circus, and all of the country's most favourite shopping centres and every market town throughout Britain. In 1976, everybody leapt up and down in the Trafalgar Square fountains, drenching ourselves in gallons of water just to keep cool. We then rolled up our 1970s flared trousers and did it again.

What we didn't know or couldn't have anticipated is that 50 years later we'd be addressing the same issue once again. In hindsight, there are parallels with the incredible heatwave of 1976 in as much that there were hosepipe bans, there was a chronic shortage of water and sprinklers were banned. By 2026, some of us had become proud grandparents to two of the most beautiful grandchildren and life had moved on in the most startling fashion. The march of progress and natural human evolution has taken us into a land of miraculous discoveries, wondrous scientific journeys and an extraordinary period of high tech achievement. 

We could never have believed that humans could ever talk and communicate to each other instantly via a computer, lap top, Smart Phone or the click of a keyboard letter. Before you could bat an eyelid, you now felt as if you were sitting right next door to your brother or sister in Thailand or Mauritius. You could see them, hear them, revel in their presence in your living room. Admittedly, you couldn't shake their hands physically but their presence and appearance on a small screen had you in raptures, doing somersaults.

But the weather has done it again. After a lengthy run in the provinces and all of those fringe theatres, the weather is back in the news. On every advertising hoarding, lamp-post, wall, newspaper vendor stall, it's top of the bill, the latest meteorological development, our familiar old friend. We've been discussing the weather in our offices with industrial fans blowing away quite happily. We may have been complaining because the air conditioning isn't working but now the rains are on their way. Are we happy? Of course we are. That goes without saying. 

So September is quietly waiting in the wings, whispering mischievously in the background, playing hide and seek with the kids about to go to back to school. September has been rehearsing its lines diligently, swotting hard for its exams, investigating the rich possibilities that autumn may have to offer. There is a nervous anticipation in the air because September may not be ready for the first big day but it will be alright without any shadow of a doubt. 

Next Monday, on the August Bank Holiday, the whole of Notting Hill in London will come alive once again as it always does. It's the Notting Hill Carnival, that yearly outpouring of music, stunning costumes, hundreds of women wearing feathers and those distinctive steel drums. There will be countless food stalls selling the very finest in jerk chicken and rice and there will be Caribbean rhythms in perfect harmony. The weather at Notting Hill Carnival doesn't seem to matter because everybody is just determined to have the best day and weekend of them all including the police.  

But folks, this is not the time to be worried or fret because it's been a stupendous summer where the weather has been exceptional and the sunshine has been our warmest companion.  Those outside al fresco gastro pubs and carveries have never been busier, our dogs and cats have never had so much exercise and everything in the world has been wonderful. So let's celebrate that golden British summer because it deserves to be recognised as such.  

Of course the forest fires and widespread damage to so much of Britain's most fertile farmlands may never be recovered. But humanity has found a way of surviving such disastrous setbacks and it's time to turn the calendar over to autumn. So it's time to pack away our cricket pads and tennis rackets, seek out as many conkers before the kids get to them and just huddle together in doors before the heater goes on. So let's welcome the gusty winds, those eddying leaves in the park, wrap a blanket over yourselves and always remember that the weather will be always be a very good friend come rain or shine. Enjoy. 

The end of the school summer holiday.

 The end of the school summer holiday.

There was something about the school summer holiday that felt too good to be true. Here you were confronted with six weeks of sheer release, liberation, the freedom to do whatever you wanted without realising that by the end of August, you'd still have to return to a world of strict discipline, spartan routine, impeccable behaviour and good manners. But then you were given a sharp jab in the ribs when everything had to be ready for the new term at school. Shortly, you would have to go back to a world of discipline, obedience, rectitude and propriety. 

During those last weeks of sheer, unadulterated pleasure and enjoyment, you almost felt that sense of dread and trepidation that none could really understand. School may have been out for summer but now autumn was creeping unobtrusively over the horizon, above your kitchen window and out into the streets and roads of your local neighbourhood. You didn't have to be reminded of the fact because you could see it again. 

There was a gathering sense of doom and gloom, impending reality kicking in with a vengeance. In 1976, we experienced the kind of summer that some of us are now being privileged to be a part of again. Exactly 50 years later the feelings are much the same: five or six consecutive heatwaves, hosepipe bans now a widespread imposition on our lives and patronising warnings about the obvious. It all seems like familiar territory only this time there is no school to go back to but, wonderfully, stunning children, wife, family and grandchildren to think about.

Isn't it amazing how our priorities change so often and perhaps predictably? 50 years ago we were still kids, children on the cusp of adolescence, rebellious teenagers, stroppy, bolshy individuals trying the patience of our wonderful mum and dad and refusing to be told what to do? Kids never listened to their parents attentively because they knew best. They thought they could get away with murder, staying out late and well past the midnight hour. And all because there was no school in the morning and life was a blissful street party. 

But as somebody who preferred his own company, whether it be consciously or deliberately, this was still the same six week school summer holiday. Pretty soon you had to accept the status quo and there was a gradual realisation that here you were on your own, in splendid isolation. Nobody had heard of painful shyness and Autism, that hollow detachment from the rest of society. There was, on your part, a stubborn insistence that you didn't really need anybody in your life apart from a loving, considerate and protective mum and dad and a much younger brother. 

In a sense you were privately having the time of your life. You were still jumping out of bed at some ridiculously late hour of the morning, wolfing down your breakfast and ready to swim in your local Lido. At roughly 10am, you would roll up with towel and trunks, throw on a T-shirt and shorts and then head for a day of vigorous swimming at Valentines Park Lido. It was a day from seventh heaven, the best years of your life that continue to the present day because your grandchildren will be engaging in similiar activities in four or five years time. 

And yet you found yourself surrounded by no real friends apart from the childhood acquaintances in your road. There were also your neighbours children who may have been going somewhere else that was far more exciting. So you set off for the pool, smile wreathing your face and deliciously contented. Mum would never mind how long you'd spent at the Lido because she knew you'd be safe, secure, comfortable and happy that you were happy. But there was something missing. You had no other friends from outside of your small network of pals who never really touched base with you as you got older.

Your connection with the bigger world was completely non existent. You thought you were enjoying yourself immensely when in fact you were hiding behind some metaphorical wall or curtain, cocooned  from the big, wide world and never really achieving any kind of teenage reference points. You simply wanted to get on with the business of school, education, a clear career path and some semblance of knowledge about people, their moods, their temperaments, their emotions. 

But that never really happened at all. There was a much older lad who used to live around the corner from my family who had this enduring passion for amateur radio and an idle curiosity about pirate radio, perhaps becoming a broadcasting giant or some hip, dynamic DJ in later years. Every morning we would meet up with each other over the garden fence, chatting animatedly and listening to music. Clearly he was consumed with transmitting over the radio illegally and that felt cool. Or so you thought at the time. 

As the months and years went by, we challenged the authorities and Home Office with our illicit music radio shows and you felt as if you were entertaining a vast audience of fans at home. But you weren't and that was the harsh truth. You were living in a delusional bubble that threw blinkers over your young life. We would set up the transmitter in a room every so often with turntable record players and tape recorders ready to blast the eardrums of all concerned. In hindsight it was all very daft and silly. Of course it was if only because teenagers think we're clever, flawless geniuses with a giant sized intellect.

Now back in your family home you were still interested in the kind of things that teenagers were also passionate about. You still bought a football magazine called Shoot every Thursday, still tuned into Radio One for the best in the latest glam rock and American easy listening pop charts. Football was very much part of my cultural agenda and at the beginning of the new football season, you would still take yourself into the world of the old First Division where Liverpool were still bossing proceedings at the top of the League and Top of the Pops was a weekly imperative. It just felt right and it was. 

Then towards the end of the 1970s, the school summer holidays would be punctuated by two blockbuster summer movies that would revolutionise the way in which we as teenagers would look at the world. The cinema had entered your consciousness. One was called Saturday Night Fever while the other was Grease. Both monopolised your attention, holding you in thrall, two delightful films that left most of my generation speechless and dumbfounded with admiration.

Saturday Night Fever had exploded onto the silver screen in 1977, the most extraordinary revelation of a film, an agit prop for every teenager across the world. It was a film about one man Tony Manero aka John Travolta who, having dressed up in the funkiest white jacket of all time, hit the nightclubs and bars with some of the most sensational dancing exhibitions that America had ever seen. Manero was king of the road, the top dog, the cool dude, the man who had to be respected for his hip shaking sensuality, that authentic aura of erotica, a body designed for the disco dance.

The film followed Manero's journey into adulthood, a coming of age man who embraced his proud masculinity and wasn't afraid to show it to swooning girls who would follow him everywhere. Saturday Night Fever had introduced us to the Bee Gees, whose career had hitherto reached a brick wall and had almost come to a full stop altogether. From the distant black and white hit of 'Words' during the 1960s, now the Bee Gees had fallen into a temporary obscurity, somehow behind the times and rooted in the past. 

But Saturday Night Fever had administered first aid to a group who were in dire need of resuscitation. Staying Alive, More Than A Woman and Night Fever had pumped up the Gibb brothers and the adrenaline was running again. And yet for some of us Saturday Night Fever had kept you in touch with the rest of my generation. And this is what it was like. It was a special and cherishable moment that just felt as if you were about to turn a corner you didn't think for a  moment you'd ever reach in the first place.

On a sultry summer's evening, a phenomenal queue had formed outside the Barkingside Odeon in East London. You can still remember standing there, waiting patiently for the queues to subside. And then we all moved forward joyously. You were still friendly with the family across the road and there was an excited murmuring as we waited for permission to file forward in an orderly fashion. You weren't alone after all because you were part of that community, that real sense of communality, the kids who could readily identify with John Travolta but, personally, not his aura of self confidence. 

This was a major stumbling block for the man you felt you could be but would never be destined to get even remotely as close as you would have liked. You'd never be able to sling a white jacket over your shoulder for fearing of dropping it to the ground and, above all, you'd never get the chance to chat up the girl of your dreams - certainly not at the age of 15. That would be wishful thinking. But later in life something indefinable must have completely changed the direction of your radar on life. And yes something did. 

By the time 1978 had arrived and another school summer holiday had started. Once again John Travolta featured prominently in our vision. Fresh from the record breaking Saturday Night Fever, Travolta had broken down barriers and frontiers. The film was called Grease and it was the kind of movie that had magnificence, completeness, finesse and outstanding production values. It was a film of par excellence, polish, patina, a richly uplifting film of bold, reckless youth meeting head on in some pulsating collision with each other. 

Danny, John Travolta was the arrogant, black leathered jacketed guy boasts grandly about his charisma, his good looks, his animal magnetism and then he fell in love with Sandy, the late and much missed Olivia Newton John. It all fell naturally into place or did it? Travolta was unashamedly narcissistic, vain, incredibly conceited and never made any secret of the fact. Grease, alongside Saturday Night Fever, had captured your imagination. 

It followed the upward trajectory of two young people who were clearly smitten with each other but had a strange way of expressing their mutual affection for each other. Travolta would, amusingly, trip over hurdles at college athletic meetings, before racing his smoking jalopy of a sports car around another track all the while showing off a teenage bravado. Then Sandy and Danny would snuggle up to each other at a movie drive in but not before Danny had groped Sandy far too intimately. The cartoon showing behind them was an apt summary of their relationship. It was simply too hilarious for words. 

But by the time the 1970s had ended, you were not even within touching distance of the messages both Saturday Night Fever and Grease had so accurately portrayed. You were still stuck in a time warp where the kids of your age had now advanced to the dating stage or the kind of puppy love that you could only imagine in your wildest dreams. Your Jewish friends were now sharing a burger or milkshake at the local Wimpy, sneaking discreetly to the back of the cinema back row for a cuddle and kiss or just abandoning yourself to the joys of just being young.

And so find yourself  at the present day just so thankful for everything that life has given you despite all of the teenage insecurities, the awkward struggles, the striving for some kind of identity and recognition above all the troubles. Admittedly, any hopes of finding constant employment probably fell by the wayside when you simply couldn't bring yourself to join a Jewish youth club. Suddenly, both your personality, introspective outlook on life and inherent terror of the big, wide world had left me with demoralised but now enormously grateful for what I do have. 

Most importantly, you had a wife, children and family who adored you, cared for you passionately, an extended family who hugged you tenderly and lovingly every time you saw them and believed in you all the time. They were the people who told you that, despite your Autism, that you were a star, somebody who could function properly and love you forever more. You, too, could laugh, smile, joke and gossip with the best of them on equal terms and a level ground.   

Next week, another generation of children will be going back to either nursery, infants, junior or primary school, that formative introduction. Your beautiful grandson will be shortly starting at his local nursery and this will be his moment to shine in the spotlight. And then the infants and junior kids will be embarking on the long, gruelling journey from childhood onwards. They'll be learning the ABC, how to add up, how to count to 10 then 100, wrestle with simple mathematics, then the multiplication table, rudimentary grammar and vocabulary, speech patterns, the grown up people in the news they may find too intimidating at first but will learn to accept for who they are. 

So it's almost the end of the school summer holiday and the arrival of autumn may herald something more than the changing of the seasons. We can now look back happily at our childhood and think it wasn't bad as we thought it might have been at first. You can still see the thick piles of coats in your infant school cloakroom, the milk bottle crates outside the front gates of your school, the plimsolls, vest and shorts you had to wear for PE as if they were compulsory. In hindsight, there is that photograph in your head, an indelible image.

Then there was the loud, piercing whistle from the teacher in the playground, the raucous screams of hundreds of kids suddenly silenced. It signified the end of playtime as the children of our age were ordered firmly to stand still. There also followed the ritualistic drinking of milk during the morning, lining up as a classroom and quietly walking towards the dinner hut. There was something very methodical and structured about life at the beginning of a new school term. After all of those luxurious, leisurely weeks it was to back to school and the serious business of learning. It all felt so natural.      

The eve of the new football season

 The eve of the new football season.

In the distance you can still hear the clattering, rattling sound of horses and their stirrups, a jangling, evocative sound that keeps resonating in your  mind even today. It is still high summer and yet the autumnal pageant has yet to arrive at Upton Park. It is early August 1978 and you're about to enter that crucial penultimate year of secondary school. It was that vital turning point of your life where the men were sorted from the boys and you simply languished in the margins of academia. 

Now this was a school solely designed for those teenagers who never quite made the grade or whose only dalliance with academic brilliance was a flair for writing long winded, wordy and verbose English essays. You were never destined for university and that was final. Most of the kids at my school were bright, well adjusted, clever and streetwise, either joining the family business or muddling their way successfully through life and just making the best of what they had. You, for your part, had to carry around with you a huge inferiority complex but that's a story perhaps for another day. 

Anyway, it's the opening day of the new League season 1978-79 and West Ham are about to embark on their first step of the ladder that they were rather hoping would lead back to the top flight, the old First Division or in today's money the Premier League. The men in claret and blue had been relegated to the old Second Division for the first time in exactly 20 years so this was a massive cultural body blow to the system. Having never experienced this sensation before, it was a sobering, painfully chastening setback. But it was far from the end of the world. 

West Ham's first opponents 48 years ago in the old Second Division were one of the oldest members of the Football League pyramid and a club who openly admitted to wearing the same black and white stripes of Juventus. Notts County had never won anything of significance in the club's history and were consumed with unnecessary envy because their neighbours Nottingham Forest were about to win the old First Division or the League Championship under the incomparable Brian Clough not once but twice in succession. And yet County ran out into the baking heat at Upton Park that afternoon and were afforded a respectful round of applause. 

It was weather more suitable for the traditional summer game of cricket, where willow bat met red ball in harmonious unison, T-shirts were the order of the day and some of us were delighted to be back on the terraces again. But there were no centuries, googlies, maiden overs or pigeons at midwicket discussing the possibility of the first female Prime Minister. But what did Margaret Thatcher know about football? For those who had gathered in a huddle in West Ham's South Bank this was genuinely a venture into the unknown. 

Fearing no-one in particular, West Ham set about the task rather like hod carriers on a building site with bags of cement, a basic foundation stone, a couple of strapping brickies and hope. The task ahead, although apparently an easy one, never quite worked out in the way most West Ham supporters thought it would. There was an air of arrogant entitlement about the club, a naive assumption that come the end of the season, West Ham would be back in the old First Division where they felt they belonged. 

What should have been regarded as a much easier assignment became three more seasons in the second tier before finally the new tyres had been fitted, the engine and carburettor were working like a dream and the machinery sounded as smooth as anybody could remember. West Ham did have an open road but that long, gruelling thoroughfare was fated to be clogged up by heavy traffic, hundreds of tailbacks and a journey that seemed to go on indefinitely. 

Anyway West Ham's opening day of the season resulted in a thumping, emphatic 5-2 victory for the Hammers and no complaints from here. David Cross, the bearded and former Coventry City and West Bromwich Albion striker, weighed in with some vital strikes and the goals were liberally scattered across the afternoon. Bryan 'Pop' Robson was still scoring goals for fun, Pat Holland, Geoff Pike, the sublime Trevor Brooking and an emerging Alan Devonshire who had arrived from Southall for peanuts, started as they wished to go on. 

But the overwhelming memory of that mid August confrontation between West Ham and Notts County was one that will live on for many a season to come. Everything felt fresh and new, even the supporters, with their burgers and hot dogs oozing rivers of tomato ketchup, had a twinkle in their eyes. Most of the men were bare chested and tanned from their customary excursions to the Mediterranean. It felt good to be back again and yet slightly alien and confusing. 

You had discovered quite early on that West Ham were unpredictable, neither here nor there, winning when the mood took them but then slumping into some moping, morose melancholy when things took a turn for the worse. You'd seen most of West Ham's nail biting, narrow victories the year before. It didn't make for pleasant viewing and sometimes the body language was there for all to see. Teams would take an early lead, shutting up shop and quite literally putting up the defensive shutters. 

But on that remarkable day back in 1978, the Upton Park loyalists kept the faith. The following year, you can still remember cheering yourself hoarse when history was made. A year later, Phil Parkes became the world's most expensive goalkeeper in Britain with a price tag of £565,000. What a tidy, princely sum if chicken feed in today's stratospherically shocking, multi million pound transfer market. But Parkes was a ruggedly tall and imposing keeper who blocked all avenues to goal for the opposition. 

The back four of Paul Brush, Frank Lampard, Alvin Martin and Billy Bonds would become the established defensive unit who seemed to understand each other quite perfectly. Eventually they would see off the less heralded likes of Oldham Athletic, Preston North End, Cardiff City, Swansea, Shrewsbury Town and their local East End neighbours Leyton Orient. And yet the Os had the audacity to beat West Ham on a very late 1970s Boxing Day fixture and that was a punch to the midriff. 

Still, back on that late summer's day back in August 1978, that first fixture in the old Second Division did have some kind of meaning and resonance. West Ham had been brought down to earth quite abruptly because this was football in a environment that their solid fan base must have seen as distasteful and degrading. And yet you marched past the police on horseback and that enticing perfume of hot dogs and burgers, feeling optimistic while surrounded by pristine badges, banners and flags of every colour in the rainbow. 

There was something still refreshingly summery about that day that still sends a warm glow down your spine. You were still at school and that in itself was something of a reality check. But the opening day of any new season reminds you of your first day at school. You might have been dreading the prospect but deeply embedded in your heart, there was a sense that eventually you'd get to know friends of your own age without worrying too much about the future. 

West Ham had a player sent off that day so that spoilt the copybook, taking an edge off the game. But we knew, we were convinced that one day Liverpool, Arsenal, Spurs, Chelsea, Manchester United and Manchester City would all be longing wistfully to be reunited with West Ham on the level playing fields of the old First Division, a sight to behold, a joy to the eye, rightful opponents on the day.

And as for the opening day of tomorrow's new Premier League season, football will always evoke the same sense of nostalgia, the way things used to be and always will be. The pitches of course look like snooker tables with every blade of grass immaculately cut in straight vertical or horizontal lines depending on your point of view. Even the goal posts and crossbars will reveal a richly deserved coat of emulsion paint  while the touchlines will almost be handsomely illustrated for the rest of the season. 

Back in the dressing rooms, the players will be digging out their lucky charms, perhaps kissing the Blarney Stone for good luck or just fantasising about an immediate return to the Premier League. The usual suspects will be lining up for inspection and the familiar chants will resound around those gladiatorial amphitheatres as if the Romans really were waiting for a good, old fashioned difference of opinion. Let the good natured hostilities commence.  

Arsenal, the new Premier League champions, will be champing at the bit. The regular fans, hitherto traumatised by finishing runners up to Manchester City for four successive seasons, will be chipper, lively and upbeat about their chances of retaining their title. Throughout the Arsene Wenger era there was a classical panache about their football which suggested that sooner or later, City would always get their comeuppance eventually. By then of course Wenger had already left the building and gone but the expansive nature of Arsenal's short passing game across the wide and central areas of the Emirates Stadium did bear fruition. 

But now Mikel Arteta has got Arsenal exactly where he wants them. Last season Arsenal became renowned for their free kick and corner expertise. Here we had the perfect demonstration of what happens when you find the easy way through a stubborn defence. A vast majority of Arsenal's goals last season originated from well designed set pieces. Still, though, much of their football continued to please the neutral with its eye catching originality and free flowing fluidity. 

For Manchester City's Enzo Maresca, their new boss, this may be another transitional era for a team who used to be regarded with all the ridicule of a music hall joke during the 1980s and 90s. City used to resemble a team of downtrodden dray horses ploughing the farm lands of Middle England. Their football owed much more to the combine harvester than the more cultured exponents of the game who did things the subtle way. City were explosive and impulsive pass masters who demolished their opponents as if they were simply not there. City, though, will surely be a work in progress now. 

The likes of Chelsea, Aston Villa, Manchester United and Liverpool can never be discounted in any Premier League title race. Chelsea will probably blow hot and cold with varying degrees of  success and failure but then the swashbuckling style of their football could always be guaranteed a visit to Stamford Bridge if only for its novelty value. Chelsea's fans will hope to be reminded of the electricity once generated by Peter Osgood, the late and much missed Ray Wilkins, the probing and scheming Charlie Cooke, the muscular virility of Ron Harris, the long throws of Ian Hutchinson and the charming Dave Webb, always holding the fort at the heart of Chelsea's defence as if born for the role. 

Manchester United will be desperate to recapture the years of idyllic mastery as once exerted during the Sir Alex Ferguson era. Then Beckham, Scholes, Giggs, Butt and Sharpe were unstoppable and unsurpassable so much so that once the Treble was achieved and nobody could break down United's seemingly impenetrable fortress. United must be hoping that Michael Carrick will wear the same set of smart clothes as Sir Alex at his most elegant. 

Liverpool, under the new management of Andoni Iraola, after the surprise departure of Arne Slot, will be on their starting blocks, ready and waiting. Liverpool's determined effort to hold onto the Premier League title two seasons ago left a bittersweet taste in the mouths of those who probably believed that Liverpool were on the verge of recapturing the giddy, heady and euphoric years of domination in the top flight. Bill Shankly and Bob Paisley were always going to be an impossible act to follow. But a top six place may not be entirely beyond the realms of reality for the Kop at Anfield. 

So here we are at the beginning of a new Premier League season as well as the Championship, League One and Two. For some of us it's back to the drawing board of second tier football and perhaps a season or two of adequacy and mediocrity. But whichever team you support, you may be sure that the game will never lose its timeless intrigue or that wondrous source of fascination. And yet the jury will remain out on VAR, white sprays, ridiculous offside decisions and draught excluders. Oh and before we forget. We may have to wait several centuries for goals to be either ruled out or given. Some things never change.  

   

Baby Boomers Recognition Day.

 Baby Boomers Recognition Day.

It may not seem like it at times but today is Baby Boomers Recognition Day. Besides, we probably take this day for granted because we were the ones who simply knew we were born at a time when everything seemed so simple, straightforward and uncomplicated. For this was an age when every day just fell into place and nothing really changed. Until now. For we belonged to the Baby Boomers generation, children born after the Second World War or the beginning of the 1950s. We can now recognise that the now unfathomable complexities of modern technology could always be sorted out and resolved.

For today is Baby Boomers Recognition Day, a day for remembering that we were the people who witnessed the first signs of new discoveries such as the washing machine, TV, electric ovens and gas cookers. There were of course  holidays to foreign shores, man landing on the Moon for the first time, revolutionary gadgets in the home such as toasters, satnavs for your car, no more manual lawnmowers for the garden, things that used to be painstaking, time consuming and laborious, which are now a piece of cake to use. 

And so we wake up in the morning and jump onto trains or buses rather than horse and carriages or landaus for the upper class. We travel in luxury, we take off in magnificent looking aeroplanes with stewards and pilots catering to your every whim. And we no longer have to lift a finger because everything is wonderfully accessible. We get into our electric cars which make the most extraordinary humming sound and we charge up our cars at electric power points. We've yet to discover the art of flying without the aid of planes but undoubtedly will one day. 

We were the ones who greeted the Internet with a good deal of healthy scepticism because we were convinced that the World Wide Web was just a passing fad, something temporary and transient that would vanish without trace within a couple of months if not weeks. Little did we know about the wonders of  mass communication on the most dramatic scale. We had no idea that, at the tap of a keyboard, we could send an electronic message to family and friends within seconds, that we would see a detailed catalogue of information ranging from the weather, news, politics, art and sport almost immediately. 

Now we were given viable alternatives to a world that was somehow restrictive, awkward, inconceivable, unclear and beyond our understanding. Back in the golden age of the 1920s, Hollywood could hardly believe that it could now watch a movie on the silver screen with the sound of human voices rather than just flickering images and nothing but silence. The Jazz Singer, starring Larry Parks as Al Jolson, was now both an audio and visual experience and before you could blink there were musical soundtracks to the said film.  

The world of TV, firstly seen in the primitive studios of Alexandra Palace in North London many moons ago, eventually paved the way for those massive, sophisticated studios with cameras the size of a small house. Then the BBC opened up a whole new world of news and current affairs programmes, singers accompanied by big band wartime music, newsreaders and presenters wearing the nattiest of dinner jackets and bow ties. The decades seemed to fly past until there were sitcoms, situation comedies that reduced us to helpless laughter.  

By the mid 1950s and 60s, of course, TV had moved on rapidly into the rarified era of Sunday Night At the London Palladium, still in black and white but now light entertainment that kept us enthralled, delighted and enraptured. In 1967, TV now had three terrestrial channels with BBC Two providing Britain with genial company to BBC One and ITV, the first commercial channel. Now the world was well and truly wired up, cables connected, a powerful force for good and growing by the second, multiplying overnight.

TV had introduced to well scrubbed celebrities, permanent national treasures, politicians arguing and discussing their very forthright points of view. Suddenly we were made aware of controversial and horrendous wars across the globe, evil dictators ranting with the most impassioned deliveries, art nouveau movements, the 1960s, outlandish fashions on the high street and social commentators such as Malcolm Muggeridge who thrust their views down our throats whether we liked it or not. The Baby Boomers could hardly believe the evidence of their eyes. 

Where before there had only been quaint corner shops, lovable butchers and bakers, now there had sprung up vast enterprises, supermarkets that seemed to dominate the high street. There were giant supermarkets with trolleys and baskets, stacks of shelves that seemed to go on forever. The theory of evolution had come a long way since the days of  Victorian costermongers, barrow boys and chimney sweeps. We had everything at our disposal and, in hindsight, we were very fortunate. 

Baby Boomers might be considered as spoilt and privileged because we were led to believe, perhaps misleadingly, that things would always remain the same and radical change was something we could never imagine. The Baby Boomers would be exposed to remarkable new inventions, alarm clocks with tea making facilities, showers and hot water baths that had gold embossed taps and pressure cookers in kitchens that the Victorians would probably have laughed at had you told them they would be a reality in the heat of the 20th century. 

But the Baby Boomers grew up at a time of dreadful poverty and hardship, a time when the pubs shut early on a Sunday and Sundays became ghost towns. At the beginning of the 1960s and perhaps the 1950s, there were no cars on the road and if you were lucky, you could probably get a loaf of bread, a packet of butter, a jar of jam and a pint of milk for hardly anything at all. But the days of inner city deprivation and hard living have now been transformed into a garden of paradise. Or so it would seem.

Baby Boomers though have never had it so good. There are now bright and shiny self help machines in supermarkets where all of your shopping is swiped through a QR code, where human contact at tills is fairly limited. A vast majority of us now possess credit cards, hole in the wall money mechanisms which pour out fivers, ten and twenty pound notes at the drop of a hat and there's no real need to dig out endless supplies of coins or paper money of any description. We are rapidly approaching the cashless age if we haven't already arrived at such a significant point. 

London of course, is now a towering symphony of noise and colour. The dullness and drab uniformity of the 1950s is ancient history, reaching a roaring crescendo of sound at its loudest. There is a striking vitality and dynamism about the capital city of London that most of us assumed would be drowned out by people who just wanted the quiet life. London's heady mix of nightclubs, restaurants, cafes and those selling food on the pavements, is a far cry from the days when London might have been accused of looking shabby genteel, dark and uninviting, closed in and frightened to express itself. 

But when you arrived on the scene in 1962, Piccadilly Circus was now a thriving Coca Cola fascia delight, reds, greens, whites, blues, oranges and yellows flashing constantly in front of us. And all around us, everything seemed to be happening, developing and taking shape like a giant jigsaw puzzle. There was still something sleazy about the streets of Soho in London but as a child you were still taken to the park by your loving and doting mum and dad and there were swings and roundabouts in your local parks. You were always fed, watered and cared for compassionately and never went without. 

But we proudly belong to the Baby Boomers period, now the age of luxury and affluence, the generation that kept marching forward regardless of the most tempestuous events that may have been raging about us. We always looked smart at school with those traditional uniform of jackets, shirts and ties. We rushed home from school to watch Crackerjack, that famous children's TV programme on a Friday evening and we were never told that the outside world was both dangerous and threatening for fear of upsetting us. 

In a sense the Baby Boomers just observed the rest of the world in a state of stunned astonishment. Now of course nothing takes us by surprise anymore. The children are now accustomed to those tiny phones we call screens and then we worry they might have a detrimental effect on our children's development. We now have the wonderful You Tube at at time when TV is slowly taking a back seat and You Tube is gradually insinuating itself into our children's lives and that could be just what we were waiting for. 

Of course the world is still the frightening place we always thought it would be. But we now have wrist watches that can do the weekly shopping without ever resorting to our purses. AI, ( Artificial Intelligence) is seemingly here to say and the jury, certainly for some of us, is out on this one. But are we really becoming dehumanised to such an extent that one day, we may never have to move out of our homes because robots will deliver anything we want? The questions are endless.

Let us just say that these are important times for Baby Boomers. We'd like to think that we've fully embraced the new algorithms, the data that continues to blow us away, the interactive games for children, the buttons and switches that continue to click before guiding us into the land of escapism and thrilling new cyber space travels that confound and amaze. We now take our holidays in far distant African safaris and Caribbean coffee plantations, cruises to Australia, Sri Lankan tea plantations, jungles and rainforests.

We think back to our glorious childhood where such seaside resorts as Southend, Blackpool, Brighton, Bournemouth and bed and breakfast hotels in Margate and this was our norm. We are the Baby Boomers and we have seen it all and there is a stark recognition and appreciation of how far we've come and we'll tell our children and they will pass it on to their children and grandchildren. For today is Baby Boomers Recognition Day and we are so grateful to be a part of this day of all days. 

Our beautiful daughter married Lior our lovely son in law.

 Our beautiful daughter Rachel married  our lovely son in law Lior

There are days in your life when it doesn't get any better. You find yourself transported to a world of perfection, blissful joy, an epic and momentous day when the birds sing all day in your head and the world is quite the most stunning place you can possibly imagine. You look for the rough surfaces but simply can't find any that you can see and you try to look for something that doesn't quite fit. But you're unsuccessful because everything is right, nothing is wrong and there are no glaring faults whatsoever. 

But a couple of days ago, our beautiful, gorgeous, delightful, delectable daughter Rachel married our equally as flawless, handsome, dashing and debonair husband Lior, our son in law. And the world just stopped for a while. You were in seventh heaven. The planets were aligned, the stars were shining, the date, place and time were somehow fated to find that gentle tranquillity that we all look for in life. There were no disturbances and disruptions, just the glorious company of family, friends and the people you'll always cherish. 

So, after months and months of careful planning, deliberation, anguished stress, minor setbacks and drawbacks, we all got it together and met up in a state of religious harmony, no arguments, the panicky moments of anxiety now consigned to some distant time in the Middle Ages when knights were bold and cavalier and Charles the Second was a wee lad in shorts. There were no last minute sharp intakes of breath and none of that nervous apprehension that normally comes into play when you think that aunties, uncles and cousins may not be able to make it. But this was the day we'd all dreamt about and that's the way it felt and proved to be. 

On Tuesday we were all united, harmonious, smiling openly at each other and giggling quietly in the august surroundings of Southend and Westcliff Hebrew Congregation shul(synagogue). We were settled in our seats and the memories of yesteryear came flooding back to me, quite personally. I cast my mind back to my wedding day in 1993 when Bev, my lovely wife and I, were married at Boundary Road shul in Walthamstow and my mum and dad, mother and father in law, brother, brother in law and daughter in law with young daughter were there to witness that magical day when the sun shone incessantly, summer was about to fly off the starting blocks and hearts were entwined permanently. 

There must be your days in your life when it all feels as if all those nasty wars of violence, aggression, loathing, bloodshed, heartache and strife, seem to melt away into some dusty land of nowhere. For what seems like forever, marriage is that ultimate foundation stone of two people deeply in love. Nobody but nobody can take that day away from you because you deserve happiness, exultation, pleasure and the very height of elation.

For Bev and I this was the day that meant everything to us in the world. You could never have imagined that day in any parents life when your precious offspring would finally become betrothed, the moment of delirium when you kiss under the Chupa, that spectacularly flower festooned canopy and you are man and wife.  It was a day for the consummation of love, that declaration of wondrous affection, that passionate commitment to the wedding vows, the announcement of the prayers and blessings that bind the married couple together and the rabbi cracks the kind of jokes that you may have heard over and over again. Laugh out Loud. Thankyou rabbi, you were a star, a scholar and gentleman. We can never thankyou enough.

And so the married couple Rachel and Lior were together at long last. They'd followed their contrasting paths to their wedding day and after a thousand adventures, arrivals and destinations, bewildering journeys and many travelled miles to the most exotic corners of the world, we got there. We knew we would and indeed it materialised like the ultimate fairy tale. It was only a matter of time and how we rejoiced, how we flung aside inhibitions as if they hadn't existed in the first place. It all bore fruition.

Marriage is such a treasured acknowledgement of two people who simply want to spend the rest of their lives together no matter the petty tiffs or disagreements. Nor indeed can those inevitable confrontations be avoided, leading to the couple staring menacingly at each other, threatening chaos and mayhem. The truth is that when man and woman, Adam and Eve from a historical perspective, finally discovered the apple, it was not without animosity, rancour, red faced resentment or just temporary loathing. 

Marriage is the signature that underlines months of devotion, caring for each other, the result of continuous preparation, the arrangement of tables, hundreds of invitations to family and friends. And then finally you stand there at either the church, mosque, synagogue, mosque or registry office, immaculately dressed, hair coiffeured, bows and ribbons elegantly knotted. Then there were the white taxi cabs, fleets of cars reversing back into car parks, chauffeured limousines shining resplendently. 

The day of my daughter and son in law's marriage was heaven sent. After an exquisite summer of warm, hot sunshine and interminable heatwaves, August 11th promptly went off like the finest wedding present of them all. Bev and I could not have asked for anything better. August 11th 2026 is now indelibly etched in our minds rather like the most magnificent tapestry or a striking embroidery that will take pride of place in their homes forever more. 

So from the moment I spotted the white taxi cab that usually drives the father of the bride to our shul, I knew I was in capable hands. We were up and running and here I was surrounded by a vision of green and turquoise, bridesmaids and Rachel's friends dressed in dresses of flawless haute couture. We travelled the short distance to the Southend and Westcliff Hebrew Congregation rather like members of the royal family but without the golden carriages and horses bejewelled and caparisoned as if we were on our way to the Mall and Buckingham Palace. 

The smooth procession from the shul reminded you of the symbolism and formality of the big day. And onwards we proceeded in an orderly fashion to the heart of the Essex riviera. Southend and Thorpe Bay awaited in all its glory and splendour, a location so picturesque and nostalgic that you couldn't help but remember what Southend and Westcliff must have felt like when you were a kid. This time it felt entirely different, a world away from those lazy, hazy days when your lovely grandparents and my mum and dad lavished you with huge shopping bags of egg and onion sandwiches and many a bottle of lemonade as well as the flasks of tea that kept my vocal chords nicely oiled. 

The Roslyn Hotel is a wonderfully luxurious and impeccably furnished five star hotel that had everything we could have wanted in terms of its abundant catering facilities and the quality of both its food and drink. The night before, another wedding had serenaded Bev and I as we drifted off to sleep, the heavy dance music so fashionable these days. But now we were the stars of the day, the main act as both sets of families converged on the dining hall and beforehand a reception that seemed to go on forever. 

Then the main dinner was served consisting of the customary chicken, roast potatoes and vegetables preceded by a green celery soup. This was a feeling that was too good to be true. Around me there was the low hum and murmur of conversation, light hearted banter and then the free exchange of pleasantries could be heard quite distinctly. Against an uplifting backdrop of 1970s and 80s disco music, this was turning into the party that would never ever be forgotten. And then after much heavy consumption and perhaps over indulgence, friends and families fell silent for yours truly. It was the moment of judgment, a neatly composed speech from the father of the bride and mum of course. 

I'd only experienced a couple of occasions where I was required to make a speech to an expectant audience, both our son and daughter's bar and batmitzvah. But this was another biggie, far from being nerve racking but both telling, emotionally poignant and so fitting. I began to wax lyrical about Rachel, our wonderful daughter for what felt like the millionth time and there was no hesitation or deviation whatsoever because of course it was heartfelt and deeply moving for me and my wonderful family. 

By the end of the evening the tributes were so sentimental and eloquent from not only me but both the bridegroom, friends and girl friends, that I was just overwhelmed by the whole experience. Now it was time to dance, boogie, working out the most sophisticated choreography I could muster. Jacket now well and truly off and tie suitably loosened, I was whisked away into a land of delight and sheer contentment.

My daughter had found the love of her life and Bev and I couldn't have been happier. Above were the flickering strobe lights, the lights with small upside down baskets hanging from the ceiling. Oh Rachel, you were the most vivacious, vibrant and stunningly attractive bride. And your mum and dad are the proudest of parents. Every health and happiness for your future together, our darling daughter Rachel with my favourite son  in law Lior and parents in law Sheila and Dave.

Prime Ministers on holidays

Prime Ministers on holidays

Many years ago the Labour MP Margaret Beckett proudly declared a passion for caravanning holidays during the summer. She loved the life of the great outdoor caravan holiday when all you had to do was park up in the greenest of English fields, unfold a chair that looked like the type fishermen or women use for just sitting in the mid-day English sun and just relax, taking your leisure, breathing the invigorating country air. 

But Margaret Beckett was the exception to the rule because most Prime Ministers preferred to live the life of luxury, escaping to some exotic bolt hole where nobody could find them. Boris Johnson probably got as far away as he possibly could from the hectic, toxic and poisonous conversations that must have burnt his ears at home. Johnson, presumably, went to one of the many Caribbean islands where the sweet fragrance of the hibiscus and jasmine would drift across his nose like the most heavenly perfume. 

And yet our new Prime Minister Andy Burnham is now on his holiday and you'd been forgiven for thinking that he might have committed some evil, heinous crime. How dare a new Prime Minister pack his suitcase and just go on holiday? What must he be doing? Has Burnham really deserted his country and just left Larry the Cat on his own with nothing to do but wander around Downing Street with nowhere to go.

There are times when it really seems as if politicians are determined to wind us up because there's serious business to attend to and Burnham said he was going to roll up his sleeves and change the fortunes of Britain almost immediately. The country is in a perilous state and in serious danger of collapse and total disintegration. At this rate we may have to call in emergency help from somewhere just to keep the country ticking over while more pressing concerns are addressed. Andy Burnham. Your country needs you.

During the last week or so, Burnham could be seen enhancing his profile as a man of the people. Burnham is unashamedly working class, totally without the airs or graces of some of his predecessors and this week there were none of those false pretences or affectations that we normally associate with some politicians. Burnham may be regretting the timing of his holiday but he still knows how to drink a pint in his local pub, happily knocking back a foaming pint of amber nectar, a lager to loosen the vocal chords.

He did so with a cheerful disregard, possibly self conscious because he privately knew that he should never have been anywhere near a local tavern. There's the cost of living crisis, schools in desperate need of repair and renovation, hospitals crumbling to the ground, lengthy NHS waiting lists, always chronic poverty in the inner city housing estates and horrendous hardship that never seems to go away. And that's just on a Monday morning. The Prime Minister should be reminded of priorities rather than holidays. 

It's all very well digging out the sun factor 30, lounging by a pool in the Greek islands and diving into a hotel pool whenever the mood takes you. This is not the time though for sipping luxurious pina coladas or topping up the tan. And that San Miguel can wait because there's more to life rather than jolly enjoyment and indulging in karaoke sessions in the bar. Maybe Burnham should have thought twice about flying off to distant shores where the sun shines down with a glorious radiance.

But Andy Burnham is now unavailable for comment and should be left in peace. There is of course, as we probably know by now, a blokeish image to cultivate, a man who listens attentively to the British public, empathising with their every day problems, their uncomfortable predicaments, the harsh realities of life such as paying the bills, feeding their families or just living life to the full. But Burnham knows what he's doing because that daunting job description has made it abundantly clear. 

By the time Burnham gets back to the House of Commons in early September, a hushed silence will descend over Westminster because the anxiety and apprehension will be certainly be there. Too many times have we placed our trust in Prime Ministers only to discover that they're never quite the leaders of the country we thought they'd be. Or maybe there is an air of instability and impermanence about the PM's position that now seems like a common practice. It just feels like a part time job with no security.

Still, here we are at the beginning of August and Burnham's Everton are about to embark on a new Premier League football season. We may assume that he's already renewed his season ticket for the Hill Dickinson stadium. There could be a part of him that still romantically yearns for the days of wine and roses at the old Goodison Park but then Burnham is not one to dwell too long on the past. Today in the here and present Burnham will eventually re-connect with his people, building bridges, re- adjusting, tweaking, calming flustered heads and minds, reassuring with multiple charm offensives. 

Back in the old days, Harold Wilson, presumably ventured into the English countryside complete with camping equipment, a stove and a decent set of binoculars to admire the Cotswolds or the Lake District. Edward Heath loved nothing better than messing about yachts and sailing away blissfully into the distance, possibly a villa in the South of France but then you could hardly blame him. Margaret Thatcher struck you as another homebody, keeping her feet firmly on the ground, a woman with staycation tendencies rather than some Italian country estate with hanging baskets of bougainvillea and wisteria winding around pretty pleasure gardens. 

And so it is that we wish Andy Burnham on his foreign excursions because, at the moment, the natives are restless and upset. They really can't see how a recently appointed and unelected Prime Minister should even think about putting up his feet, dipping into some lyrical novel and then just chilling out. But we all need a holiday if only to recharge our batteries, take time out from impossibly busy schedules and just soak up the hot sunshine. Madonna might have had a valid point. But there can be nothing wrong with two weeks in Southend, Brighton, Bournemouth, Blackpool, Skegness or Scarborough because they always take us back to our childhood. And they'll always be remembered.   

  

The new season and West Ham in the Championship

 The new season and West Ham in the Championship.

It really didn't come as a huge shock because we knew it would happen. There are some times in the life of the dedicated football fan when you can see the future in a second. You can almost pre-empt a major calamity and it just becomes a self fulfilling prophecy. For some of us it was almost inevitable. You'd experienced the same sense of deja vu and here it was again, rather like predictive text on your phone. But then there was a realisation that West Ham's form had been simply underwhelming, that this is now a recurring theme, an annoying and infuriating sequence of events that got progressively worse before reaching rock bottom. 

And so it was that West Ham were relegated from the Premier League, the rich, mega million pound snobbish, bourgeois middle class toffs, to the Championship. West Ham are now among the lower orders once again, the downstairs scullery, the kitchen below stairs, the oppressed and downtrodden ones, those Upstairs Downstairs cooks and cleaners, the boot polishers, the proletariat class who get on with their jobs and just muddle along with the business of the day unheralded. West Ham have now been consigned to the now forgotten margins of society.

But on Saturday they return to the less greener pastures of the old Second Division, a position they have now occupied on an increasingly frequent basis. The damage of course had been done, if truth be told, at the beginning of this year. Struggling desperately to keep their heads above water in the Premier League with only one home victory to their credit against Newcastle at the London Stadium, the graffiti was on the wall. Relegation loomed over the London Stadium like an ugly listed building, a dirty and dilapidated old Victorian warehouse that was simply rusting away and decaying. 

At the end of the 1978 season in the old First Division, West Ham now fell through the trapdoor and crashed ignominiously into the Second Division for the first time in 20 years. Under Ted Fenton, their modest but ambitious manager during the 1950s, West Ham now established a firm foothold in the top flight of English football. Fenton, whose East End sports shop had yielded such substantial profits, guided West Ham throughout the 1950s but simply couldn't stop the eventual rot. West Ham would stumble, stagger and wobble precariously in the lower half of the First Division throughout the 1960s and much of the 70s and at times were the laughing stock of everybody.  

And you were there in 1978 to witness those last moments when the metaphorical guillotine chopped off claret and blue heads and the Hammers tumbled into the old Second Division. It was a tight and claustrophobic moment since you were joined by school friends and we were jammed together like the proverbial sardines, huddled together in a small, confined space on the old Upton Park South Bank. It is only now you recall the warm intimacy that the Boleyn Ground had engendered when football was football. 

That day the now late and much loved Kevin Keegan was accompanied by John Toshack, both prolific goal scorers, scoring goals for fun, free, independent spirits, both men exposing the fragility of a West Ham defence including Billy Bonds, Frank Lampard, Paul Brush and Alvin Martin. Bonds, another sadly missed but captain, was stubborn to the end but for West Ham, the mighty Liverpool, multiple League champions, had demonstrated far too much class and footballing improvisation for West Ham's liking. 

Recently relegation appeared on West Ham's radar on two more notable occasions. When Gianfranco Zola and Avram Grant sent West Ham spiralling out of control from the Premier League it felt as if you'd been down this road a thousand times before. For what must have seemed an eternity, West Ham were a troubled club, worthy and well intentioned but never likely to be a genuine threat to the prominent headline makers at the top like Liverpool, Leeds United, Manchester City, Manchester United, Spurs or Chelsea. 

So it is that after 14 years of ultimate prosperity and resounding success in the Premier League and Europe, West Ham have slumped back from whence they came. The UEFA Euro Conference Final victory against Italian side Fiorentina three years ago, now feels like something that belongs in the days of the Bayeux Tapestry and Edward the Confessor. We tend to forget the good old days in much of a hurry but victory is only transient, a temporary high that just felt too good to be true if you happened to be a West Ham supporter. 

On Saturday afternoon, it may feel like 1978 all over again for the steadfast loyalists who regularly congregated on the old Chicken Run. West Ham will face Portsmouth in the Carabao Cup this Saturday afternoon and some of us will remember the opening day of the 1978-79 season in the blinking August sunlight and summer heat. Notts County visited Upton Park and were promptly ripped apart in a devastating 5-2 victory. That was then and this is now though.

A vast majority of very presumptuous West Ham fans were probably of the opinion that their team would bounce back to the top flight with much haste and perhaps immediately. What they couldn't have realised is that back then circumstances were very different. It took West Ham three laborious, punishing seasons to find their feet again and  re- discover their bearings in the old First Division. 

West Ham begin their Championship campaign with a trip to fellow relegation sufferers Burnley at Turfmoor on Saturday week and the Clarets, too must be feeling that the carpet has been pulled from them on too many occasions for anybody's comfort. Burnley, seemingly as unstable and dysfunctional as West Ham throughout last season, are treading on leaden feet yet again. Football shows no mercy or goodwill to those in crisis and adversity. West Ham and Burnley are back on the same boat again. 

West Ham's very likeable and charming Portuguese boss Nuno Espirito Santo, must have felt the gallant captain in charge of a besieged and beleaguered warship. Every so often the portholes took so much of a battering that those on deck were probably longing to find shore as soon as possible. This is not the way he might have hoped things would pan out although Nuno has done a salvation job and administered resuscitation to Wolves who were sliding back towards the old Fourth Division not that long ago. Wolves, in Nuno's charge, were promoted back to the Premier League when they could have been shaking hands with Rochdale.

But both Mateus Fernandes and Crysencio Summerville, their two principal playmakers are now with Spurs and a wealthy Saudi club Al Hilal in the Saudi Pro League respectively. It all feels like a long way back to the top. In the old days Fernandes would have been vilified and felt extremely persecuted for joining Spurs. But now rivers run deep and much water has passed under the bridge. West Ham and Spurs though, continue to despise each other. Summerville could be accused of feathering his nest and hoping to live in some opulent Saudi palace surrounded by a vast treasure trove of money. He will certainly achieve this obvious ambition. 

Now back though in their first season in football's second tier, West Ham are now back to the drawing board, one scratched and blemished with time. If you were to listen to some of the experts and aficionados, West Ham will flap and flounder around in the Championship like some desperate swimmer out at sea who may have encountered rough seas but will of course survive. Of course West Ham may indeed find dry land sooner rather than later. But at the moment there are 46 matches in front of them and next May may now seem like a distant lighthouse. We wish our happy Hammers well.         

Goodbye summer

 Goodbye summer.

So it is that summer bids a gradual farewell and autumn can be heard giggling, chortling, chuckling and laughing in the distance. You can hear the kids on their school summer holiday, shrieking and screaming loudly and thrillingly. It feels as if the final anthems and traditional soundtracks of summer are spreading across our neighbourhoods. Slowly but surely the sun may well be setting over the empire but that could be some historic anomaly. It was good to be in your company summer and quite a privilege because we do, probably, take you for granted. 

Every day, during this particular summer, sweltering heat and delicious sunshine has soaked our souls, seeping through our senses, charming and caressing our faces, tanning our arms and shoulders in a way that Britain may have grown unaccustomed to. Besides, this year has been another scorcher. There can be no doubt about that. There were one or two windswept, dull, overcast periods and sprinklings of rain way back in late May and early June from what you can remember but that seems an age ago.

But high above the cathedrals and church spires, across the recreation grounds and prettiest of parks of both London and Middle England, the North and South, this has been a rewarding, spiritually uplifting summer because warm weather during the summer might have forgotten to turn up roughly 20 years ago. But hold on who cares? Surely the farmers of England have always been in desperate need of rain for their crops, the acres of dry farmland now nothing but bleached straw and non existent crops. The grass has completely lost its impetus and all is gloom and doom.  It's just a pale shade of brown and white, lifeless and sorrowful. But autumn must spring eternal. 

Comparisons with the breath taking heatwave of 50 years ago when the heat seemed to last indefinitely from early May right up until the August Bank Holiday, are now totally inappropriate. Back in 1976, we awoke to blue skies every day and took up regular residence at Valentines Park Lido, Ilford, East London. We had no idea what to expect within the next six or seven weeks because we just assumed that the good weather would only last for a couple of days or so.

But once the sun came out, it beamed down on us relentlessly every day from morning to night. Britain had boldly adopted some of the Mediterranean summer heat for the entire season. There was no need what so ever to worry about booking a touristy packaged holiday to the Spanish Costa Del Sol or the Blanca and Brava option. Majorca and Benfica had arrived on our doorstep and all that was missing was the obligatory sombrero, a flamenco dancer in a Brighton or Blackpool nightclub or indeed a paella on the family menu every night. 

Roll forward to 2026 and the birch, fir, larch and beechwood trees are thriving as they always have while the rose beds, geraniums, begonias, crysanthemums  and gardenias are just flourishing. In the vast and beautiful parks and gardens, parents are taking their young children for lengthy walks in their pushchairs and prams and everything looks right and proper. Summertime is humming its familiar sea shanties and folk songs from yesteryear and Mother Nature has discovered its most melodious voice.

This is the season for the summertime carnivals, those music festivals that can be heard in every town, city, hamlet and village across the land. The kids play their improvised games of cricket with their school mates until the fading light of an August evening. They are the future of today's society, tirelessly energetic, chasing after each other, bawling and shouting good naturedly, pretending to be adults and then settling for teenage adolescence. 

Meanwhile, here in Leeds, the good folk of Yorkshire are celebrating their 400th anniversary and the rest of the county is simply beside itself with happy vibes, music, dance, art, theatre, fancy dress no doubt, face paintings for the kids, sweets and chocolates by the factory load, biscuits and cakes in huge abundance and the familiar sight of sponge throwing at summer fetes.

And then summer greets the seaside resorts of Britain and the rest of the world, with an air of cheerful conviviality. Suddenly, Brighton, Clacton, Bournemouth, Southend, Westcliff, Margate, Bournemouth, Scarborough, Great Yarmouth, Blackpool, Skegness become full time amusement arcades, pleasure gardens and fun filled fairground leisure parks. Once again the whole of Britain abandons itself to stomach churning but joyous roller coasters and permanent music from yesteryear's pop music charts.

Whatever your choice of British seaside resorts, a fish and chip lunch becomes compulsory and the ice cream parlour is heavily populated with young children demanding a 99 or some exotic flavour. This summer, bare chested men with tattoos printed garishly across their stomachs think nothing of flaunting their tribal designs. The women will be wearing the skimpiest of swimwear, bathing costumes that are both fashionable and feminine. And then if you're lucky, you might bump into a motorbike convention. 

The age of the Mods and Rockers now belongs very firmly to the height of the heady 1960s when both sets of bikers roared into Margate and Brighton and let off metaphorical steam. But summer is now rapidly approaching its end and even the happiest seaside resorts will shortly be closing their hotels and Bed and Breakfast accommodation just for the winter and we'll all let out a sigh of natural disappointment. 

Still, never mind, all of that candy floss and toffee apple frivolity will make its inevitable comeback at the beginning of next June. The gently foaming seas by the beach will be alive with kids building their timeless sandcastles while mum and dad will be setting up camp next to the esplanade front preferably next to the sweet shop. Summer will of course be wearing its simple but flamboyant clothes, Union Jack hats on their heads, purple or green hair if the mood takes them and the Pearly Kings and Queens to make the day complete.

Summer is sinking into the horizon rather like a sweet bowl of red cherries. Then all eyes turn to the promenade or prom. Here, the celebrity TV acts normally hold court with their perennial end of pier entertainment while a machine tells you to hit a punch ball firmly with a plastic hammer. This in turn tests your strength and you walk away with no prizes but your vanity well and truly boosted. There's the claw machine which rewards you with a cuddly teddy bear should you be so fortunate to grab hold of the main prize.

And while you happen to be in the amusement arcade, there's the unmistakable two or penny machines where hundreds of small coins inch their way slowly forward, teasing you into the bargain. Patience may be a virtue here because it's hard to tell how many you're likely to get. The kids are playing on their electronic games of rifle gun fire, flickering, flashing screens with car steering wheels and hundreds of tickets flooding out of the two pence machines.

For this is England and summer has thoroughly enjoyed your company. Once again the hotels are slowly emptying and at the end of this month it'll be the August Bank Holiday. The Notting Hill Carnival is normally the last big summer event. And then all is quietness, peace and contentment, tranquillity, somnolent sunsets, dreamy looking fishing harbours with silhouettes of fishermen and women dangling their rods before depositing their cod, hammock and trout dinners onto stunning floral plates for the evening meal. Goodbye Summer. You can come back next year. We'll be delighted to see you again.      

So here we are in Yorkshire

So here we are in Yorkshire

My lovely wife Bev and I have now experienced that traditional Yorkshire hospitality Yorkshire folk are renowned for. After much hard graft, industrious lifting and heaving of boxes, sweat stained commitment to the cause and the final arrival in Moortown, a beautiful rural haven not a million miles away from Leeds, we have now settled down, the transition from South to North complete and everything is wine and roses. 

Of course it was always likely to be an emotional upheaval because we've both left behind the memories and images that were never likely to fade into obscurity. We were proud Londoners and the capital city  will always  have a magical aura but, in the end, London looked tired, exhausted and maybe a pale shadow of its former selves, an exaggerated caricature of the place that used to be but had now deteriorated beyond anybody's belief. But we'll never forget you because you were always there for us. 

 London had looked more crowded and congested than ever before, the traffic beyond horrendous and the old West End of London, although still vibrant, had now become a gridlocked battleground full of feuding cars, trains, vans and lorries. We'd had more than enough of fourth floor flats and lifts that broke down with alarming consistency. So farewell Manor House. We did love our balcony with its pretty collection of flowers and plants, strawberries and tomatoes. There was a Travel Lodge hotel across the road from us and a whole multitude of bed and breakfast hotels.

Of course there was Finsbury Park across the road from us with its long and winding pathways, active tennis and basketball courts with lush green trees that formed a picturesque canopy across your vision. There were the yearly music festivals at Finsbury Park, while five and ten minutes away from our former Manor House home there was the breath taking Clissold Park with a vast and imposing church overlooking acres of parkland. But that's as far as we could go.

We needed a dramatic change of scenery because we both felt stale, ever so slightly disillusioned and world weary, lost and bewildered, crying out for a an environment that was altogether much healthier. This is not to suggest that there had been an outbreak of scurvy, pestilence or yellow jaundice in the whole of London. But things were just not the same and it was with a heavy heart, that we have now decided to move up north to Leeds.

Of course we'll miss our wonderfully loving and supportive families because they really do mean the world to us. Our friends, it goes without saying, are more than welcome to pay us a fleeting visit even though the journey from Leeds to London does sound quite intimidating. But we love our families and friends. However, we just felt the time was right and, besides, our gorgeous children are now living within a far more respectable distance from us. And we have stunning grandchildren so this was a no brainer.

But as you all know by now, moving of course is essentially stressful, sometimes almost traumatic and not really the most pleasant of experiences. There are friends who think you've emigrated to some exotic island such as the Maldives or, possibly, Australia. Some of  our friends may not care at all but very close and good friends will miss you deeply and have nothing but your best wishes for a happy, healthy move.  A change though is as good as a rest, as they say and maybe they're privately delighted for us, wishing us well and a future filled with nothing but good health and happiness. 

In hindsight, you begin to look at your family ancestral patterns and discover that this nomadic existence had been quite common and we've been upping sticks for ages. During the Second World War, my lovely and late mum Sybil had been dragged from pillar to post. Fleeing persecution and horrific death during the Holocaust they were initially trapped in Warsaw surrounded by bloodthirsty and murderous Nazi stormtroopers who despised the Jews. Then the animosity became personal and hatred pounded through their cold veins. 

So, running through the forests of Western and Eastern Europe, my mum, who was just a small child, clung desperately onto her mum and dad's hands, terrified and then traumatised by the sheer volume and numbers of the six million Jews who had been so ruthlessly slaughtered in the gas chambers. And so they must have moved through Poland and, quite possibly Russia, always on the run, escaping to any country who would give them the most heavenly sanctuary. 

By the end of their remarkable voyage across Europe on the most uncomfortable and ramshackle train, my mum, grandpa and grandma stepped onto a Scottish railway station just after the War. From the Grampian highlands, timeless lochs and the noble tenements of Glasgow, my mum, grandpa and grandma discovered  a welcome on the hillsides even if it wasn't Wales. So they kept travelling and travelling, huddled together, swathed in blankets and desperate for a warm bed, as much food and drink as might have been available at the time and hope springing eternal in their hearts. 

Then, presumably, they must have changed trains to the still war torn London, a capital city broken and ruined by evil monsters with huge guns, rifles and lethal bombs in their hands. The East End of London could now be seen in all its heart breaking ugliness, a once thriving capital blinking and winking in the radiant lights of the famous Piccadilly Circus now tragically reduced to painful sighs, cries, sobbing and wailing despair.

But this represented freedom, another opportunity to rebuild, re-establish their right to live life free from hardship, discomfort, starvation and the ever present feeling of anguish, seemingly indefinite suffering. No longer would they be subjected to a constant bombardment of deadly explosives,  bullets rattling boisterously and apocalyptically across monumental continents, seas and oceans. But it all ended happily ever after with my mum settling at first in a well furnished flat in Whitechapel, in the heart of London's East End before moving to the salubrious East London suburb of Ilford. 

My grandpa and grandma found the safest and warmest of homes in Plashett Grove near Upton Park in East London before migrating to Gants Hill in Essex. And this is where their grandson and my mum's first offspring has now moved once again in much the same way. Maybe the human race has always been restless, leading a peripatetic lifestyle, constantly searching for a home that feels home. But Bev and I have now found ourselves in a part of the country that none of us could have foreseen but are now embracing Leeds like a long lost member of our family.

We have now been living in Moortown for almost a month and the verdict is an overwhelmingly positive one. The neighbours are chatting, laughing and joking as if we'd been here for a lifetime. They of course are fascinated by this Southern invasion. We now have our bearings knowing Moortown like the back of our hands, where the local kosher bakery is, our new Sinai reform synagogue( shul) and the identity of at least one of Yorkshire's finest seaside resorts in Bridlington.

There are yet to be conquered territories but with the Yorkshire Dales and Moors not that far away, it could be said the world is our oyster. Thankyou Yorkshire. We love your delicious Yorkshire tea, your celebrated pudding on a Sunday roast plate and of course the wonderful people of Yorkshire.    

1966 and all that.

 1966 World Cup and all that. 

So today marks the 60th anniversary of that fabulous, star spangled, wondrously fruitful afternoon when, for England at least, the world was our oyster and we were the centre of the universe. We didn't think it would ever happen to us because we'd convinced ourselves that it was just impossible, implausible, some miraculous event that would be a figment of our imagination for ever more. This was completely beyond our capabilities, our aptitude for doing the simple things without finding so many complications. 

But today in 1966, we got it over the line, stretching every bone, muscle and sinew, striving desperately to get the job done and then discovering that it was just a piece of cake. So what were we worried about? All that fuss and commotion for nothing. England had won the World Cup and nothing else seemed to matter. We'd crossed the finishing line, won triumphantly and monumentally. The critics had dismissed us almost patronisingly at times because they must have thought it was just some silly pipedream, a joke from the thousands of working men's clubs scattered across the country. 

And yet on July 30th 1966, when football used to be played exclusively on a Saturday at three o'clock in the afternoon, England marched out of the old Wembley tunnel to a thunderous crescendo of noise, colour and appropriate patriotism. Union Jacks and St George's flags were waving from side to side like mum's washing line at home. It was England's day of days, a momentous, mind blowing day that shook the world to its foundations because even the rest of the world couldn't believe it. But we had and we knew it. 

Sadly, that day has now been frozen in isolation by time because realistically, most of us have given up all hope of England ever repeating this astonishing feat yet again. The truth is that 1966 is now a single sepia tinted print or some historic engraving that may look appealing to the eye but we'll never see its like again. Or maybe we will and we're just totally disillusioned with the England football team and have now written them off as some flight of fantasy which, for a while, seemed vaguely entertaining but could never be all over again.

So today is a day of grievous commiseration and solemn introspection because the realisation has suddenly dawned on us. Here you find yourself getting older and perhaps even more philosophical. We are now mourning the loss of those empty years, the desolation and devastation, the sadness and sense of solitude because 10 of those players who graced those red shirts have now passed on and only the legendary Sir Geoff Hurst remains the only player still able to reminisce on how good it felt to be a World Cup winner. 

England may have won the World Cup but still the riddle confounds us, a mystery wrapped in an enigma. Why on earth have England never won the World Cup again since 1966. Anthropologists and sociologists have been tearing their hair out in sheer exasperation. Has this got anything to do with global warming, the current ecological state of the world or, put simply, perhaps the quality of the opposition proved too overwhelming? In the cold light of day, England, if truth be told, are just not good enough. 

The statistical evidence has been there for all to see. However you dress this one up, England are still technically short if only not quite to the same extent than might have been the case over 50 years. Then Wimbledon football club were devising their own unique brand of grotesque, long ball football that took the game right back to the age of dinosaurs. In a sense though, England have now redeemed themselves because Gareth Southgate came to England's rescue and the game is now progressive and forward thinking rather than stuck in a time warp when trams and trolley buses lived on our streets and roads.

Way back the game was a sight for sore eyes, an unbearably agonising watch that gave most fans of the old First Division the stiffest of necks. It might have been assumed that air traffic control towers might have been on stand by if the ball had gone any higher than it did. Football, according to that wise philosopher Brian Clough, was of course meant to be played on grass but at the time this sounded just an alien concept, totally anathema to those who preached the virtues of the simple, short passing game. 

But since the days of Don Revie, who seemed to last roughly five minutes as England manager, the British game has undergone the most radical transformation. Ron Greenwood, the former West Ham manager, was always an advocate of the more technical approach, the kind of controlled, patient and collective team ethic that had to start from the back and slowly work its way towards the opposition penalty area. 

By the time Sir Bobby Robson arrived as manger of England from Ipswich Town, the game, although not quite the finished article, was much more pleasurable to the eye. Under Robson players like Glen Hoddle, John Barnes, Peter Reid, Gary Lineker and Trevor Steven became far more comfortable with a football at their feet, polished manipulators of a football whose ball distribution owed much more to instinct and intuition.

England now enjoyed their best World Cup in Italia 1990, a side who not only reached the semi finals that year but were much more advanced in their thinking towards the Beautiful Game. Paul Gascoigne warmed our hearts with some of the most captivating displays we'd ever seen in an England shirt. Forget the high jinks, daftness and frivolity of those Gazza driven days because Gascoigne knew exactly which buttons to press. With David Platt keeping him company in midfield, England almost had it all. They had drive, direction, purpose and poise but then the Germans put a stop to all of those nonsensical visions of another World Cup victory for dear old England. And that was that. 

Graham Taylor was almost a victim of circumstances in as much that he, rather like the Wimbledon of the 1980s had no interest in the finer things in life. At Watford, he moulded an organised and methodical team who did enough to win matches but without the wow factor or any kind of sophistication. The enduring image of Taylor is tragically enshrined in a now infamous Channel Four documentary.

Facing a formidable Netherlands side in a 1994 World Cup group qualifier, Taylor, now England boss could only look on helplessly, a tormented soul who'd evidently made a complete mess of team selection and whose tactics were about as flawed as it was possible to be. Ronald Koeman's winning goal from a free kick just outside England's penalty area may well have haunted him. By the end of the game, Taylor was pacing his dug out like the angriest of all men, bleeding the ear of the linesman  with a constant bombardment of complaints and accusations before completely losing the plot.

Then there was Glen Hoddle, Spurs, one of Spurs classiest midfield players, took over as England manager. Now had Hoddle not admitted to spiritual help, then we might have forgiven him. But Hoddle never really found the right chemistry and balance that may have been the missing link. In no time at all, more outrageous statements were attributed to the former Spurs schemer and Hoddle eventually ended up strutting his funky stuff alongside fellow Spurs team Chris Waddle with a vinyl pop record.

At the beginning of the 21st century once Fabio Cappello of Italy and Sven Goran Eriksson had brought their homespun methods to the English game, the game in England, was still in its revolving door period. The football was admirable but neither Capello or Eriksson could pull any rabbits out of the hat. Neither were sorcerers, magicians or revolutionaries although it might have looked at times as if they were. 

The now late and much loved Kevin Keegan simply walked out of the England job because Keegan was too self conscious and felt entirely responsible for any of England's more glaring weaknesses. Perhaps he could have been slightly less self critical about his prowess for the job but sadly the last game at Wembley against Germany was the final straw for the former Liverpool and SV Hamburger striker.

And now we move right up to date with Roy Hodgson and Gareth Southgate. Hodgson was a vastly experienced club and international manager who knew all the wrinkles of the game. Hodgson had sampled Finnish and Swedish football over 40 years ago so was fully acquainted with the intricacies and semantics of football at every level. Club management beckoned for Hodgson with both Liverpool followed by Fulham and finally Crystal Palace. Hodgson was a superb and gloriously enthusiastic manager but most of us could empathise with Hodgson when England kept on running out of ideas.

So it is that Gareth Southgate was appointed as England manager. Finally England had discovered a psychologist among their ranks. Southgate had studied the minds of every single member of his squad of players and had, at long last, rumbled everything he needed to know about the state of English football. Southgate had cleared out all the sawdust and wood shavings in England's defeatist camp. England were free and liberated, mentally attuned to the job they were required to carry out. 

Now England may have lost out in two consecutive Euros Final against Spain and Italy while also going narrowly close in a World Cup semi final against Croatia in Russia 2018 and then the quarter final exit at the hands of a far too skilful French team. And, then Southgate finally announced that he'd gone as far as was humanely possible without being driven out of the England job. 

Today marks the most unwanted anniversary of them all. A week is, notoriously, a long time in the fiercely competitive world of politics. For the England team though 60 years is the most yawning and most humiliating of time lapses although at least there aren't any of those tedious General Elections to decide the suitability for any manager. Can you imagine those endless rows of ballot boxes in lively town halls across the nation? No, nor can we.

When England last won the FA Cup, this humble scribe may well have been far more concerned with the destiny of the family football. In a delightful garden in Ilford, East London, this child of nature was far more enchanted with his lovely mum's beautifully preserved bed of roses rather than the general direction of the ball you were playing with. Three year olds had never had it so good. And so it is today that one Sir Geoff Hurst will pour himself a reflective brandy, quite possibly light up a cigar and imagine that 1966 might be replayed over and over again. Regrettably, it is almost impossible to believe.

Since England last won the World Cup, Neil Armstrong has landed on the Moon and one step had been negotiated for mankind,  the Vietnam war had claimed far too many lives and the IRA have threatened both the security and stability of  world peace in Northern Ireland. It may be a long time until we find a Sir Alf Ramsey lookalike, a man of single minded strategies who knew that England would win the World Cup three years before its date. We must hope that somebody is waiting in the wings because, at the moment, it really does look a forlorn hope. Come on England, you can do it one day.        

National Milk Chocolate Day.

 National Milk Chocolate Day. 

You may find this hard to believe but today is National Milk Chocolate Day. So you can open your ears again because it's the truth and, besides, there is no reason why it shouldn't be. Besides, at some point during the year we all need several bars of chocolate and, for a vast majority of us, it's the one indulgence and guilty pleasure we've always afforded ourselves when the craving for chocolate just becomes too much. 

Ever since our childhood, we grew up convinced that there was no other sweet feast that would satisfy our voracious appetites. It was always there staring out temptingly in your local sweet shop-cum newsagent, tantalising your senses, heightening your awareness, intensifying your pleasure since every bite of chocolate was like a trip to paradise, an exotic island surrounded by mangrove trees and banana plantations. It was our first appointment with childish naughtiness, our happiest childish moments. 

And yet it all started so innocently as these things often do. As soon as we walked out of the school gates, clinging onto mum's hand tightly, we could hardly contain our excitement. We knew what was coming and couldn't disguise our feelings. Mum privately knew what we were thinking and therefore tried desperately hard to warn us as kids that chocolate was bad for you, rotting our teeth and then expanding our waistline.

In later life, adolescence arrived and suddenly we were completely besotted with chocolate, obsessed with chocolate, drinking it, eating it, dreaming about it, waiting for that glorious moment when the bell went at school and it was time to head for the sweet shop immediately. It's difficult to know how or why chocolate became a vital necessity in our lives. It simply was. Maybe this had been a generational thing. Chocolate was somehow hereditary, coursing through our blood cells, our corpuscles, simply passed down through our genetic pool. 

But school days have now become tucked away discreetly away in our fond memories, the kind of enduring imagery you can never forget. Throughout the decades and centuries, that first taste of cocoa beans and masses of sugar have been the ultimate stimulant, now an addiction. It keeps us going on mundane days in the office when there's nothing else to do but check our Facebook or X page. It's that half open silver foil bar that just lies there lazily on your desk performing no function but still there. 

During the 1960s, your late and wonderful mum inadvertently introduced you to chocolate and you were hooked for life. We had yet to add a washing machine to our domestic furniture but then my mum must have realised that all of that hard labour, cleaning clothes manually, had become too demanding and stressful. So she invested in a washing machine and suddenly the sun came bursting out of the sky. 

But before that momentous day, we had to be wholly dependent on our local laundry. Most conveniently, the laundry was situated around the corner from where you grew up. And so it was that every Sunday evening we would venture out, enormous shopping bags in our hands. Inside the bags was a vast accumulation of shirts, ties, trousers, skirts, school ties, pullovers, underwear and a whole host of  clothing that seemed in dire need of a soak and a thorough scrub. 

So as both mum and son- a mere five or six years old, sat patiently in the Ilford Laundry, we began to wonder if there was some rather less strenuous way of speeding up the operation. But it was while we were thinking about some magical appliance that would wash the family clothing in double quick time that we noticed something. In a small corner of the laundry was a drinks machine. Oh what a joyful discovery. 

You wandered across towards this remarkable looking machine and saw a button, that once pressed down, would deliver a hot chocolate drink. There was of course a pleasing variety of other hot drinks such as tea, coffee and maybe flavours you may have forgotten. Without fail, your eyes would  delightedly fall upon hot chocolate. The infatuation for chocolate would become lifelong. If memory serves correctly this hot chocolate was 6 old pence or five shillings in years to come. 

But rest assured, this was the iconic day when all of that Sunday relaxation and leisure had to stop. You'd eaten your mum and dad's lunch, perhaps spending languorous afternoons in the family garden kicking a ball about playfully and puncturing the said ball in mum and dad's beloved thorns and rosebeds. But at the back of your mind you were still looking forward with huge anticipation to that first cup of chocolate in Ilford Laundry. 

Meanwhile back at the school gates the kids flooded out of the gates, pleading with mum to make haste and get to the sweet shop as soon as possible. Mum of course insisted on chatting and nattering to other parents, perhaps exchanging pleasantries about the new BBC Two channel or how the Vietnam War just seemed to be dragging on and on interminably. Perhaps they were discussing the ridiculously expensive price for a loaf of bread or how dear a  pint of milk had become, complaining woefully about rampant inflation or how amusing and lovely their neighbours were. 

But then as soon as you stepped into this heavenly sweet emporium, you were stunned by the sight of hundreds of jars of sweets on groaning shelves. There were lemon sherbets, strawberry sherbets, jars of cholesterol, liquorice allsorts, pineapple cubes and things designed to leave your dentist speechless and dumbfounded. And yet what did we know, less care about? We were kids and we loved sweets. We just wanted to enjoy the sweet joys of life regardless of the detrimental consequences. 

Suddenly you noticed the sweets on the counter themselves. There was Fry's Turkish Delight, your personal favourite Bourneville, Galaxy, those astonishingly lovely orange and mint flavoured segments of chocolate that you bit into and thought you'd stumbled upon a pot of gold. There was Marathon, now Snickers, Opal Fruits, Pastilles, Love Hearts, Fruit Gums,  Fruit and Nut chocolate bars that were almost begging to be sold.

And then you saw those enduring institutions. On the second row of chocolate bars, there was the inimitable bar of Mars chocolate and then almost next to it, Mars, a Milky Way or Milky Bar. Mars became symbolic of our childhood years but beyond your mum's price range. A Mars a day, according to the extensive advertisement campaign, helped you work, rest and play. Inside a Mars bar there was that delicious combination of fudge, toffee, a thousand bags of sugar and what looked like tiny tablets of chocolate which looked like the cement you'd see in walls. But that was eight old pence. Goodness me, that was a bit steep and would the government of the day please bring down the price of chocolate bars?

Then adolescence kicked in and those long, transitional years of teenage life, giddy secondary school days and, of course hot chocolate featured almost constantly in our young lives. As we entered  an impressive looking building we were given a revealing insight into academic life. On the right were the showers, toilet and a place where PE related equipment would be found. Just outside our grand assembly hall was the drinks machine. Oh now we were talking. The hot chocolate- cum drink machine would become your second home, almost a spiritual home. 

Now there was a sight that would become familiar for most of your formative years. On most Sundays, mum and dad would take their young nipper down to Gants Hill Tube station in Essex. Our destination would be Shepherds Bush on the Central Line. My grandma Dora used to live in a flat in Shepherds Bush and that memorable train journey is now imprinted in my mind. But there was something else that caught my attention that now belongs in the archive of your memory. It was distinctive and made you salivate at the mouth. It would become one of your favourite sights.

So on the wall of Gants Hill Tube station there was a milk chocolate bar machine which not only sold the much loved Dairy Milk chocolate bar but Fruit and Nut chocolate, bars of Nestle chocolate bars and all for couple of sixpence or so. You would slide your money into the slot and then, as soon as the coins had gone in, you pulled open the draw and out would come the chocolate. Sadly, that chocolate bar machine, so dearly remembered for nostalgic reasons, is now obsolete and just condemned to history. But at the time it was somehow a boon to those who needed a sugar rush before boarding the train. 

Nowadays both Dairy Milk chocolate and a stunning array of other bars such as Twix, Yorkie, Whisper  After Eight, which once decorated my lovely grandma and grandpa's hostess trolley, are still available and simply irresistible. Sadly, the nutritionists and dieticians keep warning us about  the dangers of eating excessive amounts of chocolate and given its sugar content, they may be right. But we'll never be resist that first hot chocolate of the day and the way it makes us feel. Who can ever forget the honeycombed Crunchie bar? It almost felt too good to be true. 

The last word should go to my mum, a discerning expert on the subject of chocolate. It was chocolate that had an element of the sophisticate about it. Ferrero Rocher was once widely the subject of a Christmas advert campaign that would epitomise both class and style. It was eaten by the great ambassadors of the world and my mum if memory serves me correctly. Also top of her chocolate list was a Walnut Whip, a chocolate that had a small swirl on top of it and a generous helping of cream for good measure. 

So whatever you do today enjoy your Milk Chocolate Day because you deserve it. You've been working and studying, cleaning and washing to your hearts content. You deserve that special reward at the end of the day. You've been on your feet all day, diligently carrying out all of those necessary domestic duties and it's time to put up your feet, switch on the TV or radio and just snap off  some chocolate. And if it's your wedding anniversary or birthday, charge into your local confectioners and just grab hold of as many boxes of Dairy Milk,  Quality Street and Celebrations as you can possibly carry. And if you're reading this in the United States of America, don't forget Hershey's. Enjoy folks.