No Joe Bloggs- my old friend.
Privately I've always felt that maybe I did have a book in me. I've always written and always written for fun and pleasure. Long ago my literary exploits were confined to pen and A4 paper. On reflection they may seem primitive materials but I've no doubt that they were the most essential tools for a life in writing.
Now though I have three books to my name and they're publications I'm immensely proud of. My story is not a rags and riches but I do think is one that is both worth telling and I hope ultimately upliftingly salutary.
I wrote No Joe Bloggs three years ago quite by accident. I'd just recovered from the most horrendous mental breakdown and didn't quite know what to do with the rest of my life. I was now 50 with the loveliest wife and loveliest children but more or less at a crossroads in my life. In fact I'd hit a painful brick wall and and didn't quite know what to do next. I knew that I'd written in the past but only occasionally and tentatively and certainly without any of the seriousness or consistency to trouble any modern author. I used to glance at the heartfelt confessions of the celebrity market and wonder whether I could do any better or indeed any worse than them. I decided to give it a go.
I have nothing but respect for the wonderful world of the TV celebrity and I'm sure their thoughts are well considered and very enlightening but at the back of my mind I knew there was something deeply rooted and worth sharing with the rest of the world. In a sense No Joe Bloggs more or less evolved naturally and as the words started flowing I knew I could turn a simple tale about my grandfather's career as a barber into something that began to feel very profound and descriptive. But I did have a claim to fame. My grand-dad cut the hair of England's fabled 1966 World Cup trio of Bobby Moore, Sir Geoff Hurst and Martin Peters.
I knew there was a story and as I continued to write the more I felt compelled to keep on writing. Slowly but surely there was the moving account of my grandparents and my mum as Holocaust survivors, the nostalgic accounts of my dear lovely and deeply missed dad, his enduring love of the bright lights of the West End of London, the family Sunday afternoon jaunts to Piccadilly Circus and Trafalgar Square and my very metaphorical descriptions of London where I tried to give a very sweet flavour of London during the 1960s as I remember it from my childhood. If you like language, poetry and vividly descriptive word pictures then this is the book for you.
This may sound very pompous and vainglorious but No Joe Bloggs is my personal life journey from the beginning of my life in 1962 to the present day but essentially a story. There are no precise chronological details or diary notes from the beginning of my life, just an honest, respectful, flattering account of my wonderful neighbours; the people I grew up with; the roads and streets I played on with my childhood friends and then the struggles that came with maturity.
No Joe Bloggs is about what happened to me and what happened to the world around me. There was the sudden sense of isolation and alienation, the shyness, the feeling of emptiness, the sense of drifting, that horrible social awkwardness, the awareness that I'd lost touch with both society and children of my age. Then there was the enduring sensation that I was now on my own. How to explain the autism that I was later diagnosed with
But No Joe Bloggs is certainly far from doom and gloom. There are my accounts of London which are I think vibrant, vital, full of energy and vitality. There are my tastes in music during the late 1960s and then the glorious 1970s, the bands and singers, the movements and trends, the pirate radio stations, the characters from those halcyon days, the politicians with their hilarious mannerisms and lifestyles, the Winter of Discontent, Edward Heath, the power cuts and the pop culture associated with the 1960s and 70s.
Then I talk about my favourite things that are probably your favourite things. Football in Britain during the 1970s had its own atmosphere, players who made us laugh and sing, managers who just invited comment and then the teams themselves. In No Joe Bloggs I've tried to give a very humorous and affectionate slant on a collection of teams both old and new. These are character sketches or pen portraits of clubs such as Arsenal, Spurs, Liverpool, Manchester United, Manchester City, Wolves, Ipswich Town, Leeds United and Chelsea.
Deep into the middle of No Joe Bloggs there is I think a very enteratining fictitious story about a father and son relationship before the 1966 World Cup Final. Then I move onto the classic authors who unconsciously gave me the inspiration to write and the resurrection of Thomas Hardy. Here I give an imaginary depiction of a meeting with Thomas Hardy and Charles Dickens for lunch.
There is an account of my dad and his East End cousin and the afternoon the whole family got together for tea on a Sunday afternoon for cosy chats and lively banter that followed. There was the afternoon my dad and I were taken down to my uncle's toy warehouse at the back of the house and showed his yellow dusters. In retrospect it was both amusing and charming.
Then there's my dad's fictitious trip to Las Vegas where he plays pool with Frank Sinatra and then the casinos. There are the references to my dad's lifelong heroes such as Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett, Nat King Cole, Ella Fitzgerald, Dean Martin, Tony Bennett and a whole galaxy of the great and good.
I've also included my favourite TV programmes while I was growing up. Here I mention Peyton Place, Lost in Space, Sunday Night at the London Palladium, Starsky and Hutch, The Man from Ironside, That Was the Week That Was, The Frost Programme. I then give a short story about the Apollo space missions and my take on them. I give my take on showbiz figures such as Norman Wisdom, Bruce Forsyth, Tommy Cooper, Dave Allen, Billy Connolly, chat show host Michael Parkinson, the Beatles, the Rolling Stones and all of the important newsreaders from the 1960s and 70s such as Richard Baker, Alistair Burnet, Reginald Bosanquet and then my favourite sporting figures.
In no particular order there's Muhammad Ali, Bjorn Borg, Ken Rosewall, Pele, Garrincha, Chris Evert, the great cricketers from yesteryear such as Sir Donald Bradman, Essex cricket club, Graham Gooch, John Edrich and Denis Amiss, Alan Knott, sadly and tragically George Best, Dixie Dean, Len Shackleton and Sir Stanley Matthews.
At the end of No Joe Bloggs there's a return to Ilford, Essex where I was brought up. Then there are the stunning shops and department stories that made Ilford such a warm and welcoming place to be brought up in. At the beginning of No Joe Bloggs I tried to catch the mood of Gants Hill, Gants Hill Tube railway station, the noises and sounds of the trains, the tourists who lit up and still light up London, the queues outside Madame Taussads, the Science Museum, the art galleries, the art movements and Aquarius the arts programme on a Sunday afternoon with Humphrey Barclay.
There are my memorable movies that I was very lucky to see as a child and teenager. There's my take on Saturday Night Fever, Grease, Fiddler on the Roof, Star Wars, Jungle Book and Bambi. No Joe Bloggs is I think an entertaining, funny, warmly nostalgic and very lyrical account of my perspective on life. I hope you'll find something that'll tickle your ribs and make you smile. There's loads of pop cullture from the 1960s and 70s, something that'll remind of where you were at your time of life. If you like your books that describe special events and moments in our lives then No Joe Bloggs is definitely the book for you.
If you'd like to read No Joe Bloggs my book is available at both Amazon, Waterstones online market place and Barnes and Noble online. To quote the legendary Barbara Streisand. Memories like the corner of my mind.
Sunday, 13 November 2016
Saturday, 12 November 2016
England against Scotland- much more than a football match.
World Cup qualifier, England beat Scotland.
Last night England beat Scotland in a World Cup qualifier 3-0 at Wembley Stadium. But this was far more than a football match. It was a huge collision of egos, a personal battle, a grudge match of the most acrimonious kind, a bloodthirsty dust up, a fiery, passionate contest, a historic sporting confrontation and the most fiercely competitive game in the whole world. There is an underlying current of bad feeling and childish animosity that borders on the outrageous. There is a spite, malice and pettiness that just beggars belief.
On an early November evening at Wembley, England in white shirts and red socks played a team in pink shirts. England, it has to be said, reminded you of Don Revie's incomparable Leeds United of the 1970s. True there were no Norman Hunters, Billy Bremners or Peter Lorimers on the pitch but at times the match did have a distinctly nostalgic feel about it.
Shortly before the match itself, Britain paid admirable homage to those soldiers who gave their life during the First and Second World War. It was a moving and solemn moment both impeccably observed and warmly acknowledged. Nobody, it seems, does tradition and formality better than England and for a few precious and poignant minutes Britain bowed its head reverentially and thought deeply. It was England doing things with style, class and a noble sense of occasion. At times it felt wonderfully nostalgic and splendidly appropriate.
Back on the pitch it all seemed quite peculiar. For decades and centuries the Scottish football team have always played in a dark navy colour that had somehow come to symbolise who Scotland are and where they've come from. It was the nation who turned up at the 1974 World Cup Finals as the team to fear and reckon. Willie Ormond was the manager and the country rallied behind them as never before. Scotland would win the World Cup with their eyes closed and their hands tied behind their backs. Scotland returned back to Britain after a brief tour of West Germany. They were not sun tanned but they all felt humiliated.
Then four years later Scotland put themselves through more agony and torture. Ally Macleod, a cheerful and perhaps misguided manager, buried his hands in his head when those famous world beaters Iran held Scotland to a 0-0 draw and were then thrashed by an infinitely superior and technically gifted Peru 3-1. Scotland were back home and the nation grieved. In every corner of England there was a chuckling, sniggering derision that had to be seen to be believed.
Now though the present day Scotland lined up for the latest instalment in pink. There can be no questioning or criticism of pink football shirts but at first sight it did look unusual I have to admit it did come as a shock to the system. In the Scotland technical area, manager Gordon Strachan performed a very convincing impersonation of Ally Macleod. When England's second and third goals went in, Strachan's face turned a grey shade of stone. He threw his note book away, glared at the ground in frustration and then, seemingly waved the white flag of surrender.
Strachan's playing days and credentials were faultless. At first Aberdeen and then, quite notably, Manchester United, Strachan was one of the most whole- hearted and committed midfield players in the country, He was tigerish in the tackle, wise and intelligent in his choice of passing and tireless in his pursuit of perfection. Strachan, was fearless, focussed and determined to leave his legacy on a game. He was a winner and never a quitter but at Wembley as Scotland manager the dynamics were different and the job description has so many demands and requirements that, for the moment at least, seem to be weighing Strachan down.
Still Strachan's face betrayed the anxieties of a man who looked as if he'd rather be the manager of Fiji or Thailand than the tartan hordes. Throughout the match last night Strachan kept fidgeting, swaying back and forward restlessly, smiling occasionally but then curling up into a ball as if slightly embarrassed at the match before him. He then rocked backwards and forwards like a man whose pre-match strategies had gone up in smoke. Poor Gordon looked at the ground and then when substitutions were made Strachan walked towards the edge of the pitch like a bank manager wishing his customers well. The suit, shirt and jacket were immaculate but the result was shabby and dishevelled, ragged and misshapen.
In past meetings with the Auld Enemy England and Scotland fixture had the familiar themes. There was the rivalry, tribalism, some would say nationalism, and feelings of so called superiority. Last night there was a raw and earthy feel about the game. Since the end of the Home Championship between both Scotland, Northern Ireland and Wales, England have rarely crossed swords and last night's re- acquaintance felt like passing strangers in the night.
So what about that past. Some of England's most recent encounters have often passed off without incident and thankfully free of the trouble that afflicted others. They were honest, hard, rugged and no- nonsense contest that broke most of the laws and on one horrendous occasion the match spilled over into a full scale riot.
In 1977 Don Revie's England met Scotland at Wembley. There had been nothing in the air to suggest that violence was about to erupt. At the end of the game Scotland bathed luxuriously in victory and their fans promptly created havoc. Scotland had beaten England 2-1 and this was the cue for wholesale hooliganism and the destruction of both the Wembley turf , the cross bar and posts. It was obscenely ugly and repugnant. The sight of broken crossbars and drunken Scots sends a dreadful shiver down the spine.
Ten years before Scotland emerged triumphant once again. In 1966 England delivered its finest hour with a World Cup Final victory over West Germany. Privately the Scots must have been seething with envy and in 1967 there was an air of glorious presumption. England would take Scotland to the cleaners and rub Scotland's noses in it. England would win by a cricket score. No problem whatsoever.
That year Scottish football had witnessed one of its greatest moments. The Scotland side of Gemmell and Murdoch had delightfully won the European Cup. Scottish football had a vintage quality about it and its short passing style had once again borne fruition. At the beginning of the 20th century Scotland loved to keep the ball and the possession game somehow defined them. And yet for one splendid afternoon in 1967 Scotland reminded England of the battle of Bannockburn and Culloden from many centuries distant. Victory for Scotland against England was sweeter than ever before.
Then there was the year of 1975. My team West Ham had one their second FA Cup for the first time since 1964 and England would meet Scotland at the old Wembley Stadium. It would prove one of the most satisfying and pleasant afternoons for any England supporter. England beat Scotland 5-1 emphatically and handsomely. England captain and stylish midfield player for QPR, scored with a thunderous drive from outside the area, Colin Bell, who used to run several marathons, chipped in and by the time the game had finished Scotland's heads were spinning.
Since then Scotland's players have often been more than the sum of its parts. There was the commanding Jim Baxter, the under-rated but hugely effective Asa Hartford, the magnificently charismatic Archie Gemmill, Peter Lorimer with that explosive shot, Billy Bremner, a tremendous battler, grafter and dedicated to the cause.
When last night's England- Scotland latest instalment had finished it was time for yet more sober reflection. England had won and won conclusively. During the first half it was all a bit messy, laboured and predictable. England it seemed, were probably suffering a hangover from the Sam Allardyce incident. In the second half England wrapped up victory nad Gareth Southgate the caretaker manager locked up the gates, put the broom away and looked forward to another day in the English sun. Noel Coward would have loved it.
Last night England beat Scotland in a World Cup qualifier 3-0 at Wembley Stadium. But this was far more than a football match. It was a huge collision of egos, a personal battle, a grudge match of the most acrimonious kind, a bloodthirsty dust up, a fiery, passionate contest, a historic sporting confrontation and the most fiercely competitive game in the whole world. There is an underlying current of bad feeling and childish animosity that borders on the outrageous. There is a spite, malice and pettiness that just beggars belief.
On an early November evening at Wembley, England in white shirts and red socks played a team in pink shirts. England, it has to be said, reminded you of Don Revie's incomparable Leeds United of the 1970s. True there were no Norman Hunters, Billy Bremners or Peter Lorimers on the pitch but at times the match did have a distinctly nostalgic feel about it.
Shortly before the match itself, Britain paid admirable homage to those soldiers who gave their life during the First and Second World War. It was a moving and solemn moment both impeccably observed and warmly acknowledged. Nobody, it seems, does tradition and formality better than England and for a few precious and poignant minutes Britain bowed its head reverentially and thought deeply. It was England doing things with style, class and a noble sense of occasion. At times it felt wonderfully nostalgic and splendidly appropriate.
Back on the pitch it all seemed quite peculiar. For decades and centuries the Scottish football team have always played in a dark navy colour that had somehow come to symbolise who Scotland are and where they've come from. It was the nation who turned up at the 1974 World Cup Finals as the team to fear and reckon. Willie Ormond was the manager and the country rallied behind them as never before. Scotland would win the World Cup with their eyes closed and their hands tied behind their backs. Scotland returned back to Britain after a brief tour of West Germany. They were not sun tanned but they all felt humiliated.
Then four years later Scotland put themselves through more agony and torture. Ally Macleod, a cheerful and perhaps misguided manager, buried his hands in his head when those famous world beaters Iran held Scotland to a 0-0 draw and were then thrashed by an infinitely superior and technically gifted Peru 3-1. Scotland were back home and the nation grieved. In every corner of England there was a chuckling, sniggering derision that had to be seen to be believed.
Now though the present day Scotland lined up for the latest instalment in pink. There can be no questioning or criticism of pink football shirts but at first sight it did look unusual I have to admit it did come as a shock to the system. In the Scotland technical area, manager Gordon Strachan performed a very convincing impersonation of Ally Macleod. When England's second and third goals went in, Strachan's face turned a grey shade of stone. He threw his note book away, glared at the ground in frustration and then, seemingly waved the white flag of surrender.
Strachan's playing days and credentials were faultless. At first Aberdeen and then, quite notably, Manchester United, Strachan was one of the most whole- hearted and committed midfield players in the country, He was tigerish in the tackle, wise and intelligent in his choice of passing and tireless in his pursuit of perfection. Strachan, was fearless, focussed and determined to leave his legacy on a game. He was a winner and never a quitter but at Wembley as Scotland manager the dynamics were different and the job description has so many demands and requirements that, for the moment at least, seem to be weighing Strachan down.
Still Strachan's face betrayed the anxieties of a man who looked as if he'd rather be the manager of Fiji or Thailand than the tartan hordes. Throughout the match last night Strachan kept fidgeting, swaying back and forward restlessly, smiling occasionally but then curling up into a ball as if slightly embarrassed at the match before him. He then rocked backwards and forwards like a man whose pre-match strategies had gone up in smoke. Poor Gordon looked at the ground and then when substitutions were made Strachan walked towards the edge of the pitch like a bank manager wishing his customers well. The suit, shirt and jacket were immaculate but the result was shabby and dishevelled, ragged and misshapen.
In past meetings with the Auld Enemy England and Scotland fixture had the familiar themes. There was the rivalry, tribalism, some would say nationalism, and feelings of so called superiority. Last night there was a raw and earthy feel about the game. Since the end of the Home Championship between both Scotland, Northern Ireland and Wales, England have rarely crossed swords and last night's re- acquaintance felt like passing strangers in the night.
So what about that past. Some of England's most recent encounters have often passed off without incident and thankfully free of the trouble that afflicted others. They were honest, hard, rugged and no- nonsense contest that broke most of the laws and on one horrendous occasion the match spilled over into a full scale riot.
In 1977 Don Revie's England met Scotland at Wembley. There had been nothing in the air to suggest that violence was about to erupt. At the end of the game Scotland bathed luxuriously in victory and their fans promptly created havoc. Scotland had beaten England 2-1 and this was the cue for wholesale hooliganism and the destruction of both the Wembley turf , the cross bar and posts. It was obscenely ugly and repugnant. The sight of broken crossbars and drunken Scots sends a dreadful shiver down the spine.
Ten years before Scotland emerged triumphant once again. In 1966 England delivered its finest hour with a World Cup Final victory over West Germany. Privately the Scots must have been seething with envy and in 1967 there was an air of glorious presumption. England would take Scotland to the cleaners and rub Scotland's noses in it. England would win by a cricket score. No problem whatsoever.
That year Scottish football had witnessed one of its greatest moments. The Scotland side of Gemmell and Murdoch had delightfully won the European Cup. Scottish football had a vintage quality about it and its short passing style had once again borne fruition. At the beginning of the 20th century Scotland loved to keep the ball and the possession game somehow defined them. And yet for one splendid afternoon in 1967 Scotland reminded England of the battle of Bannockburn and Culloden from many centuries distant. Victory for Scotland against England was sweeter than ever before.
Then there was the year of 1975. My team West Ham had one their second FA Cup for the first time since 1964 and England would meet Scotland at the old Wembley Stadium. It would prove one of the most satisfying and pleasant afternoons for any England supporter. England beat Scotland 5-1 emphatically and handsomely. England captain and stylish midfield player for QPR, scored with a thunderous drive from outside the area, Colin Bell, who used to run several marathons, chipped in and by the time the game had finished Scotland's heads were spinning.
Since then Scotland's players have often been more than the sum of its parts. There was the commanding Jim Baxter, the under-rated but hugely effective Asa Hartford, the magnificently charismatic Archie Gemmill, Peter Lorimer with that explosive shot, Billy Bremner, a tremendous battler, grafter and dedicated to the cause.
When last night's England- Scotland latest instalment had finished it was time for yet more sober reflection. England had won and won conclusively. During the first half it was all a bit messy, laboured and predictable. England it seemed, were probably suffering a hangover from the Sam Allardyce incident. In the second half England wrapped up victory nad Gareth Southgate the caretaker manager locked up the gates, put the broom away and looked forward to another day in the English sun. Noel Coward would have loved it.
Friday, 11 November 2016
What becomes of the Big Apple and the great American dream.
It's Donald and the nation scratches its head.
Oh dear. It hardly seems possible. Or maybe it's the dream ticket. Who knows? None of us can predict the future but the only certainty is that Donald Trump will become the 45th President of the United States of America. At the moment the country is either traumatised, relieved or just plain overjoyed. There can be no way of gauging the prevailing mood of one of the most powerful nations on earth. The rest of the world can only look on with stunned amazement.
When the votes were counted across Florida, Ohio, California, Los Angeles, Philadelphia, Texas, Detroit and most influentially Washington, it became abundantly clear that America were sick to the back teeth of the Establishment and just wanted clear blue water from the struggles and injustices they must have felt were strangling the country by the throat.
For a good number of years, they've seen their country run by the man who seemed to have the country's best interests at heart but only succeeded in falling very short when it mattered. Barak Obama was, by turns, criticised, attacked verbally, but rarely insulted. The fact was that Obama didn't quite meet up with the almost irrational expectations set by his people. True he did look good and the intentions were worthy but when he looks back at his time in office at the White House, he may think he could have gone that extra mile.
So now it's time for the Donald Trump era. The outrageous statements, the almost shameful admissions about his relationships and women in general, must have aroused so many concerns and suspicions that come January and his inauguration ceremony as President some of us may wonder what exactly is up his sleeve.
His complete lack of any political experience has been well documented and only time will tell whether Trump can produce any of the relevant cards at the right time and place. Here across the Atlantic in Blighty politicians and pundits have had their say but the jury will firmly remain out on a man whose huge vanity project has almost overshadowed events around the world.
There's the blond thatch of hair that looks like a direct descendant of Boris Johnson, a family that looks united but rarely comfortable in the limelight and a loyal set of advisers who may have their loyalties severely tested if things go wrong. Then there's the alarming body language; the extravagant body gestures, a suit that looks desperate to escape from Trump on more than one occasion and the 10 year old son who stood next to his father in a state of complete bewilderment and confusion.
Now America look to one of the richest men in the world to lead his country to its highest peak of economic prosperity since - well, since possibly records were first kept. It is hard to know what anybody thinks will happen next. It is hard for instance to imagine what George Washington would have made of the current American generation. But then who knew Bobby would come back to life in a shower in Dallas. America we salute you.
Oh dear. It hardly seems possible. Or maybe it's the dream ticket. Who knows? None of us can predict the future but the only certainty is that Donald Trump will become the 45th President of the United States of America. At the moment the country is either traumatised, relieved or just plain overjoyed. There can be no way of gauging the prevailing mood of one of the most powerful nations on earth. The rest of the world can only look on with stunned amazement.
When the votes were counted across Florida, Ohio, California, Los Angeles, Philadelphia, Texas, Detroit and most influentially Washington, it became abundantly clear that America were sick to the back teeth of the Establishment and just wanted clear blue water from the struggles and injustices they must have felt were strangling the country by the throat.
For a good number of years, they've seen their country run by the man who seemed to have the country's best interests at heart but only succeeded in falling very short when it mattered. Barak Obama was, by turns, criticised, attacked verbally, but rarely insulted. The fact was that Obama didn't quite meet up with the almost irrational expectations set by his people. True he did look good and the intentions were worthy but when he looks back at his time in office at the White House, he may think he could have gone that extra mile.
So now it's time for the Donald Trump era. The outrageous statements, the almost shameful admissions about his relationships and women in general, must have aroused so many concerns and suspicions that come January and his inauguration ceremony as President some of us may wonder what exactly is up his sleeve.
His complete lack of any political experience has been well documented and only time will tell whether Trump can produce any of the relevant cards at the right time and place. Here across the Atlantic in Blighty politicians and pundits have had their say but the jury will firmly remain out on a man whose huge vanity project has almost overshadowed events around the world.
There's the blond thatch of hair that looks like a direct descendant of Boris Johnson, a family that looks united but rarely comfortable in the limelight and a loyal set of advisers who may have their loyalties severely tested if things go wrong. Then there's the alarming body language; the extravagant body gestures, a suit that looks desperate to escape from Trump on more than one occasion and the 10 year old son who stood next to his father in a state of complete bewilderment and confusion.
Now America look to one of the richest men in the world to lead his country to its highest peak of economic prosperity since - well, since possibly records were first kept. It is hard to know what anybody thinks will happen next. It is hard for instance to imagine what George Washington would have made of the current American generation. But then who knew Bobby would come back to life in a shower in Dallas. America we salute you.
Wednesday, 9 November 2016
Andy Murray, tennis's world No 1
Andy Murray- a man with a mission and a man with a purpose.
It may have taken the best part of 75 years now but Andy Murray has done it for British tennis. By several country miles Murray is undoubtedly the greatest tennis player Britain has ever produced. In fact he's not only the greatest, he's almost the most down to earth, grounded and rooted tennis player Britain has ever given us. He is an outstanding sportsman, a superb exponent of his craft and surely one of the most single minded tennis players in the world.
But now Murray has reached number 1, numero uno, the summit, the pinnacle, the Olympian heights, the very definition of expertise, competence and sheer brilliance. He is by far the most impressive, pre- eminent, the hungriest, the most determined, the most dogged, the most capable and the most assured of all champions.
The news that Andy Murray is No.1 in the world rankings is hardly a surprise and perhaps entirely expected. In Britain we tend to assume that our sporting champions have to be warmly embraced because maybe they're not good enough. At times it almost seems as if England's World Cup victory in 1966 may come to be regarded as our only contribution to world and cultural history. If you search through any encyclopaedia you may find that tennis was never Britain's strongest point. You could say we were useless and incompetent but then again that sounds like an insult. The blunt truth is of course that we were just kidding ourselves that we could play tennis to any standard.
We know the facts and figures. Britain's last major and recognisable tennis stars were Bunny Austin and Fred Perry. Both Austin and Perry are now largely forgotten and relegated to some historical footnote. They belonged to an age of dapper gentlemen and elegant ladies, an age of honour and good posture, of the Charleston and Flappers. Austin and Perry played in long trousers, with impeccably combed hair and perfectly soft tennis hands. They had a fine bodily strength, a wonderful muscularity, a marvellous sense of style, faultless manners and charming courtliness. They had an air and presence and the most upright carriage. They also had guts, grit, daring and were bloody minded perfectionists.
Fast forward to 2016 and Andy Murray. Oh Andy. How we've prayed, hoped, yearned for and then desperately went down on our hands and knees. Please Andy Murray. Can you please end the 70 year old drought and please you could become the first men's singles Wimbledon champion since the dark ages and prehistoric dinosaurs. Is there any chance that you could march onto the Centre Court and just blow away all the opposition? Could you please blast all opposition at Wimbledon into the ground and win every match by straight sets in roughly half an hour. Not much to expect surely.
And yet until the Olympic year of London 2012 it all looked as if it would never come true. We kept fluffing our lines, stumbling on the Wimbledon tramlines, lunging at cross court volleys and ending up in a crumpled heap by the net. It all began to look very amateurish, cackhanded and humiliating. It was all very unrehearsed and painfully laborious. Maybe it was just unprofessional, careless and contrived. But then Andy Murray came along, like an angel from heaven, a paragon of virtue. And not before time too.
First he won his first Wimbledon and this year he's done it for the second time. Now how did that happen? That certainly wasn't in any script. British sportsmen and women just don't win on a frequent basis and maybe we've been spoilt. But Murray is different. In fact he's unique and special, a man who wakes up in the morning, flings open his blinds, sprints onto a tennis court in any part of the world with one over- riding objective on his mind, one target on his mind and one task. He wants to play tennis of the highest quality, the highest standard and then fire down ace after ace down the centre of the court with all the ferocious power of the finest tennis player in the world.
We are all familiar with the Murray journey by now. There were the seemingly impenetrable obstacles. They were in no particular order Rafal Nadal, Novak Djokovic and Roger Federer. All possessed grace, finesse and polish. They all studied the grammar and vocabulary of their sport. There were the delicate drop shots, the astonishing serves, the immaculately flighted lobs from all angles and the deceptively whipped forehands that were heavily loaded with power. But Murray took it all in his stride and picked off his rivals with all the leisurely ease of a butler serving drinks at a Victorian garden party.
Now Murray is at the peak of his profession, standing at the top of the tennis mountain with the flag proudly standing and a man with a notable page in the history books. Murray holds one of the most of distinguished positions in tennis history. He now wins the big tournaments at Wimbledon, the US Open, and all four points of the world compass. He trains vigorously and obsessively, he works at his game with meticulous attention to detail and he attacks his matches as if his life depended on it
And so it it is the No 1 crown sits snugly on Andy Murray's shoulders. No longer are Britain the meek, submissive and almost apologetic runners up in world sport. No longer are we those pitiful and remorseful characters who just accepted defeat. Britain are fighters, battle hardened warriors and all conquering characters who want to win and win because they think they deserve it.
Andy Murray perfectly embodies that will to win, that insatiable appetite, that fabulous winning mentality. Oh Andy Murray how the nation has pleaded for you to walk out of the shadows and turn our sporting fortunes on its head. How we've waited patiently and longingly and then thought that at the beginning of July we might have a hero to celebrate. Andy Murray has reached No.1 in the world's tennis rankings. The lad from Dunblane has lifted British tennis to the most elevated plane. It's time for British tennis to feel very good about itself, to indulge in self congratulation and pour itself a well deserved glass of wine. Cheers Andy.
It may have taken the best part of 75 years now but Andy Murray has done it for British tennis. By several country miles Murray is undoubtedly the greatest tennis player Britain has ever produced. In fact he's not only the greatest, he's almost the most down to earth, grounded and rooted tennis player Britain has ever given us. He is an outstanding sportsman, a superb exponent of his craft and surely one of the most single minded tennis players in the world.
But now Murray has reached number 1, numero uno, the summit, the pinnacle, the Olympian heights, the very definition of expertise, competence and sheer brilliance. He is by far the most impressive, pre- eminent, the hungriest, the most determined, the most dogged, the most capable and the most assured of all champions.
The news that Andy Murray is No.1 in the world rankings is hardly a surprise and perhaps entirely expected. In Britain we tend to assume that our sporting champions have to be warmly embraced because maybe they're not good enough. At times it almost seems as if England's World Cup victory in 1966 may come to be regarded as our only contribution to world and cultural history. If you search through any encyclopaedia you may find that tennis was never Britain's strongest point. You could say we were useless and incompetent but then again that sounds like an insult. The blunt truth is of course that we were just kidding ourselves that we could play tennis to any standard.
We know the facts and figures. Britain's last major and recognisable tennis stars were Bunny Austin and Fred Perry. Both Austin and Perry are now largely forgotten and relegated to some historical footnote. They belonged to an age of dapper gentlemen and elegant ladies, an age of honour and good posture, of the Charleston and Flappers. Austin and Perry played in long trousers, with impeccably combed hair and perfectly soft tennis hands. They had a fine bodily strength, a wonderful muscularity, a marvellous sense of style, faultless manners and charming courtliness. They had an air and presence and the most upright carriage. They also had guts, grit, daring and were bloody minded perfectionists.
Fast forward to 2016 and Andy Murray. Oh Andy. How we've prayed, hoped, yearned for and then desperately went down on our hands and knees. Please Andy Murray. Can you please end the 70 year old drought and please you could become the first men's singles Wimbledon champion since the dark ages and prehistoric dinosaurs. Is there any chance that you could march onto the Centre Court and just blow away all the opposition? Could you please blast all opposition at Wimbledon into the ground and win every match by straight sets in roughly half an hour. Not much to expect surely.
And yet until the Olympic year of London 2012 it all looked as if it would never come true. We kept fluffing our lines, stumbling on the Wimbledon tramlines, lunging at cross court volleys and ending up in a crumpled heap by the net. It all began to look very amateurish, cackhanded and humiliating. It was all very unrehearsed and painfully laborious. Maybe it was just unprofessional, careless and contrived. But then Andy Murray came along, like an angel from heaven, a paragon of virtue. And not before time too.
First he won his first Wimbledon and this year he's done it for the second time. Now how did that happen? That certainly wasn't in any script. British sportsmen and women just don't win on a frequent basis and maybe we've been spoilt. But Murray is different. In fact he's unique and special, a man who wakes up in the morning, flings open his blinds, sprints onto a tennis court in any part of the world with one over- riding objective on his mind, one target on his mind and one task. He wants to play tennis of the highest quality, the highest standard and then fire down ace after ace down the centre of the court with all the ferocious power of the finest tennis player in the world.
We are all familiar with the Murray journey by now. There were the seemingly impenetrable obstacles. They were in no particular order Rafal Nadal, Novak Djokovic and Roger Federer. All possessed grace, finesse and polish. They all studied the grammar and vocabulary of their sport. There were the delicate drop shots, the astonishing serves, the immaculately flighted lobs from all angles and the deceptively whipped forehands that were heavily loaded with power. But Murray took it all in his stride and picked off his rivals with all the leisurely ease of a butler serving drinks at a Victorian garden party.
Now Murray is at the peak of his profession, standing at the top of the tennis mountain with the flag proudly standing and a man with a notable page in the history books. Murray holds one of the most of distinguished positions in tennis history. He now wins the big tournaments at Wimbledon, the US Open, and all four points of the world compass. He trains vigorously and obsessively, he works at his game with meticulous attention to detail and he attacks his matches as if his life depended on it
And so it it is the No 1 crown sits snugly on Andy Murray's shoulders. No longer are Britain the meek, submissive and almost apologetic runners up in world sport. No longer are we those pitiful and remorseful characters who just accepted defeat. Britain are fighters, battle hardened warriors and all conquering characters who want to win and win because they think they deserve it.
Andy Murray perfectly embodies that will to win, that insatiable appetite, that fabulous winning mentality. Oh Andy Murray how the nation has pleaded for you to walk out of the shadows and turn our sporting fortunes on its head. How we've waited patiently and longingly and then thought that at the beginning of July we might have a hero to celebrate. Andy Murray has reached No.1 in the world's tennis rankings. The lad from Dunblane has lifted British tennis to the most elevated plane. It's time for British tennis to feel very good about itself, to indulge in self congratulation and pour itself a well deserved glass of wine. Cheers Andy.
Monday, 7 November 2016
One day before America vote for the next President of the United States. Hilary or Donald. It just seems like a puzzle rather than an Presidential election.
The Hilary and Donald show- one day to go and a nation awaits with bated breath.
It is increasingly more difficult to find anything nice to say about Hilary and Donald. You remember Hilary and Donald. They're the couple who suddenly came into our life when the European Union discussion slipped off the front pages and into the dusty archives. Hilary and Donald live in our neighbourhood or maybe they're just noisy neighbours who deliberately turn up the music just to annoy us and then have a barbecue in the middle of winter.
What more is there to say about Hilary and Don? At frequent points during this whole horrible fiasco Hilary and Don have come very close to killing each other. You get the impression that if somebody gave them a gun, rifle, flintlock or blunderbuss they would quite happily blow each other's brains out. .There has been hatred, loathing, resentment and hostility and that was only on one warm afternoon in the middle of August. Feelings are running dangerously high and it could turn into a bloodbath. It is hard to know why American politics has descended to the levels of the gutter but there's one day to go before the Americans vote for their next President and some of America is just closing its eyes.
It is tempting to think that most of the nation would rather vote for Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck or David Letterman as the next President rather than Hilary and Don. They could hardly do any worse so the consensus goes. It's at times like this when America romantically harks back to those good old days of Ronald Regan when the Americans fell deeply in love with the former matinee film star with the handsome looks.
It is now that the Americans must think back wistfully to those hazy, crazy days when George Burns and Gracie Allen represented everything that was gentle and apple pie about America. George would light up his 85th cigar and then whisper sweet nothings into Gracie's ear. Burns and Allen gave the Americans re-assurance and stability, a message of hope rather than pessimism.
Which is probably where Hilary and Don came in. Tomorrow the entire population of the USA step out of their homes and decide who their choice of next President will be. In a sense it is perhaps the worst choice the country will ever face. In front of the Americans lies a contest that can hardly be called one. Here are two people who have such sharply divided opinions on anything and everything that perhaps the whole thing should be called off and postponed until two credible and plausible candidates can be found. Much rather this than two characters who, in the eyes of many, look as though they've been chosen from the Adams family.
But.for better or probably worse this is the predicament America may find itself in. Do they just pretend that this just a dream, an illusion or some horrendous nightmare that may just go away and never come back or do they roll the dice and see what happens? Of course the Americans have known disasters and setbacks. Now though is the day of Judgment and perhaps this is the moment that will get progressively better. At the time the Wall Street crash and the Great Depression may have been regarded as America's darkest days but even then the country pulled together and dug deep into its strength of character bouncing back from adversity. 9/11 still seems like the worst tragedy the country has ever known but the whole of America drew admirably on their celebrated resilience. Sure it was tough and hard and tearful but the US united in a way that hardly seems possible. They did though and how good that must have felt.
Over the years, decades and centuries America has had so much to boast about: boldness, vision, ambition, determination to be the best, utter flamboyance, five star comedians, actors, actresses, singers, songwriters, skyscrapers, bewildering speed and frantic hullabaloo. America never stops to take breath, even to pause for a single moment. It has visibility, prominence, stubbornness, overflowing exuberance, a natural flair for self promotion, huge hotels the size of the country, the outspoken and argumentative and those who just want to shout out their views with a considerable voice.
Now though America has a different kind of problem. How to solve a dilemma like Hilary and Don?. Where did they come from and how did they get here in the first place. Donald stands proudly on his stage rather like one of those rabid, rampant trade unionists Britain used to have. Donald rants and raves at the top of his voice and keeps using that silly gesture with his fingers. He sounds like one of those fanatical speakers more usually associated with Speakers Corner. The speech keeps getting louder and more incomprehensible by the second with nothing rational in between.
It's hard to tell whether Donald Trump fully grasps the fundamentals of world politics. Perhaps beneath all the bluster and bravado there is indeed a calm inner voice of sanity. When he finally decides to get off his rather sizable soap box perhaps there does lie sanity. But for all his impassioned words about nothing in particular the feeling persists that poor Donald may just be heading for the last train to Clarksville. Nobody can be sure how a man with such worryingly extremist opinions could possibly fancy himself as the next President.
So what about Hilary Clinton? What about Hilary Clinton. On the last day before America votes in its next commander in chief, Hilary is trying desperately to keep a straight face. Even Hilary can hardly believe how close she is to becoming the next President of the United States. Yes Hilary it is true, Donald Trump is your rival and this is not some big budget Hollywood film. And yet Hilary is beginning to bite her fingernails because Donald is trying to find some dirty material on your past.
According to the latest newswires, Donald is really doing his utmost to dig up scandal after scandal. Donald believes that even if he loses the race to the White House he'll still take to her court and generally make life hell for her. The problem is that Hilary isn't quiet as whiter than white as she seems. She's being totally dishonest, secretive, sneaky and perhaps dabbling in the supernatural. Hilary, according to Donald is selling America short, breaking all the rules, stealing documents and betraying the country. In other words Hilary should just stand aside and let good old Donald sink his teeth into the job of President of the United States with as much conviction as he can. It all looks like a recipe for the most monumental disaster that America has ever endured.
And there was I thinking that America was the country that once gave us The Virginians, Peyton Place, Bonanza, Mark Spitz, Jessie Owens, Ed Sullivan, Johnny Carson, New York, Florida, California, Hollywood and Clint Eastwood. America will always have that devil may care dynamism and unquestionable focus. But tomorrow the country has to decide whether it's Hilary Clinton, the suave and confident wife of ex President Bill or a man who would allegedly sell you a rusty Cadillac without so much as a second thought. It is at times like this when you think back to those golden days of George Burns and Gracie Allen. America must be praying for good days ahead rather than the slapstick comedy it may get.
It is increasingly more difficult to find anything nice to say about Hilary and Donald. You remember Hilary and Donald. They're the couple who suddenly came into our life when the European Union discussion slipped off the front pages and into the dusty archives. Hilary and Donald live in our neighbourhood or maybe they're just noisy neighbours who deliberately turn up the music just to annoy us and then have a barbecue in the middle of winter.
What more is there to say about Hilary and Don? At frequent points during this whole horrible fiasco Hilary and Don have come very close to killing each other. You get the impression that if somebody gave them a gun, rifle, flintlock or blunderbuss they would quite happily blow each other's brains out. .There has been hatred, loathing, resentment and hostility and that was only on one warm afternoon in the middle of August. Feelings are running dangerously high and it could turn into a bloodbath. It is hard to know why American politics has descended to the levels of the gutter but there's one day to go before the Americans vote for their next President and some of America is just closing its eyes.
It is tempting to think that most of the nation would rather vote for Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck or David Letterman as the next President rather than Hilary and Don. They could hardly do any worse so the consensus goes. It's at times like this when America romantically harks back to those good old days of Ronald Regan when the Americans fell deeply in love with the former matinee film star with the handsome looks.
It is now that the Americans must think back wistfully to those hazy, crazy days when George Burns and Gracie Allen represented everything that was gentle and apple pie about America. George would light up his 85th cigar and then whisper sweet nothings into Gracie's ear. Burns and Allen gave the Americans re-assurance and stability, a message of hope rather than pessimism.
Which is probably where Hilary and Don came in. Tomorrow the entire population of the USA step out of their homes and decide who their choice of next President will be. In a sense it is perhaps the worst choice the country will ever face. In front of the Americans lies a contest that can hardly be called one. Here are two people who have such sharply divided opinions on anything and everything that perhaps the whole thing should be called off and postponed until two credible and plausible candidates can be found. Much rather this than two characters who, in the eyes of many, look as though they've been chosen from the Adams family.
But.for better or probably worse this is the predicament America may find itself in. Do they just pretend that this just a dream, an illusion or some horrendous nightmare that may just go away and never come back or do they roll the dice and see what happens? Of course the Americans have known disasters and setbacks. Now though is the day of Judgment and perhaps this is the moment that will get progressively better. At the time the Wall Street crash and the Great Depression may have been regarded as America's darkest days but even then the country pulled together and dug deep into its strength of character bouncing back from adversity. 9/11 still seems like the worst tragedy the country has ever known but the whole of America drew admirably on their celebrated resilience. Sure it was tough and hard and tearful but the US united in a way that hardly seems possible. They did though and how good that must have felt.
Over the years, decades and centuries America has had so much to boast about: boldness, vision, ambition, determination to be the best, utter flamboyance, five star comedians, actors, actresses, singers, songwriters, skyscrapers, bewildering speed and frantic hullabaloo. America never stops to take breath, even to pause for a single moment. It has visibility, prominence, stubbornness, overflowing exuberance, a natural flair for self promotion, huge hotels the size of the country, the outspoken and argumentative and those who just want to shout out their views with a considerable voice.
Now though America has a different kind of problem. How to solve a dilemma like Hilary and Don?. Where did they come from and how did they get here in the first place. Donald stands proudly on his stage rather like one of those rabid, rampant trade unionists Britain used to have. Donald rants and raves at the top of his voice and keeps using that silly gesture with his fingers. He sounds like one of those fanatical speakers more usually associated with Speakers Corner. The speech keeps getting louder and more incomprehensible by the second with nothing rational in between.
It's hard to tell whether Donald Trump fully grasps the fundamentals of world politics. Perhaps beneath all the bluster and bravado there is indeed a calm inner voice of sanity. When he finally decides to get off his rather sizable soap box perhaps there does lie sanity. But for all his impassioned words about nothing in particular the feeling persists that poor Donald may just be heading for the last train to Clarksville. Nobody can be sure how a man with such worryingly extremist opinions could possibly fancy himself as the next President.
So what about Hilary Clinton? What about Hilary Clinton. On the last day before America votes in its next commander in chief, Hilary is trying desperately to keep a straight face. Even Hilary can hardly believe how close she is to becoming the next President of the United States. Yes Hilary it is true, Donald Trump is your rival and this is not some big budget Hollywood film. And yet Hilary is beginning to bite her fingernails because Donald is trying to find some dirty material on your past.
According to the latest newswires, Donald is really doing his utmost to dig up scandal after scandal. Donald believes that even if he loses the race to the White House he'll still take to her court and generally make life hell for her. The problem is that Hilary isn't quiet as whiter than white as she seems. She's being totally dishonest, secretive, sneaky and perhaps dabbling in the supernatural. Hilary, according to Donald is selling America short, breaking all the rules, stealing documents and betraying the country. In other words Hilary should just stand aside and let good old Donald sink his teeth into the job of President of the United States with as much conviction as he can. It all looks like a recipe for the most monumental disaster that America has ever endured.
And there was I thinking that America was the country that once gave us The Virginians, Peyton Place, Bonanza, Mark Spitz, Jessie Owens, Ed Sullivan, Johnny Carson, New York, Florida, California, Hollywood and Clint Eastwood. America will always have that devil may care dynamism and unquestionable focus. But tomorrow the country has to decide whether it's Hilary Clinton, the suave and confident wife of ex President Bill or a man who would allegedly sell you a rusty Cadillac without so much as a second thought. It is at times like this when you think back to those golden days of George Burns and Gracie Allen. America must be praying for good days ahead rather than the slapstick comedy it may get.
Saturday, 5 November 2016
The FA Cup - certainly England's finest treasur
Anyway here we are on Guy Fawkes night, a night of noisy fireworks and gorgeous colours in the early evening darkening skies. It remains one of Britain's most enduring spectacles and one of its most boisterous of all traditions. Families, and particularly, children gather together in eager expectation of bangers, sparklers, catherine wheels and a remarkable sight. It is a yearly event which never ceases to either amaze and astonish, a visual feast to suit all tastes.In many years football and fireworks are just as explosive as each other.
It's the beginning of the FA Cup, English football's most cherished of all prizes. It's a chilly November night, the bonfires are crackling and the smell of Guy Fawkes is richly evocative of Novembers gone by. The FA Cup has now reached the first round, the beginning of the sentence, the start of a new chapter, a non League club fantasy, an exciting adventure into the unknown for Westfields, Harrow Borough, Eeastleigh and that team who play down the road from Uncle Sid.
The FA Cup is all about the dreamers, the fantasists, perhaps the delusional and a competition that, realistically can only be won by those who live in the grandest of stately homes. The FA Cup pits the aristocracy against the working class proletariat. Suddenly the arrival of the FA Cup matches up the have against the have nots, the rich against the humble. and the monied against those with the most threadbare budgets.
In recent years the burnished gold of the FA Cup has been unforgivably devalued by those who refuse to take the competition seriously. It is now more stainless steel rather than the precious diamond it used to be. The FA Cup is still the most thrilling, roller coaster, helter skelter competition that continues to provide the most captivatingly intriguing hold on our emotions.
At the old Wembley Stadium the FA Cup was the loveliest, most democratic and memorable of all sporting days. The FA Cup, in the historic past tense, used to kick off at 3pm, The FA Cup used to dominate the TV schedules on both BBC and ITV because there was little of any significance or value on the other channels. The alternatives were few or far between.
There was the annual build up to the Cup Final with both teams followed almost devotedly from early morning breakfast until that magical afternoon when both the players and managers strolled around the old Wembley Stadium rather like visitors at a Royal Garden Party. Then there was the magic, excitement, the drama and melodrama which gripped hundreds and thousands of both the most impartial, partisan or objective.
Contrary to popular belief. the FA Cup is not the epitome of romance. It is not a romantic adventure because there can be no love interest or marriage proposals. Nor are there are any palpitating hearts and a Parisian rendezvous in the heart of the Champs Elysses. There are no candle lit dinners, holding of tender hands nor are there any sentimental violins or passionate alliances on the Danube.
The FA Cup is not a smouldering Mills and Boon book nor is it a splendid paragraph from a Jane Austen or Charlotte Bronte classic. Of course there are raging passions and tempestuous tear jerkers but there are no Pride and Prejudice moments or Mr Darcy in all his splendour. There are no bottles of champagnes. mouth watering boxes of chocolates nor are there any references to Valentines Day.
Put simply the FA Cup is about those glorious memories. It is about non League Yeovil conquering all of the odds against the powerful giants of Sunderland, then a post wartime force in the old First Division. Yeovil bathed in the most luminous of all FA Cup glories that distant afternoon and the smile on Yeovil manager Alec Stock could not be removed.
The FA Cup was that special afternoon when Sunderland almost seemed to gain some measure of revenge for the disaster that had taken place over 30 years before. When the final whistle went for the 1973 FA Cup Final Sunderland, of the old Second Division had beaten, quite heroically, the great Leeds United side of Lorimer, Bremner, Giles, Jones and the normally lethal Alan Clarke were bowed and well and truly beaten. Ian Porterfield, trapping the ball beautifully on his knee, then proceeded to hook home the only winning goal with his devastating feet. Bob Stokoe, that most extrovert of managers, charged onto the Wembley turf and embraced his players in a flurry of coats and hats.
So it is that we settle down on this most colourful nights. The FA Cup has set out on the first leg of its joyous journey, children all over the world will watch their fascinating show of fire and brimstone and Guy Fawkes will join forces with the FA Cup. Somehow they were meant for each other.
Anyway here we are on Guy Fawkes night, a night of noisy fireworks and gorgeous colours in the early evening darkening skies. It remains one of Britain's most enduring spectacles and one of its most boisterous of all traditions. Families, and particularly, children gather together in eager expectation of bangers, sparklers, catherine wheels and a remarkable sight. It is a yearly event which never ceases to either amaze and astonish, a visual feast to suit all tastes.In many years football and fireworks are just as explosive as each other.
It's the beginning of the FA Cup, English football's most cherished of all prizes. It's a chilly November night, the bonfires are crackling and the smell of Guy Fawkes is richly evocative of Novembers gone by. The FA Cup has now reached the first round, the beginning of the sentence, the start of a new chapter, a non League club fantasy, an exciting adventure into the unknown for Westfields, Harrow Borough, Eeastleigh and that team who play down the road from Uncle Sid.
The FA Cup is all about the dreamers, the fantasists, perhaps the delusional and a competition that, realistically can only be won by those who live in the grandest of stately homes. The FA Cup pits the aristocracy against the working class proletariat. Suddenly the arrival of the FA Cup matches up the have against the have nots, the rich against the humble. and the monied against those with the most threadbare budgets.
In recent years the burnished gold of the FA Cup has been unforgivably devalued by those who refuse to take the competition seriously. It is now more stainless steel rather than the precious diamond it used to be. The FA Cup is still the most thrilling, roller coaster, helter skelter competition that continues to provide the most captivatingly intriguing hold on our emotions.
At the old Wembley Stadium the FA Cup was the loveliest, most democratic and memorable of all sporting days. The FA Cup, in the historic past tense, used to kick off at 3pm, The FA Cup used to dominate the TV schedules on both BBC and ITV because there was little of any significance or value on the other channels. The alternatives were few or far between.
There was the annual build up to the Cup Final with both teams followed almost devotedly from early morning breakfast until that magical afternoon when both the players and managers strolled around the old Wembley Stadium rather like visitors at a Royal Garden Party. Then there was the magic, excitement, the drama and melodrama which gripped hundreds and thousands of both the most impartial, partisan or objective.
Contrary to popular belief. the FA Cup is not the epitome of romance. It is not a romantic adventure because there can be no love interest or marriage proposals. Nor are there are any palpitating hearts and a Parisian rendezvous in the heart of the Champs Elysses. There are no candle lit dinners, holding of tender hands nor are there any sentimental violins or passionate alliances on the Danube.
The FA Cup is not a smouldering Mills and Boon book nor is it a splendid paragraph from a Jane Austen or Charlotte Bronte classic. Of course there are raging passions and tempestuous tear jerkers but there are no Pride and Prejudice moments or Mr Darcy in all his splendour. There are no bottles of champagnes. mouth watering boxes of chocolates nor are there any references to Valentines Day.
Put simply the FA Cup is about those glorious memories. It is about non League Yeovil conquering all of the odds against the powerful giants of Sunderland, then a post wartime force in the old First Division. Yeovil bathed in the most luminous of all FA Cup glories that distant afternoon and the smile on Yeovil manager Alec Stock could not be removed.
The FA Cup was that special afternoon when Sunderland almost seemed to gain some measure of revenge for the disaster that had taken place over 30 years before. When the final whistle went for the 1973 FA Cup Final Sunderland, of the old Second Division had beaten, quite heroically, the great Leeds United side of Lorimer, Bremner, Giles, Jones and the normally lethal Alan Clarke were bowed and well and truly beaten. Ian Porterfield, trapping the ball beautifully on his knee, then proceeded to hook home the only winning goal with his devastating feet. Bob Stokoe, that most extrovert of managers, charged onto the Wembley turf and embraced his players in a flurry of coats and hats.
So it is that we settle down on this most colourful nights. The FA Cup has set out on the first leg of its joyous journey, children all over the world will watch their fascinating show of fire and brimstone and Guy Fawkes will join forces with the FA Cup. Somehow they were meant for each other.
Wednesday, 2 November 2016
It's very quiet around here.
Now is the season of mellow mists and fruitfulness. The parks and gardens suddenly look very yellow and forlorn. The bushes and trees have gradually lost their familiar clothing of leaves and greenery and around here all of the wildlife has now, whether for better or worse, flown off to warmer or even colder shores.
The kingfishers and herons have sadly departed for different climates. They are shrewd and forward thinking birds because here in the leafy suburbs of London, the temperature, albeit very gradually and gracefully, is beginning to drop. But the fact is that the the vaguely drawn outlines of winter are much clearer than they were in the middle of September and the beginning of October.
During the summer there was a sharp and blue clarity to life. The birds dance across the sky in majestic and united formation. It was rather like watching a beautiful curtain, silky drapes swaying across the sky before diving headlong onto chimney tops. Then they seem to scratch themselves for the briefest of moments before posing and preening themselves unashamedly.
Autumn has settled in for the duration and the early morning frosts are sharp. This autumn is perhaps one of the warmest in years. You take your rubbish out to the bin and you're suddenly joined by large communities of grey squirrels. Now squirrels are our almost permanent residents and they'll do anything for an early morning breakfast. Squirrels follow you throughout the year with a relentless persistence and one day they'll pick a different neighbourhood.
Still there isn't a great deal you can do about squirrels. This is not to say that they're annoying or intrusive but they will kip in our bins. I'm not sure whether they'll find anything in there. It seems to me that our bin has become their very own Premier Inn. But there are so many things missing and all of the essential facilities are missing. It's a wonder that squirrels don't catch pneumonia. How on earth do they keep warm at night? They're delightful creatures and maybe they think they deserve something better than a pile of rotting human rubbish and broken boxes. Still it doesn't seem to bother them at all so it's best to leave things as they are.
For instance there are no beds, bedsheets, mattresses and comfortable pillows in the bin. There are a distinct lack of toothbrushes, nothing that even remotely resembles a pillow and no crisp bed sheets whatsover. What does a squirrel do when he can no longer rely on the blissful sanctuary of a warm and cosy bed? It seems that a huge bin of rubbish does nothing to deter a squirrel from getting its head down at night.
But day after day the grey squirrels pop their heads out of the bin to greet me. In no time at all they just sprint away from the bin rather like Usain Bolt in training. They move with spectacular speed and swiftly vanish into the undergrowth, briefly petrified but then comforted by the knowledge that their day can only get better.
These squirrels are very daring creatures without fear and completely lacking in shame. They fix you with the most inquisitive stares before rising up, nibbling adorably on a nut or two and then disappearing again. Nobody knows what squirrels do during the day nor their neighbouring rivals who call themselves foxes.
Now foxes are occasional animals who sporadically appear at the bottom of our communal garden with an almost brazen chutzpah. Rather like the squirrels they must have their day mapped out for them. When you do see them it does come as a pleasant surprise because nobody sends them an invitation into our garden. They just prowl very carefully and stealthily through the bushes rather like cunning burglars and last summer one very audacious brown fox came right up to me in our communal garden with nothing in the way of a formal announcement or introduction.
I was happily reading a book and suddenly it was there, bold as brass. For a moment I was stunned and gripped by a slight uneasiness. But this little fox or vixen came strolling and swaggering its way into my sight without a hint of self consciousness. Wide eyed and perhaps bemused, it behaved with all the decorum and discretion you'd expect of a fox. Or maybe it was just keeping its emotions to itself. It was hard to tell and my anxieties were allayed when the fox made a quick exit. In the blink of an eye it was off to lunch at the Savoy. Perhaps.
Throughout the years the wildlife in London is something we probably take for granted but whether they be fox, squirrel, or pigeon they do provide us with a fascinating backdrop to our lives. Oh yes I mustn't forget the pigeons because they stubbornly refuse to give up on their fruitless quest for food. You get the feeling that pigeons just live for their daily intake of grub and will do everything they can to find anything they can to scoff their faces with. Maybe they think they'll find a works canteen down here with a choice of toast, cereal and eggs benedict. Maybe they think they're going to be served by polite waiters in smart uniforms. But your admiration for the pigeon is heightened by the minute as they strut around our local bakeries with an almost ridiculous presumptuousness. Generally though there is very little though in the way of an incentive so they may have to look elsewhere for their sustenance.
There are times though when the pigeons around here get exactly what they're looking for. On more than one occasion whole families of pigeons gather around in well organised groups. There is a deliberate strategy and calculation about their body language. They seem to huddle around each other expectantly rather like Premier League footballers before a game. Then they just dive headlong into a rugby style ruck for huge loaves of bread. They eat huge loaves of bread with all the desperation of the desperate, pecking, grabbing, pinching, stealing, dragging and then engaging in a huge bust up when their appetites have yet to be satisfied.
And now the dark winter evenings become earlier and earlier and the wildlife around here is alive and well, functioning as actively as it always has. Those kingfishers and herons can smell breakfast again. Could somebody pass the marmalade please.
Now is the season of mellow mists and fruitfulness. The parks and gardens suddenly look very yellow and forlorn. The bushes and trees have gradually lost their familiar clothing of leaves and greenery and around here all of the wildlife has now, whether for better or worse, flown off to warmer or even colder shores.
The kingfishers and herons have sadly departed for different climates. They are shrewd and forward thinking birds because here in the leafy suburbs of London, the temperature, albeit very gradually and gracefully, is beginning to drop. But the fact is that the the vaguely drawn outlines of winter are much clearer than they were in the middle of September and the beginning of October.
During the summer there was a sharp and blue clarity to life. The birds dance across the sky in majestic and united formation. It was rather like watching a beautiful curtain, silky drapes swaying across the sky before diving headlong onto chimney tops. Then they seem to scratch themselves for the briefest of moments before posing and preening themselves unashamedly.
Autumn has settled in for the duration and the early morning frosts are sharp. This autumn is perhaps one of the warmest in years. You take your rubbish out to the bin and you're suddenly joined by large communities of grey squirrels. Now squirrels are our almost permanent residents and they'll do anything for an early morning breakfast. Squirrels follow you throughout the year with a relentless persistence and one day they'll pick a different neighbourhood.
Still there isn't a great deal you can do about squirrels. This is not to say that they're annoying or intrusive but they will kip in our bins. I'm not sure whether they'll find anything in there. It seems to me that our bin has become their very own Premier Inn. But there are so many things missing and all of the essential facilities are missing. It's a wonder that squirrels don't catch pneumonia. How on earth do they keep warm at night? They're delightful creatures and maybe they think they deserve something better than a pile of rotting human rubbish and broken boxes. Still it doesn't seem to bother them at all so it's best to leave things as they are.
For instance there are no beds, bedsheets, mattresses and comfortable pillows in the bin. There are a distinct lack of toothbrushes, nothing that even remotely resembles a pillow and no crisp bed sheets whatsover. What does a squirrel do when he can no longer rely on the blissful sanctuary of a warm and cosy bed? It seems that a huge bin of rubbish does nothing to deter a squirrel from getting its head down at night.
But day after day the grey squirrels pop their heads out of the bin to greet me. In no time at all they just sprint away from the bin rather like Usain Bolt in training. They move with spectacular speed and swiftly vanish into the undergrowth, briefly petrified but then comforted by the knowledge that their day can only get better.
These squirrels are very daring creatures without fear and completely lacking in shame. They fix you with the most inquisitive stares before rising up, nibbling adorably on a nut or two and then disappearing again. Nobody knows what squirrels do during the day nor their neighbouring rivals who call themselves foxes.
Now foxes are occasional animals who sporadically appear at the bottom of our communal garden with an almost brazen chutzpah. Rather like the squirrels they must have their day mapped out for them. When you do see them it does come as a pleasant surprise because nobody sends them an invitation into our garden. They just prowl very carefully and stealthily through the bushes rather like cunning burglars and last summer one very audacious brown fox came right up to me in our communal garden with nothing in the way of a formal announcement or introduction.
I was happily reading a book and suddenly it was there, bold as brass. For a moment I was stunned and gripped by a slight uneasiness. But this little fox or vixen came strolling and swaggering its way into my sight without a hint of self consciousness. Wide eyed and perhaps bemused, it behaved with all the decorum and discretion you'd expect of a fox. Or maybe it was just keeping its emotions to itself. It was hard to tell and my anxieties were allayed when the fox made a quick exit. In the blink of an eye it was off to lunch at the Savoy. Perhaps.
Throughout the years the wildlife in London is something we probably take for granted but whether they be fox, squirrel, or pigeon they do provide us with a fascinating backdrop to our lives. Oh yes I mustn't forget the pigeons because they stubbornly refuse to give up on their fruitless quest for food. You get the feeling that pigeons just live for their daily intake of grub and will do everything they can to find anything they can to scoff their faces with. Maybe they think they'll find a works canteen down here with a choice of toast, cereal and eggs benedict. Maybe they think they're going to be served by polite waiters in smart uniforms. But your admiration for the pigeon is heightened by the minute as they strut around our local bakeries with an almost ridiculous presumptuousness. Generally though there is very little though in the way of an incentive so they may have to look elsewhere for their sustenance.
There are times though when the pigeons around here get exactly what they're looking for. On more than one occasion whole families of pigeons gather around in well organised groups. There is a deliberate strategy and calculation about their body language. They seem to huddle around each other expectantly rather like Premier League footballers before a game. Then they just dive headlong into a rugby style ruck for huge loaves of bread. They eat huge loaves of bread with all the desperation of the desperate, pecking, grabbing, pinching, stealing, dragging and then engaging in a huge bust up when their appetites have yet to be satisfied.
And now the dark winter evenings become earlier and earlier and the wildlife around here is alive and well, functioning as actively as it always has. Those kingfishers and herons can smell breakfast again. Could somebody pass the marmalade please.
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