England let slip of the Ashes, Donald Trump, Theresa May, and more festive fun.

England let slip of the Ashes, Donald Trump and more festive fun.

There comes a point in our lives when the fickle finger of fate always seems to point in the wrong direction. No matter how hard we try to force the issue, nothing seems to go right. We search for reasons and ask persistent questions and it just seems so predictable. We open up our newspapers, watch the breakfast morning news or tune into the radio and those same sentences and paragraphs keep cropping up.

Yesterday the English cricket team lost hold of the Ashes once again in Australia. Now how often have we heard that old chestnut? It now feels like an eternity since England came home from Down Under with that little urn. Still you have to take your hat off to our boys in the Antipodes. They do give it a go, their persistence remarkable, their honest endeavour seemingly unquenched. But the reality is that it never seems to go our way and not for the first time English cricket received a damaging blow to its solar plexus. That punch to the ribs really did achieve maximum penetration.

England's relatively new captain Joe Root will now begin to carry out a huge inquest into how and why things went so dreadfully wrong for his team. After the magnificent victories against South Africa during this summer, Root must be deeply hurt by the humiliation of England's belly flops in Australia. After all, this is not the way it was meant to be for the England team. Still these things happen in international sport. One moment you're at the summit planting your flag and the next you're languishing near the bottom without a friend in sight. Such are the thin dividing lines between success and failure.

This time there were no silver linings for England and when they come to review the somewhat unfortunate headlines that followed them around Australia they may be tempted to think that Christmas at home with their families would have been a much more appealing proposition. True they did throw one or two jabs at their opponents but eventually the cotton reel unravelled and England simply found themselves in a terrible tangle.

But when we come to look back at the Ashes it's the behaviour of the players and the less than favourable publicity the tour has generated that will always be remembered. There were those awkward and spiky exchanges between the players as they walked off the pitch after a stressful day out in the field. Joe Root was to be seen glaring at the Aussies rather disapprovingly and then muttering what looked to be withering insults and derogatory comments. There were, shall we say, some unnecessary confrontations between the players that could have been avoided.

The fact is though Australia have quite handsomely outplayed England and the 3-0 defeat leaves most of England wondering whether it could have done anything different. The answer has to remain in the negative and Steve Smith's Australia, with dignity restored and that ageless urn under lock and key, will be feeling rather smug and self satisfied with life at the moment.

With Mitchell Starc frightening the life out of the somewhat fragile English batting attack, a bowler of lethal and terrifying speed, Pat Cummins also tearing great lumps out of our batsmen and Josh Hazelwood emerging quite rightly as one of the many heroes in the Australian side it all seemed to fall apart from the first Test onwards.

New boys James Vince and Mark Stoneman seemed to have no answer to the Aussie's powerhouse bowling and batting. Johnny Bairstow, from whom much was expected, almost vanished from view and only Dawid Malan emerged with flying colours. But the entire Ashes conflict just seemed to escape from English clutches, the familiar drift towards some lonely shore nothing less than tragic.

True, the legend that is Jimmy Anderson did some extremely convincing impersonations of Ian Botham at his peak but that bright red cricket ball became like a bar of soap in English hands. Anderson's bowling was perhaps the most impressive feature of the whole tour. He bowled straight, kept a firm line and length and the ball seemed to zip through at a fair rate of knots. Anderson bowled with fearsome accuracy and a punitive ferocity that Botham could only swoon at.

Meanwhile back on the political stage, Donald Trump must be looking forward to his Christmas pinching himself constantly at the sheer audacity of of it all. The year for Trump has been nothing short of miraculous and if somebody had told him that by the end of 2017 he'd still be President of the United States he would almost certainly have looked at them in wonderment. Or maybe his sense of vanity and narcissism would have kicked in and he'd have told us that he knew he'd still be in office.

Still the farce and soap opera that is the Trump presidency rolls on and on like an endless old Hollywood western that keeps going on relentlessly without pausing for breath. Nobody quite knows what to expect from Trump because, in his private moments, maybe even he doesn't know. Suffice it to say that the American nation are braving the elements, keeping their heads down and longing to watch James Stewart's epic Christmas film 'It's A Wonderful Life'.

So where are we with Donald Trump? Here is the social media commentator extraordinaire tweeting and twittering his frustrations, his endless propaganda about nothing of any significance and then blaming the milkman, the neighbours and quite possibly the dogs for everything and anything. Trump has become a man on a mission, an angry, one man crusader, a furious, incensed and morally outraged campaigner who loves his country but is never quite sure whether his country loves him.

It is hard to know how Trump will be spending his Christmas this year. Will he hire out the whole of Trump Towers for one extravagant party, a shin dig that none of his guests will ever forget? Will his wife and children sit around the Christmas tree trembling in case he suddenly launches into an explosive tirade against North Korea or Russia? Will Trump exercise his already well employed vocal chords with his version of Bing Crosby's wonderful 'White Christmas'? Or will he sit back in his well padded arm-chair and just entertain everybody with those bizarre finger gestures? Answers on a postcard please!

On the shiveringly cold streets of New York and Washington there is an overwhelming sense of wonderment and an obvious suspension of belief. Here is a once bankrupt billionaire businessman holding the reins of one of the most important jobs in the political universe and some of us are still trying to figure out how it all happened and whether anything can be done to rectify the problem. If indeed it needs to be fixed.

Trump is breathing fire and menace wherever he goes in the world and from our perfect vantage point here in Britain it all seems barely believable. Trump, who to some may be regarded as completely clueless, could be seen as a  fumbling and bumbling  figure, sniggering mischievously behind everybody's back, drinking his twentieth can of Diet Cola and then attacking Vladimir Putin for being Russian. You really couldn't make it up. From here in Britain it all looks and sounds complicated.

Still you never know. Maybe Trump will find a red coat and white beard. The chances are that he may find a sack of presents for the American children although sacking may not be the word Trump will want to hear at the moment. But as for fairies on tops of trees and turkey with all the trimmings, Trump may decide that you can only have too much fun.

And finally we come to Britain, Prime Minister Theresa May and that broken record known as Brexit. May of course did win the General Election back in June and she did hold onto power by her fingertips. But her majority was blown out of the water and when she limped back to 10 Downing Street there were very few bandages and bottles of medicine so she had to make do with what she had.

So what are we left with? We have a British government considerably weakened, damaged, wounded, injured and undermined by forces that could be said to be beyond them. The Tories may hold the balance of power but when somebody tips the scales they may find a Prime Minister who doesn't know which way to look, who smiles obligingly for the cameras but in her heart of hearts knows that some of her Cabinet colleagues are restless and muttering their discontent.

Oh well come on Prime Minister. Kick off those heels, put your feet up and let's play Scrabble or Monopoly on Christmas Day with your family and friends. You deserve a break. To quote one of your Labour adversaries from yesteryear. Things can only get better. Or maybe they have and we didn't really notice. It may be safe to show your face since the disappearance of Nigel Farage and Jeremy Corbyn is no more than a political lightweight although Corbyn may think not. It's time to hang up some more mistletoe.  We can only imagine what Santa will bring Corbyn. Perhaps another injection of humour. Ho Ho Ho!

My You Tube video for No Joe Bloggs. A great Christmas read.

My You Tube video for No Joe Bloggs. A great Christmas read.


I know. You've seen it before, you've heard it before but here's my latest promo for my books No Joe Bloggs, Joe's Jolly Japes and Victorian Madness Lyrics. You've got to shout it from the rooftops but not too raucously in case somebody understandably complains. But when you've got something to boast and gloat about then why not?  You pick up the tannoy and you proudly declare that these are your achievements and this is what you love doing. This is my announcement and I make no secret  of the fact that as the author of three books I'm as proud as Punch. So here goes.

If you click onto You Tube you'll find my narrative for my book No Joe Bloggs. Just tap in No Joe Bloggs in You Tube and bob's your uncle or maybe he's your cousin. Here I talk about my life so far, a heartfelt, sentimental and emotional description of my book. No Joe Bloggs is my funny, moving, emotional, nostalgic and lyrical memoir and social commentary book If you like Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett, Sammy Davis Junior and co. you've come to the right place. Because inside No Joe Bloggs now available at Amazon, Amazon Kindle, Waterstones online market place and Books-A-Million online I tell the imaginary but I think affectionately told story of my late dad's journey to Las Vegas.

At the beginning of No Joe Bloggs I give a perfectly authentic account of my grandparents and my grandpa's one claim to fame. He was the one who cut the hair of England's 1966 World Cup fabled trio of Sir Geoff Hurst, Martin Peters and Bobby Moore. My grandparents lived near West Ham's now famous old ground Upton Park and nothing gave my grandpa greater pleasure than giving a short back and sides to those glittering West Ham legends.

Then I describe growing up in wonderful Ilford, Essex with descriptions about the local Valentines Park and the London and West End for which my wonderful late dad had the softest of spots for. London, particularly, comes under the spotlight for attention. I talk about London with some vividly descriptive sounds and sights. The rest of No Joe Bloggs is my journey throughout my childhood, the triumphs and disasters, my favourite music, singers, movies, radio stations, loads of pop culture from the 1960s and 70s, pen portraits of football clubs such as Arsenal, Aston Vila, Everton, Ipswich Town, Chelsea, Leeds United, Liverpool, Manchester City and United, Spurs and Wolves, favourite sports personalities from those decades, favourite sporting occasions, favourite comedians and favourite TV programmes from the 1960s and 70s.

In my latest book Joe's Jolly Japes, also available at Amazon, Amazon Kindle, Waterstones online market place, Foyles online and Books- A-Million online. Joe's Jolly Japes is my take on England, the middle classes in England, the cultural institutions including the Chelsea Flower Show, the Henley Regatta and Polo on the playing fields of England. I write about England's World Cup football performances throughout the years, the victories and defeats, the players and managers.

I also talk about that great English wordsmith Alan Bennett and his fellow literary lion John Arlott, cricket's finest of all broadcasters, authors, poets and a wine expert par excellence. Essentially Joe's Jolly Japes is my personal perspective on the world and society.

Finally I give you my first book Victorian Madness Lyrics, a bonkers, nonsensical if, I think hilarious book. Victorian Madness Lyrics is a verbal festival of words that defy description. If you like language, words and alternatively funny words, metaphors and similes then Victorian Madness Lyrics is definitely the book for you. Here are some examples from the book. Our House becomes One's Abode, House of Fun- Establishment of Amusement and there is much more on the same song sheet. Victorian Madness Lyrics can still be bought at FeedaRead.com.

So there you have it my friends. Christmas is now a week away, that extraordinary time of the year when everything reaches that full stop of the year, the end of the sentence, the end of the paragraph, where regardless of the events that have preceded it, everybody around the world takes time out to sit down and wonder where the year has gone and why it seems to have flown by. None of us would like a justification or explanation for the speed at which the year has passed. It just has and suddenly the next chapter in our lives is on the next page. It may have gone too quickly for our liking or just sped past like an express train from London to Glasgow.

But if you'd like an enjoyable read I have to heartily recommend my books No Joe Bloggs, Victorian Madness Lyrics and Joe's Jolly Japes. They're Christmas crackers of books. Could somebody pass me a chocolate or maybe another mouth watering Chanukah doughnut. Better still Bing Crosby's legendary 'White Christmas' or Jona Lewie's 'Stop the Cavalry' or a delicious slice of Slade's Christmas classic. Sometimes you have to pinch yourself in case it's a dream. But it's that time of the year again and time to wrap up another gift for your loved ones. Oh, what bliss. Have a good one folks.

Christmas, the West End of London and all that jazz.

Christmas, the West End of London and all that jazz.

What a great day for a family day out. The snows had come and gone in a fleeting flurry, the ice had reluctantly gone and it was time for some window shopping in the West End. My wife, daughter, boy friend and father in law had deliberately set out with the sole intention of taking in the festive delights of the commercial wonderland that is Selfridges. Sometimes you just can't get enough of London's stunning department stores. This year, more than ever, the industrious display workers had excelled themselves in much the way they'd always done although that may be open to debate.

So here we are in the middle of the usual spectacle that is Christmas in the West End of London. Now is the time for the customary overblown excess, the harum scarum materialism, the ringing and singing of the cash registers, the hundreds and thousands of shoppers, tourists all hectically rushing, scampering, scurrying, millions of feet pounding along pavements thick with swinging, groaning shopping bags. It's enough to send you crazy if you let it. But this is no nine to five regime.

We witness the same scenes every year and we may never tire of it. Today in the bustling, seething and throbbing West End we find the people of the world, the mesmerising multitudes walking up and down Oxford Street in the most orderly of formations. It wasn't nearly as crowded as it should have been but then there's just over a week or so left and by Christmas Eve it may well be jammed solid and packed. You may have difficulty in finding any space to walk so this could be the time to buy, buy and buy before the doors shut for goodness knows how long.

 These are the people of the West End set, the people who fuel this pre Brexit economy, who fill the aisles of a hundred clothes rails, souvenir and music shops, sports shops, restaurants, cafes, fast food outlets that somehow defy description. Here are the very latest in fads, gadgets, high tech gizmos, frying pans, saucepans, TVs, all manner of high tech mobile phones, sheets and blankets with yellow and purple polka dots, designer cutlery and crockery sets, ovens that can whip up your meals in next to no time. Then there are the jewellery shops with watches that can you tell the time in Hong Kong with just a single swipe of the fingers.

But we were here in the West End to do some intensive market research on life in the West End. We are now ten days away from that good old fashioned Christmas knees up when the families of Britain don silly hats and pull hilarious crackers before diving into another Norfolk turkey. Isn't it wonderful? Our destination was Selfridges but I couldn't help but indulge in some social observation and topical commentary.

We were roughly ten minutes into our expedition when the street theatre of London's West End opened its beautifully decorated curtains. At strategic points of the pavements were situated London's most mellifluous musicians, possibly the finest gathering of instrumentalists ever to assemble in one street. They were all there you know. There was the gentleman playing his accordion, that charming squeeze box that sounds wonderfully European. The shame is though that in two years this may not make for easy listening since Britain will no longer require the services of an accordionist. We're leaving the EU and that's final.

For a moment or two I was suddenly transported to a quaint back street in down town Amsterdam or a pretty market square in Brussels where the sweetest town hall clock strikes up precisely on the half hour and then the hour. But the life of an accordionist looked a lonely and thankless one although our man with the squeeze box did seem to attract a number of admiring glances. There is a jolly, wheezing sound to an accordion that always reminds you of European market squares and busy cafes. But here in the West End it seemed the rarest but most surprising of discoveries.

Oxford Street was always the heartland for millions of tourists from all four corners of the globe. There were the familiar postcards, fridge magnets, badges, mugs, cups, Union Jack stickers, flags and Keep Calm and Drink Coffee signs that always bring them back year after year. Today was no exception to the rule as curious by standers and wandering people watchers strolled up and down that famous West End thoroughfare, enthralled by the Christmas air and ready to embrace the holiday with some relish.

I then encountered some of the best musical instruments ever to play before a captive West End audience. Oxford Street has now become the temporary home for jazzy, funky saxophones, perhaps the most richly satisfying sound ever to grace the West End. On the same street London's celebrated 100 club, a jazz haven for over 60 years now, has entertained those who like their music played to a backdrop of soft and soothing trumpets, smooth and streamlined rhythms, jazzy pianos tinkling sedately in the background and small clouds of cigarette smoke.

Now though the saxophones blasted out the most magnificently upbeat tempos, full of style and suave sensuality, finger clicking numbers that somehow belonged to the 100 club in Oxford Street but were now appearing on the chilly wintry pavements of Oxford Street. There is something so essentially laid backed and relaxed about the sound of the sax that restores your faith in human nature.

Then further along there were the appropriately dressed Christmas tuba players, the eternally smart French horns, the rousing trumpets harmonising perfectly on 'We Wish you a Merry Christmas', Jingle Bells and those standard Christmas favourites that most of us can hum backwards. The music of today had wafted into the London air with its traditional verses and nuanced meanings that send a warm glow down the spine.

And so we end our day back at Selfridge's sampling the rarefied air of this golden Oxford Street venue. We find ourselves at the Selfridge's Food Hall, a gastronomic ghetto where lunch seemed to be the perfect signature to an idyllic early pre-Christmas afternoon. The preferred choice was the salt beef bar. Now for those of us for whom a salt beef sandwich is rather like sipping the finest nectar then you may think there can be nothing like it in the whole wide world. Salt beef is the most logical complement to any lunchtime snack and only matched by its Brick Lane counterpart in both taste and presentation.

We headed for home uplifted by the completeness of the whole Oxford Street experience, the singular magic, the sheer uniqueness of it all, that yearly treat for families, children and adults alike, a place with its very specific appeal to young and old, the magical yearning for even healthier and happier years ahead, the ribboned boxes of Christmas presents and those snowy white windows with sleighs and fairy tale figures.

Still there was the remarkable HMV, a record emporium that some of the traditionalists thought had probably seen better days. There was the horrible feeling that the age of vinyl records would never be available again but I spotted HMV with that famous dog and gramophone and thought I'd gone to heaven. Vinyl had made a major comeback although maybe not on the grandest scale. Now though HMV seems to be hidden away or swallowed up by the larger shopping attractions and those vast brand name conglomerates that seem to tower over the shop.

But I couldn't help but remember the saxophone players with their coin filled caps on the ground. The tunes seemed to echo across the humming, murmuring traffic lanes of Oxford Street. In one shop window a giant red paper mache robin with all the festive trimmings bobbed up and down, bouncing and flouncing languidly without a care in the world. Christmas had made that spectacular return to the West End. All is well in the world and that subtle fragrance of salt beef will linger for quite a while. It's time for another mince pie.       

Honours even - Hammers and Gunners share the points.

Honours even- Hammers and Gunners share the points.

The rain fell from an inconsolable East London sky. On a wintry evening at the London Stadium a glimmer of sunlight crept out of the murky darkness and suddenly West Ham began to look much healthier and sprightlier than in recent times so the latest medical report is a positive one. The signs are that if they keep taking the tablets the Hammers may feel whole lot  better about themselves before the the great Christmas jamboree.

Last night West Ham met their North London neighbours Arsenal in a lively if one sided Premier League encounter. For the best part of 90 minutes Arsenal more or less bossed this London derby and if this had been a boxing match then the referee would almost have certainly thrown in the bloodied towel. But West Ham clung on for dear life and a goal-less draw looked to be the most honourable outcome. Arsenal, for their part, may think that any realistic Premier League challenge will have to be put on the back burner for another season.

At the top of the Premier League the two Manchester clubs have taken up full time tenancy while the contenders behind them look like gasping marathon runners who seem to have hit the wall. Spurs beat Brighton 1-0 at Wembley Stadium, Chelsea took care of Huddersfield on Tuesday after the jolting setback at West Ham, Manchester United saw off Bournemouth and Liverpool are still gripping hold onto the coat tails of the rest. But it all seems fairly pointless and forlorn.

Still Arsenal came into last night's match against West Ham sensing perhaps that miracles may still happen but then recognised sensibly that the only way Manchester City are going to be moved from top spot is by a huge crowbar and a wrecking ball. Pep Guardiola's free wheeling, foot loose and fancy free City look almost certain to remain unbeaten until Christmas at the very least and for those who believe that they can be caught then you could be accused of wishful thinking. There is more chance of Santa Claus arriving on Christmas Eve. Ho Ho Ho! This is not the time for silly fantasies.

After their disappointing 1-1 draw at Southampton on Sunday, Arsenal probably felt this was a perfect chance to wallow in West Ham's current misfortune and finding their London neighbours in generous mood. In the corresponding game last December Arsenal destroyed West Ham at the London Stadium with a 5-1 victory that was a landslide waiting to happen. There was an air of meek surrender and capitulation that evening but a year later and West Ham are in much the same spot of bother. This time though there is no sulking Frenchman thinking fondly of home comforts.

When midfield playmaker Dimitri Payet finally took his leave of West Ham and returned to France with his family a heavy weight seemed to be lifted from West Ham's collective shoulders. The signing of Robert Snodgrass, although an adequate sticking plaster, was never more than a short term replacement. Snodgrass was indeed a fish out of water and although capable and workmanlike, was about as far removed from Payet as it was possible to be.

Now though West Ham have adopted that familiar air of discomfort that some felt was inevitable after all those moving problems to the London Stadium from Upton Park. Those curtains just don't look right and that kitchen is too big. Somehow the noise, atmosphere and acoustics will never be the same as the lovely old Boleyn Ground where the crowd seemed to give West Ham a goal start.

Poor Slaven Bilic departed the East End without so much as a whimper and new manager David Moyes has been charged with the unenviable task of propping up the Hammers, lifting the gloom and dejection and revitalising a West Ham side who seem to be sinking without trace. They may yet find  though the Christmas and the January transfer window to be their ultimate salvation.

For long periods West Ham seemed to be chasing so many black Arsenal shadows that gradually they were beginning to see stars. Arsenal flicked their passes between their players in short, sharp bursts of one touch brilliance that must have demoralised the home side. Their passing was so breathtakingly accurate and geometrically right that even the most eminent of draughtsmen would have been deeply impressed. West Ham were pinned back onto the ropes with nowhere to go.

When the likes of Mesut Ozil, the welcome return of Jack Wilshere to Arsenal's first team, Alexis Sanchez, Alex Iwobi and Olivier Giroud began to weave and stitch together their passing patterns. West Ham could only hover around their opponents like claret and blue clouds drifting towards nowhere in particular.

Arsenal were now sparring, toying, taunting and tormenting West Ham as if they were a rag doll. The passes were now fluttering around the pitch in and around small pockets of West Ham's stubborn defence. Here was the case of the matador waving the flamboyant cape and inviting the bull for yet more mind games. Eventually a claret and blue bull held its own and the whole contest fizzled out like a spent firework.

For West Ham this was another gritty, backs to the wall performance, a display of solidity, firmness, character and stern defensive resolution that could well serve their purpose for the time being. Sometimes an army does fight on its stomach but once the trenches are dug defensive measures become vital to the cause. In many ways West Ham looked as if they were walking through treacle such was their difficulty in finding a way out of their own half.

Long spells were spent spreading a claret and blue sheet across their embattled back four and then plodding their way laboriously forward like a beached turtle that has completely lost its bearings. No sooner had they won possession then Aaron Cresswell, Pablo Zabaleta, Winston Reid and Arthur Masuaku were giving the ball straight back to their opponents. It was probably on nights like this that they must have wished they'd stayed at home and caught up with the latest developments in Coronation Street.

Once again Pedro Obiang, captain Mark Noble and Manuel Lanzini were treating the ball as if it were the hottest potato, frequently denying any blame for giving the ball wastefully and then trying desperately to redeem themselves when it was far too late. Thankfully for West Ham, Oliver Giroud, the bearded French warrior, made all the wrong connections when the ball was played to him in the air and Alex Sanchez continues to look like the spoilt kid who can never get his way. Sanchez spent most of the evening moping and complaining about perhaps the colour of the ball or the East London rain. The overall impression was that in Chile it never rains and besides it's everybody else's fault but his. Football can seem so grossly unfair Alexis.

Still. this was a fair to middling night for those happy Hammers. Finally everything seems to be clicking for Austrian winger and forward Marko Arnautovic. And not before time some might have privately thought.  On Saturday Arnautovic had one of his most eye catching games for quite a while, running the Chelsea defence ragged and once again against Arsenal he drove his way forward on the flanks, nostrils flaring and eyes blazing.

On a more or less regular basis Arnautovic trapped the ball beautifully with his chest, turned and swivelled swiftly and did use the ball productively. Occasionally it all looked rather uncomfortable for the angular Austrian but the thoughts and deeds were certainly working in harmony. Hector Bellerin and Nacho Monreal, the Arsenal full backs were spun around and turned deftly but ended the game frustrating Arnautovic.

For Michal Antonio, another source of danger on the other flank this was not quite the game tailored to his liking. Antonio is both strong and muscular but Arsenal were a different kettle of fish. Whenever West Ham were offered any kind of relief from Arsenal's carousel of passing movements, Antonio heroically stuck out his chest and sprinted along the touchline like a man in a permanent hurry. There were the menacing bursts into space and a passionate desire to win the ball. Sadly though this was not to be Antonio's evening and there were too many road blocks in front of him.

So it was that the match seemed to be drawing to what seemed the fairest of all conclusions. Then with the match in injury time and Arsenal rapidly running out of short cuts to West Ham's goal, the home side launched one final attack. A loose ball inside the Arsenal penalty area fell neatly at the feet at West Ham substitute Javier Hernandez who promptly curled the ball artistically towards Arsenal keeper Petr Cech. Then Hernandez experienced his very own Sir Geoff Hurst moment, the ball bouncing fiercely against the bar and dropping this time on the wrong side of the line. So close and yet so far.

With a trip to Stoke on Saturday and an appetising Christmas and New Year programme on West Ham's horizon this could be a season defining spell for the men in claret and blue. An impressive haul of points could be the difference between mid table safety and  a winter of discontent. It's never been easy following our favourite team of choice because most of us can recite the same song off by heart.

Then the cameras panned towards that tearful sky with its deluge of raindrops slanting across Stratford. The West Ham fans trooped out of the London Stadium with a modicum of hope in their heart but never entirely sure where hope would take them. The stadium lights were switched off and Christmas beckoned for those discerning Westfield shoppers. It was time to gather our thoughts for Boxing Day perhaps but then 1963 and Blackburn Rovers were briefly recalled. It may be the pantomime season but it is to be hoped that an 8-2 defeat will not be the abiding memory. We are indeed forever blowing bubbles. 

Chanukah- normal service resumes.

Chanukah - normal service resumes.

Normal service resumes. We always knew it would. It had to really. Last year Chanukah, that wondrous breath of fresh air at the end of the year, is back where it perhaps belongs. In 2016 the Jewish festival of Chanukah began on Christmas Day which at the time seemed to be far too late on the year and almost chronologically incorrect. But amends have been made and the festival of ultra sweet doughnuts and latkes- aka potato cakes- is now well and truly underway.

Across the world Jews will gather together before a menorah- a candlestick with eight candles, sing light heartedly and then feel slightly guilty at the perfectly understandable and excessive devouring of jam, cappuccino, lemon drizzle, chocolate and coffee flavoured doughnuts. Personally I can't get enough of them since this is the one time of the year when as a Jew, I take enormous pleasure in over indulgence, excess and spinning dreidels- spinning tops with Hebrew letters on them.

Essentially Chanukah belongs to the Jewish children of the world but adults must never be excluded from any of these eight precious days of smiling faces, parties and exuberant celebrations. The first candle will be lit in most Jewish homes around the globe. The festivities are of course are uninhibited and unrestrained, outpourings of joy, elation, dancing in the streets and a time to let yourself go without fear of being mocked or criticised.

Every year Jews abandon ourselves shamelessly to the kind of celebration that in just under a fortnight now will be replicated in the Christian calendar. But Chanukah has none of the razzamatazz, tinsel, glamour, turkey eating or ornately wrapped presents normally associated with Christmas. Not for us the fine, upstanding, richly garlanded tree in the corner or the mince pies that lend the whole occasion such a spicy piquancy.

Chanukah is though an altogether different kind of festival. There are no carol singing choirs who yearly turn up on millions of doorsteps, none of those outrageous advertising campaigns for those famously corporate supermarkets, none of the fuss, panic and stress normally associated with Christmas. There are none of those frantic stampedes towards the West End department stores in the hope of buying so many fancy fripperies that you wonder whether Christmas will ever end. But we do know how to have a good time.

Personally Christmas Day for my family will indeed be a special one. My father in law's birthday, by coincidence, falls on Christmas Eve. But this year Chanukah got its dates and times right and in the right order. We now know that you can light our candles in the middle of December, while outside Manor House the crisp and even snow has given way to slightly disconcerting ice. You can now walk the pavements with a purposeful tread without slipping or tripping. The coast is clear everybody. What a relief although the snow itself was a welcome sight depending on your point of view.

So here we are on the first night of Chanukah and for the next eight days or so we will recite our happy- go- lucky songs, don our fancy dress attire and laugh at the merriment of it all. For as long as I can remember, quite certainly, it was that end of the year party where Jews of the world held on proudly to their identity, independence and sense of liberation when all around them was division, discord and dissent. And yet it doesn't have to be like that at all because the Jewish people cherish their traditions, hold onto their love of everybody and everything and never forget that the simple joys of life are there to be treasured.

We are now weeks away from the end of the year and after all the festive flourishes are safely stored away for another year it may be the right time to look at 2017 and wonder whether those disgraceful attacks on our civil liberties and those soul destroying terrorist attacks on London and Manchester will forever be scarred on the conscience on those who committed these evil abominations.

This is not the time to utter our disgust and revulsion, more a time for healing, repairing, sanity and normality. It is not the time for being offensively hurtful to each other, murderous, cold blooded, violent and aggressive because what on earth did that ever achieve? There is though perhaps a time for pausing for breath, extending the hand of friendship and refraining from harm and destruction.

Chanukah was always the one time of the year when we could do a good deed, we could go that extra yard for society without feeling it was the one celebration of the year that had to be accompanied by cheesy sentimentality and schmaltzy candy floss frothiness. It may be easy to dismiss any festival or special occasion as some temporary escape from the rest of the world's ills.

 But that can only be the cynical explanation because both Chanukah and Christmas are the perfect expressions of goodwill and surely that has to be commended. Time to bring on those lovable jam doughnuts. Nobody could possibly turn those down.

West Ham, the Premier League and snow in London.

West Ham, the Premier League and snow in London.

Well, we knew it would arrive sooner or later but had no idea when. It was always on the cards and the chances are it'll continue doing this for the rest of the day. Ladies and Gentleman I give you snow. Yes here in North London great building skips of snow are falling from metallic grey and white skies with a seriousness of intent London has rarely seen on this scale for years. In fact I'm not sure I can remember a snowfall of such insistence and persistence since who knows when.

We awoke this morning to skies of snow laden, Christmas card beauty, the kind of snow most of us thought we'd never see again. We flung open our curtains and blinds and found that, wonder of wonders, the meteorological phenomenon known as thick snow was pouring from ashen faced skies. In recent years snow has been fairly thin on the ground so to speak so its sudden return after a fairly lengthy absence came as something of a shock particularly since the last time it snowed like this most of us thought we'd never see it properly again for some time.

But here we are again on a winter wonderland and London looks positively beautiful, a decorative marzipan cake of thick white snow and here on a pre-Christmas Sunday it may snow for the duration of the day. Admittedly, the kids are going to have a ball but for those of us who may find walking something of a challenge it's best to smile resignedly, stare out of the dining room window and just be grateful that you don't really have to venture out that far. The trains and buses may grind to a standstill but hey make yourself a hot toddy, sup some heart warming bowls of tomato soup and dream that white may well be the predominant colour for a number of hours.

Outside a strange silence has descended over Manor House as people go about their daily lives, footsteps crunching deeply into the ground, footsteps bounding forward heroically towards some destination where the snow has turned into slush. In fact if you find yourself at Manor House Tube station you'll be confronted with small puddles of wet slush and the remnants of a brief rain shower.

Yesterday though proved to be a victorious day for West Ham United. There were never any indications that it would snow at all so it may have been just as well that the London derby between the Hammers and Chelsea went ahead because if it hadn't I'd have probably wondered whether this claret and blue follower would ever see his team win again this year. At long last then West Ham finally found themselves on the right end of a win rather than dwelling on what might have been.

Saturday lunchtimes were normally reserved for copious drinking at the Boleyn pub when Upton Park was our kind and generous sanctuary. They downed just a couple of swift amber libations, sang some hearty renditions of 'Bubbles' and then marched confidently towards the Boleyn Ground for either devastating anti climaxes, narrow defeats, moderately impressive victories or just a wretched afternoon of missed open goals, shots that shook the crossbar and those that were agonisingly kicked off the line.

This Saturday lunchtime though was different for the claret and blue loyalists. At long last West Ham suddenly became aware of their deeply worrying run of defeats which had seen them fall quite perilously into the relegation zone. For those who have seen this unravelling before West Ham's struggles are nothing new. Sometimes you always know what you might be getting with our friendly East London club but yesterday felt as if the worm had actually turned.

After an encouraging 2-1 defeat at runaway Premier League leaders Manchester City at the Etihad Stadium the doom and gloom mongers were groaning with unrelieved despondency. The end of the world has been nigh for those of a claret and blue shade but against Chelsea yesterday West Ham recognised the enormity and gravity of their current plight. It didn't look good and it wasn't pretty at all. But West Ham proudly puffed out their collective chests and shook the foundations of Chelsea's apparently fruitless attempt at holding onto their Premier League title.

These have been difficult times for West Ham and when Slaven Bilic left the club recently, it was felt that a new broom at the London Stadium would only sweep up the dust and debris of crumbling masonry. Then there was David Moyes and the man once recommended by Sir Alex Ferguson for the Manchester United hot seat now finds himself in an East End stew. This could turn into the longest season for West Ham this winter and if they should see the cuckoos of early spring with a clear head then the West Ham fans may come to regard this moment in their season as just a passing phase.

Now though Moyes is in charge and the claret and blue pullover was accompanied by the neatest claret and blue tie. It was never like this as a Celtic player and although his successful spell as Everton manager may well mark him down as a good, go-ahead coach with innovative ideas the reality at West Ham is entirely different. Moyes was never a fire fighter but at Manchester United the raging flames were too hot to handle.

Still, West Ham, for what seemed too many Premier League encounters, did now click into gear, re-discovering their old zest and passion without allowing themselves to be completely overwhelmed by a Chelsea side whose comfort in possession threatened to take overall control of the game. Chelsea stroked the ball around all of the important areas of the pitch with an elegance and simplicity that reminded you of Manchester City's passing fest against West Ham last Sunday.

This time though Chelsea appeared to assume so many snotty and superior airs that Antonio Conte must have thought that a cricket score would be in the offing once his players had stepped onto the London Stadium pitch. There was an air of snooty condescension about Chelsea that West Ham thought deeply abhorrent and distasteful. How the middle and upper classes of Kensington turn up their noses at those East London upstarts. Tell them to clean the parlour downstairs and make sure they do it thoroughly.

Once again Chelsea looked to their knowledgeable architect Eden Hazard to dribble his way beautifully his way through a furiously retreating West Ham defence. Hazard spent most of his lunchtime haplessly weaving and scheming around the pitch like a feisty terrier searching for that elusive bone. But when the likes of Pedro, sub Victor Moses and striker Morata failed to find that smooth goal scoring touch, manager Conte slowly paced his technical area like a frustrated Italian painter looking for some kind of old masterpiece.

Frequently Chelsea were almost toying with their hosts. White shirts swarmed around claret and blue with pinball machine, one touch football that left most of the West Ham players circling Chelsea rather like pigeons swooping from one rooftop to the next. Chelsea tapped the ball around sweetly to each other but the passes invariably ended up in a no go cul de sac. West Ham were never remotely fazed by this blizzard of passing movements. The game was far from up for the Hammers.

From the beginning West Ham lunged at the opposition, surged forward in huge numbers, attacked positively and were much more sure footed than has been the case in their last three Premier League games. There was a spirit and heart about the home team that had undoubtedly gone missing for most of the season. Their football, admittedly had none of the finesse and breeding that their opponents could proudly boast. But then this was entirely expected given West Ham's recent defensive ailments.

This time though the disciplined defensive quartet of Angelo Ogbonna, Aaron Cresswell, Pablo Zabaleta and Winston Reid all obeyed their rule books, stuck rigidly to their allotted roles and tightened up the rusty bolts of West Ham defence. Notably, there was Arthur Masuaku, a full back heavily equipped with his very own box of tricks, deceptive turns of pace and a player who looked hell bent on opening up Chelsea without any prompting. Masuaku kept wriggling and wiggling his way along the touchline, in and out of a posse of white Chelsea shirts.

In midfield West Ham welcomed back their gallant captain Mark Noble into their first team squad. Noble is now approaching that 30 plus landmark when thoughts of retirement and carriage clocks may, fleetingly, cross his mind. Once again Noble was at his hustling, bustling, chasing, champing at the bit best and biting his teeth into tackles with some ferocity. His is a wholehearted commitment to the game that is wonderfully admirable in these days of short term contracts and loans. Football has a lot to thank the likes of Noble. It has few better role models.

Alongside Noble there was the ever willing and powerful Pedro Obiang, not exactly a Trevor Brooking or Martin Peters but Obiang does a great deal of brick laying and hod carrying. Yesterday Obiang was sharp, energetic, aware, useful, constantly scurrying and scampering before releasing the most sensible pass as and when required.

After only 10 minutes West Ham took the lead. The goal scorer was the one man who West Ham had spent a colossal £25 million on during the summer and then discovered they may have unearthed just a muddy coin and a broken vase. Marko Arnautovic, Stoke City's free scoring forward and winger, landed in the East End and unreasonable hopes were pinned on the Austrian attacker. You suspect that Austria's early 20th century managerial maestro Hugo Meisl would have turned his head away in disgust.

Still it all came good for Arnautovic. In a a dizzying, giddy sequence of short, snappy passes involving Lanzini, Antonio and Arnautovic twice, the ball was rolled into the path from Lanzini's lovely return pass and Arnautovic swept the ball past Chelsea keeper Courtois. It was the goal from heaven that the West Ham faithful must have longed for so long. The Austrian forward dived into the crowd to receive the acclaim of the West Ham faithful. Game on for West Ham.

For almost the remainder of the first half West Ham had now become locked up in their own half  like a prowling tiger in its cage. Chelsea surrounded West Ham with pass after pass of sheer quality and it must have seemed only a matter of time before the Blues would be on level terms. Those delicately precise passing movements were just too good to be true. But wherever Eden went there was indeed a visible Hazard.

West Ham packed the middle of the pitch with huge claret and blue fences, well protected stockades and barriers that were simply impenetrable. Chelsea strolled and pottered around the London Stadium like university students on a freshers week. There were so many pockets of space for Chelsea to exploit that an equaliser for Chelsea had to come sooner or later. But the pockets were sewn up, Antonio Conte's face became a permanent scowl and private excuses were beginning to mount up. Poor Chelsea hey! Conte blamed tiredness but there were few sympathisers. Maybe they should have thought about an early night rather than a list of grievances the length of the Kings Road.

By the hour mark Chelsea decided that Willian would be the cure for their continuing woes. The Brazilian did add touch of cunning and craft to Chelsea's midfield but when their second sub Victor Moses came on it looked as if the West London side were clutching at straws. Moses had been loaned to West Ham in their final year at Upton Park and certainly looked the part. Now Moses had nothing to offer but sweat, toil and labour. It had now become far too late on in the day for redemption.

A decisive victory for West Ham felt like a mirage at first. Then there was the sudden realisation that Chelsea can only hope that the teams above them will falter astonishingly. A top four place seems to be the most realistic objective for Conte's shell shocked team. Last season Chelsea played football of the silkiest material but now can only rely on loose threads, flimsy fabrics and a ragged piece of blue cotton. Sadly this season is rapidly turning into a tale of moody Blues and while the title may be a faint and receding hope the truth is that Chelsea may have to be content with something rather more low key than a Premier League title.

It is hard to wonder how West Ham's season will now pan out for them. On Wednesday Arsenal pay their second visit to the London Stadium and it still seems like salvation is some away for the Hammers. Last season Alexis Sanchez. Mesut Ozil and Aaron Ramsey played havoc with a careless West Ham defence and inflicted a heavy 5-1 victory over the hosts. If the snows don't get to West Ham by Wednesday then the Arsenal cannons may well get there first. Still, who knows. the man from Austria may well have the last laugh. You never know.

Let it snow, let it snow.

Let it snow, let it snow.

There is a hint of snow in the air. The sharp blasts of cold weather are drifting in from the Arctic or Antarctic or indeed wherever cold weather comes from nowadays. Here, in Britain we can never be quite prepared for freezing temperatures, biting winds or anything that remotely resembles the winter climate.

 We're more or less or conditioned and resigned to summer weather because everybody knows what happens then or maybe we'll be pleasantly surprised. Oh who cares. I don't care what the weatherman is saying you'll never hear me complaining. Bring on some Gene Kelly singing in the rain and let the hailstones fall like golf balls. It's almost Chanukah and Christmas shortly and this is time to be jolly and deck the halls with holly.  Jolly dee. I can't wait.

 If that jovial man with the red coat and white beard arrives without at least the complete works of every book written in the history of literature I'll be most disappointed and just a tad upset. On second thoughts pour me a glass of lime cordial, present me with a mince pie and let me partake of several slices of festive turkey. Christmas seems to get earlier and earlier. In the West End department stores the rumour is that Christmas started on the hottest day of July and it may be assumed that Harrods opened up their Christmas grotto sometime in May just after the Bank Holiday.

Still, the weather centre in London has forecast a cake sprinkling of snow on Sunday. In some parts of Britain the snow has already fallen in soft coatings on the hills. Deep in the Pennines people woke to pavements resembling birthday cakes and birds sneezing almost uncontrollably. Snow, as we know, evokes a whole variety of emotions in all of us. Some of us love it, children can never get enough of it and the rest of the nation curses it because in most cases it's sufficiently disruptive and above all it makes any kind of journey almost physically impossible.

If it snows persistently and heavily we may have to batten down the hatches and just keep warm for the rest of winter. If it means we have to set out for work or school at two o'clock in the morning then these are obvious grounds for complaint. But what else to do under the circumstances? We could always stay at home, build a snowman in the garden, throw snow balls joyously at each other and just rub our heads together with the broadest smile on our faces.

There are always emergency or contingency measures if the snow really does fall in huge quantities. Your heart always goes out to those poor villagers in the country who are more or less stranded and trapped in their cosy cottages. There is nowhere to go, the back roads are impassable and every pavement is  clogged with thick clumps of the white stuff. The pavements will undoubtedly become icy and slippery and shopping expeditions are completely out of the question. It could turn into a nightmare but the British are battle hardened, resilient and refuse to give into the elements.

Sadly though, snow has been the rarest of sights in Britain. I can't think of a recent winter when gallons of snow would swirl around the air and plop onto the ground with considerable force. Admittedly it can be the most dreadful nuisance and inconvenience when the car won't start and the buses are utterly non existent. So then we have to just grit our teeth and knuckle down to the task in hand very resourcefully.

The memory goes back to the mid 1980s when snow seemed to be dumped down onto the ground from a great height, settling on the roads and pavements and then carpeting the whole of Ilford, Gants Hill and Redbridge. Walking became an almost military operation and I can still remember clomping down snow clogged roads, then wading through immense blocks of snow with painstaking care.

Every day during that long and hard winter we pulled up our coat collars firmly, wrapped more and more scarves around our necks and shivered sometimes uncomfortably. The winds seemed to get wilder and colder with every minute and I must have felt like some intrepid explorer or some very ambitious soul tackling a white Swiss skiing resort  By the end of my journey my feet felt like those ice cubes you normally use at summer barbecues for the Pimms.

The one winter when the snows of Britain really did leave us with serious repercussions was my first year on Planet Earth. In the winter of 1962 the snows arrived just before Christmas and remained with us until early April. My parents frequently tell me of their obvious sense of confinement in the face of a winter where it snowed and kept snowing and didn't know when to stop.

My mum, somewhat amusingly, tells the story of how she did try to venture out for a spot of shopping and promptly forgot all about me as she turned back for home without me. Oh the sense of desertion and isolation as this red-cheeked baby cried prodigiously for all his worth. There was a happy ever after ending though to this tale as mum suddenly recognises that her first son is not where he should have been. Needless to say I have forgiven my mum for that very brief moment of absent mindedness but that momentary alienation from society may have been understandable given the severity of that winter. Mum, it wasn't your fault.

Still, the rest of the 1960s seemed to be relatively snow free to the best of anyone's recollection and the 1970s were simply wet, foggy, rain soaked and generally dark. I can recall some very sharp and bitterly cold winters but the snow seemed to keep away from Ilford. The early school morning excursions were just very chilly and shudderingly shivery. We did though survive against the most daunting of elements as rain slanted piercingly into our deeply exposed faces.

So it is that we now face that crucial weekend with a fortnight to go before ding dong merrily on high resounds through the neighbourhoods and the dogs become hilariously tangled up in festive knots of glitter and tinsel. Once again neighbouring windows here in Manor House are beginning to look as if Christmas can't come quickly enough. Some of them seem to be decorated with the same decorations as last year. There are the yearly sleighs, the cute ice blue light bulbs and of course dear old Santa in varying shades of red and, for those who cherish the Victorian age, green Santas.

Me? Well I've no objections to the snow at all. In fact it is pretty and picturesque with all its connotations of Christmas. How we love those warm and snug fireplaces with mantelpieces groaning with Christmas cards, a fine, upstanding tree from Homebase and well wrapped presents nestling next to the tree. Throw another log onto the crackling fire and mine's a well chilled wine please.

The snow of course is specifically designed for the children because essentially this is their favourite time of the year. And if that means you have to spend the best part of Christmas sticking a twig on the snowman's face and planting some very effective eyes on its forehead then it can't be bad at all. Then the whole family tuck into their turkey, sprouts and pud before racing out of the front door afterwards and heading for your local park where the kids can just let off steam, rolling about on snow patterned grass and jumping around with perfect freedom.

Yes indeed snow is something to be looked forward to in great anticipation rather than dreaded. Who can possibly resist the temptation to gaze out of the window at white grass, white hedges, white fences and white trees, white sheets of snow and more snow glittering and glistening in that timeless fashion.

I'm reminded of one of my favourite Christmas songs. Chris Rea's 'Driving Home for Christmas' is quite the most delightful and attractive Christmas ditties of all. The You Tube video featuring a car's windscreen wipers caked in ice and snow and driving down a remote country lane is simply the best. But to quote another festive offering. Let it snow let it snow. Or perhaps you'd rather it not snow in which case let's have some incessant winter sunshine. Personally, I'm looking forward to my first Chanukah doughnut with just one mince pie to be going on with.