Paris St Germain win the Champions League.

 Paris St Germain win the Champions League.

On the sprawling boulevards and pavement cafes of Paris, the artist quarter and the Arrondissement that provides much of Paris with much of its cultural vibrancy, Paris St Germain or, affectionately known as PSG, sealed back to back Champions League final victories, as Arsenal, valiantly and spiritedly, whole heartedly, but ultimately fruitlessly, lost to the now Parisian giants on penalties. At the Gare Du Nord they were celebrating outside railway stations and flying flags from the latest models of  Peugeot and privately remembering the wise philosophies of Napoleon Bonaparte. But this was hard on Arsenal.

It only seems like yesterday since Arsenal goalkeeper Jans Lehmann was foolishly and recklessly sent off in Arsenal's one and only other Champions League final defeat to Barcelona. Was it really 20 years ago that Arsenal were beaten by Barcelona as a result of one keeper's rush of blood and foolish impetuosity? But history should always be buried as soon as possible and last night Arsenal were on a mission again. 

It goes without saying that Arsenal have richly deserved their Premier League title, a side of classical proportions, an often unparalleled majesty and impeccable breeding. Arsenal have set all of football's exemplary standards,  a team of smooth sophistication, passing of the most breathtaking virtuosity and some of  football's most elegant patterns and rhythms. Their geometric angles and dainty one touch football are something to be deeply admired but this was not to be their night. 

The criticism levelled at Arsenal this season that they may have become too dependent on corners and free kicks for most of the goals has now propelled them to the top of the Premier League. Last week's confirmation of the Premier League title now seems like a long time ago for Arsenal but today, the Gunners will be honking loud car horns and cheering themselves hoarse in Finsbury Park, Islington, Highbury, Barnet and all of the local watering holes. The Premier League is theirs to hold and none can take that away from them. 

At times though there were moments during their Champions League final battle royale when, in intermittent spells, PSG may have felt both trapped and marooned on a desert island. They simply couldn't find any clear pathway out of Arsenal's most stifling blanket defence. The navy shirts of PSG were switching the ball between themselves without ever finding the keys to open up Arsenal's vault. PSG certainly had both a method and clearly defined strategy but were almost stumbling around in the darkness going nowhere in particular. 

And so it was that Jurrien Timber, William Saliba, the unfortunate Gabriel and Riccardo Calafiori were providing Arsenal with magnificent looking shields at the back. Declan Rice was his normally authoritative self while Myles Lewis Skelly grew in confidence with every minute that passed. Martin Odegaard was both painterly and purposeful, a genuine midfield player with the most delicate of touches on and off the ball. Bukayo Saka was mischievous, mesmeric and mercurial, full of the winger's magical soft shoe shuffle and always threatening. But by the game's end, Arsenal's 64th game of a long, hard gruelling slog of a domestic season had taken a severe toll on them. Arsenal were out on their feet. 

Admittedly, Arsenal did take the lead after roughly 10 minutes but that was good as it got for the side who play at the Emirates Stadium. But the momentum and propulsion could never be kept up or sustained for any great length of time. For most of the first half, Arsenal were simply pinning PSG to an invisible wall, smothering the attacks of the French side with hundreds of feet wrestling back possession on the turnover. 

There was, though, a stylish assurance about some of Arsenal's football but it didn't really look as if they had any idea how to hold onto their slender lead. PSG were driving into Arsenal cul-de sacs.Then, it was Arsenal who took the initiative when, after the ball had hit Trossard on the back in the centre circle, Kai Havertz raced away as free as a bird, streaking away towards the angle of the penalty area before motoring forward and then rifling the ball firmly high into the back of the net. Arsenal were in front and nothing else seemed to matter.

Arsenal were seeing much of the ball but always looked unsure of themselves, that air of easy and footloose fluency now fading into obscurity. Saka and Odeggard were magnificent and PSG looked both frustrated and bewildered but Arsenal kept blocking and holding PSG at arms length. The first half was now approaching before half time presented the Gunners with greater opportunities and adventures in the second half. 

But the North London side were probably haunted by the Barcelona defeat in the Champions League Final of 20 years ago and there was an uncertainty about Arsenal, a worrying disturbance in their minds. The football was still there, thriving and prospering with cultured, feet to feet attacking movements. By now, though, Mikel Arteta looked seriously concerned and his biggest fears came to fruition. The bitten lip of stress and anxiety was now patently evident. Arteta at his usual, animated self, was restless and impatient, living and breathing every kick, pass and tackle in his minds, now worried and clearly unhappy.  

He then frowned, before flinging his hands into the air rather like a man who might have lost his Pools Coupon behind the sofa and looked on horrified when he hadn't won a penny. By now PSG were dropping further back into their own half but always looked both dangerous and ruthless into the bargain. Now the game was teetering on the brink and could have gone either way. And that's part of football's charm offensive. 

Both Achraf Hakimi, Marquinhos, William Pancho and the beautifully talented Nuno Mendes were back in the game. PSG's rocky looking midfield looked wobbly and distracted until the hour mark of the game. But then the stunning Warren Zaire Emery, Vitinha, Joao Neves and Ousman Dembele began to play on Arsenal's weaknesses and defensive collywobbles. There were obvious holes and deficiencies in an otherwise immaculate Arsenal's defence. PSG looked comfortable and cosy, weaving and carving open Arsenal, a side of impulsive first time passing and bewildering close ball control. 

For the first time in the game, Arsenal began to look confused and nervous, anguish and agitated before losing the ball and never regaining any real possession. And so PSG kept pressing Arsenal further and further back, driving them right back on to the edge of their own penalty area. The French finesse and panache looked like something out of a Monet masterpiece. The passes were fizzing effervescently through the lines of the Arsenal defence and Arsenal, although still gallant, had nothing left in the tank. 

And then before you could blink, PSG hauled themselves back into the game. Their equaliser came from the sweetest one two on the edge of the Arsenal penalty area. Dembele then bundled into the area before tumbling awkwardly with what looked to be a penalty. After much deliberation, the referee went back and forth to the VAR screen. The penalty was given and Dembele blasted the ball high into the net past an otherwise excellent goalkeeper in David Reya. That's how the game remained and ended. 

Extra time brought nothing but a stifling stalemate. Both PSG and Arsenal had nothing left in their attacking repertoire and were now staggering towards the finishing line. It was a penalty shoot out which were all taken with admirable ease. Both PSG and Arsenal missed their spot kicks before Gabriel,  who had never put a foot wrong during the evening, stepped back at a diagonal pace or two but then hit the ball with far too much power and venom. Essentially, the Brazilian had done nothing wrong at all but you could sense that the pressure had almost been overwhelming and Gabriel shot too high and the ball landed in the ecstatic throng of PSG fans.

So it was that PSG of France had trodden on the turf where the legendary Ferenc Puskas had once so decorated the Beautiful Game with so many Hungarian embroideries. Hungary had seen the new European champions or the Champions League. It had been a night when Arsenal had come so agonisingly close to winning the Double of Premier League and Champions League but not quite close enough. Mind you, today, the open topped bus parade will be inching its way through the joyful streets and roads of North London. Arsenal have still won the Premier League and the congratulations will continue for many a day, week, month and years to come. Good old Arsenal, we're proud to say your name.   

National Senior Health and Fitness Day

 National Senior Health and Fitness Day.

This is the day when doctors and surgeons will take us into their confidence and tell us quite categorically that we could do with losing a few pounds or even, more dramatically, a considerable number of stones. They'll have your best interests at heart because they know you need to lose weight. So we dutifully acknowledge the unnecessary timber around our waist and we do need to go on a rigorous diet regime. Then, for a while, we look at our stomachs, racked with guilt, blaming ourselves for both eating and drinking excessively and then find ourselves at a loss. We must set the right example to family and friends.

Today is National Senior Health and Fitness Day. And for those of an advanced age and pensionable status, our self awareness and acute knowledge of our mental and physical health can be quite sobering. We didn't mean to empty the cake and biscuit tin in record time but it was just there, luring and beckoning us to eat just one more. We know that both chocolates, biscuits and cakes can have an ultimately detrimental effect on our general health but they were mouth watering, delicious and enticing.

Now of course, we all do it, don't we? On the first day of the New Year, our conscience pricks us quite sharply. So we head to the local gymnasium, flexing our arms, stretching our calves, and then doing a thousand press ups before going through the same procedure. We may be sufficiently energised to go for long, gruelling and arduous run around our local back streets, parks and roads because that'll work up a sweat for us and the happy hormones will kick in with a vengeance in no time at all. 

It is of course very well intentioned and admirable at first but then by March and April, we're back to square one, feeling ever so slightly fitter but never really satisfied with our performance. The yearly subscription just seemed like a good idea. Some of us used  to run quite regularly about 40 years ago but never really knew what you were supposed to be doing. Subconsciously, it all felt good and physically rewarding because you felt like some kind of intrepid explorer, setting new challenges, increasing your mileage and going much further than you could have ever imagined. 

Once, you completed a half marathon and having reflected on the enormity of your accomplishment  you began to think there were more acts of athleticism and sporting heroism you could achieve. You'd always loved playing football with school kids in the playground. But then you realised what you'd missed out on  something you should have done as a kid. Of course you should have joined your Jewish youth club. You should have played both table tennis or badminton, football and then  weightlifting with your contemporaries but then felt no sense of belonging and hadn't realised my lack of self esteem was holding me back. But you are still humble and grateful for the present for family life and beautiful grandchildren.

And yet, you continue to keep fit in your gym. For a number of years you have pushed yourself to the limit, your remarkable powers of stamina and endurance even impressing yourselves. You jump onto the pedal bike, pedalling furiously, frantically and frenetically, head down, tributaries of sweat pouring from our foreheads, speeding at the most ridiculous pace before slowing and then getting faster. And then the rowing machine comes in to its own and if you close your eyes you can almost feel like one of the crew at the yearly Oxford and Cambridge boat race. It is the harshest fitness regime and as somebody who now finds himself deep into their 60s, such violent exertion and ferocious dedication to the cause was never urgent, pressing and that important. 

But the levels of fitness we all aspire to can never really live up to our expectations. We promise to eat in moderation, climb up more stairs and steps and then concentrate on walking, power walking before embarking on multiple lengths in the neighbourhood swimming pool. We launch into stunning feats of aerobic exercise, powering through the water with front crawl, breast stroke and, awkwardly, the back stroke. And you kid yourself into believing that, in some fantasy land, you too could swim the English channel.  You are of course being both delusional and totally unrealistic so you pull on your swimming trunks and then just indulge in a couple of half an hour or so of gentle breast stroke. 

Then, there are those who stop eating foods that simply pile on the cholesterol. Since the late 1960s, 1970s and then 1980s, young, impressionable girls read their kind of magazines. They were told, quite absurdly, that they were overweight and would never get that glamorous fashion model assignment by over eating So, tragically those same girls would eat very little and thought a strict dietary regime would make them look a million dollars. But then bulimia and anorexia reared their ugly head as potentially life threatening diseases and how we despaired about news of their tragically early deaths.

Now of course we're far more enlightened about the foods that are conducive to good health and all the relevant exercise we should take. Footballers used to sink vast quantities of pale ale, lager and too much alcohol for their own good. But, thanks to former Arsenal manager Arsene Wenger, players demand a carafe of wine and just a glass or two of red and white for their lunch and tea. Everthing is grilled and fulsome plates of fish and richly beneficial vegetables are commonplaces on their everyday menu. 

These could be regarded as spartan and disciplined routines but if you were to stick to them, then you'd feel a whole lot better about yourself. Senior Health and Fitness Day is still something to be considered in any conversation about our general well being. The years are passing, bones and muscles deteriorating and then renewing themselves but you've got to keep going.

So don't stop walking those vital steps through precious British woodland, rambling for fun against a backdrop of towering mountains and then jumping across subdued streams before contemplating another London Marathon, perhaps a less strenuous 5k. But then you're under no obligation to do any of the above. What about a weekend health spa with sauna and far more leisure facilities? Enjoy folks.   

West Ham are relegated to the Championship

 West Ham are relegated to the Championship.

And so it came to pass, the inevitable, the unavoidable, the doom laden scenario, the end of civilisation but not quite and yet it must have felt this way to the unreasonably devoted West Ham fans who had stood by them for so long, so defiantly, stoically, without fear at first but then recognising that their fate had been sealed a long, long time ago. The written graffiti on the wall looked ugly and grotesque, illegible and beyond our comprehension. It almost felt like another language and culture had been stolen during the night and left West Ham, bereft and broken hearted, inconsolable and still wondering how it all had happened.

Yesterday afternoon on the most religious of all days, West Ham were almost in confessional mode, repentant and remorseful, pleading for forgiveness for unspoken sins and yet stunned. There was a point during their final day in the Premier League against Leeds United when somebody had metaphorically switched off the lights, turned off the electricity and a power cut had reduced West Ham  to the lowest common denominator. You probably thought this would never happen but relegation fell across the club like the darkest of all curtains. 

West Ham have finally been relegated to the Championship and you could almost hear a pin drop at the London Stadium. The realisation was a painful one but now very a truthful moment that couldn't be accepted in the heat of the moment but was nonetheless there in the present. How often have West Ham been so close to the perilous precipice and discovered that the edge of the cliff was still a safe refuge? But West Ham were playing with fire and eventually got their fingers burnt. It was always likely to happen.

On the final day of the Premier League season, West Ham's well known adversaries Spurs were keeping them company rather like two formidable heavyweights who were just locked in each others arms, tussling, wrestling, flailing their fists, hooking and then raining down punches to both the head and midriff as if their lives depended on it. It was all very unsavoury and unseemly, brutal and yet authentic. Spurs were last relegated to the second tier of English football in 1977 but yesterday the bogie man had returned, this time though for West Ham. This was third relegation to the second tier in recent years. 

But on one of the hottest days of the year, Spurs looked at themselves in the mirror and tried to forget the demons that had destroyed them way back, the year of 1977. It was a year before Ossie Ardilles, Ricky Villa and the brilliant Glen Hoddle revolutionised the way most of us perceive the Beautiful Game. Now, 48 years later, they were struggling again, clinging on for dear life, staring down the bottom of the barrel. Spurs have recently looked like a frightening caricature of their former selves and it's been the most horrific watch. 

Then at 4pm the gun went, blasting and piercing the air with the loudest shriek. The two sworn enemies walked back into the distance, pistols drawn, flintlock and blunderbuss poised, ammunition ready to be fired. Spurs came out of the traps against Everton at the Tottenham Hotspur like men possessed, galvanised beyond belief, fired up and pumped up, bristling and seething, teeth bared, nostrils flaring and fully motivated, knowing what they had to do to stay in the Premier League. The cavalry came charging over the horizon, cannons full of lethal intent and West Ham had been forewarned.

Towards the end of the first half all hell broke loose and Tottenham scored the opening goal of this vitally critical and important game. The ball was sucked into the net by Joao Palhinha, their most experienced and game changing player, scrambling home what must have seemed the greatest goal Spurs had ever scored. The Spurs fans were now besides themselves with happiness. This had to be the winner and across London, West Ham were now deep in the quicksand, sinking into the quagmire and the primeval swamps from which there would be no return. 

Shortly into the second half in both matches involving both Tottenham and West Ham, there was an intriguing lull in the proceedings. Spurs were still celebrating and West Ham were reduced to a painful silence. Then there was a suspended disbelief. West Ham scored through Taty Castellanos followed by another from Jarrod Bowen and then a third from Callum Wilson. Maybe, maybe West Ham could reach out and touch the most tenuous of hopes. It still seemed as if the improbable may yet materialise. Sadly not. Miracles do happen but not that often.

Both Spurs and West Ham were now almost acutely aware of the gravity and significance of the afternoon. With minutes remaining, the claret and blue half of the capital city of London rationalised with the harsh reality that was now facing them. There was a sensible recognition that their 14 year tenancy of the Premier League was about to end. The final whistle went and at the London Stadium, claret and blue shirts slumped to the ground, lying flat out, emotionally exhausted, distraught perhaps but now bewildered, arms outstretched and barely taking it all in. 

And so Sadiq Khan, the heavily criticised Mayor of London, had failed to save the taxpayers of a monumental amount of money. The critics still air their grievances about a stadium that remains ill suited to football and continues to be used for major athletic events, baseball exhibitions and pop music concerts. A couple of years ago the Rolling Stones headlined the London Stadium and, more recently, the Foo Fighters but football at the London Stadium almost feels like the wrong time and place.

Relegation for West Ham will now deprive the club of all that much coveted revenue, millions of TV pounds and the kind of status and stature that they may well have felt was theirs by right. Some of the top clubs in the Premier League still retain that repellent air of entitlement and privilege that has disfigured the game for so long now. Regrettably, this has always seemed the way and, for West Ham, this is rather like a journey into the unknown yet again. 

West Ham have known relegation before but the pill is still bittersweet and a shock to the system. One day though the Hammers will once again experience those good vibes and, quite possibly consolidate their position in the Premier League. But, at the moment, it all feels very bleak and ominous. Ipswich Town, who were relegated last season, are back in the Premier League so West Ham may well be looking at the Ipswich model and template. The Bubbles will indeed be flying high. You would hope so. 

It's summertime everybody

 It's summertime everybody.

Oh wow! It's summertime everybody. Here in Britain we flung open our Venetian blinds, curtains or opened up the shutters as Britain awoke on this late spring day on the cusp of summer. It is the most gorgeous, resplendently beautiful summer day, a delectably delicious day full of hope, optimism and a passionate belief that humanity can finally get its act together. This is a heatwave, folks. Yes it's true, it's happening right now in front of our eyes and how grateful we should all be for our health and happiness. 

And so it is that you reach back in time to your previous accounts about the British weather. We all love the British weather because of its infinite variety and diversity, the barometer and thermometer in our hall or living room constantly rising and falling according to the seasons. Sometimes it feels as if we can never be entirely satisfied with our lot because the British climate, is, by its very nature, both temperate and changeable. 

So we growl and scowl when it does nothing but rain or snow, wailing at the wild winds, tearing our hair out when the tempests and storms increase in volume exponentially and then just moan incessantly. Or maybe not. It is a no win situation, no happy medium, neither here nor there, a balance that can never be struck. But this morning, somebody turned on the central heating system and the late George Harrison would have declared that the sun was indeed here. It is a joyous, euphoric day, a day for carnivalesque, floats gliding down roads and streets, steel drums pounding away magnificently and almost eloquently.

Today the weather has the most adopted its most poetic language. It is the kind of weather that either Keats or Wordsworth would have glorified and celebrated because every time the sun came out way back then, it must have felt that all our birthdays and anniversaries had come at the same time. We were privileged and honoured by the emergence of that lovely yellow orb in the sky. And yet with the May Bank Holiday looming, this is quite unexpected and hasn't happened at this time of the year since 1944.

So Ladies and Gentlemen. What are you doing today? The garden is ready and waiting for you and those abundantly blossoming flowers and plants are there to greet you. The roses are raring to go and ready to please, the nasturtiums are nestling neatly and sitting comfortably next to the blooming begonias. The laburnums are loving the attention and the liberal sprinklings of water, the violas more vibrant than ever, the rhododendrons are remarkably rewarding while those apple and pear trees are thriving. Yes we're having a heatwave, folks, undeniably so.  

Now gentlemen this is your yearly task for the year. It's time to head for the garden shed and dig out those familiar pieces of horticultural hardware. That lawnmower could do with some tender loving care, the hose is primed to be unwound and before you know it, that communal garden and ornamental pond will be jumping for joy. And of course there's the good, old fashioned grass rather like one of your old or new friends, always ubiquitous and about to be mowed with meticulous attention to detail. 

And so we go for it. The kids can't wait to splash about merrily in the small inflatable pool, the boys will shortly be wearing their cricketing finery with the wickets bought from Amazon and the red ball will look like a sweet cherry. The girls will be running free and laughing at the boys. Then dad thinks this is the perfect opportunity to excavate the barbeque because that's been rusting away in the shed and feeling sorry for itself. Dad thinks that you simply don't need an excuse to light up the briquettes and flip some burgers and sausages on the gas grill. 

So then mum can't wait to get out the ageless deckchairs or an assortment of fishing chairs perhaps before embarking on another expedition between the kitchen and the barbecue. It'll be all go for the family and you mustn't forget the Pimms, the soft drinks and the inevitable booze. Soon in British suburbia and the whole of England it'll be a hive of activity, an afternoon of fabulous, fizzy wine and lager scented family gatherings. It'll be a fusion of British happiness and those halcyon days when the sun always shone, used to shine and will always shine because it's wonderful to be alive. 

You are inclined to believe that family picnics in every piece of parkland, woodland and every fertile field across the dales and vales of the United Kingdom will still be held. Large cloths are spread across the green lush grass, hundreds and thousands of sandwiches, cream crackers, a huge profusion of multi flavoured bags of crisps and all of that picnic paraphernalia will be let loose in the Lake District, Peak District, the Quantocks and the Chilterns. It is a scene from any picture book of the British countryside.

And of course there are the countless boating lakes, the Serpentine pool in London's Hyde Park, vast acres of swimming pool country and cooling fountains in Trafalgar Square. Then of course we'll be wandering down country lanes, strolling along seaside promenades, licking gallons of chocolate ice cream and just taking in the sultry, sizzling and salubrious air. We are not in hosepipe ban territory or the land of water shortage emergency quite yet and hopefully never. But we are slowly adjusting ourselves to the current heatwave and thoroughly enjoying every ray of sweltering sunshine. 

It only seems like yesterday but exactly 50 years ago, when your adolescence landed conveniently at Valentines Park Lido in Ilford, Essex, we were blessed with the most stunning heatwave. It was a heatwave that began in early May and just remained unmoved for the duration of that long, hot summer. In hindsight, we always think the old days of summer were always warmer and probably forget the more recent summer times. But 1976 was just astonishing and the mercury on my lovely grandma and grandpa's thermometer in their superb conservatory regularly soared towards the 100 degree Fahrenheit mark.

So it was that we surveyed the wide open, expansive, light blue swimming pool with a studied detachment since we were just mesmerised by this most extraordinary spectacle. You remain convinced that the entire population of Redbridge converged on this al fresco leisure centre. Around us, as far as the eye could see, were masses of young teenagers racing around the perimeter of the pool, dive bombing illegally into the water and then queuing for the slide and the diving board almost constantly. Then the kids started chasing each other, challenging their gang of friends to more derring do, ecstatic fun and games. 

We are now rapidly approaching May and the imminent Bank Holiday weekend beckons. This heat and warmth has come as a bit of a shock to our system. The British were readily equipped with rain umbrellas, mackintoshes and thick layers of pullovers and coats. We were poised to jump into puddles and just keep ourselves entertained on the myriad of screens, phones and games that have become the modern zeitgeist.

Some might have been contemplating the delights of Netflix, Amazon Prime and Disney because we love to complain about the overcast and the dark clouds of rain on the horizon. But hey who cares, anyway because we're having a heatwave and yes it's going to be the hottest summer on record. And as a proud Jew would say to life to life l'chayim. It's going to be a cracking summer. We can feel it in our bones. 

National Sandwich Week.

 National Sandwich Week.

Guess what everybody? You'll never believe it. It's National Sandwich Week. For as long as any of us can remember, the humble sandwich has always been high up on our culinary list of favourite snacks. It acts as the perfect antidote to a hungry office worker desperate for a bite to eat at lunch while juggling a million other onerous tasks such as rushing to the local supermarket for the evening dinner and buying a whole batch of birthday cards for family and friends. Then there's the quick visit to the chemist for another packet of Paracetemol while not forgetting a fleeting visit to the stationers and post office for stamps and writing pads. 

Yes folks lunchtimes are never complete without the great and trustworthy sandwich and where on earth would be be without them? We have a lot to thank the inventor of the sandwich because lunchtimes, or early evening tea times if the mood should take you, are the ultimate answer to an insatiable appetite. It ticks all the right boxes if the boss has been screaming raucously at you for most of the morning and there's a heavy work load on your desk that refuses to diminish. 

You're longing for a pleasant diversion and the clock is ticking slowly, sluggishly and inexorably towards mid-day or one o'clock or whenever it's convenient with your employers because they'll dock your wages if you're not back at work in half an hour. So who does our eternal gratitude extend to at this vital moment of the day? It goes back a century or two and, at the time, the gentleman concerned may have not been acutely aware of the magnitude of his forward thinking or powers of invention. 

So it was the fourth  Earl of Sandwich who gets all the credit and accolades for inventing what we now commonly refer to as the sandwich. During the 18th century, lunchtimes must have been very mundane and almost too monotonous for words. There was the good John Montagu minding his own business and his stomach is rumbling and there's only bread, butter and cheese in the kitchen or parlour. So what does our friendly and noble Earl do? This is the story as some claim it to be. 

The lords and ladies, dukes and duchesses, viscounts and viscountesses of the English aristocracy were all gathering around the card table at roughly lunchtime and they were ravenous and famished, starving but didn't really fancy a hot meal in case it made them feel too bloated and sleepy in the afternoon. A game of poker, canasta, pontoon or any gambling pastime would just not have been the same without something to eat. The good Earl demanded something wholesome and nutritious and he got it with the greatest pleasure since nobody argued with the Earl of Sandwich. 

So the dear John Montagu, the fourth Earl of Sandwich had that light bulb moment, a brainwave, a moment of inspiration. He decided he wanted something including the combination of bread, butter and perhaps a generous slice of Cheddar. But he somehow felt obliged to give this new delicacy a name. He thought of himself. And so, on that fateful day from long, long ago, the sandwich was born and we've been tucking into them at the conventional lunchtime hour ever since.

And within perhaps a second or a minute he thought it might be an excellent idea to call the bread, butter and cheese package the sandwich. And so the egotistical Earl of Sandwich grabbed all the day's headlines by naming a delicious food concoction after him? It all felt so natural and logical and why didn't it occur to anybody else that the Earl of Sandwich should create the sandwich. Good thinking and full marks to the good earl.

Nowadays we almost take the sandwich for granted. There is an almost snobbery value about a sandwich consumed from either Harrods or Marks and Spencer because they make the highest quality of sandwiches and also the most expensive. You always know where the sandwich section is because suddenly it appears in your vision and not far from the semi skinned milk and yoghurts and even closer to the the biscuits and chocolate temptations. So you find innumerable shelves stacked high with sandwiches of so many and varied flavours and textures that you feel spoiled.  

So here we go. There's cheese, cheese and pickle, the Ploughman's lunch incorporating tomato, chutney and onion, the egg mayonnaise, the egg sandwich, the roast chicken sandwich, the chicken salad sandwich, and the bacon, lettuce and tomato for those who never eat it since you're a proud Jew and bacon is not for your consumption. But please do continue to eat it because it's traditional and part of our heritage. 

Then there's the club sandwich, the sandwiches with four in a packet which are always filling and rightly celebrated, the prawn mayonnaise sandwiches, the avocado sandwich for those who just want remain svelte, healthy and athletic. There's the simple turkey or beef sandwich and then there's the bread stick which you can always combine with a seductive slice of cream cheese and smoked salmon, eggs Benedict sarnies and now for those who love their sandwich with a touch of class, there's the splendid Subway's roll, a delectably thick roll packed with the aforesaid fillings accompanied by anchovies, tomatoes, onions, olives, lettuce and anything your little heart desires.

Sandwiches have become so much more sophisticated since the Earl of Sandwich thought he'd try something different all those centuries ago. We eat sandwiches on the go, we raided as children the bread bin at tea times for a loaf of bread with anything tasty and irresistible. We packed our sandwiches  with mountains of crisps and lashings of tomato ketchup. For years and years we took our sandwiches to the seaside with our wonderful and lovely mum and dad, grandpa and grandpa and were still eating egg and spring onion sarnies until they were coming out of ears and it was almost tea time.

Then the thermos flasks of tea and coffee would be promptly followed before another round of more sandwiches until our waistlines were on the point of exploding but we didn't mind in the least because sandwiches were good for us and we were all having a brilliant time anyway. Of course there are the picnic sandwiches which are normally the province of summertime and those can be piled high and eaten for ever given half the chance. We tend to think of Enid Blyton's Famous Five when we think of sandwiches.

So the Famous Five venture into the countryside for the day and eat sandwiches, cakes, biscuits and ice-cream in some wild hedonistic adventure. They drink loads of pop, lemonade with yet more sandwiches for tea and supper. It's that important addition to our daily eating schedule. We crave a sandwich on a railway trip home from a busy day, ripping open the packaging enthusiastically because it just feels the right thing to do. Sandwiches are never really given the favourable publicity they probably deserve because, perhaps, we tend to take them for granted. 

We empty the cheese and onion and salt vinegar crisps thrillingly onto our little table before munching our way through this mouth watering, enticing feast. And don't forget the Orange Fanta, or the Seven Up, Dr Peppers, the timeless Coke or Coca Cola, perhaps a Red Bull, or the decadent bottle of coffee or cappuccino. Sandwiches are our best friends and faithful companions. They're seriously underestimated because by the time we come from home school or work, we just want a spaghetti bolognaise, a plate of fish and chips or hearty nourishment such as sausage and mash or a pasta dish and a Sunday roast. 

And so once again you fondly recall your wonderful childhood. Your mind goes right back to your infant school when your late and lovely mum would open up our bread bin in the kitchen. With no prompting or hesitation, she would boil up some eggs. After a couple of minutes, the eggs were sufficiently hard and would be cracked into a bowl where the hard boiled eggs would be mashed up with mayonnaise or salad cream and Bingo. Two neatly cut egg mayonnaise sandwiches were carefully placed into a Tupperware box and that was your lunch taken care of. 

Many of us can never remember when sandwiches were off the lunchtime menu. Now of course the junk food culture has more or less rendered the sandwich redundant.  The global phenomenon that is Mcdonald's, Burger King and even the Wimpy seems to have straddled the ages since the year dot. Since the middle of the 1970s and thence forward, burgers and chips have replaced everything we cherish in good looking food. It is of course a cholesterol nightmare but when did the kids ever complain about that? Now their grievances can only be aired when mum forgets to go into Macdonalds and mum can never be forgiven for at least five minutes. But mums and dads were the best and we'll give them the benefit of the doubt. 

And so it's National Sandwich Week. You wonder what the current generation of  the Earl of Sandwich collective must be thinking of as they tuck into another plateful of sandwiches. Surely they'll finish off their remaining ham and pickle sandwiches which of course we will never devour but you'll always see them at lavish parties or the obvious choices on Boxing Day when all the turkey has been gobbled up. Turkey sandwiches, hey! Just what the doctor ordered.  Sandwiches are so special and uniquely so. The taste sensation is somehow incomparable.      

Manchester City win the FA Cup

 Manchester City win the FA Cup

In the end, the FA Cup Final assumed its familiar shade of light blue and once again the plot bore a remarkable similarity to the four consecutive FA Cup Finals before this year's edition. This time though, Manchester City reverted back to a script that  many of us had read so repeatedly that some of us knew what to expect before it had even happened. It was a case of fourth time lucky for City because this story had roughly the same narrative and characterisation as the one we'd seen a thousand times before. 

There were times when you almost felt as if you were on nodding terms with the Manchester City mantra. Of course there had to be one or two variations on a theme but then, essentially, we somehow knew that City would beat their fellow Premier League high flyers Chelsea with something to spare.You could sense it in the air and there was almost a premonition that this would be City's day. Chelsea have had an up and down season, fading in and out, disappearing from all view at times before breaking into their traditional end of season flourish and swagger. It's been a season of wildly fluctuating fortunes for Chelsea, infuriating but still satisfying. 

The recent appointment of Liam Rosenior didn't go down well because Rosenior must have felt like a sticking plaster over a bleeding wound. Chelsea will finish comfortably in the top half of the Premier League season but not without the occasional moments of eccentricity and a real bout of the jitters. Maybe this has always been the case for Chelsea for as long as any of us can remember but it always seem to turn out well and for the best. Dickens would have loved Chelsea because everything seems to come up like roses for those who play their football at Stamford Bridge. 

Just when it looked as if this year's FA Cup Final would finally stay in London for another year, now it was Manchester City who felt as if they had a divine right to victory if only because they'd been denied in their last three appearances at the Wembley showpiece. And defeat is somehow both morally and outrageously unacceptable, somehow forbidden in the City hierarchy, an alien concept.  So following the Crystal Palace setback last year and their noisy neighbours loss to Manchester United the previous year, this was business as usual.

Qualification for Europe was assured for City ages ago but this was rubber stamped for good measure. Pep Guardiola, the City boss is so accustomed to that winning mentality that he may have been forgiven for complacency. But the man with the matinee idol and five o clock shadow on his bristly chin, once again leapt into the air joyfully and exultantly as if he'd just been chosen as the next James Bond. Manchester City had beaten Chelsea in this year's FA Cup Final, casually, nonchalantly, arrogantly and with an almost patronising ease. Their football sung, hummed and purred effortlessly, a perfect work of art and beauty. 

Sometimes you get the impression that City get some kind of sadistic pleasure out of taunting and teasing their opponents. There is something very conceited and upper class about their football, something very dismissive and pompous about their almost decorative passing patterns. It felt at times as if City were delivering a stern lecture to opponents who dared to question the status quo. But this was City at their very finest, a side whose football was both educational and inspirational at the same time. 

So Chelsea left the headmaster's office, shaken and chastened, told never to misbehave and then given detention for the rest of the year. Chelsea must have been hoping for a spot of leniency from City but this was relentless and unforgiving. Guardiola, City's boss, looked deep in thought, pensive and ever so slightly worried in case City were just not listening to his repeated instructions and tactical demands. But City were on their guard, energised and revitalised, once again playing with their favourite carpet slippers.

The chances are that City will now miss out on winning the Premier League which will be shortly winging its way to Arsenal imminently. So here was the opportunity for Manchester City to reassert their now legendary dominance at the game's highest levels. The Premier League, more than likely, will not be in City's hands but against Chelsea, in what was always likely to be one of the cagiest of all FA Cup Finals, City were unstoppable, unsurpassable, the governing body on the day, those whose authority should never be questioned. 

Chelsea, for their part, did start the game promisingly and threateningly at times, their attack like a smooth running engine and carburettor but then leaking oil at times. Reece James, Wesley Fofana, Levi Colwell and Jarro Hato protected the Chelsea defence with a good deal of assurance and expertise while Moises Caicedo looked a world class act. Marc Cucurella, always busy and lively, ventured ever deeper into the City half with menace and persistence, often tackling too ferociously for his own good. Then Malo Gusto began to dictate the game with an impeccable mastery and control. 

Both Cole Palmer, who incidentally, is still in World Cup contention for Thomas Tuchel's England and Enzo Fernandez were purposeful and imaginative with and without the ball. But Palmer looked so slightly overawed by the big occasion and not nearly as effective as he should have been. Chelsea then looked very blunt and undercooked in attack, not nearly as intimidating and formidable as they once were under Jose Mourinho. Their passes came undone at the seams and their football seemed to fizzle out like a sparkler on Guy Fawkes night. 

So City then gave themselves complete permission to do whatever they felt was the appropriate thing to do with any of their opponents. For well over an hour or so, their football flowed like a meandering stream in the English countryside, trickling beautifully all over Wembley before gushing relentlessly in between the rocks and craggy, rugged looking hills of Chelsea's defence. There were times when City looked angelic and ethereal in possession, not even acknowledging Chelsea at times just leisurely and enjoying every minute of the 90. The job had been done before Chelsea could do anything to stop them.

There were rivers of passes, cataracts of passes that whispered quietly across the billiard table green Wembley grass. There were clusters of passes between the City players, diamond encrusted, short, sweet and staccato passing movements, exquisite jewels, triangular in shape, rectangular and perpendicular, rather like biting the most delicious Danish pastry. You were reminded of a university lecturer explaining the complexities of quantum physics and just making it all look so easy. Perhaps everybody should have understood what they were talking about. It was that easy on the eye. 

At the back the likes of Matheus Nunes, the excellent England defender Marc Guehi, the commanding Abdukodir Khusanov, the power and sheer exuberance of youth displayed by Nico O'Reilly, one of City's own academy products so eager to learn, Bernardo Silva, safe as houses, evergreen and now bowing out of a game he's so adorned with his presence. 

And then there was Rodri, a player of almost regal elegance and glorious grandeur, a player wafted from some paradisial island with a scent of hibiscus and jasmine in the air. Rodri plays football with all the descriptive lyricism of a Somerset Maugham short story. Rodri has been City's driving force, the man who paints all of City's most attractive patterns in midfield and doesn't care how many times he has to do it to make his point. Rodri is the most refined of all players, a princely presence who may well become the best of all time at City. 

Then there was the dazzling wing play of Jeremy Doku and Antoine Semenyo, full of pace, playful innocence and mischievous skulduggery, slippery and sinewy, wonderfully unpredictable, stepping over, dragging back, turning defenders inside out with deceitful tricks and flicks. Doku had one of those games for City that managers must dream about and Semenyo, of course, was somehow destined to score the winning goal for Manchester City. 

So it was that Antoine Semenyo became the hero of the hour for the team in light blue. After a breath taking sequence of quick, quick, slow, slow passes from the half way line, by now City's characteristic template, the ball broke nicely for lethal striker Erling Haaland. Haaland now found himself in unusual territory on the wing but charged down the right before running at his defender and then releasing a peach of a ball to Semenyo.

The former Bournemouth flank man was in exactly in the right time and place to back heel a goal with an almost gorgeous disregard of convention. A Wembley FA Cup Final had just witnessed one of the most technically perfect of winning goals. And we were so honoured to have seen it in all of its radiant splendour. Manchester City had won another glamorous footballing occasion. No sweat. It was so simple. 

FA Cup Final tomorrow.

 FA Cup Final tomorrow

Last August, a large band of football's most modest, humble and unassuming folk, stretched their limbs, warmed up vigorously on the touchlines, ran furiously towards their colleagues and manager in a concerted effort to impress their coaches and managers. It was a scene repeatedly performed at almost every Non League club in football's vast and fascinating heartlands. It was where football started, its infancy, that point in its formation when nothing else seemed to matter apart from a Sunday morning gathering of football's finest and unheralded, the players who never hogged the limelight. 

And so it was that the preliminary qualifying rounds of the FA Cup cranked up its gears, opened up star struck eyes but essentially played for the simple pleasures that yielded little financial reward but just remained the rewarding experience it had always been. There were those who were simply content to play just a peripheral part in the whole structure and romance of the FA Cup's most memorable day for tomorrow is the FA Cup Final, one of football's most celebrated and historic of all sporting occasions. 

Yes once again it's the FA Cup Final and not for the first time, players will be wearing their smartest tuxedo and tails, suits made for measure, carnations in their top pocket and then there is that animal magnetism about the personality of the game which will undoubtedly be in evidence because it will always be there because we know it does and always will be. There is something special and indefinable, mysterious, an almost mystical aura about the FA Cup Final since none of us know why we're drawn into its unique atmosphere, that day of pomp and ceremony that defies categorisation. 

From the prettiest parklands and sylvan recreation grounds when August seemed to go on forever, the FA Cup began its glorious journey to the new Wembley Stadium tomorrow. Amid the brambles and bushes, bowling greens and tennis courts of England's most noble and august green pastures, the teams from the local villages of Middle England made their mark. They did so in the knowledge that, realistically, their chances of reaching an FA Cup Final were so remote and improbable that it must have felt as if the odds were hardly worthy of any decent consideration. 

So, back in the late 1870s the public schools, universities, colleges, and those outstanding amateurs took their first, cautious steps into the giddy world of publicity, celebrity and prominence. At the time the FA Cup had only a tape that constituted the cross bars and very few nets for goals. It was a game played by the landed gentry and those who plied their trade in factories, pubs, tobacco warehouses or just for the fun of it. There were few rules and regulations, no stringent restrictions and just a genuine Victorian pride. 

Over 150 years later, the FA Cup is still showing off its grandest traditions, flaunting its funniest banners and flags on Cup Final day and just being unashamedly ostentatious, happy to lose all of its inhibitions and ready to party. Both social and economic circumstances have changed the game out of all recognition and that was inevitable. It's something called evolution and the march of progress can never be held back. But football is still here and, for that, we must be enormously grateful.

Tomorrow afternoon Chelsea and Manchester City are this year's FA Cup Finalists. Some of us could probably have predicted this year's contestants some time ago because most of the potential contenders were simply being delusional and full of wishful thinking. It's an all Premier League FA Cup Final and, with the exception of Crystal Palace who won the Cup last year and little, unfashionable Wigan Athletic who beat Manchester City in the 2013 Final, the teams who were probably expected to reach Wembley have had their dreams fulfilled.

 But it wasn't for the want of trying because the lower leagues were always in the background, striving, straining every sinew, battling courageously and living in the world of fairy tale fantasies. Southampton almost reached an FA Cup Final 50 years after their only FA Cup triumph but then stumbled across a stubborn if majestic Manchester City who eventually wore down the Saints and scored the most sensational winner minutes from full time. And once again Manchester City have reached their fourth successive FA Cup Final and it all sounds familiar and predictable. 

In the offices and shops, department stores and cafes of Britain, they will be discussing the fortunes of both Chelsea and Manchester City. They'll be analysing each other's season in the minutest details, confident that their side will wipe the floor with them, beat them out of sight and pulverise them, treading them ignominiously into the ground and playing by far the most superior football. The FA Cup has always had its encouraging omens, friendly mascots and all manner of superstitions but it's never really lost that magical place in our footballing hearts. 

For instance, both teams will lay proprietorial rights on their dressing room, their unconventional routines set in stone, the habits of a lifetime. And then the teams will arrive bright and early, up at the crack of dawn before embarking on that dignified coach that is synonymous with the Cup Final. The coach itself will slowly but wind its way down seemingly endless streets and roads, fans flying their good humoured flags , jokey if perhaps slightly offensive and derogatory language, the hilarious banter and then the teams will step off the coach. The excitement will build to such a pitch of intensity that you must have heard this same noise and these same celebrations a thousand times.

It is hard to believe that the Wanderers, Royal Engineers, the Old Carthusians and Oxford University were the FA Cup's original pathfinders, the pioneers who brought the game to the notice of football's most receptive of students, the ones who never really sought the star treatment status. They were the original holders of the FA Cup, the teams who never stopped believing in the impossible. Now we recall them with the fondest affection for it was they who discovered football's heartbeat was still pumping life into the world's most famous competition. None of us could ask for more. 

So as you cast your eyes on Chelsea against Manchester City tomorrow at Wembley it may be advisable to think of those classical FA Cup Finals of yesteryear. Who will ever forget the Matthews FA Cup Final in 1953 when Blackpool, ably and devastatingly assisted by the wing wizardry of Stanley Matthews dismantled the Bolton defence like a park keeper taking down a fence. To this day, the 1953 FA Cup Final will be encased in the most valuable marble, the greatest match of them all, Blackpool narrowly edging as winners in a stunning seven goal thriller where the Seasiders emerged 4-3 Cup winners.

Then in 1973, Second Division Sunderland converged on the old Wembley Stadium rather like unexpected visitors to a party that none thought they'd ever attend. When the final whistle was blown that day and Sunderland had beaten the mighty Leeds United of Peter Lorimer, Alan Clarke, Billy Bremner, Mick Jones, Jack Charlton, Paul Madeley and Paul Reany, one gentleman stole the headlines because none of us would ever forget his physical appearance. 

Bob Stokoe, who had been such an accomplished player in his time, now jumped and then skipped happily from the Wembley bench as if someone had just given him the keys to a luxurious home in the country with several libraries, innumerable wood panelled studies and a couple of stables for the horses. Stokoe was a vision of beige, a long coat trailing beside him and the loveliest of Panama hats on his head. And Sunderland had beaten Leeds 1-0 and won the FA Cup.

In 1988 Wimbledon, who had risen through the non Leagues with astronomical speed, had eventually reached the top flight and, in the old First Division, met the most phenomenally successful of teams during the 1970s. Liverpool, under the joyously inspirational management of Bill Shankly and Bob Paisley, had won the League on multiple occasions and conquered Europe  with several European Cups to their name. 

But tomorrow afternoon, Wembley will be at its most cliched bursting point, hundreds of thousands of football's most loyal supporters, shouting, hollering, bellowing, laughing, cheering and chuckling, taunting and mocking their rivals. The chants will be moving and poignant, meaningful and sentimental because football needs its massive hardcore of fans and supporters. Those same fans will return to Wembley every year because it's an absolute necessity, written indelibly on the kitchen calendar.

So it is that the gladiators from West London and Manchester will share their pre match ritual of devouring as many burgers and hot dogs as they possibly can.  Chelsea and Manchester City have had, quite naturally, contrasting fortunes this season. Chelsea seemed to have had so many managers this season that they must have forgotten what exactly went wrong. They will though qualify for Europe but the fans who demand Premier League titles are still grumbling their discontent.  Manchester City, of course will, you feel sure, finish as runners up to Arsenal in the Premier League or so it would seem.

But Pep Guardiola, City's matinee idol, is still a lively presence in his dug out and all of that whistle blowing with his fingers, and all of those angry water bottle throwing gestures somehow typify the man he is. There is still that air of impassioned animation about Guardiola, a relentless restlessness about him that refuses to rest on his laurels. Guardiola, rather like Sir Alex Ferguson, wants to win everything he can possibly lay his hands on and nobody can begrudge this all consuming ambition. Will though Chelsea beat City or vice versa? The FA Cup is theirs for the taking. Some of us have no particular preference for either clubs but we must hope for another FA Cup Final to remember.     

Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr in perfect harmony

 Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr in perfect harmony.

It was almost as if we were travelling back to the days when those famous Abbey Road recording studios in St Johns Wood, North London had been resurrected to its former glory and we were back in the 1960s all over again. If you'd closed your eyes just a minute you'd have sensed that history had made a major comeback and the old gang had got back together for yet another emotional reunion. And yet Sir Paul McCartney and Sir Ringo Starr have never really been away from the public limelight. In many ways they've always been inseparable buddies from childhood and you couldn't keep them away. 

Now admittedly, the Fab Four have sadly been reduced to just the two of them but it could have been the Shay Stadium in New York where the deafening sound of hysterical female fans became agonisingly unbearable and the Beatles seemed to be permanently occupied at the top of the pop music charts for most of the 1960s. If it wasn't the singles hit machine then it was Abbey Road, Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, the White Album, or ultimately Let it Be where it all tragically unravelled and ended.

But here they were again Macca and Ringo in harness, singing the same songs, penning the same lyrics but this time indulging in rheumy eyed nostalgia and reminiscence. The voices of course were instantly recognisable, the story telling narrative still immaculately delivered and so stunningly appropriate. Starr and McCartney could have been forgiven for putting up their feet up, opening up a vintage bottle of wine and perhaps devouring several packets of chocolate biscuits or just luxuriating in the warmth of their fame.

Both Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr, now deservedly knights of the realm, are deeply into a comfortable dotage, both embracing their 80s with a huge enjoyment and panache that beggars belief but doesn't surprise at all. Besides, McCartney is still championing young talent and delighting in the classical and orchestral music scene. He still looks dapper and oozes a remarkable enthusiasm for the new voice, the cultured cadence and knows how to write a good, old fashioned song because he just loves music. 

When John Lennon and Paul McCartney were at the height of their song writing pomp and circumstance, it almost felt the Beatles were invincible and unstoppable. Hey Jude, Yesterday, Sergeant Pepper's, Paperback Writer, Love Me Do, A Day in the Life and Please, Please Me and Eleanor Rigby had reached a soaring ascendancy that left most of us awe struck, mesmerised and totally converted to the wondrous Mersey sound. By now the Parlophone record label had now become Apple and, over 60 years later, the brilliance and genius can still be seen and heard.

Now Sirs Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr are back at the forefront of our attention and it's all very simple and effortless. There is a sense here that both men, now in their twilight years, just wanted to remind us that they're still around, familiarity breeding mutual admiration and determined to make the most of their mellowed and now distinguished voices, thoraxes now beautifully oiled. Admittedly, their latest venture may never win the extraordinary praise and plaudits of their 1960s zenith but it was both listenable and wonderfully evocative, full of the malt and port maturity of a satisfying Beaujolais. The wine must have had the desired effect. 

Home to Us, is a delightful homage to childhood and youth, a memorable anthem to the happy go lucky exuberance of being carefree kids without a single anxiety on their minds. The video follows a pleasing pattern of the good, old days when adolescence seemed eternal and worldwide recognition became almost natural. The images are all sepia tinted and black and white at first but then unfold into a beautiful tapestry of a lifetime friendship and warm, mutual respect for each other. 

We see a grey wartime back street with the hard, cobble stone streets and roads, featuring both McCartney and Starr establishing the kind of compatible rapport that would never be broken. Against a backdrop of billowing, belching industrial chimneys and kids hop scotching their way along on now charred, blackened pavements, the two men took us down that well trodden path to a destination that would become rhapsodically triumphant. 

Now reaching the innumerable bomb sites and rubble strewn grounds of post war Britain, we now follow a mother in hair curlers diligently washing the family's  crockery and cutlery in a wartime ravaged kitchen. There is still though an infectious twinkle in the eye of mum, an almost matriarchal pride in her precious family. There is an unmistakably, cosy domesticity about the whole of Home to Us that engages us, a feeling of hope in adversity, light at the end of the tunnel. 

And so Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr were re-capturing their youth, Starr, probably still recalling Yellow Submarine with the fondest of memories, was glad to be back on the best of terms with his mate, his mucker. To the outsider perhaps it still feels like a relationship that should never have been scarred by the passage of years because both still have a considerable amount to offer. And Home to Us takes us right back to their spiritual roots where it all started. Perhaps we should never forget that sterling contribution to the music industry for both men have always had star quality.  

 

Local political elections

 Local political elections.

Sir Keir Starmer, that master of understatement, kept insisting that it had been a tough couple of days and by yesterday morning, the UK Prime Minister was so shell shocked and distraught that he must have been dreaming and destined to have nightmares for months and even as far ahead as the next British General Election. There can be few who would willingly swap places with Starmer because, quite frankly, who would need all of that hassle and aggravation, the constant remorse, self questioning,  those moments of regret and introspection that no politician can seem to handle. 

Starmer's Labour government had suffered the bloodiest nose in political history, a good, old fashioned kicking where it hurts most and the sense of awkward malaise had rendered him dumbstruck. Over a year and a half ago now, the Labour party had sailed serenely to a gigantic landslide victory over the Conservative Party in the General Election. Sir Keir Starmer was carried high on all of his party members shoulders as if the 1966 World Cup had been won again and none could possibly emulate or surpass. Labour had won the General Election but the glorious air of euphoria soon wore off almost immediately. 

On Thursday, the battle scars of war and conflict on the front were once again starkly revealed, the Labour party once again a wounded animal after so many troubles and difficulties in recent times. Is the whole concept of being elected as the winning party in the General Election, quite literally, the poisoned chalice of any mythology because none of the mainstream parties can ever get it right? Perhaps they should toss a coin or just draw lots. It all seems like some ridiculous Lottery and you wonder why the voters bother. 

We were on local election territory in both London and all the shires, suburbs, cities, towns, villages and communities of every part of Britain. It is now commonly assumed that this needn't be regarded as the end of the world for the Labour party but surely it must be rankling with them that defeat was so humiliating. And here we were thinking that the Conservatives were a basket case for 14 years but once again the public came out in a collective sweat of fury and righteous indignation. They were fuming and just bitterly angry, roaringly resentful of all those stupid politicians who keep burning our ears with their blathering rhetoric.

But suddenly we were informed that there had been a monumentally dramatic shift in the fortunes of both the Labour and Tory party. Both had been brutally beaten up by the playground bully boys, pummelled into the ground, left with their satchels on the ground and their bags snapped in half. There were two new kids on the block and they were just incensed with the prevailing mood of the country. Given half a chance, they'd have probably plundered everything including pens, pencils and notebooks. 

So by Friday morning both the Labour, Conservative and Liberal Democrats were sprawled out on the ground, bleeding profusely if metaphorically, struggling to make sense of what had just happened to them and just staggering to their feet like heavyweight boxers, groggy and severely dazed, rattled and perturbed. How on earth were they smashed out of the park like that? Who'd been plotting behind their backs, secretly conspiring to beat them black and blue, whispering nasty and insulting gossip and then behaving with all of the unsavoury aggression of people who should really know better. 

And yet this has always been the way because we persist with the theory that one political party alone can wave a magic wand and transform the economic landscape overnight. But there was much more than met the eye after Thursday's horror show. There was the Green party, the Reform UK, two intimidating political upstarts, snotty nosed rebels and renegades who were just desperate for a spot of gang warfare. Did they think they were hard enough? They were scrapping for a fight and didn't care a tuppence for the repercussions of their actions. 

So there was Nigel Farage, who sounds like a cross between Dennis Skinner and a slightly more downmarket Arthur Scargill. He was loud and forceful, outrageous and obnoxious in the eyes of some but perhaps others. Some of us couldn't possibly mention. Farage is the bloke in the pub, the pint of Guinness man who lights up his Benson and Hedges cigarettes and then blisters your ears with statements of the obvious and intolerable. 

Now the chances are that although Reform UK almost completely crushed the opposition with a huge display of boastful bravado and braggadocio, you were almost tempted to believe that he may well have been telling the truth. Farage modestly played down his contribution to the rise and rise of the Reform UK party but made no secret of his grandiose ambitions. You suspect he'd love the keys to 10 Downing Street and wipe the floor with the Tories and the Labour party.

Yesterday he declared that the emergence of the Reform UK party was like a breath of fresh air, confidently announcing that shortly Sir Keir Starmer will have to admit defeat and walk the walk of shame. Farage will repeatedly tell us that Starmer will be gone by the middle of summer and the Reform UK party are a party of honesty, straight talking, honour and principle. They'll immediately send back those irritating immigrants who keep landing on our beaches and expecting a land of golden prosperity. Britain will be for British people, the yeomen workers who just want to bring up their families in comfort and security or so they keep telling us.  

For several minutes Farage sounded as though he really meant business and that a noticeable sea change was about to sweep away the flotsam and jetsam of British politics. He grins like the proverbial Cheshire cat, smiles sycophantically and then reassures us that the Tories and Labour are now history. He does so because he'd just like to shake up the status quo, upset the Establishment and just compel us to listen to him whether we liked it or not. 

The Reform Party, for the record, won 1,448 seats in the local council elections and Farage had every right to be smug. The Tories and Labour parties had been trodden into the ground, pulverised, obliterated, made mincemeat of and then taken to the cleaners to quote a few cliches. And then there was the Green party headed by the sneering, smirking, sanctimonious Zak Polansky who is just looking out for the welfare of Britain and has their best interests at heart. But surely this is not right. Polansky is barely out of his nappies in that combustible world of politics but he knows best. 

According to some Polansky, the world would be immeasurably better if you heeded all of his warnings and just followed him around like the great leader he so obviously is. But then you were told that Polansky is a rabid antisemite, a blatant racist, neither here nor there, a right pain in the neck in the eyes of some but, essentially, ineffectual as a chocolate tea pot. But the Greens are the future of this country, this sceptred isle, environmentally friendly, good eggs, a proud patriots and ready to rough up everybody with revolutionary zeal. 

The Greens stacked up a huge amount of the votes and recorded their best local election victory in ages, shunting both the Tories and Labour into no man's land. They were dancing down the suburban streets and roads of Britain and almost besides themselves with unconfined joy and jubilation. The Labour party did win 1,007 seats in the local council heartlands but the outcome does make make for unnerving reading and watching.

Across the green pastures of Britain, town halls were bristling with ballot boxes and politicians massaging their egos. They were traipsing around the floor, wandering aimlessly around for most of the night and then fretting, fidgeting, sighing, scowling and then looking at their watches for the 50th time. It was a scene played right out across Britain and for a while, it was like watching some entertaining circus act and even the high wire trapeze artists looked hugely impressive. 

But today Sir Keir Starmer, the British Prime Minister is out there in the public domain, exposed as a fraud in some parts of the country and just a risible joke in Scotland and Wales. Plaid Cymru and the Scottish contingent had left Labour out cold, bewildered and licking their bruises. The Greens and Reform UK party were still convinced that they'd won the night hands down and somebody should take them to 10 Downing Street pronto. And so it was that the local elections had left its political imprint on the state of the nation and we were still speechless, totally indifferent and apathetic. Surely this has always been the case when matters turn to Westminster and the House of Commons. 

 

National Tourism Day

 National Tourism Day.

So there you are. You've packed your holiday suitcases, loaded your bags, made absolutely sure that the sun factor 45 bottle of suntan cream is safely ensconced in all of the right places because without that essential fashion accessory, the chances are that your skin will turn a bright red shade of tomato and you'll burn like a furnace after a couple of days lazily sitting and lounging by the side of the hotel swimming pool. It all feels like paradise, a heavenly haven, nothing to do but soak up those gorgeous rays of sweltering sunshine and pretend you're living in the most exotic climate in the world. 

Now the chances are that this is not the case because you have no legitimate right to live in Spain, Italy, Greece, the USA, the Seychelles and Maldives or any place where the residents talk another language. Unless you're a diplomat and ambassador with some kind of immunity, you're never likely to be allowed to take up permanent residence in the aforesaid countries. Work of course could also be a major factor in flying you off to these far flung nations.  It is best to just relax though, take it easy for a week or fortnight and just allow the sweetness of life to carry you away to some remote island where only the chirruping crickets can be heard at night. 

Yes folks, it's National Tourism Day, a day for remembering what it's like when we negotiate that unbearable rigmarole of passing through customs, dumping our suitcases on to those slowly revolving carousels and waiting for passport control to let you go. The tourism industry has always been a hugely profitable one because we do love our summer holidays every summer since they just do wonders for our mental health and physical state of mind. Tourism is all about acquiring those memorable souvenirs and merchandise.

Every country throughout the world needs a successful tourism industry because without it, nobody would probably go anywhere. Britain tends to be heavily dependent on the royal family for its trinkets, its baubles, the patriotic T- shirts with Union Jacks emblazoned clearly on the shirts, the mugs, the plates, the kitchen towels, the St George Cross hats, the reference books about London and Britain and a bewildering variety of witty, humorous paraphernalia such as saucy postcards, fridge magnets and key rings, glass ware and of course there are the essential days out at the Tower of London and Buckingham Palace.

Tourism is of course big business in every sense of the word. When we take those first tentative, exciting steps boarding our plane it is, quite literally, a voyage of discovery. For those who were just blown away by the whole magnificent adventure as a child, it now feels like the greatest experience of them all. You're a bit blase and smug about a holiday to another country, its culture and its food and drink. You were privileged enough to join your late and wonderful mum and dad on those first introductory trips to Majorca, Benidorm, the Costas Brava and Blanca.

In those days we were all a bit stunned and astonished at the whole concept of visiting another country because we were unfamiliar with both the customs and traditions. We've prepared ourselves for our yearly holiday because we can now get to see those dreamlike locations such as India, Japan, South Africa, Mexico, both the Seychelles and Maldives, Nigeria, Kenya on safari, the USA on multiple occasions, South America and any place situated on the other side of the equator. We look forward to this time of the year because we know that summer is about to come out to play for long, languid weeks and months in beautiful Israel.

But now the tourism industry is a thriving one, fuelled frequently by millions of curious, inquisitive visitors determined to find out about every church, synagogue, mosque, museum, department store, market town, market square and wondrous buildings with those distinctive window shutters, blinds and jalousies that are so characteristic of that country's heritage. And then you just wander pleasantly down shady back streets where al fresco cafes are alive with the sound of clattering cups and plates of food. 

Then you stop at souvenir shops full of those lace and silk scarves, thousands of T-shirts, kids toys and games, clothes with a multitude of stunning colours, a wide variety of football shirts, designer gear, trousers, skirts and cute crocs and flip flop footwear. Half way through the morning you search for a mid morning refreshment break on a pavement cafe, invariably a coffe, latte, cappuccino or hot chocolate with just a tiny biscuit for good measure. These are the holiday attractions we now take for granted but there was a time when as a kid, that you could have only dreamt of venturing into new and pristine lands.

As soon as you land at any airport you suddenly find yourself transported to a world of Hollywood fantasy. There are palm trees blowing gently in the summer breeze and palm trees wherever you like, an abundance of foliage and fauna that you might see in the Lake District or the Cotswolds but is still somehow a cultural revelation. You jump into the taxi at the airport and the driver will be listening to that country's latest news or music and the driver will do his utmost to make you feel at home. You feel a genuine sense of belonging, an immediate warmth and the most cordial of relationships with people who may have been complete strangers but are now your holiday friends for the duration of your holiday. 

Certainly as a young child, the sensation of taking off on a plane and just abandoning yourself to the joys and luxuries of this fortnight of liberation, escapism was just magical, doing things at your pace. During the early 1970s your wonderful mum would take herself off to the local travel agent in the first couple of weeks of January would grab as many holiday brochures as possible. She would then schedule 10 days during the school half term period at the start of June. The prices were scanned enthusiastically and our first holiday in Majorca would set us back the princely sum of £32 including bed, breakfast and all the facilities in the hotel. 

And then you arrived at your hotel resort and destination. The coach would pull into the hotel outside which always seemed to be at the crack of dawn or very late on at night. But the British tourists and pioneers were still wide awake, wearing loose fitting beach shirts and outlandish shorts or even funky swimming trunks. For this young kid, it almost felt as you were imagining this all. Once at the hotel reception desk, mum and dad would promptly clutch your bedroom keys proudly and proprietorially as if they almost owned the hotel. 

But there was something next to the dining room that captured your attention and converted you fully to this marvellous event in your life. And there it was. Larger than life, there was something called a pinball machine in the hotel foyer, a mechanism so captivating and entertaining that it would instil a lifelong fascination in you. The pinball machine was a vast looking upright structure with colourful, flashing cartoon figures on a brightly lit board and a silver ball that you could control with what became known as flippers because every time the silver ball came hurtling down the board you could keep the ball in play and score as many points as you could with only six chances.  

By now we were busy unpacking suitcases groaning with dad's lovely Fred Perry T-shirts, his sartorially elegant navy blazers and jackets, mum's capacious wardrobe of many summer dresses in primary colours and finally the sun factor 45 bottles with  innumerable after sun burn bottles. If we happened to arrive in the early morning hours, you can still remember the childish excitement, the rapid change of clothes into swimming trunks as soon as possible, the feeling you'd completely escaped from arduous school time lessons.

And by lunchtime, mum, dad and young sons would be happily paddling at the shallow end of the swimming pool before spending what felt like the entire day by the pool. Mum, bless her, capitalised on the opportunity to top up on her tan by staring through dark sun glasses and wearing a bikini that made her feel like royalty. After a couple of days in sultry, sensual and scintillating Majorca, she would then lay out across a table the first postcards to be sent to family and friends. This is the way it would be every year for a couple of those remarkable holidays the family would never ever forget, the same template. 

So off we were up and running, caught by the bug, casually sauntering down to the hotel restaurant only to discover that, although the waiters and waitresses were delighted to see you, they hadn't really cracked the catering standards, the immaculate presentation of the food, that fine haute cuisine, the pleasures of the palate. Of course the main breakfast and dinner in the evening did look impeccable to the eye but somehow Spain didn't really know how to cope with vast droves of British guests.

This is how things used to pan out. A vast majority of the hotel guests came from Britain's northern cities such as Manchester, Leeds, Newcastle, Bristol, Scotland, Wales and Ireland. Now what followed felt like some enchanting ritual that none of us could understand at the time. On their dining room tables appeared typical British condiments such as two, three, even four Heinz tomato ketchup bottles, jars of Robertson's jam or marmalade, packets of Corn Flakes, Rice Krispies and most of the cereals we'd all heard about. 

Britain had announced itself clearly, planted its flag on the summit of the Iberian peninsula and arrived in all of their vocal splendour. There were frequent days out to some Spanish cave, sangria drinking sessions or those centuries old bullfights that looked quite alarming to the untrained eye in Blackburn, Oldham, Grimsby or Nottingham. Mum and dad booked a visit to a baby bullfight and the recollection, although slightly blurred, still felt like the best time in your young life. Life was and remains perfect. 

And so we celebrate National Tourism Day. It is a day for acknowledging the debt of gratitude for the caring, compassionate mum and dad who gave you that special insight into the rarefied world of holiday making. We still indulge in globe trotting because it feels natural and inevitable. We are worldly wise, much more enlightened about Japanese pagodas, sampans, kampongs, Asian temples of prayer or worship, Buddhism retreats, towering skyscrapers in the USA, Spanish drinking bodegas and paellas and camel rides in Tunisia, pigs in the Bahamas, dolphins in Miami and elephants in Thailand.

We love Venetian canals and gondolas, the glorious Greek islands, the South American pampas and prairies, cactus plants decorating the countryside, Caribbean banana plantations, Italian spaghetti and pasta, winding, twisting European mountain passes. Where would we be without our friendly travel reps who give us generous chapter and verse about Spain, Italy, Greece, most of Europe and the world? Tourists will embrace tourism for many years to come because we do love travelling and we do keep searching for new and unchartered territories whether they be by the outstanding cruise boat vessel or that laid back holiday by the pool. Happy National Tourism Day everybody and enjoy your holiday.  

The end of the line for West Ham

 The end of the line for West Ham.

While Arsenal look certain to win the Premier League and Manchester City will be puffing and panting behind them in hot pursuit of Mikel Arteta's North London champions elect, the crisis now engulfing your team West Ham United feels like an altogether more different scenario, the kind of disaster movie where civilisation topples to the ground and the world as we know it disintegrates into oblivion never to be seen again. 

As things stand at the moment of writing, West Ham are still just above the dotted line that separates them from Spurs in the increasingly horrific and nerve racking end to the Premier League season. In the normal scheme of things, your thoughts turn to those end of season struggles that almost resulted in relegation for West Ham but then turned out for the best quite remarkably when all seemed lost. We have been there before, accustomed and hardened to the last day of the season skirmishes which are ingrained in the West Ham psyche. 

Almost 20 years ago, West Ham, under the shrewd, knowledgeable and perspicacious management of Alan Curbishley, West Ham went to Old Trafford on the final day of the season, knowing full well that Sir Alex Ferguson was convinced that the West Ham way was some bizarre construct, an urban myth, some abstract concept that didn't really exist. And yet Sir Alex and Manchester United, although still acclaimed as Premier League champions, would end up with the proverbial egg on their face. 

The Argentine striker Carlos Tevez, a Latin magician with the most perceptive eye for detail and judgment, latched onto a through ball on the edge of the Manchester United penalty box. Shrugging off a challenge almost nonchalantly, Tevez, in his navy blue West Ham shirt, steered the ball into the back of the United net quite comfortably and West Ham were safe once again in the Premier League. But that really was a close shave. It was the last day of the season and West Ham had escaped by a hairs breadth from relegation.

Since then West Ham have been relegated twice from the Premier League in recent years and now another neurosis threatens their existence in the Premier League. They are two points clear of London rivals Spurs in the relegation area but the North London club head for Villa Park and Aston Villa knowing that victory would send them leap frogging West Ham over the weekend. Rarely have two fierce London rivals found themselves locked so tightly into a bout of arm wrestling.

Sometimes football can take you to places you'd rather not visit but then the realisation hits you that although it's only a game of football, you wish your emotional investment in the game would assume a much lesser significance than it does. But you can't help it because it's your team but their predicament. So you bite your lips, run your fingers through your hair and begin the thorough analysis. Then there is that awful acceptance of the inevitable, yet another gruelling season in the lower leagues. 

Yesterday though West Ham slipped almost horrendously back into those shark infested waters at the bottom of the Premier League. You were reminded of those desperately pathetic and dreadful relegation seasons when the former Chelsea and Italy striker briefly became West Ham manager but couldn't stop the plunge into the second tier. Then there was Avram Grant, who was so ineffectual and uninspiring that, by his own admission, he refused to smile for anybody who cared to know what was really going through his mind. So relegation from the Premier League struck again for the Hammers.

Now though there are three matches left for West Ham to rectify the fault lines, iron out the defensive deficiencies and just knuckle down purposefully. Football was never meant for the faint hearted or sensitive. It is much harder on the nerves but needn't be because there are bills to pay, work to be done dutifully and families to be fed, clothed and watered. Priorities in the modern game are often confused because we did sign up for that loyal allegiance to our team. But sometimes this is not always possible. 

After a demoralising 3-0 defeat to Brentford, who now find themselves on the brink of a much coveted place in Europe next season, West Ham were staring around the G Tech stadium in West London bemused and startled. Players like the always reliable Tomas Soucek, the classy but clearly out of his depth Mattheus Fernandes and Jarred Bowen, captain courageous and a normally clinical finisher, just clapped their fans obligingly but couldn't really begin to take it all in. There is an almost limp air  of capitulation, imminent relegation, a resignation to their fate. 

It's at times like now that your mind goes back to the last time you witnessed your team's demotion to the second tier of the Football League. It was 1978 and you were huddled together like the proverbial sardines on West Ham's old Upton Park South Bank. Liverpool, at the height of their old First Division championship dominance, arrived in the East End of London like medieval executioners. There could only be one result because the season had been dreadfully nightmarish for West Ham. Liverpool promptly won 2-0 and West Ham dropped out of the old First Division limelight like old time music hall hoofers who had sadly fallen on hard times. 

West Ham manager Nuno Espirito Santo, the Portuguese man with the thickest black and white beard in the Premier League and a tracksuit to match, looked slightly shell shocked and forlorn. Time has yet to run out on him completely but you do feel the utmost sympathy for him. He seemed to get it absolutely right at Nottingham Forest but Spurs and Wolves were just not up to the job description.

Once again at West Ham, there are bleak and moody landscapes and with Arsenal looking to paint some more pretty watercolours next Sunday at the London Stadium, you can almost anticipate the next sequence of events. Even West Ham's penultimate game of the Premier League season, a visit to St James Park, Newcastle, doesn't look like a rescue boat for the Hammers. Maybe the Salvation Army may be more to West Ham's liking at the moment. 

West Ham finish off their Premier League campaign at home to Leeds United and by then the writing could well be on the wall. Graffiti in the East End of London has become a familiar sight in the poshest parts of Shoreditch but for West Ham this is not a colourful spectacle. Leeds United are far from being the exhibitionists who once played with Southampton like rag dolls, winning unapologetically 7-0 during the 1970s.

The likes of Billy Bremner, Eddie Gray, Norman Hunter, Paul Madeley, Alan Clarke and Johnny Giles were football's greatest theatrical troubadours but the current Leeds side will turn up at the London Stadium  in ruthless mood. There will be little aggro or genuine resentment nor will there be any of the vengeful, nasty tackling that seemed to hound the Leeds of Don Revie. For West Ham, the last couple of weeks of the remaining Premier League season will not be easy on the eye or in any way the pleasant watch they might have been hoping for. Still, to misquote a famous film, West Ham will always have Prague and they did undoubtedly win the 1966 World Cup. Or maybe it just seemed that way at the time. 

King Charles The Third- the world is deeply proud of you.

 King Charles The Third - the world is deeply proud of you. 

It couldn't have been easy to be the man waiting in the wings to become the King of England. In fact, it must have been unbearable at times because he must have known that he'd be following in the footsteps of a woman and mother so enormously loved and respected by not only the whole of the United Kingdom but the Commonwealth and the whole world. He's been biding his time, looking up in sheer awe and wonderment at his mother and now suddenly he is that man who's in charge, the King of England and all of the dominions, islands and farthermost corners of the globe. 

For the past week or so, King Charles the Third has been entertaining huge numbers of both the USA and now Bermuda. In a fetching beige jacket and, yesterday, the nattiest of sun glasses and smiling warmly for his all of his most devoted supporters, Charles stole the show, grabbed the headlines and just bowled everybody over with that now familiar charm offensive. He cracked jokes, made all manner of well judged and perceptive comments about life in general and looked very happy.

There must have been frequent moments throughout Charles life when it would have been easier to just withdraw from the public eye, hide away in some secluded spot well away from the Press and massive armies of cameramen and women before poking their lenses most intrusively into every move that Charles has made ever since he was born. And of course we love the royals and, for as long as any of us can remember, the gossipy and voyeuristic have been persistent and insistent about anything that resembles scandal and notoriety. A line has to be drawn in the sand at some point but we continue to watch.

And yet earlier on this week in the highest circles of American political life, King Charles, with his wife Queen Camilla, joined up with American president Donald Trump with his wife Melania and it all went off swimmingly and successfully. In all honesty, it could hardly have gone any better for all parties concerned. Charles giggled his way through a speech about a bell he'd just been presented with and then did his comedy club act with hilarious references about Trump's mother idolising King Charles the Third. 

Once again the Royal Family is back in the public domain, still engaging, still shrugging off the sniggering cynics and just getting on with the business of every day living. For King Charles, the last couple of months have been both very trying, problematic and challenging. His brother Andrew has been dramatically knocked down several notches in the estimation of the British public, before enduring outright humiliation when it was discovered that Andrew Mountbatten of Windsor had now become so blatantly shamed and held to account for his disgraceful antics. 

Today King Charles the Third is a liberated figure, a man released from the chains of oppressive attention, constant scrutiny, comfortable with the man he'd always wanted to be. He is now with the woman who he should have married in the first place but had to wait for almost a lifetime. He is now venturing into new territories, metaphorically of course, since beforehand, he must have been living in a world where some might have regarded him as a figure of fun and ridicule. 

But no longer is Charles perceived as an eccentric character, the man who openly talked to plants and flowers and whose love life, before he married the late and much loved Princess Diana, was often a source of much amusement. Charles was the man who ran away from a girl chasing after him on an Australian beach. Charles was the man who declared he was in love with Princess Diana and then realised that he was really in love with Camilla Parker Bowles.

So for years and decades, Charles endured life knowing that one day his beloved mother the late and adored Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the Second, would die and he would have to take over as King of England. The burden of responsibility looked as though it had been too hard to bear. And yet, after all the formalities of the Coronation with Queen Camilla, Charles has emerged with flying colours. 

His relationship with his sons the now Prince of Wales William and Harry has always been solid, unquestioned and loving. There is, of course, a long shadow falling darkly over Harry and his wife Megan because Harry has seemingly divided the whole family with some of his more hurtful and wounding comments. Then there was the book and that seemed to be the most unforgivable sin. But Charles is renowned for his resilience and strength of character and he is now saying all the right things. 

He wanders around the world as if the weight of the world has been lifted from his shoulders. He sits respectfully alongside members of the Senate and Donald Trump, perhaps biting his lip in embarrassment because Trump probably reminds Charles of the late Spike Milligan. Trump is this larger than life character who might have been Milligan's scriptwriter in another age. So Charles looks up to Trump trying desperately hard not to burst into uncontrollable laughter.

So it is that the King of England delivers his speech with perfect diction and quite the most perfect elegance. He talks of that enduring relationship between USA and America. He refers to their mutual understanding and appreciation of each other, that special bond and rapport that can never be broken. More so than ever Charles remains a commendable source of strength and duty to country. And we take our hat off to him because that's important. 

There is a sense here of royal reinvention because for all the trials and tribulations King Charles the Third may have suffered over the years, his spirit is unquenchable. So let's raise a toast to the King because the monarchy, although severely attacked at times by an unforgiving public, still has the capacity to work wonders for tourism, commerce and global perceptions. Some may believe that is not just good enough and but for those with an unqualified admiration for the Royal Family, we can only extended our heartfelt best wishes to them. We think they thoroughly deserve all of the appropriate accolades. Thankyou King Charles and Third and your wonderful family.