Joe's Jolly Japes - my latest book.
Joe's Jolly Japes is very much my perspective on my favourite sport, football and I think, my amusing take on the Chelsea Flower Show, the Henley Regatta, Polo on the playing fields of England, a summer Hyde Park concert on the BBC, my depiction of the middle classes in England, loads of more popular culture on everything and everybody, references to my favourite seaside resorts in England, more telly, more celebrities, London department stores, the people, places and events from different points of the compass.
Joe's Jolly Japes is a jolly journey along the road of the celebrity culture, the pop stars such as the late David Bowie and those who continue to enrich our lives as Sir Elton John, Sir Cliff Richard, my favourite sports icons, their lives and very descriptive word pictures of the great and good. Joe's Jolly Japes is a broad canvas of music, sport, cultural icons and national treasures. It is once again a very colourful word portrait of life, the world and the events that illuminate our lives.
You can buy Joe's Jolly Japes at Amazon, Waterstones online market place and Barnes and Noble online. You'll laugh, smile and chortle at my take on today's pop culture. It's my Jolly Japes, Joe's Jolly Japes. You'll find an abundance of more wit, humour and some literary observations. Go on treat yourself. It's like the sweetest piece of cake, a lovely treat and a pleasant little read from yours truly Joe Morris.
Thursday, 5 January 2017
No Joe Bloggs and Joe's Jolly Japes, my literary pride and joy
No Joe Bloggs and Joe's Jolly Japes, my literary pride and joy.
I know you've probably hundreds of celebrity autobiographies and many millions of words have been written on every conceivable subject but my last book No Joe Bloggs I think will take you on the most emotionally rewarding journey of all. No Joe Bloggs was written from my standpoint and is the story of an ordinary member of the public.
No Joe Bloggs is, I believe, quite definitely funny, moving and sentimental and very descriptive into the bargain. It's the story of my grandparents as Holocaust survivors, their hopes, aspirations and dreams and my take on what might have happened after the Second World War, my teenage battle against shyness and loneliness and an abundance of quirkiness. There are references to my favourite kind of pop music, artists, singers and radio stations such as Radio 1, the cultural movers and shakers of the 1960s and 70s, the TV celebrities, famous shows from the 1960s and 70s, the showbiz legends and funny pen portraits about Morecambe and Wise, The Two Ronnies, Norman Wisdom, Bob Monkhouse, Dave Allen and the people who made us roar with laughter with their heady mix of light entertainment, lovely gags and fun loving witticisms.
There are also very descriptive pen portraits of football teams from the 1960s and 70s such as Arsenal, Leeds United, Liverpool, Ipswich Town, Wolves, Manchester United, Manchester City, Spurs and Chelsea with the clubs characteristics and amusing comparisons with everybody and anything. I feel sure that you'll abandon yourself to both chuckling and giggling in a matter of seconds.
In No Joe Bloggs, I had to pay the warmest homage to my late and wonderful dad. Here I paint the most affectionate picture of my lovely dad and his enduring love affair with the West End of London, Piccadilly Circus, Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett, Dean Martin and the big band sound of wartime in London. I've written a totally imaginary but I think very amusing story about my dad and Frank Sinatra hanging out in Las Vegas, cruising the strip, drinking non alcoholic drinks in the bars and playing American pool or possibly snooker.
Then I take you back to my Ilford home and tell you about the neighbours in my road while growing up in Ilford, Essex as well as the families, the friends and the ice cream van that used to light up the road with jolly music. Then there are my seaside visits with my parents and grandparents, their huge shopping bag of sandwiches and the shops and department stores that were somehow integral to who I was and my descriptions of the sublime and the ridiculous.
I'm particularly proud of my chapter on London and the West End. Here I launch into the most lyrical and verbally lively commentary you may ever read. I'm not one to blow my trumpet and boast but believe me for lovers of literature my chapter on my take of London really is literary poetic licence. I feel sure that you'll identify with some of my descriptions and warm to my take on London.
In the concluding chapters of No Joe Bloggs I go back to Ilford, Essex and tell you about the very local timber merchants at the bottom of our road, the doctors surgery and the doctors, the milkmen and postmen, my proud Jewish heritage, the Jewish holidays and above all the way I dealt with what became diagnosed as autism. No Joe Bloggs is personal, precious, heartfelt, sincere, deeply appreciative of everybody and everybody who made me tick.
No Joe Bloggs is full of pop culture, telly, radio, music, football, tennis, cricket, rugby and all the sporting icons of the age from Bjorn Borg, Ilie Nastase, Jimmy Connors, Virginia Wade, Chris Evert, the great Hollywood stars from yesteryear, the epic films from days gone by, my favourite films such as Saturday Night Fever, Grease, West Side Story and loads of cultural references. There are both American and British comedy programmes and stars. It is action packed with wittty anecdotes, personal stories from my childhood and my dad's East End uncle with a toy warehouse in his house.
I hope I've done enough to persuade you to spend just a while in the world of an ordinary member of the public. We all have our tale to tell and we're often told that there's a book in all of us. This is my story, my humorous take on my childhood, the teenage struggles, the striving after the silver lining and the quest for acceptance among good and understanding friends and family. I've always wanted to explain why things went wrong for me as a teenager and why I was so terrified to communicate and engage with kids of my age. No Joe Bloggs is my therapy, my catharsis, my way of coming to terms with my very late development in life.
The end of No Joe Bloggs is a rags to riches story about an ordinary kid from the back streets of Ilford, a man who just wanted to carve out a personality and identity that just refused to grow. Of course my teenage years were lonely and scary. They were uncomfortable and unpleasant and totally wasted and to those whose acquaintance I failed to make as a kid I can only apologise.
I was that petrified three year old on his first day at nursery and I just didn't want to chat or joke, laugh or talk to anybody. To any of my personal friends who I went to school and then unintentionally snubbed at my local youth club. it certainly wasn't personal. I have to tell you that although I may have only been 11 at the time deep inside me there was almost an almost irrational fear and terror of the kids outside the club. I was convinced they'd pick on me and make fun of me and therefore this is what No Joe Bloggs tries to illustrate. No Joe Bloggs is a book of wit, humour, detail, rapturous description, loads of expressive literature. No Joe Bloggs is my attempt to explain the ups and downs of teenage angst, and an almost delayed adolescence and how I fought and now succeeded against all of the odds. No Joe Bloggs is a triumph against adversity, the victory over near certain defeat and an uplifting, heartwarming and moving story about me No Joe Bloggs or No Joe Bloggs by Joe Morris. I now have the most wonderful family behind me and I think that's a happy after ever story.
You can buy No Joe Bloggs at Amazon, Waterstones online market place and Barnes and Noble and you can find an accompanying You Tube video as well.
I know you've probably hundreds of celebrity autobiographies and many millions of words have been written on every conceivable subject but my last book No Joe Bloggs I think will take you on the most emotionally rewarding journey of all. No Joe Bloggs was written from my standpoint and is the story of an ordinary member of the public.
No Joe Bloggs is, I believe, quite definitely funny, moving and sentimental and very descriptive into the bargain. It's the story of my grandparents as Holocaust survivors, their hopes, aspirations and dreams and my take on what might have happened after the Second World War, my teenage battle against shyness and loneliness and an abundance of quirkiness. There are references to my favourite kind of pop music, artists, singers and radio stations such as Radio 1, the cultural movers and shakers of the 1960s and 70s, the TV celebrities, famous shows from the 1960s and 70s, the showbiz legends and funny pen portraits about Morecambe and Wise, The Two Ronnies, Norman Wisdom, Bob Monkhouse, Dave Allen and the people who made us roar with laughter with their heady mix of light entertainment, lovely gags and fun loving witticisms.
There are also very descriptive pen portraits of football teams from the 1960s and 70s such as Arsenal, Leeds United, Liverpool, Ipswich Town, Wolves, Manchester United, Manchester City, Spurs and Chelsea with the clubs characteristics and amusing comparisons with everybody and anything. I feel sure that you'll abandon yourself to both chuckling and giggling in a matter of seconds.
In No Joe Bloggs, I had to pay the warmest homage to my late and wonderful dad. Here I paint the most affectionate picture of my lovely dad and his enduring love affair with the West End of London, Piccadilly Circus, Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett, Dean Martin and the big band sound of wartime in London. I've written a totally imaginary but I think very amusing story about my dad and Frank Sinatra hanging out in Las Vegas, cruising the strip, drinking non alcoholic drinks in the bars and playing American pool or possibly snooker.
Then I take you back to my Ilford home and tell you about the neighbours in my road while growing up in Ilford, Essex as well as the families, the friends and the ice cream van that used to light up the road with jolly music. Then there are my seaside visits with my parents and grandparents, their huge shopping bag of sandwiches and the shops and department stores that were somehow integral to who I was and my descriptions of the sublime and the ridiculous.
I'm particularly proud of my chapter on London and the West End. Here I launch into the most lyrical and verbally lively commentary you may ever read. I'm not one to blow my trumpet and boast but believe me for lovers of literature my chapter on my take of London really is literary poetic licence. I feel sure that you'll identify with some of my descriptions and warm to my take on London.
In the concluding chapters of No Joe Bloggs I go back to Ilford, Essex and tell you about the very local timber merchants at the bottom of our road, the doctors surgery and the doctors, the milkmen and postmen, my proud Jewish heritage, the Jewish holidays and above all the way I dealt with what became diagnosed as autism. No Joe Bloggs is personal, precious, heartfelt, sincere, deeply appreciative of everybody and everybody who made me tick.
No Joe Bloggs is full of pop culture, telly, radio, music, football, tennis, cricket, rugby and all the sporting icons of the age from Bjorn Borg, Ilie Nastase, Jimmy Connors, Virginia Wade, Chris Evert, the great Hollywood stars from yesteryear, the epic films from days gone by, my favourite films such as Saturday Night Fever, Grease, West Side Story and loads of cultural references. There are both American and British comedy programmes and stars. It is action packed with wittty anecdotes, personal stories from my childhood and my dad's East End uncle with a toy warehouse in his house.
I hope I've done enough to persuade you to spend just a while in the world of an ordinary member of the public. We all have our tale to tell and we're often told that there's a book in all of us. This is my story, my humorous take on my childhood, the teenage struggles, the striving after the silver lining and the quest for acceptance among good and understanding friends and family. I've always wanted to explain why things went wrong for me as a teenager and why I was so terrified to communicate and engage with kids of my age. No Joe Bloggs is my therapy, my catharsis, my way of coming to terms with my very late development in life.
The end of No Joe Bloggs is a rags to riches story about an ordinary kid from the back streets of Ilford, a man who just wanted to carve out a personality and identity that just refused to grow. Of course my teenage years were lonely and scary. They were uncomfortable and unpleasant and totally wasted and to those whose acquaintance I failed to make as a kid I can only apologise.
I was that petrified three year old on his first day at nursery and I just didn't want to chat or joke, laugh or talk to anybody. To any of my personal friends who I went to school and then unintentionally snubbed at my local youth club. it certainly wasn't personal. I have to tell you that although I may have only been 11 at the time deep inside me there was almost an almost irrational fear and terror of the kids outside the club. I was convinced they'd pick on me and make fun of me and therefore this is what No Joe Bloggs tries to illustrate. No Joe Bloggs is a book of wit, humour, detail, rapturous description, loads of expressive literature. No Joe Bloggs is my attempt to explain the ups and downs of teenage angst, and an almost delayed adolescence and how I fought and now succeeded against all of the odds. No Joe Bloggs is a triumph against adversity, the victory over near certain defeat and an uplifting, heartwarming and moving story about me No Joe Bloggs or No Joe Bloggs by Joe Morris. I now have the most wonderful family behind me and I think that's a happy after ever story.
You can buy No Joe Bloggs at Amazon, Waterstones online market place and Barnes and Noble and you can find an accompanying You Tube video as well.
Wednesday, 4 January 2017
Just a hint of rain in the air and it's back to work.
A hint of rain in the air.
Today there was just a hint of rain in the air. In fact I think it must have drizzled almost accidentally and then apologised for doing so in the next breath. January can be such a tease can't it? There was a suggestion of a light drizzle from the sky and then it changed its mind. January can also be very playful and capricious because when the rain does arrive it does so with a certain style and panache.
In fact you've got to hand it to January because when the heavens open that rain just crashes to the ground with an almost businesslike intent. But today the rain was almost teeth clenchingly frustrating. The temperature is definitely dropping slowly but surely and the chill is ever so bitingly noticeable. There was a palpable shiver in the air and my fingers began to yearn for heat and warmth.
It hasn't quite reached freezing point and the possibility is that the fox I saw last night was simply taking a leisurely stroll in utter darkness. He may have been looking for a bed and breakfast hotel for the night although this was hard to tell. Still it's comparatively mild and I can now see the roads rather than the all enveloping fog that just seemed to hang heavily in the night sky like yesterday's curtains.
I've heard rumours that people have spotted roses and tulips in their garden which almost beggars belief. Now when was the last time you saw spring and summer flowers blossoming quite nobly at the start of January? It's rather like waking up in the middle of June and discovering thick snowdrifts, huge mounds of snow on the ground just piling up remorselessly, workmen silently gritting the roads. Soon they'll be telling us to turn on those giant industrial fans and declaring a hosepipe ban. Whatever next? I'm sure global warming may be more than just innocent speculation.
Oh yes there was that stunning heatwave of 1976 when my parents garden looked more like a concrete bowl rather than the pristine green grass they'd been used to. There wasn't a patch of grass for miles and wherever you looked all of my mum's roses looked in desperate need of a downpour. So when the heat haze just hovered over our neighbourhood we just looked up at the flawless blue sky and thought of England, middle class England, working class England, suburban Britain and the whole of the home counties. What a summer! what a climate!
And yet during those mid 1970s winters the climate ran true to form. Of course it was cold and icy because that's what we'd probably come to expect in December, January and February. I used to look at our lonely and frightened shed just standing at the bottom of my parents garden and felt terribly sorry for it. It looked rejected and discarded by society, unwanted and hurt. almost offended and insulted. Day after day it would sob its heart out, a grey, dark figure whose hope had all gone. At times it looked almost tearful and hopelessly disconsolate, sad and perhaps deliberately overlooked.
Still here we are in early January 2017 and the roads are still mysteriously quiet. The pavements are beginning to resound with more and more people. Those marching feet are beginning to hit the ground with a ringing resonance and the gradual return to work will probably reach its crescendo next Monday. The railway platforms will be jammed solid, the fares have gone up for what seems the umpteenth time and Sadiq Khan, London's new mayor will probably get all the blame if there are leaves on the line. Oh to hold down onerous positions of responsibility and just pretend that it wasn't our fault.
This is the lull before the storm and you can probably hear the sighs and sharp intakes of breath on every Tube train platform. Rows and rows of people going to work almost dutifully are now almost fuming with barely suppressed anger. It's an early and cold January morning and your train is at least three years late. What's happened now? Not another defective signal or perhaps a buckled rail track again. It's time to read the same Metro newspaper article and try to make head or tail of the latest world developments.
Then every passenger looks despairingly at the electronic board with its destination and arrival times. Hold on. Don't tell me I've got to wait 25 years for the next Metropolitan Line train to Chalfont St Latimer. Can I claim ample financial compensation for a train service that is more or less non existent? Oh for the inadequacies of the London tube. How much longer can we be expected to tolerate this tiresome journey to work. Maybe they will get their act together one day. And yet those passengers now look very hollow cheeked and weary, shrugging their shoulders resignedly, looking furiously at their watch and then finding that time has just stood still. The big station clock is now crawling pathetically towards Late O' Clock and the boss is steaming like a pressure cooker.
And yet the season is now winter and the month is an adamant January. It's stating its intentions quite clearly and will just move at its own pace. January has five weeks and is determined to take as much time as it likes. There's no rush and besides there's plenty of time. Any one for a hot chocolate and jam croissant. And besides there's Burns Night towards the end of the month, the darts on the telly and of course ski-ing perhaps from the snowy mountains of Switzerland, Italy or Austria. It looks terrifying and impossibly dangerous and yet your admiration is unstinting for these intrepid souls who sneer at fear.
So there you are? You've booked your ski-ing holiday to some picturesque ski-ing resort at Chamonix or St Moritz or maybe closer to home at Aviemore. You've bought those very striking boiler suits, shrewdly invested in a decent pair of skis and you remember where you were when Franz Klammer, the great Olympic skier from Austria, once hurtled down the slopes like a man on a mission. That year Klammer tore up the field as if they were invisible. Klammer won a richly deserved gold and the world acclaimed a ski-ing dynamo.
It is January everybody. The year stretches ahead rather like some detailed Underground train map. You may be sure that it'll probably take an eternity to get to the end of the Northern Line or the Jubilee Line but it may be worth it in the end. For many though January at least, will seem like the slowest tortoise in the race. It may seem as though it's dragging its feet, biding its time, considering its options, assessing the ground and developing its own momentum. But this is far from being the case because January knows exactly where it's going. It has a far sighted vision and plan. Good luck January. We're with you all the way.
Of course February may feel like another country, another city even, maybe another time zone on another planet. But January has a freshly wrapped feel about it, a distinctive marker for the future, a sense of the brand new, pure and unblemished, free of any kind of pressure. It's the first month of the year and who knows Donald Trump may yet emerge as the greatest and most competent President of the United States of all time. Stranger things have been known to happen but then what were the odds on Christopher Columbus discovering America? In January we have implicit belief.
Today there was just a hint of rain in the air. In fact I think it must have drizzled almost accidentally and then apologised for doing so in the next breath. January can be such a tease can't it? There was a suggestion of a light drizzle from the sky and then it changed its mind. January can also be very playful and capricious because when the rain does arrive it does so with a certain style and panache.
In fact you've got to hand it to January because when the heavens open that rain just crashes to the ground with an almost businesslike intent. But today the rain was almost teeth clenchingly frustrating. The temperature is definitely dropping slowly but surely and the chill is ever so bitingly noticeable. There was a palpable shiver in the air and my fingers began to yearn for heat and warmth.
It hasn't quite reached freezing point and the possibility is that the fox I saw last night was simply taking a leisurely stroll in utter darkness. He may have been looking for a bed and breakfast hotel for the night although this was hard to tell. Still it's comparatively mild and I can now see the roads rather than the all enveloping fog that just seemed to hang heavily in the night sky like yesterday's curtains.
I've heard rumours that people have spotted roses and tulips in their garden which almost beggars belief. Now when was the last time you saw spring and summer flowers blossoming quite nobly at the start of January? It's rather like waking up in the middle of June and discovering thick snowdrifts, huge mounds of snow on the ground just piling up remorselessly, workmen silently gritting the roads. Soon they'll be telling us to turn on those giant industrial fans and declaring a hosepipe ban. Whatever next? I'm sure global warming may be more than just innocent speculation.
Oh yes there was that stunning heatwave of 1976 when my parents garden looked more like a concrete bowl rather than the pristine green grass they'd been used to. There wasn't a patch of grass for miles and wherever you looked all of my mum's roses looked in desperate need of a downpour. So when the heat haze just hovered over our neighbourhood we just looked up at the flawless blue sky and thought of England, middle class England, working class England, suburban Britain and the whole of the home counties. What a summer! what a climate!
And yet during those mid 1970s winters the climate ran true to form. Of course it was cold and icy because that's what we'd probably come to expect in December, January and February. I used to look at our lonely and frightened shed just standing at the bottom of my parents garden and felt terribly sorry for it. It looked rejected and discarded by society, unwanted and hurt. almost offended and insulted. Day after day it would sob its heart out, a grey, dark figure whose hope had all gone. At times it looked almost tearful and hopelessly disconsolate, sad and perhaps deliberately overlooked.
Still here we are in early January 2017 and the roads are still mysteriously quiet. The pavements are beginning to resound with more and more people. Those marching feet are beginning to hit the ground with a ringing resonance and the gradual return to work will probably reach its crescendo next Monday. The railway platforms will be jammed solid, the fares have gone up for what seems the umpteenth time and Sadiq Khan, London's new mayor will probably get all the blame if there are leaves on the line. Oh to hold down onerous positions of responsibility and just pretend that it wasn't our fault.
This is the lull before the storm and you can probably hear the sighs and sharp intakes of breath on every Tube train platform. Rows and rows of people going to work almost dutifully are now almost fuming with barely suppressed anger. It's an early and cold January morning and your train is at least three years late. What's happened now? Not another defective signal or perhaps a buckled rail track again. It's time to read the same Metro newspaper article and try to make head or tail of the latest world developments.
Then every passenger looks despairingly at the electronic board with its destination and arrival times. Hold on. Don't tell me I've got to wait 25 years for the next Metropolitan Line train to Chalfont St Latimer. Can I claim ample financial compensation for a train service that is more or less non existent? Oh for the inadequacies of the London tube. How much longer can we be expected to tolerate this tiresome journey to work. Maybe they will get their act together one day. And yet those passengers now look very hollow cheeked and weary, shrugging their shoulders resignedly, looking furiously at their watch and then finding that time has just stood still. The big station clock is now crawling pathetically towards Late O' Clock and the boss is steaming like a pressure cooker.
And yet the season is now winter and the month is an adamant January. It's stating its intentions quite clearly and will just move at its own pace. January has five weeks and is determined to take as much time as it likes. There's no rush and besides there's plenty of time. Any one for a hot chocolate and jam croissant. And besides there's Burns Night towards the end of the month, the darts on the telly and of course ski-ing perhaps from the snowy mountains of Switzerland, Italy or Austria. It looks terrifying and impossibly dangerous and yet your admiration is unstinting for these intrepid souls who sneer at fear.
So there you are? You've booked your ski-ing holiday to some picturesque ski-ing resort at Chamonix or St Moritz or maybe closer to home at Aviemore. You've bought those very striking boiler suits, shrewdly invested in a decent pair of skis and you remember where you were when Franz Klammer, the great Olympic skier from Austria, once hurtled down the slopes like a man on a mission. That year Klammer tore up the field as if they were invisible. Klammer won a richly deserved gold and the world acclaimed a ski-ing dynamo.
It is January everybody. The year stretches ahead rather like some detailed Underground train map. You may be sure that it'll probably take an eternity to get to the end of the Northern Line or the Jubilee Line but it may be worth it in the end. For many though January at least, will seem like the slowest tortoise in the race. It may seem as though it's dragging its feet, biding its time, considering its options, assessing the ground and developing its own momentum. But this is far from being the case because January knows exactly where it's going. It has a far sighted vision and plan. Good luck January. We're with you all the way.
Of course February may feel like another country, another city even, maybe another time zone on another planet. But January has a freshly wrapped feel about it, a distinctive marker for the future, a sense of the brand new, pure and unblemished, free of any kind of pressure. It's the first month of the year and who knows Donald Trump may yet emerge as the greatest and most competent President of the United States of all time. Stranger things have been known to happen but then what were the odds on Christopher Columbus discovering America? In January we have implicit belief.
Monday, 2 January 2017
January- 2017. Let's go for it. Another year.
Jaunary 2017. Let's go it for another year.
Good morning everybody. Well, how do you feel? Is there a spritely spring in your step? Are you looking forward to 2017 or are you secretly fearing the worst. Will there be another barrage of bad news, cynical comments about the end of the world being nigh or will it be another year of greyness, gloom and disaster? Surely not. And yet there are plenty of doom mongers and naysayers who believe that come the end of the year all will be wreckage, carnage, broken promises and yet more disenchantment.
But I have to tell you. Let's just go for it this year. Of course it's only January, the beginning of a New Year and it's time to wipe the slate clean. It's time to hope that the next President of the United States Donald Trump will get it completely right and surprise us all. It's time to believe that the nations of the world will finally wake up and smell the coffee. The world needs a collective meeting of minds, a sense of enduring harmony, a feeling that if it really tries it can build bridges and find common ground.
Now of course this is an idealistic pipedream because in the real world some people just aren't interested at all in just getting on with each other. Clearly it does seem at times that this peace agenda is just pie in the sky nonsense and maybe we should continue this narrative of killing, murder, destruction and general brutality. Sadly this is beginning to sound like a cracked record unless somebody out there can just stand their ground and just say. Enough is Enough!
So January hey. It's long, slow, laborious and seemingly endless. January is a time for a new perspective on life, another opportunity to approach life from entirely different angles. January is just very lazy, lackadaisical and just can't be bothered to do anything strenuous. January is very laid back, relaxed and easy like Sunday morning. January is a wide, yawning gap stretching in front of us, It always feels like January just goes on for ever and ever. It is the longest month of the year and it just seems to lumber and stagger towards its conclusion with an aching reluctance. Will you please hurry up January or maybe not.
To those people who hate those dark wintry nights January may seem very dull, plodding and pedestrian. But I think we should celebrate the warmth indoors when the lights come on at roughly 5pm in the afternoon and the telly flickers like the proverbial candle. But January loves that feeling of security, of safety. of knowing that whatever may be going on outside most of us feel protected from a world that sometimes seems obscenely frightening, horribly dangerous and constantly threatening.
January represents the beginning of that new chapter of our life, of formulating plans for spring and summer, of being sloppy, slovenly and lethargic at times but still engaged at the same time. January is the perfect time to sit back very objectively and decide that maybe the world isn't such a bad place after all and maybe we'll learn to iron out all those negatives, deficiencies and shortcomings that the world may be weighed down by.
January is full of weariness, lethargy and perhaps an overwhelming sense of anti climax. Look at those drooping, forlorn Christmas decorations, the Christmas tree tilting over to one side as if ever so slightly drunk and then the tinsel by now dropping sadly onto the backs of chairs and sofas, perhaps crying and weeping at the end of all those frivolous festivities. If January could talk perhaps it would ask if it could do Christmas next month. But then the harsh reality dawns and January stares at the last bottle of port and parts company with on old friend for another year. Should Auld Acquaintance be forgot for the sake of Auld Lang Syne.
I can sense an air of quiet resignation in January. Oh well Christmas, rather like a very dear acquaintance, can't wait to meet up again at the end of the year. January needs a very strong cup of coffee, something to re-vitalise it before it just falls into a deep depresssion and self pity. It's time to seize the day. And yet Jaunary is forgivably tired and weary. But to all intents and purposes, January is suffering from a dour despondency because nothing will ever compare to the sheer elation of December, Christmas and happy cracker pulling. Still it's time to shake ourselves from temporary slovenliness and complacency. Time to surge forward into the future and stop dwelling on the past.
Tomorrow we'll all get back to some semblance of normality and January will jump out of bed in the morning, throwing water onto its face in the bathroom, brushing its teeth and just looking good. Of course the world has its problems and complications but January must be thinking about the months ahead quite philosophically and realistically. What's the worst that can happen?
January looks over its shoulder and believes that 2016 was quite the most appalling year it can remember. It was a year that slowly deteriorated into a complete mess. With every passing month, the disagreement and discord seemed to become more more frequent and more disturbing. Slowly but surely Britain crumbled away like a dusty old pillar, dissolving helplessly into the darkest hole of dejection. Can anybody tell me what all the fuss was about?
And yet Britain's withdrawal from Europe now seems like ancient history and perhaps we should concentrate on some other pressing domestic issue. Please spare me the endless discussion and ranting from those annoyingly soundbite poliiticians. It really is time to let it go and refrain from this raging rhetoric. this futile finger pointing, those slanderous accusations, the hot and bothered brigade, the furious, irate and incensed party. It just seems to go on and on without pausing for breath. Let's change the subject.
January has to be feeling a mellowness and gentle acceptance about life. The streets and roads are still deserted, Santa Claus is just an old jolly seasonal joke and the neighbours are still very friendly and approachable. So nothing has changed dramatically. The postman still pushes dutiful letters through your letter boxes and the dustman still looks very chipper.. All is well on earth. The traffic is increasing in its intensity and the world is beginning to right itself. The pavements are wet and sodden and it may yet snow. Perhaps the children of the world will run out into the streets enthusiastically and chuck snow balls at each other and build very impressive snowmen.
January does, after all, have its redeeming features. From a personal view I'm rather hoping that my team West Ham United emerge in May unscathed, untainted and completely intact. Maybe we'll still be a functioning and successful Premier League team next season or maybe horror of horrors the axe will fall and the Hammers will be condemned to Championship oblivion. Mind you, my team have been there before so maybe I should close my eyes, take a deep breath and hope that West Ham finish 15th, 16th or even 17th. This, I believe,is a sensible objective but if not then maybe I'll support Leyton Orient, Dagenham and Redbridge, Rochdale or Grimsby Town. Maybe I'll switch sports and follow lacrosse, real tennis, fishing or hockey.
Still it doesn't really matter to me to quote Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody. I'm inclined to think that 2017 will have the right chemistry, the right chemical formula and we'll look back very reflectively on 2016 with a regretful shrug. Personally I found a renewed burst of energy and started running again. There are times when I wish I hadn't bothered. The years are beginning to pass and I need to keep my body moving. Of course I feel slightly the worse for wear and age is beginning to poke me in the ribs quite painfully at times. There is still a sense though that age is flying past me inexorably and uncompromisingly.
And now it is that I settle down on this second day of 2017. Will the Hammers beat Jose Mourinho's all conquering Manchester United this evening. To be honest the emotions are mixed. How can I allow an allegiance to my football team affect me quite as deeply as it does. Of course it isn't the end of the world and there are matters of much greater importance and meaning afoot.
I still think we should raise a glass to our noble and upstanding Olympians Nicola Adams, a boxing legend in her right, Sir Bradley Wiggins, a cycling master, the aforementioned Sir Andy Murray, Britain's most outright, clearly talented, vastly skilful tennis player and those who participate in sport for the sheer fun of it and no adulation whatsoever. 2017 is going to be our year, our time, our turn in the spotlight, our chance to shine, our moment to carve out our identity, to assert ourselves and make sure that everybody sings from the same hymn sheet. Yes 2017 I have every faith in you. Let the year begin.
Good morning everybody. Well, how do you feel? Is there a spritely spring in your step? Are you looking forward to 2017 or are you secretly fearing the worst. Will there be another barrage of bad news, cynical comments about the end of the world being nigh or will it be another year of greyness, gloom and disaster? Surely not. And yet there are plenty of doom mongers and naysayers who believe that come the end of the year all will be wreckage, carnage, broken promises and yet more disenchantment.
But I have to tell you. Let's just go for it this year. Of course it's only January, the beginning of a New Year and it's time to wipe the slate clean. It's time to hope that the next President of the United States Donald Trump will get it completely right and surprise us all. It's time to believe that the nations of the world will finally wake up and smell the coffee. The world needs a collective meeting of minds, a sense of enduring harmony, a feeling that if it really tries it can build bridges and find common ground.
Now of course this is an idealistic pipedream because in the real world some people just aren't interested at all in just getting on with each other. Clearly it does seem at times that this peace agenda is just pie in the sky nonsense and maybe we should continue this narrative of killing, murder, destruction and general brutality. Sadly this is beginning to sound like a cracked record unless somebody out there can just stand their ground and just say. Enough is Enough!
So January hey. It's long, slow, laborious and seemingly endless. January is a time for a new perspective on life, another opportunity to approach life from entirely different angles. January is just very lazy, lackadaisical and just can't be bothered to do anything strenuous. January is very laid back, relaxed and easy like Sunday morning. January is a wide, yawning gap stretching in front of us, It always feels like January just goes on for ever and ever. It is the longest month of the year and it just seems to lumber and stagger towards its conclusion with an aching reluctance. Will you please hurry up January or maybe not.
To those people who hate those dark wintry nights January may seem very dull, plodding and pedestrian. But I think we should celebrate the warmth indoors when the lights come on at roughly 5pm in the afternoon and the telly flickers like the proverbial candle. But January loves that feeling of security, of safety. of knowing that whatever may be going on outside most of us feel protected from a world that sometimes seems obscenely frightening, horribly dangerous and constantly threatening.
January represents the beginning of that new chapter of our life, of formulating plans for spring and summer, of being sloppy, slovenly and lethargic at times but still engaged at the same time. January is the perfect time to sit back very objectively and decide that maybe the world isn't such a bad place after all and maybe we'll learn to iron out all those negatives, deficiencies and shortcomings that the world may be weighed down by.
January is full of weariness, lethargy and perhaps an overwhelming sense of anti climax. Look at those drooping, forlorn Christmas decorations, the Christmas tree tilting over to one side as if ever so slightly drunk and then the tinsel by now dropping sadly onto the backs of chairs and sofas, perhaps crying and weeping at the end of all those frivolous festivities. If January could talk perhaps it would ask if it could do Christmas next month. But then the harsh reality dawns and January stares at the last bottle of port and parts company with on old friend for another year. Should Auld Acquaintance be forgot for the sake of Auld Lang Syne.
I can sense an air of quiet resignation in January. Oh well Christmas, rather like a very dear acquaintance, can't wait to meet up again at the end of the year. January needs a very strong cup of coffee, something to re-vitalise it before it just falls into a deep depresssion and self pity. It's time to seize the day. And yet Jaunary is forgivably tired and weary. But to all intents and purposes, January is suffering from a dour despondency because nothing will ever compare to the sheer elation of December, Christmas and happy cracker pulling. Still it's time to shake ourselves from temporary slovenliness and complacency. Time to surge forward into the future and stop dwelling on the past.
Tomorrow we'll all get back to some semblance of normality and January will jump out of bed in the morning, throwing water onto its face in the bathroom, brushing its teeth and just looking good. Of course the world has its problems and complications but January must be thinking about the months ahead quite philosophically and realistically. What's the worst that can happen?
January looks over its shoulder and believes that 2016 was quite the most appalling year it can remember. It was a year that slowly deteriorated into a complete mess. With every passing month, the disagreement and discord seemed to become more more frequent and more disturbing. Slowly but surely Britain crumbled away like a dusty old pillar, dissolving helplessly into the darkest hole of dejection. Can anybody tell me what all the fuss was about?
And yet Britain's withdrawal from Europe now seems like ancient history and perhaps we should concentrate on some other pressing domestic issue. Please spare me the endless discussion and ranting from those annoyingly soundbite poliiticians. It really is time to let it go and refrain from this raging rhetoric. this futile finger pointing, those slanderous accusations, the hot and bothered brigade, the furious, irate and incensed party. It just seems to go on and on without pausing for breath. Let's change the subject.
January has to be feeling a mellowness and gentle acceptance about life. The streets and roads are still deserted, Santa Claus is just an old jolly seasonal joke and the neighbours are still very friendly and approachable. So nothing has changed dramatically. The postman still pushes dutiful letters through your letter boxes and the dustman still looks very chipper.. All is well on earth. The traffic is increasing in its intensity and the world is beginning to right itself. The pavements are wet and sodden and it may yet snow. Perhaps the children of the world will run out into the streets enthusiastically and chuck snow balls at each other and build very impressive snowmen.
January does, after all, have its redeeming features. From a personal view I'm rather hoping that my team West Ham United emerge in May unscathed, untainted and completely intact. Maybe we'll still be a functioning and successful Premier League team next season or maybe horror of horrors the axe will fall and the Hammers will be condemned to Championship oblivion. Mind you, my team have been there before so maybe I should close my eyes, take a deep breath and hope that West Ham finish 15th, 16th or even 17th. This, I believe,is a sensible objective but if not then maybe I'll support Leyton Orient, Dagenham and Redbridge, Rochdale or Grimsby Town. Maybe I'll switch sports and follow lacrosse, real tennis, fishing or hockey.
Still it doesn't really matter to me to quote Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody. I'm inclined to think that 2017 will have the right chemistry, the right chemical formula and we'll look back very reflectively on 2016 with a regretful shrug. Personally I found a renewed burst of energy and started running again. There are times when I wish I hadn't bothered. The years are beginning to pass and I need to keep my body moving. Of course I feel slightly the worse for wear and age is beginning to poke me in the ribs quite painfully at times. There is still a sense though that age is flying past me inexorably and uncompromisingly.
And now it is that I settle down on this second day of 2017. Will the Hammers beat Jose Mourinho's all conquering Manchester United this evening. To be honest the emotions are mixed. How can I allow an allegiance to my football team affect me quite as deeply as it does. Of course it isn't the end of the world and there are matters of much greater importance and meaning afoot.
I still think we should raise a glass to our noble and upstanding Olympians Nicola Adams, a boxing legend in her right, Sir Bradley Wiggins, a cycling master, the aforementioned Sir Andy Murray, Britain's most outright, clearly talented, vastly skilful tennis player and those who participate in sport for the sheer fun of it and no adulation whatsoever. 2017 is going to be our year, our time, our turn in the spotlight, our chance to shine, our moment to carve out our identity, to assert ourselves and make sure that everybody sings from the same hymn sheet. Yes 2017 I have every faith in you. Let the year begin.
Saturday, 31 December 2016
New Year's Eve and the New Year is upon us
New Year's Eve, the lull before the celebration
It's New Year's Eve. Hooray! We've made it. We've done it. It's time to wake up Uncle Ted from his mid- morning slumber. Time to wake up Auntie Nelly from her mid- morning snooze. In fact the whole family should be in the midst of a post- kip planning committee. Now how many packets of crisps, boxes of chocolate biscuits, savouries, dainty sandwiches and lager have we got now?
I think you'll find that's the entire contents of Sainsbury's shelves, half of Asda, a considerable portion from Morrisons and not forgetting several lorryloads of booze from the Tesco Metro. Oh what a blissful evening it's going to be in Acacia Avenue. I think we ought to invite the whole neighbourhood. New Year's Eve hey? I think we ought to do this every day of the week and end up with nothing in the bank. But then that would be unforgivably stupid and senseless so best stick to New Year's Eve when it comes to parties and besides it's only once a year so let's throw caution to the wind.
You know what day it is today. It's the New Year's Honours list and guess who's been bestowed with the greatest of all honours. Well, there's Jessica Ennis Hill, undoubtedly one of the finest and most agile Olympian long jumpers in the history of the Olympic Games. Jessica almost jumped right out of the sand pit at the London Olympic Games of 2012 and promptly wrote her name in the record books. Jessica Ennis Hill is thoroughly deserving of her award. Dame Jessica Ennis Hill. It sounds almost ludicrously pompous and the kind of recognition you'd give to an ageing aristocrat or an elderly dowager on a country estate. And yet in the context of Jessica Ennis Hill's career I'm sure allowances can be made.
And now for the rest of the best. There's the delightfully snobbish and very haughty Hyacinth Bouquet(aka) Patricia Routledge, a lady of style, class and breeding. Patricia has been adorning stage and screen for a number of years now and none have merited the distinction of Dame quite so much.
Wait for it. Roll the drums and blow the bugles. Next up is one of Britain's most enduring of all rock icons. For the best part of almost five decades Ray Davies has produced some of the greatest and most entertaining pop music lyrics ever heard. Davies takes us on another nostalgic trip down memory lane, a man who came to both represent and embrace the sound of the 1960s,
There was the charmingly lyrical Waterloo Sunset, a song that painted the most ornate of all landscapes and particularly London. Davies and the Kinks were, at times, almost inseparable and the music was both rich in meaning and stylish in its execution. Davies told us stories from his heart, the pain and anguish of growing up, the ups and downs, peaks and troughs of a colourful career, the whole panorama of his life, his relationships, the dubious agents and not forgetting those who were both loyal and distrustful.
My wife and I went to Sunny Afternoon, a classical West End musical that was just stunningly good and simply outstanding. Sunny Afternoon took us on a helter skelter journey through the life of Ray Davies, the initially supportive family and then the family who just seemingly dumped him when the chips were down.
Ray Davies, then quite wondrously, left one song to the very end when I thought he'd forgotten all about it Lola was a prostitute, a woman of the night and somebody who came to be immortalised in a Kinks song. It was a belter of a song, a real diamond of a ditty, a rousing, stirring song that always sounded like a good night out pub song. Lola had most, if not all of the audience, on their feet. The words were blasted out, echoing around our West End theatre and then rebounding off the walls and ceilings with certainty and conviction.
And now it's time to be upstanding for a showbiz legend. Arise Sir Ken Dodd. No. It's absolutely true. The merriment maker from Liverpool Ken Dodd is now Sir Ken Dodd. Who saw that coming? Well on reflection it almost seems right and proper. For as long as any of us can remember Ken Dodd has been the master of the chuckle, the gag meister, the laugh out loud practitioner, the joking jester, the amusing anecdotalist and a man who never really felt comfortable with the controversial or provocative.
While the likes of Dave Allen were dipping their toes into the contentious world of religion, Dodd easily steered himself away from the blue gags, the jokes that didn't really border on blasphemy and just left us laughing all the way into tomorrow, next month and next year. Dodd invented Notty Ash and the Jam Butty mines, the tickling stick and the fantastic Diddy Men. Dodd extolled the virtues of happiness and had no time for the crude vulgarity. Dodd still performs at the age of 89 because he loves the roar of the crowd, the audience laughter, the thrill of the magical joke perfectly timed and delivered.
Some of us may mock Sir Ken Dodd but perhaps they should know better. Any man who can stroll onto a holiday camp stage at 8pm and still be there at 1.00 in the morning has to be commended. Of course the jokes are corny and medieval but that's why we love Sir Ken Dodd. I think Sir Ken Dodd should accept the sword from Her Majesty the Queen in dignified fashion and sail off into the sunset with a beaming grin on his face. Congrats Sir Ken Dodd, A national treasure, a giant of a comic.
Finally, take a bow Andy Murray. Yes, what a result! What a sportsman! For well over 70 years now British tennis has been praying every night for a player who could single-handledly transform the fortunes of his country's tennis. They've all come and gone. Tim Henman, Buster Mottram, John Lloyd and all of those other worthy pretenders to the throne. Now Andy Murray has just won an even bigger prize and no amount of praise may ever be good enough. The tributes are so fitting.
But now it's Sir Andy Murray. What about that? Murray is no revolutionary, nor is he the saviour of the world but none deserve the ultimate in all Establishment acknowledgment. Andy Murray will wander around his house with wife Kim and his new daughter, smiling from ear to ear because here was a man who stopped the rot, who kicked back all of the sporting boundaries into touch and never flinched when the going got tough.
Murray is driven, powerful, aggressive, ruthless, clinical and wonderfully dismissive of his opponent. Murray plays every game of tennis with the full burners on, a total and disdainful swipe of the racket. At Wimbledon he did it again. He picked up his second Wimbledon's men singles title because he just had to prove that his first Wimbledon was no mere fluke.
By several country miles Murray has now established himself as the best tennis player has ever produced. True Fred Perry did set the precedent back in the 1930s but now Murray has all the trappings of greatness. Murray, is fully pumped up and motivated, a player who tells himself off quite strongly at every imperfection, chastises himself when vital points are lost and then roars with self reproach when a match is lost.
Murray is the perfectionist, a player with all of the applicable forehand returns and passing winners down the line, a player of impeccable technique and flair. The backhand remains his most devastating and dangerous weapon, the cross court shots fluently effortless and the Murray serve can still remind you of a firing range. I think we should all take our hat off to Sir Andy Murray because I can think of nobody who has fully restored our faith in British tennis. Congrats Sir Andy.
So there you have it folks. The Sirs, Dames, OBE's, MBE's have been handed out. There were the famous and not so famous, the community leaders, the diligent and tireless voluntary workers, the men and women who modestly took the applause and plaudits. With only several hours to the end of 2016 you may be blowing up the New Year's Eve balloons, finishing off the vol au vents, shaking the crisps and nuts into their respective bowls and then dusting off our beloved vinyl LPs. But before I go, let's all be good and kind to each other and may mankind never even think of brandishing a gun or bomb. I think it's time for a year of peace and goodwill. Not much to ask for surely. Have a good one folks and don't forget. It's a beautiful world and Louis Armstrong was absolutely right.
It's New Year's Eve. Hooray! We've made it. We've done it. It's time to wake up Uncle Ted from his mid- morning slumber. Time to wake up Auntie Nelly from her mid- morning snooze. In fact the whole family should be in the midst of a post- kip planning committee. Now how many packets of crisps, boxes of chocolate biscuits, savouries, dainty sandwiches and lager have we got now?
I think you'll find that's the entire contents of Sainsbury's shelves, half of Asda, a considerable portion from Morrisons and not forgetting several lorryloads of booze from the Tesco Metro. Oh what a blissful evening it's going to be in Acacia Avenue. I think we ought to invite the whole neighbourhood. New Year's Eve hey? I think we ought to do this every day of the week and end up with nothing in the bank. But then that would be unforgivably stupid and senseless so best stick to New Year's Eve when it comes to parties and besides it's only once a year so let's throw caution to the wind.
You know what day it is today. It's the New Year's Honours list and guess who's been bestowed with the greatest of all honours. Well, there's Jessica Ennis Hill, undoubtedly one of the finest and most agile Olympian long jumpers in the history of the Olympic Games. Jessica almost jumped right out of the sand pit at the London Olympic Games of 2012 and promptly wrote her name in the record books. Jessica Ennis Hill is thoroughly deserving of her award. Dame Jessica Ennis Hill. It sounds almost ludicrously pompous and the kind of recognition you'd give to an ageing aristocrat or an elderly dowager on a country estate. And yet in the context of Jessica Ennis Hill's career I'm sure allowances can be made.
And now for the rest of the best. There's the delightfully snobbish and very haughty Hyacinth Bouquet(aka) Patricia Routledge, a lady of style, class and breeding. Patricia has been adorning stage and screen for a number of years now and none have merited the distinction of Dame quite so much.
Wait for it. Roll the drums and blow the bugles. Next up is one of Britain's most enduring of all rock icons. For the best part of almost five decades Ray Davies has produced some of the greatest and most entertaining pop music lyrics ever heard. Davies takes us on another nostalgic trip down memory lane, a man who came to both represent and embrace the sound of the 1960s,
There was the charmingly lyrical Waterloo Sunset, a song that painted the most ornate of all landscapes and particularly London. Davies and the Kinks were, at times, almost inseparable and the music was both rich in meaning and stylish in its execution. Davies told us stories from his heart, the pain and anguish of growing up, the ups and downs, peaks and troughs of a colourful career, the whole panorama of his life, his relationships, the dubious agents and not forgetting those who were both loyal and distrustful.
My wife and I went to Sunny Afternoon, a classical West End musical that was just stunningly good and simply outstanding. Sunny Afternoon took us on a helter skelter journey through the life of Ray Davies, the initially supportive family and then the family who just seemingly dumped him when the chips were down.
Ray Davies, then quite wondrously, left one song to the very end when I thought he'd forgotten all about it Lola was a prostitute, a woman of the night and somebody who came to be immortalised in a Kinks song. It was a belter of a song, a real diamond of a ditty, a rousing, stirring song that always sounded like a good night out pub song. Lola had most, if not all of the audience, on their feet. The words were blasted out, echoing around our West End theatre and then rebounding off the walls and ceilings with certainty and conviction.
And now it's time to be upstanding for a showbiz legend. Arise Sir Ken Dodd. No. It's absolutely true. The merriment maker from Liverpool Ken Dodd is now Sir Ken Dodd. Who saw that coming? Well on reflection it almost seems right and proper. For as long as any of us can remember Ken Dodd has been the master of the chuckle, the gag meister, the laugh out loud practitioner, the joking jester, the amusing anecdotalist and a man who never really felt comfortable with the controversial or provocative.
While the likes of Dave Allen were dipping their toes into the contentious world of religion, Dodd easily steered himself away from the blue gags, the jokes that didn't really border on blasphemy and just left us laughing all the way into tomorrow, next month and next year. Dodd invented Notty Ash and the Jam Butty mines, the tickling stick and the fantastic Diddy Men. Dodd extolled the virtues of happiness and had no time for the crude vulgarity. Dodd still performs at the age of 89 because he loves the roar of the crowd, the audience laughter, the thrill of the magical joke perfectly timed and delivered.
Some of us may mock Sir Ken Dodd but perhaps they should know better. Any man who can stroll onto a holiday camp stage at 8pm and still be there at 1.00 in the morning has to be commended. Of course the jokes are corny and medieval but that's why we love Sir Ken Dodd. I think Sir Ken Dodd should accept the sword from Her Majesty the Queen in dignified fashion and sail off into the sunset with a beaming grin on his face. Congrats Sir Ken Dodd, A national treasure, a giant of a comic.
Finally, take a bow Andy Murray. Yes, what a result! What a sportsman! For well over 70 years now British tennis has been praying every night for a player who could single-handledly transform the fortunes of his country's tennis. They've all come and gone. Tim Henman, Buster Mottram, John Lloyd and all of those other worthy pretenders to the throne. Now Andy Murray has just won an even bigger prize and no amount of praise may ever be good enough. The tributes are so fitting.
But now it's Sir Andy Murray. What about that? Murray is no revolutionary, nor is he the saviour of the world but none deserve the ultimate in all Establishment acknowledgment. Andy Murray will wander around his house with wife Kim and his new daughter, smiling from ear to ear because here was a man who stopped the rot, who kicked back all of the sporting boundaries into touch and never flinched when the going got tough.
Murray is driven, powerful, aggressive, ruthless, clinical and wonderfully dismissive of his opponent. Murray plays every game of tennis with the full burners on, a total and disdainful swipe of the racket. At Wimbledon he did it again. He picked up his second Wimbledon's men singles title because he just had to prove that his first Wimbledon was no mere fluke.
By several country miles Murray has now established himself as the best tennis player has ever produced. True Fred Perry did set the precedent back in the 1930s but now Murray has all the trappings of greatness. Murray, is fully pumped up and motivated, a player who tells himself off quite strongly at every imperfection, chastises himself when vital points are lost and then roars with self reproach when a match is lost.
Murray is the perfectionist, a player with all of the applicable forehand returns and passing winners down the line, a player of impeccable technique and flair. The backhand remains his most devastating and dangerous weapon, the cross court shots fluently effortless and the Murray serve can still remind you of a firing range. I think we should all take our hat off to Sir Andy Murray because I can think of nobody who has fully restored our faith in British tennis. Congrats Sir Andy.
So there you have it folks. The Sirs, Dames, OBE's, MBE's have been handed out. There were the famous and not so famous, the community leaders, the diligent and tireless voluntary workers, the men and women who modestly took the applause and plaudits. With only several hours to the end of 2016 you may be blowing up the New Year's Eve balloons, finishing off the vol au vents, shaking the crisps and nuts into their respective bowls and then dusting off our beloved vinyl LPs. But before I go, let's all be good and kind to each other and may mankind never even think of brandishing a gun or bomb. I think it's time for a year of peace and goodwill. Not much to ask for surely. Have a good one folks and don't forget. It's a beautiful world and Louis Armstrong was absolutely right.
Friday, 30 December 2016
The New Year and the old one. 2016, what was that all about?
The New Year and the old one. 2016, what was that all about.
So here we are poised on the threshold of another year. We're speeding towards 2017 and wondering why the things that did happen in 2016 actually did take place. Yes you can rub your eyes with bemusement and disbelief. 2016 defied description and challenged our perceptions. How and why may never be known but 2016 was one long sequence of spectacular absurdities. You couldn't have made any of it up. And they did happen and maybe it's time to move on.
With the benefit of hindsight 2016 almost seems like some weird and wonderful dream, a Hollywood fantasy or some outrageous figment of our imagination. It hardly seemed possible and credible but that's how it all panned out. Maybe we'll all wake up on the first day of 2017 and find that, much to our surprise it did happen. Some events and incidents in life are somehow destined to happen while others just land on our front door like some unwelcome impostor.
Now here we are on the penultimate day of the year and outside all is once again a thick fog and mist hovering over the suburbs of London and Britain. At one point it seemed to settle on the ground itself rather like the most comfortable of blankets. There is something quite haunting and mystical about the fog. For years our American friends were convinced that London was permanently foggy regardless of the time of the year. Here in Britain we normally get fog and mists when least expected although this is far from being a pea souper.
Over 60 years ago London suffered the most horrendous of all weather conditions. Something known as a smog came swirling in from no fixed location, a choking, coughing, spluttering phenomena that wrapped itself mercilessly around the West End, the City and the suburbs. The smog was the direct result of noxious fumes from chimneys and the increasing intrusion of a thick white fog.
Thankfully there hasn't been any snow although to a world of children, snow is pretty, beautiful, playful and enormous fun. You can skip, jump, slide, somersault and generally lark about in the white stuff. Still it's time to sit down reflectively and ponder the year of 2016 in all its splendid incredulity, its magnificent unpredictability and its superlative drama. Nobody could have possibly written that script because none would have believed you.
Anyway. it's time to turn back the clock and try to make sense of it all. Of course 2016 had its familiar patterns, rhythms, colours, shapes and conventions. When all is said and done though it may not be any more unusual than any other year in recent history. But it was crazy, slightly potty and almost endlessly controversial. It had the traditional excitements, the everyday dramas and those shocking traumas that might have caught us on the hop when least expected.
We knew there was something in the air when the EU referendum announcement hit us between the eyes. From that point onwards every news bulletin, newspaper, TV broadcast and media outlet was charged and ready to explode on our consciousness like a lethal grenade. You could almost smell the cordite in the air. Battle lines were formed and politicians of every colour suddenly broke into the most heated of all bust ups. It was the kind of confrontation that almost broke the whole of Britain and left most of us speechless and dumbfounded.
Now the dust has settled perhaps we can get back to the everybody business of living and rationalising the whole event. Britain will be leaving Europe and will somebody remember to turn out the lights and lock up afterwards? Britain wants to escape from the bureaucratic clutches of its European neighbours and carve out a quite astonishing independence from Europe. It wants to be widely respected and feel even better about itself than it already does.
No longer does Britain want to be held to account by those wretched and faceless law makers in Brussels. Britain wants to feel a greater sense of belonging to its global allies, the countries with big plans, admirable ambitions and forward thinking projects. Britain wants to feel part of the bigger picture rather than that little squiggle in the corner of Europe. Britain wants to trade with her international partners in the hope that one day we too can command the respect of the whole globe.
It is of course all about world domination or perhaps that's just some silly notion. Seriously Britain wants to be that powerful and recognisable country that always does prosperous business with no interference from its European neighbours. Just let us get on with it and forge lasting friendships with China, Japan, Australia, Africa, the Far East, the Middle East and every continent as far away from Europe as it's possible to be.
Who, we may ask, needs those efficient German cars, French cheese, Italian spaghetti, Russian vodka and Spanish paellas when there are so many more tempting culinary choices? Who needs Greek ouzo, Swiss chocolates or any of those meals they serve up in European restaurants. Britain has got its own lakes of wine, its very own chocolates and doesn't need any help or guidance from Europe. Good night Europe. It was nice knowing you but frankly those global frontiers have to be opened up as soon as possible.
But it was the immediate aftermath of the EU referendum that left most of us either scratching our heads or just glad that the whole thing was over once and all. On the day after Britain's withdrawal, there were furious arguments, fiercely accusing fingers and much questioning. In reality there was nothing to get all hot under the collar about. Once the decision had been made it was easy to believe that none of us would have any reason to worry about anything. And yet there seemed to be an uneasy tension that spread across the country, more disagreeements and more bloody recriminations.
Wasn't Britain happy with that final judgment and a line would be emphatically drawn in the sand? And yet there were indignant demonstrations from the people who wanted us to stay in the heart of Europe and not just walk away like sulking children. There seemed genuine blood or maybe not. But there was more anger, more angst, more teeth clenching, more soul baring, more nonsensical comments from those in the know. There were attacks and counter attacks, corners and free kicks, what a palaver. Sorry that's football not politics although the two do cross over quite compatibly at times.
Still we've all had quite enough of the Brexit theatrical production and is that Nigel Farage slinking his way back to his pantomime dressing room with a broad grin on his face. On the subject of politics 2016 signalled the end of David Cameron's reign as British Prime Minister. You had to feel desperately sorry for a decent and principled man who always felt he had Britain's best interests at heart. Cameron was adamant that Britain had to be a European city in every sense of the word. And yet he had to fall on his sword because the rest of the nation turned their backs on him. It seemed like the most unjust of all betrayals and for a few brief moments even he must have felt lost and deserted.
Anyway in that other hotly divisive political hot potato, America also went to the polls and here was the point where any sense of reality ran away from the White House. The appointment of Donald Trump as the next President of the United States still leaves us perplexed and, if truth be told, terribly worried for the future of the free world.
How did a man with no political experience at all suddenly find himself launched into one of the most high profile and important jobs in the world. Here was a ruthless, corrupt, multi millionaire businessman preaching and pontificating on Syria, Iraq and all manner of foreign policies. Here was a a man faced with one of the most unenviable jobs of all time. What does Trump know about a country's economy, its housing and education problems, its hospitals, its disaffected youngsters, its dreadful poverty? And yet here's a man who will have to learn on the job, who will have to acquire the relevant political skills fairly sharpish because now is the time for Trump to roll up his sleeves and get cracking with due haste.
We shall watch this ruthless and perhaps too opinionated man. We shall watch him slowly shaping and moulding his policies with considerable assistance from his back room team because you sense they will be essential cogs in the new American administration and vital influences to boot. It may be that Trump will have to quickly bury those rather unfortunate and tactless remarks on women, Muslims and walls in Mexico. Time I think for Don to don the clothes of sensible politics not some wildly silly and impassioned rant about something and nothing. Time for Donald to get real.
And so it is that we move into those last couple of days of the year and mourn the loss of those who we once idolised. The passing of David Bowie at the beginning of the year still seems like a vicious rumour. Regrettably Bowie could have been, and perhaps was. one of the archetypal heroes in one of his songs. Of course Bowie lived out the definitive life of sex, drugs and rock and roll but when the curtain drops on 2016 most of us will bow our heads deeply and respectfully hoping that the rock legends of our generation will continue to keep us richly entertained.
In the last couple days of this festive period more giants have fallen. There was Carrie Fisher, an actress of some standing, repute and renown. Fisher will forever be remembered and perhaps immortalised for services to Star Wars and then celebrated for being the daughter of Debbie Reynolds whose own death the day after her daughter now sends a sinister shiver down the spine.
And then there was the tragic and heartbreaking passing of the incomparable George Michael, a singer of enormous gifts and a gloriously resonant voice. The harsh truth of course was that the self destructive path that led to his downfall is now just a painfully cautionary tale rather than a terrible accident. When the post mortems are fully conducted and those affectionate tributes have been made, we may think we've lost much more than a true legend. Time to draw a veil over 2016 and dig out the crystal ball. Any New Year's resolutions? Me? Well this is my own lifelong mantra. To quote the great Liverpool manager Bill Shankly's mother. If you've got your health everyday is a holiday. My mantra is that my health is my wealth. A happy and healthy New Year folks.
So here we are poised on the threshold of another year. We're speeding towards 2017 and wondering why the things that did happen in 2016 actually did take place. Yes you can rub your eyes with bemusement and disbelief. 2016 defied description and challenged our perceptions. How and why may never be known but 2016 was one long sequence of spectacular absurdities. You couldn't have made any of it up. And they did happen and maybe it's time to move on.
With the benefit of hindsight 2016 almost seems like some weird and wonderful dream, a Hollywood fantasy or some outrageous figment of our imagination. It hardly seemed possible and credible but that's how it all panned out. Maybe we'll all wake up on the first day of 2017 and find that, much to our surprise it did happen. Some events and incidents in life are somehow destined to happen while others just land on our front door like some unwelcome impostor.
Now here we are on the penultimate day of the year and outside all is once again a thick fog and mist hovering over the suburbs of London and Britain. At one point it seemed to settle on the ground itself rather like the most comfortable of blankets. There is something quite haunting and mystical about the fog. For years our American friends were convinced that London was permanently foggy regardless of the time of the year. Here in Britain we normally get fog and mists when least expected although this is far from being a pea souper.
Over 60 years ago London suffered the most horrendous of all weather conditions. Something known as a smog came swirling in from no fixed location, a choking, coughing, spluttering phenomena that wrapped itself mercilessly around the West End, the City and the suburbs. The smog was the direct result of noxious fumes from chimneys and the increasing intrusion of a thick white fog.
Thankfully there hasn't been any snow although to a world of children, snow is pretty, beautiful, playful and enormous fun. You can skip, jump, slide, somersault and generally lark about in the white stuff. Still it's time to sit down reflectively and ponder the year of 2016 in all its splendid incredulity, its magnificent unpredictability and its superlative drama. Nobody could have possibly written that script because none would have believed you.
Anyway. it's time to turn back the clock and try to make sense of it all. Of course 2016 had its familiar patterns, rhythms, colours, shapes and conventions. When all is said and done though it may not be any more unusual than any other year in recent history. But it was crazy, slightly potty and almost endlessly controversial. It had the traditional excitements, the everyday dramas and those shocking traumas that might have caught us on the hop when least expected.
We knew there was something in the air when the EU referendum announcement hit us between the eyes. From that point onwards every news bulletin, newspaper, TV broadcast and media outlet was charged and ready to explode on our consciousness like a lethal grenade. You could almost smell the cordite in the air. Battle lines were formed and politicians of every colour suddenly broke into the most heated of all bust ups. It was the kind of confrontation that almost broke the whole of Britain and left most of us speechless and dumbfounded.
Now the dust has settled perhaps we can get back to the everybody business of living and rationalising the whole event. Britain will be leaving Europe and will somebody remember to turn out the lights and lock up afterwards? Britain wants to escape from the bureaucratic clutches of its European neighbours and carve out a quite astonishing independence from Europe. It wants to be widely respected and feel even better about itself than it already does.
No longer does Britain want to be held to account by those wretched and faceless law makers in Brussels. Britain wants to feel a greater sense of belonging to its global allies, the countries with big plans, admirable ambitions and forward thinking projects. Britain wants to feel part of the bigger picture rather than that little squiggle in the corner of Europe. Britain wants to trade with her international partners in the hope that one day we too can command the respect of the whole globe.
It is of course all about world domination or perhaps that's just some silly notion. Seriously Britain wants to be that powerful and recognisable country that always does prosperous business with no interference from its European neighbours. Just let us get on with it and forge lasting friendships with China, Japan, Australia, Africa, the Far East, the Middle East and every continent as far away from Europe as it's possible to be.
Who, we may ask, needs those efficient German cars, French cheese, Italian spaghetti, Russian vodka and Spanish paellas when there are so many more tempting culinary choices? Who needs Greek ouzo, Swiss chocolates or any of those meals they serve up in European restaurants. Britain has got its own lakes of wine, its very own chocolates and doesn't need any help or guidance from Europe. Good night Europe. It was nice knowing you but frankly those global frontiers have to be opened up as soon as possible.
But it was the immediate aftermath of the EU referendum that left most of us either scratching our heads or just glad that the whole thing was over once and all. On the day after Britain's withdrawal, there were furious arguments, fiercely accusing fingers and much questioning. In reality there was nothing to get all hot under the collar about. Once the decision had been made it was easy to believe that none of us would have any reason to worry about anything. And yet there seemed to be an uneasy tension that spread across the country, more disagreeements and more bloody recriminations.
Wasn't Britain happy with that final judgment and a line would be emphatically drawn in the sand? And yet there were indignant demonstrations from the people who wanted us to stay in the heart of Europe and not just walk away like sulking children. There seemed genuine blood or maybe not. But there was more anger, more angst, more teeth clenching, more soul baring, more nonsensical comments from those in the know. There were attacks and counter attacks, corners and free kicks, what a palaver. Sorry that's football not politics although the two do cross over quite compatibly at times.
Still we've all had quite enough of the Brexit theatrical production and is that Nigel Farage slinking his way back to his pantomime dressing room with a broad grin on his face. On the subject of politics 2016 signalled the end of David Cameron's reign as British Prime Minister. You had to feel desperately sorry for a decent and principled man who always felt he had Britain's best interests at heart. Cameron was adamant that Britain had to be a European city in every sense of the word. And yet he had to fall on his sword because the rest of the nation turned their backs on him. It seemed like the most unjust of all betrayals and for a few brief moments even he must have felt lost and deserted.
Anyway in that other hotly divisive political hot potato, America also went to the polls and here was the point where any sense of reality ran away from the White House. The appointment of Donald Trump as the next President of the United States still leaves us perplexed and, if truth be told, terribly worried for the future of the free world.
How did a man with no political experience at all suddenly find himself launched into one of the most high profile and important jobs in the world. Here was a ruthless, corrupt, multi millionaire businessman preaching and pontificating on Syria, Iraq and all manner of foreign policies. Here was a a man faced with one of the most unenviable jobs of all time. What does Trump know about a country's economy, its housing and education problems, its hospitals, its disaffected youngsters, its dreadful poverty? And yet here's a man who will have to learn on the job, who will have to acquire the relevant political skills fairly sharpish because now is the time for Trump to roll up his sleeves and get cracking with due haste.
We shall watch this ruthless and perhaps too opinionated man. We shall watch him slowly shaping and moulding his policies with considerable assistance from his back room team because you sense they will be essential cogs in the new American administration and vital influences to boot. It may be that Trump will have to quickly bury those rather unfortunate and tactless remarks on women, Muslims and walls in Mexico. Time I think for Don to don the clothes of sensible politics not some wildly silly and impassioned rant about something and nothing. Time for Donald to get real.
And so it is that we move into those last couple of days of the year and mourn the loss of those who we once idolised. The passing of David Bowie at the beginning of the year still seems like a vicious rumour. Regrettably Bowie could have been, and perhaps was. one of the archetypal heroes in one of his songs. Of course Bowie lived out the definitive life of sex, drugs and rock and roll but when the curtain drops on 2016 most of us will bow our heads deeply and respectfully hoping that the rock legends of our generation will continue to keep us richly entertained.
In the last couple days of this festive period more giants have fallen. There was Carrie Fisher, an actress of some standing, repute and renown. Fisher will forever be remembered and perhaps immortalised for services to Star Wars and then celebrated for being the daughter of Debbie Reynolds whose own death the day after her daughter now sends a sinister shiver down the spine.
And then there was the tragic and heartbreaking passing of the incomparable George Michael, a singer of enormous gifts and a gloriously resonant voice. The harsh truth of course was that the self destructive path that led to his downfall is now just a painfully cautionary tale rather than a terrible accident. When the post mortems are fully conducted and those affectionate tributes have been made, we may think we've lost much more than a true legend. Time to draw a veil over 2016 and dig out the crystal ball. Any New Year's resolutions? Me? Well this is my own lifelong mantra. To quote the great Liverpool manager Bill Shankly's mother. If you've got your health everyday is a holiday. My mantra is that my health is my wealth. A happy and healthy New Year folks.
Monday, 26 December 2016
Boxing Day- oh yes it is!
Boxing Day- oh yes it is! Pantomimes and more telly.
It's Boxing Day folks. Oh yes it is. Oh no it isn't. Oh please make up your mind. The indecision of it all. Yes, in all seriousness, it is Boxing Day and it is pantomime season or day. These are extraordinary times. Outside it feels like high summer and, I kid you not, it feels like July out there. It's time to give an airing to my beach shirt and shorts. Let me see now. I've just smothered yet more sun factor 45 on me and are those wasps and bees I can see in the rosebushes or have those petunias come up a treat? Hold on somebody's having a barbecue next door. I thought I could smell chicken burgers coming from somewhere. This is picnic weather. I'm sure those tulips are in full bloom. Listen to those lawn mowers. Surely not the dulcet tones of the cuckoo. This is just surreal. Somebody wake me up. This isn't happening. And yet it is.
It's at times like this that the whole of Britain begins to believe the rumours of global warming are perfectly correct. We saw the weather forecast last night and those isobars look distinctly promising. In fact I'm willing to bet that by New Year's Day we'll all be wearing those humorous T-shirts and basking in 100 degrees of sweltering, baking heat and hiding in the shade. Maybe we'll all converge on our wonderful seaside resorts and then tuck into a hundred ice-creams. Will somebody get those deckchairs?
On second thoughts it is still ever so slightly nippy and windy out there so it's time to batten down the hatches in case we get some turbulent storms from the continent or perhaps the Atlantic. Inevitably by late this afternoon darkness will fall like a silky black cloth and the whole fabric of the day will take on an entirely different complexion.
It will feel like mid- night and by 4pm the afternoon will no longer hold the same kind of fascination as it might during the summer. There will be a distinct bleakness and gloominess relieved only by chinks of grey, fading light and tiny patches of blue sky. The clouds will turn a sumptuous shade of salmon and it may or may not rain. But none of us can really have any justifiable cause for complaint. What a December! If the rest of the winter is like this then I'll smile all the way to the first day of spring. It's picture post card weather and without any of that snow we may be privately dreading. Great stuff. But hey who cares it's winter. There's a cosy intimacy about being indoors, eating yesterday's turkey sandwiches and playing Scrabble again. Fantastic game Scrabble.
Meanwhile back here in Britain families are bracing themselves for the yearly pantomime when all of the children wrap up warmly in their coats and everybody becomes very cheerful and feels glad to be alive. And why ever not? You've got to enjoy the festivities haven't you? You can't beat a good pantomime. Boxing Day and pantomimes have been with us for almost as long as anybody can remember. They're designed for children exclusively but if mum and dad want to feel some kind of emotional attachment then there can be nothing wrong with a Boxing Day pantomime.
My pantomime days are now sadly over for the time being anyway. While our children were growing up, my wife and I used to take our kids on regular trips to the yearly pantomime. It was that staple diet of Aladdin, Dick Whittington, Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty without fail. Pantomimes had all the trappings of good old fashioned entertainment and childish inoffensiveness. Occasionally it seemed to get quite fruity, naughty, salacious, full of mischievous characters and funny remarks. Then there were those sillly moments, the outrageous language, the double entendres and innocent innuendos.
But hey come on we loved Window Twankey dressed up like some ridiculous fancy dress party figure, a riot of ragged and tattered costumes, nonsensical and preposterous but gloriously bright and colourful. There were the evil characters lurking behind the good guys, Dick Whittington slapping his thighs with all the reckless abandon of somebody who doesn't feel pain and sing a long frivolity.
Anyway it's time to throw some more logs on the roaring log fire and sip that final glass of Christmas Day brandy. Time to put my feet up and hope that the happy Hammers can well and truly forget that 8-2 battering they took on Boxing Day 53 years ago. It's Swansea today at the Liberty Stadium. I think I'll try and close my eyes and hope for the best. Now where's my claret and blue scarf. I'm forever blowing bubbles!
It's Boxing Day folks. Oh yes it is. Oh no it isn't. Oh please make up your mind. The indecision of it all. Yes, in all seriousness, it is Boxing Day and it is pantomime season or day. These are extraordinary times. Outside it feels like high summer and, I kid you not, it feels like July out there. It's time to give an airing to my beach shirt and shorts. Let me see now. I've just smothered yet more sun factor 45 on me and are those wasps and bees I can see in the rosebushes or have those petunias come up a treat? Hold on somebody's having a barbecue next door. I thought I could smell chicken burgers coming from somewhere. This is picnic weather. I'm sure those tulips are in full bloom. Listen to those lawn mowers. Surely not the dulcet tones of the cuckoo. This is just surreal. Somebody wake me up. This isn't happening. And yet it is.
It's at times like this that the whole of Britain begins to believe the rumours of global warming are perfectly correct. We saw the weather forecast last night and those isobars look distinctly promising. In fact I'm willing to bet that by New Year's Day we'll all be wearing those humorous T-shirts and basking in 100 degrees of sweltering, baking heat and hiding in the shade. Maybe we'll all converge on our wonderful seaside resorts and then tuck into a hundred ice-creams. Will somebody get those deckchairs?
On second thoughts it is still ever so slightly nippy and windy out there so it's time to batten down the hatches in case we get some turbulent storms from the continent or perhaps the Atlantic. Inevitably by late this afternoon darkness will fall like a silky black cloth and the whole fabric of the day will take on an entirely different complexion.
It will feel like mid- night and by 4pm the afternoon will no longer hold the same kind of fascination as it might during the summer. There will be a distinct bleakness and gloominess relieved only by chinks of grey, fading light and tiny patches of blue sky. The clouds will turn a sumptuous shade of salmon and it may or may not rain. But none of us can really have any justifiable cause for complaint. What a December! If the rest of the winter is like this then I'll smile all the way to the first day of spring. It's picture post card weather and without any of that snow we may be privately dreading. Great stuff. But hey who cares it's winter. There's a cosy intimacy about being indoors, eating yesterday's turkey sandwiches and playing Scrabble again. Fantastic game Scrabble.
Meanwhile back here in Britain families are bracing themselves for the yearly pantomime when all of the children wrap up warmly in their coats and everybody becomes very cheerful and feels glad to be alive. And why ever not? You've got to enjoy the festivities haven't you? You can't beat a good pantomime. Boxing Day and pantomimes have been with us for almost as long as anybody can remember. They're designed for children exclusively but if mum and dad want to feel some kind of emotional attachment then there can be nothing wrong with a Boxing Day pantomime.
My pantomime days are now sadly over for the time being anyway. While our children were growing up, my wife and I used to take our kids on regular trips to the yearly pantomime. It was that staple diet of Aladdin, Dick Whittington, Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty without fail. Pantomimes had all the trappings of good old fashioned entertainment and childish inoffensiveness. Occasionally it seemed to get quite fruity, naughty, salacious, full of mischievous characters and funny remarks. Then there were those sillly moments, the outrageous language, the double entendres and innocent innuendos.
But hey come on we loved Window Twankey dressed up like some ridiculous fancy dress party figure, a riot of ragged and tattered costumes, nonsensical and preposterous but gloriously bright and colourful. There were the evil characters lurking behind the good guys, Dick Whittington slapping his thighs with all the reckless abandon of somebody who doesn't feel pain and sing a long frivolity.
Anyway it's time to throw some more logs on the roaring log fire and sip that final glass of Christmas Day brandy. Time to put my feet up and hope that the happy Hammers can well and truly forget that 8-2 battering they took on Boxing Day 53 years ago. It's Swansea today at the Liberty Stadium. I think I'll try and close my eyes and hope for the best. Now where's my claret and blue scarf. I'm forever blowing bubbles!
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