Christmas Eve- it's almost time to party.
Now let me see. Have we got everything? It's that final day before the world stops spinning, cars, buses, lorries and vans briefly disappear from our roads and all you can hear is the rustling of Christmas wrapping paper, turkeys gently simmering in ovens and Uncle Jim snoring for England. Around Uncle Jim the kids are running around your home and people are dashing in and out of their homes with an almost gleeful absent mindedness. Where are we going? Have we forgotten the keys? Oh no I forgot to get the carrots and I must get Uncle Jim a woolly hat in the sales. No time to lose. Surely it can't get any better and yet it will and probably has by now.
There is a kind of delayed ecstasy about Christmas Eve, a suspension of belief, a sense of high voltage anticipation, a harum scarum urgency, a feeling that the hours and days during the day and night are never enough to think of everything before Christmas Day. There are 365 days in the year and yet in that last week or so we begin to believe that the worst case scenario will take place if we don't do everything at once. What would happen if all the shops suddenly decided to close at lunch? Of course there wouldn't be a state of emergency and of course the world wouldn't come to an end. Still we may be panicking and fretting in case the BBC or any of the TV channels overlook James Bond in their busy schedules.
Years ago of course Christmas Day stuck rigidly to its religious and spiritual traditions. There were the stirring church services where all the parishioners sung lustily at the tops of their voices. There were the hospitals on the big day where all of the latest Christmas telly celebrities would suddenly and happily reveal that jolly old bloke with the red coat and the white beard. The children were wide eyed and agog. This was the day they'd been waiting for since - let me see- last year.
Oooh it's Santa. complete with sack. Did he really tumble down the chimney and does he really live in Lapland? That's just silly, made up, a fallacy, a total fabrication. Where's the scientific evidence? Prove it conclusively. I bet you can't. Christmases were, and probably still are, wonderfully well intentioned and very emotional. And of course it was consistently heart- warming because that was what Christmas was all about.
Sadly those early morning visits to sick children in hospital more or less ran their course and can only be fondly remembered as something we used to watch on the box. While I was growing up the Top of the Pops review of the year was more or less compulsory and a permanent fixture. Sadly even Top of the Pops is no longer that adornment on top of the Christmas tree although Fern Cotton and Reggie Yates still delight us with that pop music misty eyed reminiscence show, that nostalgic journey down memory lane.
From a personal view the programme itself no longer seems relevant at all and on reflection, for me it just seems superfluous to requirements. Nothing personal you understand. I belong to the 1970s generation of Slade, Roy Wood, Emerson, Lake and Palmer, Chris Rea, Paul McCartney and Wings Mull of Kintyre, Cliff Richard's lovely Mistletoe and Wine and Noel Edmonds literally smothered in tinsel from head to toe. It was all barmy, cosy, amusing and somehow timeless. Britain was a nation at one with itself, inhibitions scattered to the wind and shamelessly happy.
And yet here we are again. One day to go before those silly paper hats are worn, dad waits to cut up the turkey, the kids giggle and giggle mischievously, cousin Harry blows his nose, Auntie Irene makes sure her hair looks immaculate, brother Ben keeps sneaking off with the sweets and neighbour Norman asks whether he can have a look at the Radio Times again. If he hasn't asked for the Radio Times once he's probably asked for it a million times.
But then mum tells the children to take off their shoes off and to stop jumping on the sofa, Meanwhile the cats and dogs are creating merry hell and havoc with bits of paper in their teeth and loads of Christmas wrapping paper around their legs. Those kids will have to take their shoes off the sofa for the last time and Auntie Irene is insistent on her eighth glass of sherry, perhaps just a brandy for cousin Harry because he needs a reviving drink. He's just travelled right across the country just to be with his united family and he didn't want to miss a couple of glasses of grog, Bucks Fizz or something suitably alcoholic.
Then the door bell rings again almost vocally and vociferously. Get the door please. That's got to be the postman and then mum becomes her mutli tasking self, full of verve and versatility. She picks up the pillows on the sofa, plumping them up very elegantly and then juggles with a bag of sprouts. Then the dog launches into another deafening and cacophonous barking that can be heard at the other end of the road.
Then the whole family just slump on their settee just exhausted and it isn't even mid-day yet. The curtains are dusted and straightened, table cloths shaking and shivering with food. The mahogany cabinet resembles the local Off Licence and the old clock chimes predictably and a little wearily, perhaps acknowledging that Christmas is all about families and the preservation of lasting goodwill.
And so it is that Christmas Eve gazes longingly at Christmas Day with a very patient and wistful air. It looks as if everything is ready and prepared. The window shelves could do with a final dusting, the pictures on the wall look prettier than ever and everything looks dandy. Maybe that painting needs to be adjusted slightly and the carpet needs a quick Hoover. Apart from that it's time to for all of that whole- hearted slap stick humour, side splitting laughter and then partying all the way until the end of the year. Have a good one folks.
Saturday, 24 December 2016
Thursday, 22 December 2016
Three days before the arrival of Santa Claus and it all looks set for a good festive period.
Three days before the arrival of Santa Claus and it all looks set for a good festive period.
So here we are again. You've done it. I think you ought to put your feet up, slug back huge quantities of mulled wine, devour the mince pies as if they were going out of fashion and just relax. The uncles, aunties, cousins and of course the children have been notified and sufficiently informed. They can feel it in their bones. They'll be counting down their hours frantically as if barely able to control their excitement. It does though seem a shame to wake up Santa on Christmas Eve. Somebody should give that man or woman an alarm clock or maybe another beard to add to the increasingly expanding collection.
Yes folks it's Christmas. Christmas is this year sponsored by those wonderfully reputable chocolate companies, those big old turkey farms, those familiar brand names such as Coca Cola, the endless whisky manufacturers and the mince pie folk who tend to hog most of the headlines on our groaning Christmas tables. Then there are the festive cracker firms as well as the tree and decorations conglomerates- or whatever they call themselves these days.
Then there are the respectful nods to all those corporate concerns who stuff Santa's stocking every year. There are the now very high tech I-Pads, smart phones, Tablets and all manner of technologically dynamic computer games that none of us could have remotely imagined 50 years ago. What happened to those family favourites such as Ker Plunk, Mousetrap, Scrabble, Spirograph, Etch-A- Sketch, the Hornby railway set, Cluedo, Ludo, and the aforementioned Monopoly, Scrabble and what about that good old fashioned game of cards? Have we forgotten about chess, have we forgotten those fondly romantic throwbacks such as the walk in the local park after the festive feast or do we still venture out with the family and dogs?
It does seem that we've lost all connection with the essence and spirit of this festive celebration. I can still remember boldly setting out after the Christmas Day lunch with a purposeful step. I was determined to find out whether I could find any signs of civilisation on the local streets and anything that even vaguely resembled a car on the road. But my quest was inevitably a fruitless one so I returned home perhaps taken aback with wonder at the air of sheer emptiness outside the family home but in a sense quite uplifted by the solitude and serenity of it all. Much to my amazement there was nothing at all. Zilch, Rien. You had to see it to believe it. Not even a van or lorry although you might spot the occasional bike but that would have been unusual.
And yet it was strangely comforting in a way because nobody really needed to go anywhere. You had everything you wanted in your cosy domestic hearth and all that was required was a one enormous gastronomic adventure, one huge nosh on everything that's terribly bad for you, a wild abandonment of our yearly diet and twelve months in the gym pumping iron.
Oh yes that's another thing. Every year we make the same promises, the same dietary pledges to kick the pizzas, fish and chips and kebabs into touch and never set eyes on another pudding again. And every year we never seem to remember why so many healthy sacrifices were made. Then on New Year's Day we fall into that same trap. It's that yearly commitment to health and fitness that we keep insisting that one day we'll get round to carrying out.
Oh mum and dad, I'm really full and I must have put on at least 53 stones since the beginning of the year so therefore I'm going to lock myself in a gym, row frenetically on the rowing machine for at least six months, run 68 marathons, stop eating junk food altogether and just watch the weight fall off me. The reality of course is starkly different and of course it's quite a sobering reality check. Perhaps you were listening to that reproachful voice tapping you on the shoulder and the guilt was just too much.
Personally I'm back on my running and tennis regime and for me that's very personally satisfying. I'll never be the next Mo Farrah or indeed Andy Murray but I can now look myself in the eye and be proud that I'm making my personal contribution in the name of fitness. I hope to stick it and persevere in all weathers.
And yet we subject to ourselves to the same dilemmas every year without fail. We make that yearly pilgrimage to the gym, coughing up the subscription fee and then change our minds at the beginning of February because it doesn't seem worth the effort and besides it's all that unnecessary expenditure of sweat and athletic dedication for what? Just the miserable realisation that everything had to be done in moderation. But hey, what fun we had at the time.
Well, the answer can never really be found because Christmas is our way of giving ourselves the most mammoth guilty conscience. Of course there's nothing wrong with eating and drinking in excess but by the time Christmas is over we begin to wonder why we did it in the first place and just fill ourselves with more remorse. Why, we ask ourselves, do we consume a hundred farmyards of turkey, a hundred whisky distilleries, 80 thousand bars of cocoa chocolate, biscuits by the barrowload and then we repeat the same exercise every December. And let's not forget the brewery of booze with shorts and without shorts. It doesn't seem to matter.
I know. Let's go crazy. It's not as if we have to get up for work, school and university the following day or even the next week. Treat yourself to a fortnight of joyous celebration, Have a lie in every day. Don't get up until mid-day. In fact have breakfast and lunch in bed and then reluctantly join everybody for tea in your pyjamas. Now that sounds a great idea. It's time for laziness and indiscipline. It only happens once a year after all. Kick off those party shoes and drape yourself with tinsel. This is what Christmas is all about.
That's it. I've got it. Christmas is just a conspiracy or perhaps a conspiracy theory. Maybe Christmas is our way of rewarding our efforts throughout the year and then just beating ourselves up because it wasn't eminently sensible and advisable. Let's face it Christmas is that golden opportunity to drink youself into a stupor and eat fit to burst. There's no self control involved, no laws, rules and regulations, boundaries and taboos. You can do whatever you like within reason, you can sing and dance the night away with unashamed vigour and zest.
It's time to give yourself permission to be good and kind to yourself. It's time to blow up as many balloons as possible, to listen to all of your favourite I tunes or Spotify to your hearts content. Now ladies and gentlemen I'm off to drink a barrel of brandy and a several gallons of lager. On second thoughts that's just madness and besides I very rarely touch the hard stuff. No I'm looking forward to that usual appointment with Her Majesty the Queen at 3pm on both the BBC and ITV. Merry Christmas and a Happy Chanukah my friends. Those latkes my wife made me were wonderful. Have a great time everyone.
So here we are again. You've done it. I think you ought to put your feet up, slug back huge quantities of mulled wine, devour the mince pies as if they were going out of fashion and just relax. The uncles, aunties, cousins and of course the children have been notified and sufficiently informed. They can feel it in their bones. They'll be counting down their hours frantically as if barely able to control their excitement. It does though seem a shame to wake up Santa on Christmas Eve. Somebody should give that man or woman an alarm clock or maybe another beard to add to the increasingly expanding collection.
Yes folks it's Christmas. Christmas is this year sponsored by those wonderfully reputable chocolate companies, those big old turkey farms, those familiar brand names such as Coca Cola, the endless whisky manufacturers and the mince pie folk who tend to hog most of the headlines on our groaning Christmas tables. Then there are the festive cracker firms as well as the tree and decorations conglomerates- or whatever they call themselves these days.
Then there are the respectful nods to all those corporate concerns who stuff Santa's stocking every year. There are the now very high tech I-Pads, smart phones, Tablets and all manner of technologically dynamic computer games that none of us could have remotely imagined 50 years ago. What happened to those family favourites such as Ker Plunk, Mousetrap, Scrabble, Spirograph, Etch-A- Sketch, the Hornby railway set, Cluedo, Ludo, and the aforementioned Monopoly, Scrabble and what about that good old fashioned game of cards? Have we forgotten about chess, have we forgotten those fondly romantic throwbacks such as the walk in the local park after the festive feast or do we still venture out with the family and dogs?
It does seem that we've lost all connection with the essence and spirit of this festive celebration. I can still remember boldly setting out after the Christmas Day lunch with a purposeful step. I was determined to find out whether I could find any signs of civilisation on the local streets and anything that even vaguely resembled a car on the road. But my quest was inevitably a fruitless one so I returned home perhaps taken aback with wonder at the air of sheer emptiness outside the family home but in a sense quite uplifted by the solitude and serenity of it all. Much to my amazement there was nothing at all. Zilch, Rien. You had to see it to believe it. Not even a van or lorry although you might spot the occasional bike but that would have been unusual.
And yet it was strangely comforting in a way because nobody really needed to go anywhere. You had everything you wanted in your cosy domestic hearth and all that was required was a one enormous gastronomic adventure, one huge nosh on everything that's terribly bad for you, a wild abandonment of our yearly diet and twelve months in the gym pumping iron.
Oh yes that's another thing. Every year we make the same promises, the same dietary pledges to kick the pizzas, fish and chips and kebabs into touch and never set eyes on another pudding again. And every year we never seem to remember why so many healthy sacrifices were made. Then on New Year's Day we fall into that same trap. It's that yearly commitment to health and fitness that we keep insisting that one day we'll get round to carrying out.
Oh mum and dad, I'm really full and I must have put on at least 53 stones since the beginning of the year so therefore I'm going to lock myself in a gym, row frenetically on the rowing machine for at least six months, run 68 marathons, stop eating junk food altogether and just watch the weight fall off me. The reality of course is starkly different and of course it's quite a sobering reality check. Perhaps you were listening to that reproachful voice tapping you on the shoulder and the guilt was just too much.
Personally I'm back on my running and tennis regime and for me that's very personally satisfying. I'll never be the next Mo Farrah or indeed Andy Murray but I can now look myself in the eye and be proud that I'm making my personal contribution in the name of fitness. I hope to stick it and persevere in all weathers.
And yet we subject to ourselves to the same dilemmas every year without fail. We make that yearly pilgrimage to the gym, coughing up the subscription fee and then change our minds at the beginning of February because it doesn't seem worth the effort and besides it's all that unnecessary expenditure of sweat and athletic dedication for what? Just the miserable realisation that everything had to be done in moderation. But hey, what fun we had at the time.
Well, the answer can never really be found because Christmas is our way of giving ourselves the most mammoth guilty conscience. Of course there's nothing wrong with eating and drinking in excess but by the time Christmas is over we begin to wonder why we did it in the first place and just fill ourselves with more remorse. Why, we ask ourselves, do we consume a hundred farmyards of turkey, a hundred whisky distilleries, 80 thousand bars of cocoa chocolate, biscuits by the barrowload and then we repeat the same exercise every December. And let's not forget the brewery of booze with shorts and without shorts. It doesn't seem to matter.
I know. Let's go crazy. It's not as if we have to get up for work, school and university the following day or even the next week. Treat yourself to a fortnight of joyous celebration, Have a lie in every day. Don't get up until mid-day. In fact have breakfast and lunch in bed and then reluctantly join everybody for tea in your pyjamas. Now that sounds a great idea. It's time for laziness and indiscipline. It only happens once a year after all. Kick off those party shoes and drape yourself with tinsel. This is what Christmas is all about.
That's it. I've got it. Christmas is just a conspiracy or perhaps a conspiracy theory. Maybe Christmas is our way of rewarding our efforts throughout the year and then just beating ourselves up because it wasn't eminently sensible and advisable. Let's face it Christmas is that golden opportunity to drink youself into a stupor and eat fit to burst. There's no self control involved, no laws, rules and regulations, boundaries and taboos. You can do whatever you like within reason, you can sing and dance the night away with unashamed vigour and zest.
It's time to give yourself permission to be good and kind to yourself. It's time to blow up as many balloons as possible, to listen to all of your favourite I tunes or Spotify to your hearts content. Now ladies and gentlemen I'm off to drink a barrel of brandy and a several gallons of lager. On second thoughts that's just madness and besides I very rarely touch the hard stuff. No I'm looking forward to that usual appointment with Her Majesty the Queen at 3pm on both the BBC and ITV. Merry Christmas and a Happy Chanukah my friends. Those latkes my wife made me were wonderful. Have a great time everyone.
Tuesday, 20 December 2016
My Christmas message- My plea to end all of the bloodshed. Let there be peace for ever more.
My Christmas message- My plea to end all of the bloodshed and hate. Let their be peace for ever more.
I know. You've probably heard this message a million times throughout the decades and centuries but I think it's time to offer my end of year message, my heartfelt plea for peace, stability, a concerted attempt to end war for ever more. Surely it has to end once and for all. It's time to put down arms, guns, bombs, artillery, missiles, rockets and try to get on with each other. It's time to end the naked hostility, the barbaric bloodshed, the savage and sickening pain, the outrageous aggression and murder, the calculated hostility, the bloodthirsty brutality, the anger, the endless hatred and division.
Now of course I'm a pathetic, lily livered pacifist but here's my personal Christmas message to the world. Please please there can be no future for humanity and civilisation if we continue to attack each other. There must be an end to this continuous escalation of violence on a monumental scale, this relentless bombardment of shells and grenades and the death of millions of families and children on quite the most obscene scale. I know I'm a subdued voice in the darkness but there has to be a solution to this vile and despicable regime of terror, this sickening genocide, this appalling suffering. Is there anybody out there who can watch this constant attack on our civil liberties without pleading for something better? Do we have to live in fear of forces that are completely beyond us? Next year has to be the year when we all wake up one morning and just shake the hand of eternal friendship.
This is not a bitter condemnation of any terrorist network because that would be a pointless exercise. But for what it's worth I think it's time for all the most influential prime ministers, presidents, foreign secretaries and powerful governmental voices to flex their muscles. Once and for all. It must stop please. Please I must speak for everybody around the world when I think it's fairly obvious that we have to stop this. There has to be room for discussion, negotiation and agreement because if we don't rally together then the future of the vast loveliness that is the world will no longer have any kind of viable future. I think I speak on behalf of the universe when I say that global conflict and evil savagery has to be stop for the sake of mankind.
The events in Berlin yesterday. Paris and Nice this year have only served to reinforce the sheer futility of it all. Now I'm no benevolent humanitarian and I can have no influence in the highest of political circles but this is sheer madness. This is not the answer to settle old scores, but it is time to rebuild broken religious bridges, to heal wounded animosities, to aggravate old injuries, to make life impossible and unbearable.
I would like to say here that this is not a party political broadcast, nor is it the voice of wishful thinking but this has to be a time for agreement, consensus, reconciliation. We've seen the graphic documentary images, the daily news bulletins that have been almost unspeakably horrid and harrowing. Some of us can barely bring ourself to watch the wasted lives, the torn hearts, the weeping mothers, the sobbing fathers, the extended families who can only look on with absolute horror. It is just the most ruthless of all violations, a lasting threat to our freedoms, possibilities and opportunities.
Their lives are now over, wiped out by the fist of terror, the raucous shriek of missiles, the shuddering force of tank and military invasion that so criminally scar the global landscape. When the smoking and charred ruins of shops, restaurants, hotels, houses and all properties are cleared maybe somebody will come forward to just heal this festering resentment, this age old bitterness. Is their a voice of sanity out there? Please come forward.
Will Germany's prime minister Angela Merkel, prime minister Theresa May, American president elect Donald Trump, quite possibly Russian supremo Vladimir Putin please try to bash heads together, reaching positive and constructive conclusions, eliminating all dictatorships and tyrannies. We all have to sing from the same hymn sheet even though that may begin to sound like a tired cliche.
Over 40 years ago a distinguished gentleman and peace broker by the name of Henry Kissinger stepped forward onto the world stage. When the Middle East crisis was at its height, Kissinger was the man who intervened quite decisively when all seemed lost. He,single handledly. or so it seemed, brought the whole of the Middle East together and did his utmost to bring sanity and peace. His mission was an admirable one and in the cold light of day Kissinger may sleep with perfect comfort knowing that he did his utmost to achieve that objective. And to Kissinger the world offers its eternal gratitude.
So although I may be a lone voice in the wilderness, the world implores that commonsense and rationality come forward and introduce themselves. It is time to remember and never forget both the First and Second World War, Vietnam, Suez, the IRA and so many more aching atrocities. But now the battlegrounds and gruesome theatres of war have have to become ancient history and people have to live in simple harmony. to be united. This never endingly depressing sequence of fatalities have to be the last. His wish may have been fondly uttered but to quote John Lennon all those decades ago. Please give peace us a chance for the sake of humanity. Merry Christmas and Happy Chanukah everybody.
I know. You've probably heard this message a million times throughout the decades and centuries but I think it's time to offer my end of year message, my heartfelt plea for peace, stability, a concerted attempt to end war for ever more. Surely it has to end once and for all. It's time to put down arms, guns, bombs, artillery, missiles, rockets and try to get on with each other. It's time to end the naked hostility, the barbaric bloodshed, the savage and sickening pain, the outrageous aggression and murder, the calculated hostility, the bloodthirsty brutality, the anger, the endless hatred and division.
Now of course I'm a pathetic, lily livered pacifist but here's my personal Christmas message to the world. Please please there can be no future for humanity and civilisation if we continue to attack each other. There must be an end to this continuous escalation of violence on a monumental scale, this relentless bombardment of shells and grenades and the death of millions of families and children on quite the most obscene scale. I know I'm a subdued voice in the darkness but there has to be a solution to this vile and despicable regime of terror, this sickening genocide, this appalling suffering. Is there anybody out there who can watch this constant attack on our civil liberties without pleading for something better? Do we have to live in fear of forces that are completely beyond us? Next year has to be the year when we all wake up one morning and just shake the hand of eternal friendship.
This is not a bitter condemnation of any terrorist network because that would be a pointless exercise. But for what it's worth I think it's time for all the most influential prime ministers, presidents, foreign secretaries and powerful governmental voices to flex their muscles. Once and for all. It must stop please. Please I must speak for everybody around the world when I think it's fairly obvious that we have to stop this. There has to be room for discussion, negotiation and agreement because if we don't rally together then the future of the vast loveliness that is the world will no longer have any kind of viable future. I think I speak on behalf of the universe when I say that global conflict and evil savagery has to be stop for the sake of mankind.
The events in Berlin yesterday. Paris and Nice this year have only served to reinforce the sheer futility of it all. Now I'm no benevolent humanitarian and I can have no influence in the highest of political circles but this is sheer madness. This is not the answer to settle old scores, but it is time to rebuild broken religious bridges, to heal wounded animosities, to aggravate old injuries, to make life impossible and unbearable.
I would like to say here that this is not a party political broadcast, nor is it the voice of wishful thinking but this has to be a time for agreement, consensus, reconciliation. We've seen the graphic documentary images, the daily news bulletins that have been almost unspeakably horrid and harrowing. Some of us can barely bring ourself to watch the wasted lives, the torn hearts, the weeping mothers, the sobbing fathers, the extended families who can only look on with absolute horror. It is just the most ruthless of all violations, a lasting threat to our freedoms, possibilities and opportunities.
Their lives are now over, wiped out by the fist of terror, the raucous shriek of missiles, the shuddering force of tank and military invasion that so criminally scar the global landscape. When the smoking and charred ruins of shops, restaurants, hotels, houses and all properties are cleared maybe somebody will come forward to just heal this festering resentment, this age old bitterness. Is their a voice of sanity out there? Please come forward.
Will Germany's prime minister Angela Merkel, prime minister Theresa May, American president elect Donald Trump, quite possibly Russian supremo Vladimir Putin please try to bash heads together, reaching positive and constructive conclusions, eliminating all dictatorships and tyrannies. We all have to sing from the same hymn sheet even though that may begin to sound like a tired cliche.
Over 40 years ago a distinguished gentleman and peace broker by the name of Henry Kissinger stepped forward onto the world stage. When the Middle East crisis was at its height, Kissinger was the man who intervened quite decisively when all seemed lost. He,single handledly. or so it seemed, brought the whole of the Middle East together and did his utmost to bring sanity and peace. His mission was an admirable one and in the cold light of day Kissinger may sleep with perfect comfort knowing that he did his utmost to achieve that objective. And to Kissinger the world offers its eternal gratitude.
So although I may be a lone voice in the wilderness, the world implores that commonsense and rationality come forward and introduce themselves. It is time to remember and never forget both the First and Second World War, Vietnam, Suez, the IRA and so many more aching atrocities. But now the battlegrounds and gruesome theatres of war have have to become ancient history and people have to live in simple harmony. to be united. This never endingly depressing sequence of fatalities have to be the last. His wish may have been fondly uttered but to quote John Lennon all those decades ago. Please give peace us a chance for the sake of humanity. Merry Christmas and Happy Chanukah everybody.
Sunday, 18 December 2016
Brick Lane- one of London's finest of Sunday street markets.
Brick Lane- an East End Sunday market treasure.
Brick Lane is undoubtedly the finest of all Sunday's street markets. Who says so? I do. It knocks the spots off other markets. It's the bees knees, a supremely wonderful Sunday market and there can be no higher praise. Of course the Portobello has its virtues and merits but I think the gold should go to Brick Lane. Ladies and Gentlemen I give you Brick Lane, one of the jewels in the East End crown. It's a prince among Sunday markets and, surely one of the best if not the best. If I had a trophy or medal to give Brick Lane it would certainly give me enormous pleasure to hand one over to them.
At the moment Brick Lane is one of the hippest, coolest and loveliest of London streets. On Sunday it bursts into a kaleidoscope of colour, a livng, breathing organism that pulses and throbs with life and vitality. At the moment it is the place to be seen and heard at. It's fashionable, arty, bohemian, culturally diverse, full of atmosphere and vibrancy, character and charm. It bubbles and hums with lively chatter, market traders shouting at a bristlingly boisterous full voice, chattering, gossiping, laughing and just fascinating. But that's the way it's always been so this was unarguable.
And yet this is the way it's always been. Since the beginning of the 20th century the Sunday market in Brick Lane has characterised everything the East End has been renowned for. There was our wonderful Jewish community with its juicy humour, the salt beef and beigel folk. its charismatic fruit and veg stalls, the clatter of cutlery echoing around Brick Lane,the cheek and chutzpah, the banter and bonhomie and the constant sound of 1960s music blaring out from old tapes and transistor radios. It was the most heartwarming sight and sound of the week and none could have failed not to notice it nor be enchanted by it.
Now though Brick Lane is brighter, bigger, happier and more contented than it's ever been before. Those tourists come from all over the world, mingling delightedly among the latest art galleries, wine bars and organic cafes that have suddenly sprung up all over Brick Lane. But then Brick Lane on a Sunday is unlike any Sunday street market you're ever likely to see. It's just overwhelmingly friendly, welcoming, surprising and almost totally engrossing. It's arresting on the eye and just a joy to behold.
You can't help but be drawn into its mouth watering variety of stalls, its earthy charisma, its down to earth authenticity. Nothing posh or superficial about Brick Lane. You can feel it in the air, the warmth, the sounds and colours almost floating in the air with an effortless ease. It has electricity, magnetism, feeling, sentimentality, a permanent soundtrack, people strolling, stopping, considering, peering, gazing with admiration before falling in love with it. Yes you can become besotted with Brick Lane and that's why it's so perenially popular. You have to be part of it, be connected it.
But there is something much deeper under the surface here. My wife, daughter and father in law decided that the week before Christmas seemed an ideal opportunity to get up close and personal with Brick Lane. What a market! I have to tell you Brick Lane did just the trick again. Sometimes there are occasions when everything feels absolutely right. Brick Lane ticked all of the right boxes It just felt as if Brick Lane were showing off, flaunting its finest colours, looking at itself in the mirror and striding into the distance in its smartest suit. It's bold, modern, now very mainstream and artistically absorbing. It was buzzy, sparky, life enhancing, funky, positive, atmospheric in the extreme and excellent entertainment.
For instance there were the stalls with their rich profusion of everything. There were the novelties, the stalls that groaned and overflowed with all manner of merchandise. There were the curios, curiosities, the things you may have seen a hundred times and never tired of. There were the hundreds of tomatoes, butternut squashes, marrows and the richly red apples that gleamed fiercely in the fading December gloom. There were the thousands of oranges and clementines splendidly displayed like soldiers on parade. There is something very special about Brick Lane and maybe that appeal will never ever vanish.
As we continued our Brick Lane stroll down memory lane we saw yet more confirmation that the Sunday market in Brick Lane remains an essential part of our great British heritage. The faces may have changed through the years and decades but the stalls are wonderfully charged and ready to embrace you with the most affectionate of all hugs.
There were lamp shades, sewing machines, bottles that looked as though they'd last seen service on the great naval ships of history, Aztec tribal carvings, picture frames hidden away in discreet boxes and much more. There were the priceless porcelain ornaments, handsome pieces of pottery, the trinkets, the jewellery, the trivia, the ephemera, the gentleman who grabbed hold of a guitar and sat down on the floor as if the spirit of Eric Clapton had suddenly visited him.And then there was the grafitti! Now that was very striking. In fact it blew your mind away. I don't think I'd seen so much grafitti. It was a riot of colour, a wild combination of the sublime and ridiculous, surreal letters in the most exaggerated of styles. Just stunning.
Now I'm not sure how long this effusive tribute to creative art has been around for but I'd like to personally thank you grafitti artists around the world. Wherever you looked in Brick Lane grafitti ruled the roost. Every wall in Brick Lane seemed to be dripping with grafitti. There was the grafitti that seemed to speak a thousand languages, grafitti that clearly proclaimed and pronounced, graffiti that broadly suggested the political and controversial. There was grafitti that was outrageous, emblazoned across the East End like some very profound statement of truth. Then there was the grafitti that was stark, vivid and truly expressive.
And then there was the grafitti that certainly looked angry and rebellious, the grafitti that had the most obvious messages, the grafitti that had a fierce and dissenting voice, the grafitti that was brash. bolshy and belligerent, the grafitti that drove home the home truths, that was provocative, aghast and plainly furious.
So wherever we went in Brick Lane we saw the new face of the East End. We saw the tiny pop up shops that briefly dominate the Shoreditch end of Brick Lane before moving off to another venue. We saw the familiar row upon row of old records, old clothes, the warmly nostalgic items, the charming bric a brac, the ebb and flow of passing trade, There is a timelessness and uniqueness about Brick Lane that may always live in the soul of the East End of London. I'd like to raise a toast to Brick Lane, a Sunday market in a class of its own.
Brick Lane is undoubtedly the finest of all Sunday's street markets. Who says so? I do. It knocks the spots off other markets. It's the bees knees, a supremely wonderful Sunday market and there can be no higher praise. Of course the Portobello has its virtues and merits but I think the gold should go to Brick Lane. Ladies and Gentlemen I give you Brick Lane, one of the jewels in the East End crown. It's a prince among Sunday markets and, surely one of the best if not the best. If I had a trophy or medal to give Brick Lane it would certainly give me enormous pleasure to hand one over to them.
At the moment Brick Lane is one of the hippest, coolest and loveliest of London streets. On Sunday it bursts into a kaleidoscope of colour, a livng, breathing organism that pulses and throbs with life and vitality. At the moment it is the place to be seen and heard at. It's fashionable, arty, bohemian, culturally diverse, full of atmosphere and vibrancy, character and charm. It bubbles and hums with lively chatter, market traders shouting at a bristlingly boisterous full voice, chattering, gossiping, laughing and just fascinating. But that's the way it's always been so this was unarguable.
And yet this is the way it's always been. Since the beginning of the 20th century the Sunday market in Brick Lane has characterised everything the East End has been renowned for. There was our wonderful Jewish community with its juicy humour, the salt beef and beigel folk. its charismatic fruit and veg stalls, the clatter of cutlery echoing around Brick Lane,the cheek and chutzpah, the banter and bonhomie and the constant sound of 1960s music blaring out from old tapes and transistor radios. It was the most heartwarming sight and sound of the week and none could have failed not to notice it nor be enchanted by it.
Now though Brick Lane is brighter, bigger, happier and more contented than it's ever been before. Those tourists come from all over the world, mingling delightedly among the latest art galleries, wine bars and organic cafes that have suddenly sprung up all over Brick Lane. But then Brick Lane on a Sunday is unlike any Sunday street market you're ever likely to see. It's just overwhelmingly friendly, welcoming, surprising and almost totally engrossing. It's arresting on the eye and just a joy to behold.
You can't help but be drawn into its mouth watering variety of stalls, its earthy charisma, its down to earth authenticity. Nothing posh or superficial about Brick Lane. You can feel it in the air, the warmth, the sounds and colours almost floating in the air with an effortless ease. It has electricity, magnetism, feeling, sentimentality, a permanent soundtrack, people strolling, stopping, considering, peering, gazing with admiration before falling in love with it. Yes you can become besotted with Brick Lane and that's why it's so perenially popular. You have to be part of it, be connected it.
But there is something much deeper under the surface here. My wife, daughter and father in law decided that the week before Christmas seemed an ideal opportunity to get up close and personal with Brick Lane. What a market! I have to tell you Brick Lane did just the trick again. Sometimes there are occasions when everything feels absolutely right. Brick Lane ticked all of the right boxes It just felt as if Brick Lane were showing off, flaunting its finest colours, looking at itself in the mirror and striding into the distance in its smartest suit. It's bold, modern, now very mainstream and artistically absorbing. It was buzzy, sparky, life enhancing, funky, positive, atmospheric in the extreme and excellent entertainment.
For instance there were the stalls with their rich profusion of everything. There were the novelties, the stalls that groaned and overflowed with all manner of merchandise. There were the curios, curiosities, the things you may have seen a hundred times and never tired of. There were the hundreds of tomatoes, butternut squashes, marrows and the richly red apples that gleamed fiercely in the fading December gloom. There were the thousands of oranges and clementines splendidly displayed like soldiers on parade. There is something very special about Brick Lane and maybe that appeal will never ever vanish.
As we continued our Brick Lane stroll down memory lane we saw yet more confirmation that the Sunday market in Brick Lane remains an essential part of our great British heritage. The faces may have changed through the years and decades but the stalls are wonderfully charged and ready to embrace you with the most affectionate of all hugs.
There were lamp shades, sewing machines, bottles that looked as though they'd last seen service on the great naval ships of history, Aztec tribal carvings, picture frames hidden away in discreet boxes and much more. There were the priceless porcelain ornaments, handsome pieces of pottery, the trinkets, the jewellery, the trivia, the ephemera, the gentleman who grabbed hold of a guitar and sat down on the floor as if the spirit of Eric Clapton had suddenly visited him.And then there was the grafitti! Now that was very striking. In fact it blew your mind away. I don't think I'd seen so much grafitti. It was a riot of colour, a wild combination of the sublime and ridiculous, surreal letters in the most exaggerated of styles. Just stunning.
Now I'm not sure how long this effusive tribute to creative art has been around for but I'd like to personally thank you grafitti artists around the world. Wherever you looked in Brick Lane grafitti ruled the roost. Every wall in Brick Lane seemed to be dripping with grafitti. There was the grafitti that seemed to speak a thousand languages, grafitti that clearly proclaimed and pronounced, graffiti that broadly suggested the political and controversial. There was grafitti that was outrageous, emblazoned across the East End like some very profound statement of truth. Then there was the grafitti that was stark, vivid and truly expressive.
And then there was the grafitti that certainly looked angry and rebellious, the grafitti that had the most obvious messages, the grafitti that had a fierce and dissenting voice, the grafitti that was brash. bolshy and belligerent, the grafitti that drove home the home truths, that was provocative, aghast and plainly furious.
So wherever we went in Brick Lane we saw the new face of the East End. We saw the tiny pop up shops that briefly dominate the Shoreditch end of Brick Lane before moving off to another venue. We saw the familiar row upon row of old records, old clothes, the warmly nostalgic items, the charming bric a brac, the ebb and flow of passing trade, There is a timelessness and uniqueness about Brick Lane that may always live in the soul of the East End of London. I'd like to raise a toast to Brick Lane, a Sunday market in a class of its own.
Saturday, 17 December 2016
That final week before Christmas
The final week before Christmas, the fall of the Berlin wall and the Premier League bunfight.
The early morning fog and mist have slowly lifted in this part of the world. Phew what a relief! I can see clearly now the rain has gone. Now there's a famous song lyric I've heard before. Anyway that early morning blanket of mist is drifting to somewhere else and around here all is quiet and peaceful. It could be that people have run out of money. Or maybe we're just skint and destitute. Where did that year go? Or maybe its time to chill out, relax, re-charge the batteries and look forward to that family day of rest, leisure and sober re-appraisal, looking back on quite the most extraordinary year of our lives. There were so many momentous events that maybe we should stop time and try to take it all in.
Either that or the country has closed down for the day. Still I expect the supermarkets will be rushed off their feet shortly. There's bound to be a commercial stampede sooner or later. Now have we forgotten anything? The twentieth box of mince pies, the crackers without which no Christmas gathering would be complete. Or maybe another set of lights for the tree. What about another stack of presents, toys and games for the children, woolly hats, scarves, reindeer decorated pullovers or just any old festive cliche that comes into our possession. I know. Let's dig out all of those traditional board games. Now that would be cool. In an age of breakneck technology and Play Stations why don't we play Monopoly, Scrabble or Trivial Pursuit. So refreshingly old fashioned but the greatest fun you could ever have when the shops are closed for a couple of Christmas days.
Now let me see. The trains are on strike in London and it's almost Christmas. Now where have I heard that before?. Is it Southern trains? I can see it now. Boxing Day in London will be absolutely insufferable and intolerable. In fact I think the whole country will grind to a complete standstill. There will be a state of stagnation and total immobility that may just grip the country. Imagine Waterloo, Paddington and King's Cross St Pancras. It doesn't bear thinking about. Suddenly whole platforms will be mobbed with heaving masses of people or maybe my imagination is working overtime.
Meanwhile back in the very serious world of the Premier League the footballing giants, sleeping giants, mid table occupants and relegation strugglers are sharpening their ammunition. My team West Ham United are hoping that mid week victory over what seemed a very poor and limited Burnley team was no mere flash in the pan. Hull City are the latest visitors to the new London Stadium and for those who believe that the new Hammers domain could be the club's ruination it may be time to review your judgment.
Now the optimists are still confident that nothing catastrophic will happen to West Ham. Of course there are teething problems but then look at Arsenal and the Emirates and to a lesser extent Manchester City at the Etihad? It could be just a very awkward settling in period but you suspect that sooner or later the club will have to hit the ground running. There can be no time for anxiety, nervousness or hesitation. This is not a dress rehearsal so manager Slaven Bilic may find that when he wakes up on Christmas morning the only presents he'll be getting are a P45 and temporary unemployment.
Still the Hammers, although hovering over the relegation trapdoor may find that the teams around them have also got problems and deficiencies. Anyway today's opposition Hull City reminds me of a deliciously pleasant game between the two teams a couple of decades ago when the Premier League was just a daydream in the FA hierarchy.
It was a family holiday and I seem to remember it was Lake Lugano in Switzerland. Now for reasons best known perhaps to myself I was just consumed with curiosity. I suppose I had get my priorities right but the temptation was too much. I had to find out the result of the game and did my utmost to find out. These, after all, were historic times for the both the world and Europe.
At roughly the same time we were told that the Berlin Wall was about to come down and the relationship between East and West Germany would be altogether more amicable. Suddenly the coldness and frostiness betweeen East and West would be thawed out and soon both would become the best of buddies.
In the hotel where we were staying, overlooking the most stunning mountain range, plans were in place for a major knees up, the kind of celebration that both countries probably felt they'd never witness again. And yet they did. A group of Germans sat down for a jubilant dinner. I can still see and hear the clinking of beer glasses, the joy on their faces and the flickering candles on the table. It was humanity at its most civilised and a moment in time that had to be cherished.
So here we were back in circa 1989, West Ham were playing Hull City in the old Second Division and the quaint market town in Lugano, Switzerland could hardly have been less interested. It was though at its prettiest. I'm not sure who told me but somehow the West Ham result had percolated through to me. In the day before the Internet you had to look to alternative sources for your news and information. Then somebody did tell me. It was quite the most astonishing football result I'd ever heard. And even now it hardly seems credible. But to my absolute amazement it did happen.
West Ham had beaten Hull 7-1. It was nothing short of sensational and yet somehow it had taken me by complete surprise. Privately I'd hoped for a positive result against a team who were trapped in obscurity at the time but 7-1 beggared belief. I don't think I'd ever seen or experienced this feeling in football. Before your team emerge from the tunnel for a game you always believe that in the best of all possible worlds that one day a rugby or cricket score would leave you speechless and dumbfounded. But 7-1. It was too good to be true. Yet it had come to pass. Hull hammered at the home of the Hammers. The icing on a very piquant cake with loads of cream and sugar. My cup had runneth over.
What was less noteworthy at the time and probably completely overlooked was the achievement of one West Ham player. Steve Potts, an ultra reliable full back and dedicated defender, scored his one and only goal for West Ham. Now I'm not sure why that statistic has never deserted me. Potts, by his own admission, was a safe pair of hands at the back, a yeomen servant for the claret and blue of West Ham but surely that day against Hull, Potts entered the pantheon of greats for one solitary day in the history of West Ham.
So it is back in the present day that both West Ham and Hull meet up again on an early wintry December afternoon. In a sense both clubs, although on a much higher plateau than they were on that far distant day two decades ago, are still essentially kindred spirits. West Ham although more buoyant than they were last Saturday, are far from out of trouble at the wrong end of the Premier League and Hull are teetering on the precipice. It could be an uncomfortably hard and gruelling season for both teams.
This is the last footballing weekend before Christmas. There remain some very relevant West Ham related facts and figures. On Boxing Day 1963 the old First Division yielded a bumper record crop of 66 goals, a figure that may never ever be surpassed. West Ham, of course had to be one of the victims of circumstances as Blackburn accumulated eight goals at the Hammers expense. West Ham had been beaten 8-2 by a very skilful and lethal Blackburn side featuring the England winger Bryan Douglas and the honest, hard working Ronnie Clayton. On a heavy mudbath of an Upton Park pitch Blackburn tore West Ham to shreds and perhaps the Hammers only consolation was the final whistle. That couldn't have arrived quickly enough. It was the most mind blowing and demoralising of defeats for West Ham although they did achieve some measure of revenge when at Ewood Park a couple of days later, the Hammers won 3-1 against Blackburn. So there Rovers. Take that.
Then there was the Boxing Day local derby against neighbours Leyton Orient circa 1978. West Ham had only recently been relegated to the old Second Division and suddenly the neighbours had dropped in for a cup of tea and sugar. Up until that point West Ham had never been beaten by Orient but this day was entirely and shockingly different. It was almost as if the ground had been shifted from under us From my very rare vantage point on the old Upton Park Chicken Run I can still see the horror show unravelling in front of me. Orient won 2-0 and John Chiedozie sprinting the length of the Upton Park to score the easiest goal he'll ever score still sends cold shivers down my spine.
Anyway time to look out of our window again. A heavy mist and fog has once again descended on the streets, roads and cities of Britain, like the greyest of blankets. This December is turning into a tale of two contrasting halves. You might even call it a contradiction of terms. The first half of December was marvellously and stupendously mild. Sure the chill was noticeably raw at times but it was easy to believe that the Costa Blanca had now sent over its warmest current. So no complaints from any of us. Now though autumn is beginning to fade into the distance and winter is creeping stealthily over the hills and dales. It's time to dig out those thick pullovers and gloves. Or maybe not. Isn't it good to be alive? Oh absolutely. Besides it's the Strictly final and that's a must.
Outside a whitish mist hangs heavily in the air like a static curtain. The trees are like empty hands, like thin human fingers pointing in different directions. Those enormous blackbirds may have decided to up and leave for the time being and all I can hear is silence. What this country needs is one uplifting street carnival to spark it into life. Perhaps Christmas will do the trick. Or Chanukah with its jam doughnuts and abundant cholesterol. Time to go for a walk in a claret and blue wonderland. Come on West Ham United.
The early morning fog and mist have slowly lifted in this part of the world. Phew what a relief! I can see clearly now the rain has gone. Now there's a famous song lyric I've heard before. Anyway that early morning blanket of mist is drifting to somewhere else and around here all is quiet and peaceful. It could be that people have run out of money. Or maybe we're just skint and destitute. Where did that year go? Or maybe its time to chill out, relax, re-charge the batteries and look forward to that family day of rest, leisure and sober re-appraisal, looking back on quite the most extraordinary year of our lives. There were so many momentous events that maybe we should stop time and try to take it all in.
Either that or the country has closed down for the day. Still I expect the supermarkets will be rushed off their feet shortly. There's bound to be a commercial stampede sooner or later. Now have we forgotten anything? The twentieth box of mince pies, the crackers without which no Christmas gathering would be complete. Or maybe another set of lights for the tree. What about another stack of presents, toys and games for the children, woolly hats, scarves, reindeer decorated pullovers or just any old festive cliche that comes into our possession. I know. Let's dig out all of those traditional board games. Now that would be cool. In an age of breakneck technology and Play Stations why don't we play Monopoly, Scrabble or Trivial Pursuit. So refreshingly old fashioned but the greatest fun you could ever have when the shops are closed for a couple of Christmas days.
Now let me see. The trains are on strike in London and it's almost Christmas. Now where have I heard that before?. Is it Southern trains? I can see it now. Boxing Day in London will be absolutely insufferable and intolerable. In fact I think the whole country will grind to a complete standstill. There will be a state of stagnation and total immobility that may just grip the country. Imagine Waterloo, Paddington and King's Cross St Pancras. It doesn't bear thinking about. Suddenly whole platforms will be mobbed with heaving masses of people or maybe my imagination is working overtime.
Meanwhile back in the very serious world of the Premier League the footballing giants, sleeping giants, mid table occupants and relegation strugglers are sharpening their ammunition. My team West Ham United are hoping that mid week victory over what seemed a very poor and limited Burnley team was no mere flash in the pan. Hull City are the latest visitors to the new London Stadium and for those who believe that the new Hammers domain could be the club's ruination it may be time to review your judgment.
Now the optimists are still confident that nothing catastrophic will happen to West Ham. Of course there are teething problems but then look at Arsenal and the Emirates and to a lesser extent Manchester City at the Etihad? It could be just a very awkward settling in period but you suspect that sooner or later the club will have to hit the ground running. There can be no time for anxiety, nervousness or hesitation. This is not a dress rehearsal so manager Slaven Bilic may find that when he wakes up on Christmas morning the only presents he'll be getting are a P45 and temporary unemployment.
Still the Hammers, although hovering over the relegation trapdoor may find that the teams around them have also got problems and deficiencies. Anyway today's opposition Hull City reminds me of a deliciously pleasant game between the two teams a couple of decades ago when the Premier League was just a daydream in the FA hierarchy.
It was a family holiday and I seem to remember it was Lake Lugano in Switzerland. Now for reasons best known perhaps to myself I was just consumed with curiosity. I suppose I had get my priorities right but the temptation was too much. I had to find out the result of the game and did my utmost to find out. These, after all, were historic times for the both the world and Europe.
At roughly the same time we were told that the Berlin Wall was about to come down and the relationship between East and West Germany would be altogether more amicable. Suddenly the coldness and frostiness betweeen East and West would be thawed out and soon both would become the best of buddies.
In the hotel where we were staying, overlooking the most stunning mountain range, plans were in place for a major knees up, the kind of celebration that both countries probably felt they'd never witness again. And yet they did. A group of Germans sat down for a jubilant dinner. I can still see and hear the clinking of beer glasses, the joy on their faces and the flickering candles on the table. It was humanity at its most civilised and a moment in time that had to be cherished.
So here we were back in circa 1989, West Ham were playing Hull City in the old Second Division and the quaint market town in Lugano, Switzerland could hardly have been less interested. It was though at its prettiest. I'm not sure who told me but somehow the West Ham result had percolated through to me. In the day before the Internet you had to look to alternative sources for your news and information. Then somebody did tell me. It was quite the most astonishing football result I'd ever heard. And even now it hardly seems credible. But to my absolute amazement it did happen.
West Ham had beaten Hull 7-1. It was nothing short of sensational and yet somehow it had taken me by complete surprise. Privately I'd hoped for a positive result against a team who were trapped in obscurity at the time but 7-1 beggared belief. I don't think I'd ever seen or experienced this feeling in football. Before your team emerge from the tunnel for a game you always believe that in the best of all possible worlds that one day a rugby or cricket score would leave you speechless and dumbfounded. But 7-1. It was too good to be true. Yet it had come to pass. Hull hammered at the home of the Hammers. The icing on a very piquant cake with loads of cream and sugar. My cup had runneth over.
What was less noteworthy at the time and probably completely overlooked was the achievement of one West Ham player. Steve Potts, an ultra reliable full back and dedicated defender, scored his one and only goal for West Ham. Now I'm not sure why that statistic has never deserted me. Potts, by his own admission, was a safe pair of hands at the back, a yeomen servant for the claret and blue of West Ham but surely that day against Hull, Potts entered the pantheon of greats for one solitary day in the history of West Ham.
So it is back in the present day that both West Ham and Hull meet up again on an early wintry December afternoon. In a sense both clubs, although on a much higher plateau than they were on that far distant day two decades ago, are still essentially kindred spirits. West Ham although more buoyant than they were last Saturday, are far from out of trouble at the wrong end of the Premier League and Hull are teetering on the precipice. It could be an uncomfortably hard and gruelling season for both teams.
This is the last footballing weekend before Christmas. There remain some very relevant West Ham related facts and figures. On Boxing Day 1963 the old First Division yielded a bumper record crop of 66 goals, a figure that may never ever be surpassed. West Ham, of course had to be one of the victims of circumstances as Blackburn accumulated eight goals at the Hammers expense. West Ham had been beaten 8-2 by a very skilful and lethal Blackburn side featuring the England winger Bryan Douglas and the honest, hard working Ronnie Clayton. On a heavy mudbath of an Upton Park pitch Blackburn tore West Ham to shreds and perhaps the Hammers only consolation was the final whistle. That couldn't have arrived quickly enough. It was the most mind blowing and demoralising of defeats for West Ham although they did achieve some measure of revenge when at Ewood Park a couple of days later, the Hammers won 3-1 against Blackburn. So there Rovers. Take that.
Then there was the Boxing Day local derby against neighbours Leyton Orient circa 1978. West Ham had only recently been relegated to the old Second Division and suddenly the neighbours had dropped in for a cup of tea and sugar. Up until that point West Ham had never been beaten by Orient but this day was entirely and shockingly different. It was almost as if the ground had been shifted from under us From my very rare vantage point on the old Upton Park Chicken Run I can still see the horror show unravelling in front of me. Orient won 2-0 and John Chiedozie sprinting the length of the Upton Park to score the easiest goal he'll ever score still sends cold shivers down my spine.
Anyway time to look out of our window again. A heavy mist and fog has once again descended on the streets, roads and cities of Britain, like the greyest of blankets. This December is turning into a tale of two contrasting halves. You might even call it a contradiction of terms. The first half of December was marvellously and stupendously mild. Sure the chill was noticeably raw at times but it was easy to believe that the Costa Blanca had now sent over its warmest current. So no complaints from any of us. Now though autumn is beginning to fade into the distance and winter is creeping stealthily over the hills and dales. It's time to dig out those thick pullovers and gloves. Or maybe not. Isn't it good to be alive? Oh absolutely. Besides it's the Strictly final and that's a must.
Outside a whitish mist hangs heavily in the air like a static curtain. The trees are like empty hands, like thin human fingers pointing in different directions. Those enormous blackbirds may have decided to up and leave for the time being and all I can hear is silence. What this country needs is one uplifting street carnival to spark it into life. Perhaps Christmas will do the trick. Or Chanukah with its jam doughnuts and abundant cholesterol. Time to go for a walk in a claret and blue wonderland. Come on West Ham United.
Thursday, 15 December 2016
The Two Ronnies- what a team, double the fun.
The Two Ronnies- what a team!
British TV never had it so good. British TV was like a pampered pet. It had been spoilt something rotten. 40 years ago another superb British comedy double act graced our living rooms and stayed there for another 40 years which meant that we were all very privileged. At exactly the same time as Morecambe and Wise, the Two Ronnies were performing before millions of people on the BBC. Surely Auntie Beeb has never felt quite so humble and smug. The Two Ronnies, two of comedy's most eloquent of word masters, were quite literally painting word pictures.
Back in the now hazy days of black and white TV comedy Ronnie Barker and Ronnie Corbett were learning their trade alongside the intellectuals and academics. Barker and Corbett were serving their apprenticeship at the coal face of British TV. Alongside the esteemed likes of John Cleese, David Frost and Michael Palin, Barker and Corbett were honing their craft and stitching together their unique brand of wonderful observational comedy and great sketches that will stick in the mind for ever more never to go away.
We can probably remember where we were when Ronnie Corbett and Ronnie Barker started out. They were those two characters who featured in that famous sketch where the the very core of the English class system was ridiculed and held up to account. Ronnie Barker stood proudly next to Ronnie Corbett while the tall, imposing John Cleese. complete in upper class City bank attire, turned up his condescending nose at both Barker and Corbett. Cleese maintained that he was far superior than both Corbett and Barker.
Now the turning point had been reached for Ronnie Corbett. and Ronnie Barker. It was a memorably seminal moment in British double act land. Both men promptly grabbed hold of the baton and ran with it as far as they could. Soon they would become British comedy's most articulate act of all time. Up until then we'd had Flanagan and Allen but none had seemingly possessed that special quality, that indefinable something that made them just stand out from the rest.
Before embarking on a distinguished and well garlanded career on the telly, Barker had worked very diligently and confidently in a bank. But privately he'd been harbouring an ambition to use his considerable vocabulary to a most constructive use. Then it all began to fit together. Find a partner to share your love of words with and then create the most splendid tapestry of comic sketches that were both witty and hugely intelligent.
By the early 1970s both Ronnie Corbett and Ronnie Barker were sitting next together like two very earnest newsreaders ad libbing and improvising as if it were going out of fashion. There were the wonderful news items spiced with more word play. Then there were sketches which depicted everything from posh office parties and ice- cream parlour tomfoolery with a definite emphasis on the use of words.
Then there were sketches that imprinted themselves on our consciousness for ever more. What genius, what perfection, what a memory and how did they remember that? You know the one I'm talking about and then the others come flooding back to me and you. They were some of the most brilliantly conceived and executed comedy sketches, fashioned and tailored by two of the most creative minds in the world of British comedy. Even now they leave you with the broadest smile on your face.
It was the Fork Handles sketches where the Two Ronnies find themselves in a haberdashery. Ronnie Barker, in what looked like a village idiot's clothes, bumbles and blunders his way into a shop and requests every day household appliances. He wanted garden forks, hoes, plugs and everything that begged for hilarious responses from Ronnie Corbett. But then it all went disastrously wrong because communication had got slightly muddled and then there was misunderstanding. Fork Handles of course became lost in the translation and ended as Four Candles, the garden water hose assumed another life form as the letter O and everybody just crumpled into helpless laughter.
Now the Two Ronnies were established family favourites with spectacular song and dance acts and much more. How we'll miss them.
British TV never had it so good. British TV was like a pampered pet. It had been spoilt something rotten. 40 years ago another superb British comedy double act graced our living rooms and stayed there for another 40 years which meant that we were all very privileged. At exactly the same time as Morecambe and Wise, the Two Ronnies were performing before millions of people on the BBC. Surely Auntie Beeb has never felt quite so humble and smug. The Two Ronnies, two of comedy's most eloquent of word masters, were quite literally painting word pictures.
Back in the now hazy days of black and white TV comedy Ronnie Barker and Ronnie Corbett were learning their trade alongside the intellectuals and academics. Barker and Corbett were serving their apprenticeship at the coal face of British TV. Alongside the esteemed likes of John Cleese, David Frost and Michael Palin, Barker and Corbett were honing their craft and stitching together their unique brand of wonderful observational comedy and great sketches that will stick in the mind for ever more never to go away.
We can probably remember where we were when Ronnie Corbett and Ronnie Barker started out. They were those two characters who featured in that famous sketch where the the very core of the English class system was ridiculed and held up to account. Ronnie Barker stood proudly next to Ronnie Corbett while the tall, imposing John Cleese. complete in upper class City bank attire, turned up his condescending nose at both Barker and Corbett. Cleese maintained that he was far superior than both Corbett and Barker.
Now the turning point had been reached for Ronnie Corbett. and Ronnie Barker. It was a memorably seminal moment in British double act land. Both men promptly grabbed hold of the baton and ran with it as far as they could. Soon they would become British comedy's most articulate act of all time. Up until then we'd had Flanagan and Allen but none had seemingly possessed that special quality, that indefinable something that made them just stand out from the rest.
Before embarking on a distinguished and well garlanded career on the telly, Barker had worked very diligently and confidently in a bank. But privately he'd been harbouring an ambition to use his considerable vocabulary to a most constructive use. Then it all began to fit together. Find a partner to share your love of words with and then create the most splendid tapestry of comic sketches that were both witty and hugely intelligent.
By the early 1970s both Ronnie Corbett and Ronnie Barker were sitting next together like two very earnest newsreaders ad libbing and improvising as if it were going out of fashion. There were the wonderful news items spiced with more word play. Then there were sketches which depicted everything from posh office parties and ice- cream parlour tomfoolery with a definite emphasis on the use of words.
Then there were sketches that imprinted themselves on our consciousness for ever more. What genius, what perfection, what a memory and how did they remember that? You know the one I'm talking about and then the others come flooding back to me and you. They were some of the most brilliantly conceived and executed comedy sketches, fashioned and tailored by two of the most creative minds in the world of British comedy. Even now they leave you with the broadest smile on your face.
It was the Fork Handles sketches where the Two Ronnies find themselves in a haberdashery. Ronnie Barker, in what looked like a village idiot's clothes, bumbles and blunders his way into a shop and requests every day household appliances. He wanted garden forks, hoes, plugs and everything that begged for hilarious responses from Ronnie Corbett. But then it all went disastrously wrong because communication had got slightly muddled and then there was misunderstanding. Fork Handles of course became lost in the translation and ended as Four Candles, the garden water hose assumed another life form as the letter O and everybody just crumpled into helpless laughter.
Now the Two Ronnies were established family favourites with spectacular song and dance acts and much more. How we'll miss them.
Wednesday, 14 December 2016
The Christmas TV comedy greats- will we ever see their like again.
Christmas Day and then the salad days of TV comedy greats - will we ever see their like again? First on the bill - Morecambe and Wise and then shortly The Two Ronnies.
So where are we? You've wrapped up your Christmas presents, plonked that huge turkey in the fridge, added the final touches to the Christmas tree and generally abandoned yourself to a rip roaringly good time of booze, telly, more booze and more telly plus a generous helping of festive jollity and joviality. But are you looking forward to the big day or simply dreading it? Do you wish you were on some sun kissed tropical isle where nobody has even heard of Christmas? The truth is that somehow the world will hold its breath, feast itself on excessive indulgence and then forget what day it is.
And then after an almost irrational consumption of turkey, roast potatoes, brussel sprouts, cranberry sauce, onion stuffing, plus anything that looks remotely edible, we all collapse in our sofas, puffing out our cheeks, glad that all of that painstaking preparation is finally over and murmurs of appreciation have been expressed. Uncle Tom can finally show off the socks the family have once again given him. He was so looking forward to adding to his extensive collection of handkerchiefs.
Then of course there are the beaming, red faced and angelic faces of children. Peter has got another X Box and Play Station, Jill just leapt up into the air when Auntie Barbara gave her another Russian doll and all of the nieces, cousins and uncles have been suitably rewarded. It is, after all, the season to be jolly and where would we be without Christmas, the Queen at 3pm in the afternoon and the traditional James Stewart classic 'It's a Wonderful Life'. It is a quintessentially English domestic scene and yet around the world they do exactly the same thing - over and over again. It is all about family solidarity, wholesome unity, wonderful togetherness and the most heartening of Christian festivals.
Of course we'll never tire of it, of course we'll sing, dance, joke and laugh joyously until the church bells ring out resoundingly in the shires and counties of Britain. The vicar has delivered his yearly sermon of peace on earth, his plea for harmonious relations in all communities, religious and spiritual goodwill to all mankind until once again a bomb goes off in some far off war torn zone and we all wonder whether it was worth all of the effort.
So we go back to the TV comedy of yesteryear. Four gentlemen of rich comic heritage and breeding gave us a perfectly plausible reason for just kicking off our shoes in the evening, flopping into our sofas and then rolling about on the floor with irresistible, belly aching laughter. We cried with laughter, we wept with laughter, we fell off our seats with laughter and we spent the best part of an hour trying not to make a spectacle of ourselves such was the intensity and sheer volume of comedy that had been put before us.
Eric Morecambe and Ernie Wise were followed by the Ronnie Barker and Ronnie Corbett. If anybody had sought the most perfect evening of entertainment to light up a dark, wintry Christmas night then this was your moment. Ladies and Gentlemen. We proudly give you Morecambe and Wise and the Two Ronnies. Sheer compulsive showbiz and box office, sheer magnificence, the BBC performing miracles and just exquisitely funny. We split our sides, rocked backwards and forwards at the unalloyed hilarity of it all, the sheer formidable beauty of TV at its very best. It was far too good to be true. We had to be dreaming it all. And yet we weren't because it was perfectly true.
On Christmas Day 40 years ago Britain was undeniably spoilt by firstly Bruce Forsyth's Generation Game at roughly tea time and then wonder of wonders Morecambe and Wise accompanied by The Two Ronnies. We'd barely digested our Christmas pud with lashings of custard before Eric and Ern launched into what amounted to an evening of heavenly comic genius.
From a personal point of view Morecambe and Wise were the embodiment of comic brilliance, rising to heights never previously scaled. Eric slapped Ern on the face unashamedly, Ern tried hard to keep a straight face and the audience were just convulsed with the giggles.Then there was an outburst of more breathtaking gags and sketches while Eric grabbed Ern by the shirt collar and chuckled superbly at Ern's knobbly knees.
There were the plays that Ern allegedly wrote and the bedroom scenes that in those days were regarded as perfectly acceptable. We could never understand why two adult men, happily married in real life, got into bed with each other and then cracked jokes as if it were some morally permissible activity. In retrospect it was not only outrageously silly it also challenged all the boundaries of taste and decency. Two men were in bed with each other, both in dressing gowns and both quite comfortable. It looked terribly inappropriate and horribly questionable. And yet none of us batted an eye lid because that's what TV was like 40 years ago.
But then there were the epic moments in the Eric and Ern Christmas spectacular. These were the end of show plays that turned into Hollywood style extravaganzas. There was the splendid sight of Penelope Keith climbing off a huge platform from a great height and Shirley Bassey somehow being expected to wear a pair of wellington boots after singing Hey Big Spender with barely controlled mirth. There was Glenda Jackson subjected to utter humiliation and degradation and then Angela Rippon, that most consummate of all BBC newsreaders revealing her long and glamorous legs before a stunned nation.
Then there was that final and unforgettable conclusion when everybody assumed, quite rightly, that Eric and Ern had finished their glorious frolics and hilarious wisecracking. Before the show there had been what seemed like an inexplicable shuffling of the curtains before the boys came out to perform. Nobody quite knew what was happening but by the time Eric flicked back the curtains for the last time it was abundantly clear that here was a piece of comic mastery that maybe Eric and Ern had perfected a million times in the war time music halls.
There was that much celebrated show where the great composer and classical conductor Andre Previn was asked to appear with Eric and Ern. To this day it has to be one of the finest pieces of comedy ever seen. Eric, complete in smart dress, top hat and tails, sat down on his piano chair, rolled his fingers, pulled up his shirt sleeves, adjusted his tails and then gave his rendition of a classical piece of music. What proceeded was some old pub tune that none of us could have anticipated. Previn demanded to know what was going on and then Eric once again, in all seriousness, insisted that he was playing all the right notes but not necessarily in the right order. None of us questioned Eric because he knew he was right and so perhaps privately did Previn.
So here we were at the end of the Morecambe and Wise show. The curtains had closed for the last time but not before one moment of magical TV. A gentleman called Arthur, in all innocence, darted in front of a microphone and tried valiantly to play the harmonica at which point he was whipped away from view and told by Eric that the show had finished and the bus stop was in that direction. Sorry Arthur harmonica playing wasn't part of the Eric and Ern fun factory. It was time to go home Arthur. You're superfluous to requirements. And yet Eric and Ern had satisfied the job description because that Christmas Day night we all knew that we'd been grandly entertained. The Two Ronnies- you're on up - next lads.
So where are we? You've wrapped up your Christmas presents, plonked that huge turkey in the fridge, added the final touches to the Christmas tree and generally abandoned yourself to a rip roaringly good time of booze, telly, more booze and more telly plus a generous helping of festive jollity and joviality. But are you looking forward to the big day or simply dreading it? Do you wish you were on some sun kissed tropical isle where nobody has even heard of Christmas? The truth is that somehow the world will hold its breath, feast itself on excessive indulgence and then forget what day it is.
And then after an almost irrational consumption of turkey, roast potatoes, brussel sprouts, cranberry sauce, onion stuffing, plus anything that looks remotely edible, we all collapse in our sofas, puffing out our cheeks, glad that all of that painstaking preparation is finally over and murmurs of appreciation have been expressed. Uncle Tom can finally show off the socks the family have once again given him. He was so looking forward to adding to his extensive collection of handkerchiefs.
Then of course there are the beaming, red faced and angelic faces of children. Peter has got another X Box and Play Station, Jill just leapt up into the air when Auntie Barbara gave her another Russian doll and all of the nieces, cousins and uncles have been suitably rewarded. It is, after all, the season to be jolly and where would we be without Christmas, the Queen at 3pm in the afternoon and the traditional James Stewart classic 'It's a Wonderful Life'. It is a quintessentially English domestic scene and yet around the world they do exactly the same thing - over and over again. It is all about family solidarity, wholesome unity, wonderful togetherness and the most heartening of Christian festivals.
Of course we'll never tire of it, of course we'll sing, dance, joke and laugh joyously until the church bells ring out resoundingly in the shires and counties of Britain. The vicar has delivered his yearly sermon of peace on earth, his plea for harmonious relations in all communities, religious and spiritual goodwill to all mankind until once again a bomb goes off in some far off war torn zone and we all wonder whether it was worth all of the effort.
So we go back to the TV comedy of yesteryear. Four gentlemen of rich comic heritage and breeding gave us a perfectly plausible reason for just kicking off our shoes in the evening, flopping into our sofas and then rolling about on the floor with irresistible, belly aching laughter. We cried with laughter, we wept with laughter, we fell off our seats with laughter and we spent the best part of an hour trying not to make a spectacle of ourselves such was the intensity and sheer volume of comedy that had been put before us.
Eric Morecambe and Ernie Wise were followed by the Ronnie Barker and Ronnie Corbett. If anybody had sought the most perfect evening of entertainment to light up a dark, wintry Christmas night then this was your moment. Ladies and Gentlemen. We proudly give you Morecambe and Wise and the Two Ronnies. Sheer compulsive showbiz and box office, sheer magnificence, the BBC performing miracles and just exquisitely funny. We split our sides, rocked backwards and forwards at the unalloyed hilarity of it all, the sheer formidable beauty of TV at its very best. It was far too good to be true. We had to be dreaming it all. And yet we weren't because it was perfectly true.
On Christmas Day 40 years ago Britain was undeniably spoilt by firstly Bruce Forsyth's Generation Game at roughly tea time and then wonder of wonders Morecambe and Wise accompanied by The Two Ronnies. We'd barely digested our Christmas pud with lashings of custard before Eric and Ern launched into what amounted to an evening of heavenly comic genius.
From a personal point of view Morecambe and Wise were the embodiment of comic brilliance, rising to heights never previously scaled. Eric slapped Ern on the face unashamedly, Ern tried hard to keep a straight face and the audience were just convulsed with the giggles.Then there was an outburst of more breathtaking gags and sketches while Eric grabbed Ern by the shirt collar and chuckled superbly at Ern's knobbly knees.
There were the plays that Ern allegedly wrote and the bedroom scenes that in those days were regarded as perfectly acceptable. We could never understand why two adult men, happily married in real life, got into bed with each other and then cracked jokes as if it were some morally permissible activity. In retrospect it was not only outrageously silly it also challenged all the boundaries of taste and decency. Two men were in bed with each other, both in dressing gowns and both quite comfortable. It looked terribly inappropriate and horribly questionable. And yet none of us batted an eye lid because that's what TV was like 40 years ago.
But then there were the epic moments in the Eric and Ern Christmas spectacular. These were the end of show plays that turned into Hollywood style extravaganzas. There was the splendid sight of Penelope Keith climbing off a huge platform from a great height and Shirley Bassey somehow being expected to wear a pair of wellington boots after singing Hey Big Spender with barely controlled mirth. There was Glenda Jackson subjected to utter humiliation and degradation and then Angela Rippon, that most consummate of all BBC newsreaders revealing her long and glamorous legs before a stunned nation.
Then there was that final and unforgettable conclusion when everybody assumed, quite rightly, that Eric and Ern had finished their glorious frolics and hilarious wisecracking. Before the show there had been what seemed like an inexplicable shuffling of the curtains before the boys came out to perform. Nobody quite knew what was happening but by the time Eric flicked back the curtains for the last time it was abundantly clear that here was a piece of comic mastery that maybe Eric and Ern had perfected a million times in the war time music halls.
There was that much celebrated show where the great composer and classical conductor Andre Previn was asked to appear with Eric and Ern. To this day it has to be one of the finest pieces of comedy ever seen. Eric, complete in smart dress, top hat and tails, sat down on his piano chair, rolled his fingers, pulled up his shirt sleeves, adjusted his tails and then gave his rendition of a classical piece of music. What proceeded was some old pub tune that none of us could have anticipated. Previn demanded to know what was going on and then Eric once again, in all seriousness, insisted that he was playing all the right notes but not necessarily in the right order. None of us questioned Eric because he knew he was right and so perhaps privately did Previn.
So here we were at the end of the Morecambe and Wise show. The curtains had closed for the last time but not before one moment of magical TV. A gentleman called Arthur, in all innocence, darted in front of a microphone and tried valiantly to play the harmonica at which point he was whipped away from view and told by Eric that the show had finished and the bus stop was in that direction. Sorry Arthur harmonica playing wasn't part of the Eric and Ern fun factory. It was time to go home Arthur. You're superfluous to requirements. And yet Eric and Ern had satisfied the job description because that Christmas Day night we all knew that we'd been grandly entertained. The Two Ronnies- you're on up - next lads.
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