Tiger Roll roars to Grand National victory.
Once again Aintree was at its most attractive, vocal, joyously vociferous and dominated by the most handsome colour of Irish greenery. The first four horses to pass the finishing post had an Irish backing. Wow! What a finish to the most exciting steeplechase horse race in the world. The Aintree Grand National delivered in quite the most heart pounding, enthralling, superlatively pulsating finish for quite some time. In fact by the end of the race some of us could barely control our excitement. This was surely Aintree at most inviting, welcoming, warmly discerning and gloriously appreciative.
For the record ladies and gentlemen my horse Pleasant Company finished runner up to the Grand National 2018 winner Tiger Roll but only after the most nerve racking of photo finishes. But Pleasant Company was narrowly pipped to the post but merely by a head and nose and so close to victory that for a moment I was inclined to believe that every horse I've ever backed at the National was just being lazy or simply disinterested. My horse though had succeeded in finishing and this one actually came second.
In fact most of my Grand National horses have invariably ended up galloping lackadaisically along Southport beach, genuinely seeking either a sympathetic shoulder to cry on or a handful of carrots to crunch on. But today was different, markedly different. Because today my horse finished second in one of the world's most popular and much loved of sporting events, a sport richly decorated with tradition, history, personality, a grand air of democracy and a noble Englishness.
After so many years of fallow disappointment and complete failure I willed my equine home on horse racing's day of days. This was undoubtedly horse racing at its very best and purest, a race which for the first time included three women jockeys. Aintree now burst into a life as the Grand National's smallest horse for many a year Tiger Roll had the audacity to challenge my bet to a neck to neck gallop to the finishing post.
Here I have to admit to an appalling lack of knowledge of matters of a horsey nature. The Sport of Kings has somehow eluded me over the years for no particular reason other than a nervous reluctance to gamble or part with any sum of money. Many of us have walked past our local bookmakers ever so slightly tempted to invest our hard earned silver on these most striking of animals. A combination of total ignorance and perhaps shameful indifference have left me in something of a sporting hinterland.
And so it was that the flag went up for this year's Grand National and away they went. This was one of England's most spectacular of stampedes, a cavalry charge of the most stimulating and exhilarating kind, a mind boggling fusion of thundering hooves and thunderous cheering. A huge gathering of multi coloured jockeys with spots and stripes was accompanied by something very special in the air, a chaotic procession of horses and jockeys with a flurry of flying horse's feet and muddy divots.
Across the wide green acres of Liverpool they went in the relentless search for one of sport's most distinctively unmistakable of sporting events. Everybody has a punt on the National and if they don't, they'll probably listen to it on the radio or watch it on TV. Or maybe they reach for their Smartphone nowadays because that's how widely and immediately accessible all sporting occasions in high tech 2018 have become.
There were thick bunches of horses who streamed across the well manicured grass of Aintree in the most orderly fashion. For mile upon mile they obediently followed each other and then began to stretch away, picking up a noticeable head of steam, before accelerating and then slowing down again. Then there was an almost palpable tension, as one group of horses spurted to the front, charged forward powerfully before then recognising that they could be in with a chance.
As my horse Pleasant Company and Tiger Roll headed for the final, frenetic finishing line, the heady anticipation could almost be felt. This had to be the year, my year to win the Grand National. That crystal ball gazer had told me quite prophetically that my horse had the potential to win but didn't quite bargain on a horse called Tiger Roll winning by a hairs breadth. So what do crystal ball gazers know? But the imaginary crystal ball gazer wasn't entirely sure so the consolation of second place felt like a moral victory for me.
Straining every sinew both Pleasant Company and Tiger Roll were almost like blood brothers. Together our two equine rivals galloped harder and harder, lengthening their stride, pushing themselves to the front, nostrils flaring, eyes blazing ferociously, faces and necks bursting with fierce determination, convinced that they could take the big prize.
Then at the winning post a brief sigh, a moment of incomprehension. There was a photo finish. Both Tiger Roll and Pleasant Company were level pegging, two sporting giants with nothing between them. In a matter of seconds Tiger Roll had been categorically declared the winner of the 2018 Grand National and the Aintree hordes acclaimed their winner with all the elation of those who had never won anything.
Now Tiger Roll and jockey Davy Russell trotted almost leisurely into the winners enclosure and the crowds went wild. The people from middle England, the hectic metropolitan classes of London, the working classes and the upper class bourgeoisie, flung their hands into the air as if they probably didn't care. It was Tiger Roll by a nose or horse's nose and some of us could hardly believe what we'd just seen. If only the race had been extended by a couple of yards then I may well have been in possession of a twenty pound note or so. Still there's always next year's Grand National to look forward to.
Aintree had done it again for the great racing fraternity. The punters had come from far and wide and the seasoned enthusiasts who turn up every year the Grand National had found that winning formula. Wherever you looked there were overjoyed winning trainers, proud owners and a small knot of passionate Irish men and women who had taken the first four places at the National. This was a quite remarkable achievement but you somehow knew the Irish would do it because the Irish do like the Grand National. This calls for a celebratory glass of Guinness.
Saturday, 14 April 2018
Thursday, 12 April 2018
Jack is back - Jack Laugher wins Commonwealth Gold medal for England.
Jack is back - Jack Laugher wins Commonwealth Gold for England.
In the general scheme of things it probably doesn't sound that impressive. But when Jack Laugher wakes up tomorrow morning he may think that his perseverance has been rewarded and even the most minor of obstacles had been overcome. You see Jack Laugher laughed in the face of defeat and never thought for a single moment that his day in the Commonwealth Games limelight would ever come around again. It was that iconic moment in a sportsman's career when all the pieces fall into place and today is your day.
Four years ago Laugher hadn't quite found that genie out of the lamp moment when everything stops and you have to believe that the impossible can happen. It was in Glasgow 2014 when the Nottingham born Jack Laugher missed out on the gold at the Commonwealth Games because maybe it wasn't quite his time or the stars were in the wrong position. The fact remains that our Jack had chosen this moment to stand on a podium with a gold medal around his neck and nobody could take that away from him.
Sport can often be both puzzling and too mysterious for words. But when Laugher stepped onto the diving board in a small corner of the Gold Coast in Australia, the angels were quite clearly singing. He knew that he could do it because he could feel it in the air, touch it, smell it, experience it and it was attainable. Jack Laugher won a gold medal for England and the facts speak for themselves. The Union Jacks were flying with a particular flourish and this was Laugher's sporting pinnacle.
Stepping forward onto the edge of the three metre springboard, toes poised, arms straight as a needle by his side, the look on Laugher's face was a picture of concentration, intense concentration. His eyes were almost surreally focussed, staring and gazing into the middle distance, briefly acknowledging his fans and family with a small smile before settling himself, bracing himself, waiting patiently.
Suddenly he was ready and prepared. Time seemed to stand still as if suspended by something that was somehow indefinable, something intangible that you couldn't quite put your finger on. Then, leaping and bouncing with remarkable agility, our Jack started jumping and then jumping higher. We were briefly reminded of a certain Tom Daley, an Olympic hero of the richest stock, who performed his dive with such immeasurable confidence in his ability that you wondered whether why we'd ever doubted that he could do it.
Then it was time for that lift off, the highest elevation, one enormous take off and then the immaculate execution. Was it a double pike or a triple pike? Laugher gave us the most amazing display of coolness and composure under pressure. There now followed sport at its most truly astonishing. Laugher, in a matter of seconds, somersaulted acrobatically before spinning, twisting and tucking his body underneath him as if he'd carried out the same dive in training a thousand times. It all looked so breathlessly easy, simple and completed in double quick time.
It was all so natural, as natural as sleeping, breathing and eating. It was effortlessly beautiful and all over in no time at all. It took roughly the same amount of time that most of us would require to flick on a light switch, an instinctive gesture, a rabbit out of Laugher's hat. There you are. He told you could do it and he quite clearly did so this seemed the right time to dismiss any fears or doubts that might have been taken root in anybody's mind.
Before anybody could blink, Laugher's body splashed convincingly and properly into the water and the patriotic cheers from the British fans must have been like music to his ears. They whooped and yelled themselves silly, delighted to be in the right spot and the right time, possibly a bit smug and blase because privately they knew that Jack could do it. It was almost as if Laugher had put his signature to a letter that needed to be written, confirmation of his diving brilliance and his raison d'etre for being at the Commonwealth Games. Besides why else would he be here if not in the relentless pursuit of gold?
Team England have covered themselves in a fair amount of glory throughout these Commonwealth Games without quite emulating those fabulous achievements of the London Olympics six years ago. Still you can't have everything. Recently sport has been somewhat accidentally caught up in some morally questionable tangles.
The Aussies have cheated quite outrageously in cricket, the nasty stench of doping and drug taking continuing to hang around sport with quite the most revolting regularity. One day sport may sit down in an athletics stadium with a clean bill of health, no fingers of suspicion pointing directly in its face and with the sure knowledge that fair play and chivalrous sportsmanship has again won the day.
Jack Laugher will return to England with his gold medal and the acclamation of his British supporters ringing in his ears. When he returns to Nottingham they'll probably dig out the flags, hold quite the most jubilant street party, buy him a brewery of beers and slap him on the back with the kind of congratulations once accorded to Torvill and Dean and then celebrate Laugher's exploits for at least the rest of the year. The Commonwealth Games, rather like the Olympic Games, has once again brought the whole of the Commonwealth together with the most unifying of hugs. Jack Laugher, for one, will certainly never forget.
In the general scheme of things it probably doesn't sound that impressive. But when Jack Laugher wakes up tomorrow morning he may think that his perseverance has been rewarded and even the most minor of obstacles had been overcome. You see Jack Laugher laughed in the face of defeat and never thought for a single moment that his day in the Commonwealth Games limelight would ever come around again. It was that iconic moment in a sportsman's career when all the pieces fall into place and today is your day.
Four years ago Laugher hadn't quite found that genie out of the lamp moment when everything stops and you have to believe that the impossible can happen. It was in Glasgow 2014 when the Nottingham born Jack Laugher missed out on the gold at the Commonwealth Games because maybe it wasn't quite his time or the stars were in the wrong position. The fact remains that our Jack had chosen this moment to stand on a podium with a gold medal around his neck and nobody could take that away from him.
Sport can often be both puzzling and too mysterious for words. But when Laugher stepped onto the diving board in a small corner of the Gold Coast in Australia, the angels were quite clearly singing. He knew that he could do it because he could feel it in the air, touch it, smell it, experience it and it was attainable. Jack Laugher won a gold medal for England and the facts speak for themselves. The Union Jacks were flying with a particular flourish and this was Laugher's sporting pinnacle.
Stepping forward onto the edge of the three metre springboard, toes poised, arms straight as a needle by his side, the look on Laugher's face was a picture of concentration, intense concentration. His eyes were almost surreally focussed, staring and gazing into the middle distance, briefly acknowledging his fans and family with a small smile before settling himself, bracing himself, waiting patiently.
Suddenly he was ready and prepared. Time seemed to stand still as if suspended by something that was somehow indefinable, something intangible that you couldn't quite put your finger on. Then, leaping and bouncing with remarkable agility, our Jack started jumping and then jumping higher. We were briefly reminded of a certain Tom Daley, an Olympic hero of the richest stock, who performed his dive with such immeasurable confidence in his ability that you wondered whether why we'd ever doubted that he could do it.
Then it was time for that lift off, the highest elevation, one enormous take off and then the immaculate execution. Was it a double pike or a triple pike? Laugher gave us the most amazing display of coolness and composure under pressure. There now followed sport at its most truly astonishing. Laugher, in a matter of seconds, somersaulted acrobatically before spinning, twisting and tucking his body underneath him as if he'd carried out the same dive in training a thousand times. It all looked so breathlessly easy, simple and completed in double quick time.
It was all so natural, as natural as sleeping, breathing and eating. It was effortlessly beautiful and all over in no time at all. It took roughly the same amount of time that most of us would require to flick on a light switch, an instinctive gesture, a rabbit out of Laugher's hat. There you are. He told you could do it and he quite clearly did so this seemed the right time to dismiss any fears or doubts that might have been taken root in anybody's mind.
Before anybody could blink, Laugher's body splashed convincingly and properly into the water and the patriotic cheers from the British fans must have been like music to his ears. They whooped and yelled themselves silly, delighted to be in the right spot and the right time, possibly a bit smug and blase because privately they knew that Jack could do it. It was almost as if Laugher had put his signature to a letter that needed to be written, confirmation of his diving brilliance and his raison d'etre for being at the Commonwealth Games. Besides why else would he be here if not in the relentless pursuit of gold?
Team England have covered themselves in a fair amount of glory throughout these Commonwealth Games without quite emulating those fabulous achievements of the London Olympics six years ago. Still you can't have everything. Recently sport has been somewhat accidentally caught up in some morally questionable tangles.
The Aussies have cheated quite outrageously in cricket, the nasty stench of doping and drug taking continuing to hang around sport with quite the most revolting regularity. One day sport may sit down in an athletics stadium with a clean bill of health, no fingers of suspicion pointing directly in its face and with the sure knowledge that fair play and chivalrous sportsmanship has again won the day.
Jack Laugher will return to England with his gold medal and the acclamation of his British supporters ringing in his ears. When he returns to Nottingham they'll probably dig out the flags, hold quite the most jubilant street party, buy him a brewery of beers and slap him on the back with the kind of congratulations once accorded to Torvill and Dean and then celebrate Laugher's exploits for at least the rest of the year. The Commonwealth Games, rather like the Olympic Games, has once again brought the whole of the Commonwealth together with the most unifying of hugs. Jack Laugher, for one, will certainly never forget.
Tuesday, 10 April 2018
Coco- the sweetest of films.
Coco- the sweetest of films.
It almost seems the unlikeliest and improbable of all names for a movie. I know. It does sound a more suitable vehicle for a film about a circus clown but then it would hardly be as compelling a subject for the silver screen. Can you imagine for instance the likes of Tom Hanks or Brad Pitt extolling the virtues of a late night, soothing hot drink before you drop off to sleep? Don't forget to add plenty of milk.
But Coco, now showing at some, if not all cinemas around the world, was just the best fun you can ever hope for in a film of any description or genre. It was admittedly very sweet, cute, simple and warmly endearing. It had its very own happy ever after, fairy tale finish, the most touching of stories and the most enchanting and quite unbelievable of characters. In fact it was so good and pleasant that for those who like their movies soppy and sentimental it was neither too long nor so short that even if you'd wanted it to finish much earlier than the allotted time you'd have probably been extremely disappointed and wanting more.
Coco was a classic cartoon cum animation film designed for children and families but acceptable for an adult audience if you were inclined to watch this most loveliest of films. It was one of those films which reminded you why your parents once took you to the movies for the first time. I was introduced to the cinema screen at a very tender age with the stunning Jungle Book and Bambi but now found myself transported back to those times with a film that briefly stirred childhood memories.
Coco was about a Mexican family whose great grand father figure and patriarch Ernesto De La Cruz had once left thousands of female hearts fluttering with his magical guitar. De La Cruz had appeared at all of those atmospheric concert venues with the kind of guitar playing that reduced the ladies to a quivering wreck. Then one day it all came crashing to an end when a huge bell fell on top of him, killing him instantly. But hold on, I did say that this film had the happiest ending and indeed it did.
Cue Ernesto's great great grandson Miguel, a butter wouldn't melt in his mouth angelic child whose only dream is to follow in the gold encrusted footsteps of dear Ernesto. Miguel must have idolised Ernesto for most of his life because as the story strongly makes clear, Miguel was determined to go to all lengths to make sure that one day he too would be acclaimed as one of the finest guitarists of all time.
Miguel promptly escaped the clutches of his family at the youngest of all ages and ran away as far as he possibly could if only to prove that he too could be just as good and talented as Ernesto. Sadly, our story now takes a slightly unfortunate twist which it invariably does in these heartwarming and tear stained children's films. It was time to take out the box of tissues because this was time to sigh with a beating heart and sniffle away incessantly. Don't you just love a weepie?
On his travels away from his doting family Miguel, for whatever reason, comes into contact with a skeleton. Now this is where Coco begins to assume a completely different character. Now we are confronted with skeletons. Not ordinary skeletons but hundreds and thousands of skeletons, families of skeletons, communities of skeletons, skeletons with rattling bones, skeletons with wide, staring eyes, skeletons with a sense of humour, skeletons who cracked jokes, skeletons who could be sad and melancholy while simultaneously jumping up and down with delight in the next.
Yes folks Coco was all about skeletons, skeletons with strange mannerisms and skeletons with lopsided grins which probably implied that they were either being sarcastic or just plain funny. Poor little Miguel had now adopted the appearance of a skeleton when all he wanted to do was just play the guitar as confidently and competently as his great great grandpa Ernesto.
Now it was that Coco took us somewhat mysteriously into a world of skeleton families, skeleton brothers and sisters and skeletons who really shouldn't have been allowed out of their cupboard. But then they thought in retrospect that their roles in this film had been richly deserved and fully merited. Besides who else would a Hollywood director have turned to when they were looking for the lead roles in a children's movie? Simple! A skeleton. Who else? If only they'd have thought of it.
Miguel had now been lost in a world of crazy looking skeletons, with eyes that popped out and bodies that crumbled into disintegration when leaping off what looked like a rock. We were then taken on one of those technicolour journeys that for all the world looked like a cross between the Wizard of Oz and the Beatles Yellow Submarine. In fact there were so many colours on the screen that you had to stop for a minute in case you were imagining it all. It was a riotous collision of colours clashing and competing with each other for attention. You thought you'd suddenly come into possession of your childhood kaleidoscope only to find that this was a brilliant kids animation movie.
What had started as an ordinary childhood ambition to become a famous guitarist had now degenerated into some weird multi coloured dreamscape that became stranger by the minute. Suddenly Miguel arrives at the shrine of the great guitarist Ernesto and having snatched a loose guitar hanging on the wall, immediately enters a world of familiar figures Miguel thought he'd seen now appearing as those wretched skeletons yet again. There can be no getting away from those skeletons. Now the skeletons were spooky ghosts who had almost come back to haunt poor little Miguel.
But after an almost an eternity of supposedly frightening and hair raising moments, Miguel eventually lands up back in the safe bosom of his family because you knew this would happen. The torn photo of Ernesto at the beginning of the film had now been replaced by a much younger figure, a much more handsome matinee idol with a well trimmed moustache. By now Miguel is so emotionally exhausted and distraught by events around him that when he does get back to where he was at the start of the film your sympathies are in a state of some turmoil.
Finally we do get to cheer Miguel because once he finds another guitar at the shrine of the great Ernesto, he now plays his guitar softly to his wonderfully old grandmother now seemingly fast asleep in her rocking chair. By now you simply can't help but sigh deeply. The great grandmother's face of course is so lined that you'd be forgiven for thinking that several maps of the world had become firmly printed on her face.
Perhaps the most amusing moments throughout Coco were the mariachi guitarists from deepest Mexico who hummed, strummed their guitars and melodiously chanted their mariachi songs from the heart. Coco has to be seen because maybe all films should be essentially gentle and inoffensive. The film is based on the premise that if you should never dismiss the feelgood properties of your average, every day skeleton. Coco is a direct throwback to my formative introduction to the 1960s version of Jungle Book and Bambi. Rest assured folks Coco is not the circus clown nor is it a late night, soothing hot drink before you drop off to sleep.
Perhaps the truth is that childhood movies should be made compulsory for both children and adults alike because at heart they're never aggressive, they're never obscene and above all they can never be accused of being nasty or violent which is the way it should be surely. There were no thrilling car chases, bloodthirsty gun battles, murders of the most barbaric nature and there was nothing designed to send your children to bed with nightmares.
In a sense Coco didn't insult your intelligence, had nothing that could be accurately described as repulsive and shocking but simply a spoonful of joy and escapism to make you feel that maybe the world isn't such a bad place after all. So if you've got a spare an hour and half you could do worse than the sweetest cup of Coco.
It almost seems the unlikeliest and improbable of all names for a movie. I know. It does sound a more suitable vehicle for a film about a circus clown but then it would hardly be as compelling a subject for the silver screen. Can you imagine for instance the likes of Tom Hanks or Brad Pitt extolling the virtues of a late night, soothing hot drink before you drop off to sleep? Don't forget to add plenty of milk.
But Coco, now showing at some, if not all cinemas around the world, was just the best fun you can ever hope for in a film of any description or genre. It was admittedly very sweet, cute, simple and warmly endearing. It had its very own happy ever after, fairy tale finish, the most touching of stories and the most enchanting and quite unbelievable of characters. In fact it was so good and pleasant that for those who like their movies soppy and sentimental it was neither too long nor so short that even if you'd wanted it to finish much earlier than the allotted time you'd have probably been extremely disappointed and wanting more.
Coco was a classic cartoon cum animation film designed for children and families but acceptable for an adult audience if you were inclined to watch this most loveliest of films. It was one of those films which reminded you why your parents once took you to the movies for the first time. I was introduced to the cinema screen at a very tender age with the stunning Jungle Book and Bambi but now found myself transported back to those times with a film that briefly stirred childhood memories.
Coco was about a Mexican family whose great grand father figure and patriarch Ernesto De La Cruz had once left thousands of female hearts fluttering with his magical guitar. De La Cruz had appeared at all of those atmospheric concert venues with the kind of guitar playing that reduced the ladies to a quivering wreck. Then one day it all came crashing to an end when a huge bell fell on top of him, killing him instantly. But hold on, I did say that this film had the happiest ending and indeed it did.
Cue Ernesto's great great grandson Miguel, a butter wouldn't melt in his mouth angelic child whose only dream is to follow in the gold encrusted footsteps of dear Ernesto. Miguel must have idolised Ernesto for most of his life because as the story strongly makes clear, Miguel was determined to go to all lengths to make sure that one day he too would be acclaimed as one of the finest guitarists of all time.
Miguel promptly escaped the clutches of his family at the youngest of all ages and ran away as far as he possibly could if only to prove that he too could be just as good and talented as Ernesto. Sadly, our story now takes a slightly unfortunate twist which it invariably does in these heartwarming and tear stained children's films. It was time to take out the box of tissues because this was time to sigh with a beating heart and sniffle away incessantly. Don't you just love a weepie?
On his travels away from his doting family Miguel, for whatever reason, comes into contact with a skeleton. Now this is where Coco begins to assume a completely different character. Now we are confronted with skeletons. Not ordinary skeletons but hundreds and thousands of skeletons, families of skeletons, communities of skeletons, skeletons with rattling bones, skeletons with wide, staring eyes, skeletons with a sense of humour, skeletons who cracked jokes, skeletons who could be sad and melancholy while simultaneously jumping up and down with delight in the next.
Yes folks Coco was all about skeletons, skeletons with strange mannerisms and skeletons with lopsided grins which probably implied that they were either being sarcastic or just plain funny. Poor little Miguel had now adopted the appearance of a skeleton when all he wanted to do was just play the guitar as confidently and competently as his great great grandpa Ernesto.
Now it was that Coco took us somewhat mysteriously into a world of skeleton families, skeleton brothers and sisters and skeletons who really shouldn't have been allowed out of their cupboard. But then they thought in retrospect that their roles in this film had been richly deserved and fully merited. Besides who else would a Hollywood director have turned to when they were looking for the lead roles in a children's movie? Simple! A skeleton. Who else? If only they'd have thought of it.
Miguel had now been lost in a world of crazy looking skeletons, with eyes that popped out and bodies that crumbled into disintegration when leaping off what looked like a rock. We were then taken on one of those technicolour journeys that for all the world looked like a cross between the Wizard of Oz and the Beatles Yellow Submarine. In fact there were so many colours on the screen that you had to stop for a minute in case you were imagining it all. It was a riotous collision of colours clashing and competing with each other for attention. You thought you'd suddenly come into possession of your childhood kaleidoscope only to find that this was a brilliant kids animation movie.
What had started as an ordinary childhood ambition to become a famous guitarist had now degenerated into some weird multi coloured dreamscape that became stranger by the minute. Suddenly Miguel arrives at the shrine of the great guitarist Ernesto and having snatched a loose guitar hanging on the wall, immediately enters a world of familiar figures Miguel thought he'd seen now appearing as those wretched skeletons yet again. There can be no getting away from those skeletons. Now the skeletons were spooky ghosts who had almost come back to haunt poor little Miguel.
But after an almost an eternity of supposedly frightening and hair raising moments, Miguel eventually lands up back in the safe bosom of his family because you knew this would happen. The torn photo of Ernesto at the beginning of the film had now been replaced by a much younger figure, a much more handsome matinee idol with a well trimmed moustache. By now Miguel is so emotionally exhausted and distraught by events around him that when he does get back to where he was at the start of the film your sympathies are in a state of some turmoil.
Finally we do get to cheer Miguel because once he finds another guitar at the shrine of the great Ernesto, he now plays his guitar softly to his wonderfully old grandmother now seemingly fast asleep in her rocking chair. By now you simply can't help but sigh deeply. The great grandmother's face of course is so lined that you'd be forgiven for thinking that several maps of the world had become firmly printed on her face.
Perhaps the most amusing moments throughout Coco were the mariachi guitarists from deepest Mexico who hummed, strummed their guitars and melodiously chanted their mariachi songs from the heart. Coco has to be seen because maybe all films should be essentially gentle and inoffensive. The film is based on the premise that if you should never dismiss the feelgood properties of your average, every day skeleton. Coco is a direct throwback to my formative introduction to the 1960s version of Jungle Book and Bambi. Rest assured folks Coco is not the circus clown nor is it a late night, soothing hot drink before you drop off to sleep.
Perhaps the truth is that childhood movies should be made compulsory for both children and adults alike because at heart they're never aggressive, they're never obscene and above all they can never be accused of being nasty or violent which is the way it should be surely. There were no thrilling car chases, bloodthirsty gun battles, murders of the most barbaric nature and there was nothing designed to send your children to bed with nightmares.
In a sense Coco didn't insult your intelligence, had nothing that could be accurately described as repulsive and shocking but simply a spoonful of joy and escapism to make you feel that maybe the world isn't such a bad place after all. So if you've got a spare an hour and half you could do worse than the sweetest cup of Coco.
Sunday, 8 April 2018
Remembering the fleet footed Fred- a Hollywood legend.
Remembering the fleet footed Fred- Hollywood legend.
Hooray for Hollywood! Give my regards to Broadway indeed! Fred Astaire and the London Palladium were somehow meant for each other. In fact, this one off and deeply affectionate tribute to the one and only Fred Astaire had found the most appropriate stage for one of the greatest dancers, tap dancers ever to have rolled off that prolific Hollywood conveyor belt of lustrous natural talent.
Remembering Fred was a spectacular tribute to one of America's most fleet footed, twinkling toed, magnificently charming stars in that great firmament of Hollywood greats. For most of that extremely turbulent period in American history Astaire dazzled and sparkled with the kind of highly sophisticated dance routines ever performed by one pure dancing artist.
For the best part of over two and half hours, a spellbound Palladium were treated to the whole varied and remarkable repertoire of the Astaire back catalogue but also an incredible interpretation of the man's best work. We knew that Astaire could dance like a dream but some of us needed reminding of his singing exploits which while never eclipsing Fred as the born hoofer did emphasise his versatility as an all round performer.
This may have been a one off homage to Astaire but it did emphasise the glamour and class he brought to America at its lowest. At the height of the 1920s depression when America badly longed for somebody and something to lift its dwindling spirits, Astaire startled the Americans to their senses with some of the most extraordinary footwork, shoes gleaming throughout the Second World War and then maintaining their hold on the hearts of an American public by now totally enchanted.
Two of the dancers from BBC's enormously popular Saturday evening show 'Strictly Come Dancing' Aljaz Skortanec and Janette Manrara sent us on a warmly nostalgic trip down memory lane, lovingly documenting the serenity and stateliness that Astaire always brought to the dance floor. Here we had the classic story of the kid who just loved to dance from a very early age seemingly destined to reach the very peak of his profession.
In an almost logical sequence of categories we were treated to Astaire's favourite films, those timeless dance techniques and above all those vital female partners and relationships who made it all possible for Astaire. This was almost like some sweeping Hollywood showbiz extravaganza, a breathless reminiscence of the people, the movers and shakers within Hollywood's inner sanctum, the choreographers and of course Astaire's leading ladies. Then there were the occasionally demanding standards understandably made by Astaire because this was a man who never accepted half measures.
Forever more of course Fred Astaire will always be associated with Ginger Rogers in much the way we think of any other inseparable partnerships. Astaire and Rogers were Hollywood royalty, Hollywood's most celebrated monarchs, the most dynamic of all dancing teams. Astaire had the quickest, nimblest and daintiest feet ever seen. Such was the mercurial nature of his feet and the speed of his delivery, that you half expected that one day the shoes would suddenly miss a beat and Astaire would unfathomably get it all wrong.
But this was never the case. And why should that have been the case when the man was so disciplined, so assured and confident within himself that rare was the occasion if it all that something had been missing. You almost felt that Astaire and Rogers had an almost telepathic understanding that rendered mistakes a physical impossibility.
In the iconic Hollywood movie Top Hat, Astaire and Rogers were almost umbilically linked to each other, as if there was a mystical connection between the two that could never be broken. Astaire danced on walls, ceilings, thick Hollywood columns, flowing balletically, handsomely and fluently across perfectly polished dance floors as if from memory and instinct. There were times when you felt that Astaire and Rogers had almost read each other's minds, telegraphing each other's next delicately beautiful movement and simply recalling everything they'd been taught without a single moment's prompting.
Then there were the songs from the great American songbook. Cole Porter's 'Night and Day', a passionate number that Astaire had executed with some of the most gorgeous attention to detail. There was 'A Fine Romance'. a tenderly memorable and delightful number that left most of the Palladium audience sighing with pleasure.
The songs came thick and fast. 'Can't Dance' was a vibrant toe tapping, vivaciously joyful song that Astaire embroidered with the kind of flair and terpsichorean style that only the greatest could turn into an art form. 'Putting on My Top Hat', a number that was essentially Astaire's most personal favourite, was synonymous with his personality and act. How else could a man with a top hat and tails even think that he could live without a song that was written with him in mind?
We were also introduced to some of other perhaps less well known of Astaire's alliances and richly successful collaborations. It only seemed a matter of time before Astaire would cross paths with Gene Kelly. Both Astaire and Kelly could quite easily have broken all of Hollywood's box office records. Both would remain dancing soul mates throughout the ages, two of the most complete performers showbusiness would ever produce.
When Kelly grabbed hold of an umbrella in 'Singing In The Rain' maybe there was a part of Astaire that must have left him terribly frustrated. But Kelly revelled in the dance routine that made him one of Americas' most adored of stars. Even Astaire would have instantly recognised that only a dancer of Kelly's calibre could have danced around street lamp-posts and over the trickiest of puddles without batting an eye lid. We knew that the rain was make believe and this was Hollywood but how Astaire must have looked on with genuine admiration.
There were of course Astaire's thankfully brief appearance with Judy Garland in Easter Parade. Everybody including Astaire must have been painfully aware of Garland's self destructive demons, a woman who visibly fell apart in front of her once adoring audience and sadly died too early. Astair had now branched into a the diverse of jazz, salsa and anything that bordered on the most unconventional.
Astaire had now teamed up with Cyd Charise, the only Hollywood movie dancer whose long legs seemed to go on forever. Charise was a tall, graceful, impeccably proportioned dancer whose height and statuesque poise became a Hollywood trademark. Charise and Astaire clicked immediately but as the audience discovered, never felt overshadowed by Astaire. Mr Astaire, she remarked, was never quite sure about Charise initially but then fell in love with her leading man.
So it was that the Palladium in all its Palladium splendour and resplendence once again did itself considerably proud. On the stage itself there was the multi coloured giant staircase , red, blue, green yellow lights flashing constantly and impressively. There were the signature Hollywood pieces of furniture such as the white glowing lamps by the edge of the stage and a whole variety of dancing, prancing, pouting and comically posturing performers with white teeth and beaming smiles.
The London Palladium show had once again delivered the goods. The thunderous applause had reached new levels of boisterousness and wild appreciation. They were on their feet for what seemed an eternity.
In the Palladium bar, your breath was taken away by the showbiz stylists and purists who had once trodden the boards, tripped the light fantastic and left most of Post War London entranced, and gripped with uncontrollable laughter. There was the aforementioned Judy Garland, the female heart throb who was Johnny Rae and the formidably amusing Danny Kaye. There was the giant model of the Palladium with dancing girls, notable landmark dates that came to define the Palladium through the years. It was a night to remember and the night when the entire showbiz industry took off its Top Hat to a dancing genius. The West End were taking off their hats to a quite outstanding Hollywood star.
Hooray for Hollywood! Give my regards to Broadway indeed! Fred Astaire and the London Palladium were somehow meant for each other. In fact, this one off and deeply affectionate tribute to the one and only Fred Astaire had found the most appropriate stage for one of the greatest dancers, tap dancers ever to have rolled off that prolific Hollywood conveyor belt of lustrous natural talent.
Remembering Fred was a spectacular tribute to one of America's most fleet footed, twinkling toed, magnificently charming stars in that great firmament of Hollywood greats. For most of that extremely turbulent period in American history Astaire dazzled and sparkled with the kind of highly sophisticated dance routines ever performed by one pure dancing artist.
For the best part of over two and half hours, a spellbound Palladium were treated to the whole varied and remarkable repertoire of the Astaire back catalogue but also an incredible interpretation of the man's best work. We knew that Astaire could dance like a dream but some of us needed reminding of his singing exploits which while never eclipsing Fred as the born hoofer did emphasise his versatility as an all round performer.
This may have been a one off homage to Astaire but it did emphasise the glamour and class he brought to America at its lowest. At the height of the 1920s depression when America badly longed for somebody and something to lift its dwindling spirits, Astaire startled the Americans to their senses with some of the most extraordinary footwork, shoes gleaming throughout the Second World War and then maintaining their hold on the hearts of an American public by now totally enchanted.
Two of the dancers from BBC's enormously popular Saturday evening show 'Strictly Come Dancing' Aljaz Skortanec and Janette Manrara sent us on a warmly nostalgic trip down memory lane, lovingly documenting the serenity and stateliness that Astaire always brought to the dance floor. Here we had the classic story of the kid who just loved to dance from a very early age seemingly destined to reach the very peak of his profession.
In an almost logical sequence of categories we were treated to Astaire's favourite films, those timeless dance techniques and above all those vital female partners and relationships who made it all possible for Astaire. This was almost like some sweeping Hollywood showbiz extravaganza, a breathless reminiscence of the people, the movers and shakers within Hollywood's inner sanctum, the choreographers and of course Astaire's leading ladies. Then there were the occasionally demanding standards understandably made by Astaire because this was a man who never accepted half measures.
Forever more of course Fred Astaire will always be associated with Ginger Rogers in much the way we think of any other inseparable partnerships. Astaire and Rogers were Hollywood royalty, Hollywood's most celebrated monarchs, the most dynamic of all dancing teams. Astaire had the quickest, nimblest and daintiest feet ever seen. Such was the mercurial nature of his feet and the speed of his delivery, that you half expected that one day the shoes would suddenly miss a beat and Astaire would unfathomably get it all wrong.
But this was never the case. And why should that have been the case when the man was so disciplined, so assured and confident within himself that rare was the occasion if it all that something had been missing. You almost felt that Astaire and Rogers had an almost telepathic understanding that rendered mistakes a physical impossibility.
In the iconic Hollywood movie Top Hat, Astaire and Rogers were almost umbilically linked to each other, as if there was a mystical connection between the two that could never be broken. Astaire danced on walls, ceilings, thick Hollywood columns, flowing balletically, handsomely and fluently across perfectly polished dance floors as if from memory and instinct. There were times when you felt that Astaire and Rogers had almost read each other's minds, telegraphing each other's next delicately beautiful movement and simply recalling everything they'd been taught without a single moment's prompting.
Then there were the songs from the great American songbook. Cole Porter's 'Night and Day', a passionate number that Astaire had executed with some of the most gorgeous attention to detail. There was 'A Fine Romance'. a tenderly memorable and delightful number that left most of the Palladium audience sighing with pleasure.
The songs came thick and fast. 'Can't Dance' was a vibrant toe tapping, vivaciously joyful song that Astaire embroidered with the kind of flair and terpsichorean style that only the greatest could turn into an art form. 'Putting on My Top Hat', a number that was essentially Astaire's most personal favourite, was synonymous with his personality and act. How else could a man with a top hat and tails even think that he could live without a song that was written with him in mind?
We were also introduced to some of other perhaps less well known of Astaire's alliances and richly successful collaborations. It only seemed a matter of time before Astaire would cross paths with Gene Kelly. Both Astaire and Kelly could quite easily have broken all of Hollywood's box office records. Both would remain dancing soul mates throughout the ages, two of the most complete performers showbusiness would ever produce.
When Kelly grabbed hold of an umbrella in 'Singing In The Rain' maybe there was a part of Astaire that must have left him terribly frustrated. But Kelly revelled in the dance routine that made him one of Americas' most adored of stars. Even Astaire would have instantly recognised that only a dancer of Kelly's calibre could have danced around street lamp-posts and over the trickiest of puddles without batting an eye lid. We knew that the rain was make believe and this was Hollywood but how Astaire must have looked on with genuine admiration.
There were of course Astaire's thankfully brief appearance with Judy Garland in Easter Parade. Everybody including Astaire must have been painfully aware of Garland's self destructive demons, a woman who visibly fell apart in front of her once adoring audience and sadly died too early. Astair had now branched into a the diverse of jazz, salsa and anything that bordered on the most unconventional.
Astaire had now teamed up with Cyd Charise, the only Hollywood movie dancer whose long legs seemed to go on forever. Charise was a tall, graceful, impeccably proportioned dancer whose height and statuesque poise became a Hollywood trademark. Charise and Astaire clicked immediately but as the audience discovered, never felt overshadowed by Astaire. Mr Astaire, she remarked, was never quite sure about Charise initially but then fell in love with her leading man.
So it was that the Palladium in all its Palladium splendour and resplendence once again did itself considerably proud. On the stage itself there was the multi coloured giant staircase , red, blue, green yellow lights flashing constantly and impressively. There were the signature Hollywood pieces of furniture such as the white glowing lamps by the edge of the stage and a whole variety of dancing, prancing, pouting and comically posturing performers with white teeth and beaming smiles.
The London Palladium show had once again delivered the goods. The thunderous applause had reached new levels of boisterousness and wild appreciation. They were on their feet for what seemed an eternity.
In the Palladium bar, your breath was taken away by the showbiz stylists and purists who had once trodden the boards, tripped the light fantastic and left most of Post War London entranced, and gripped with uncontrollable laughter. There was the aforementioned Judy Garland, the female heart throb who was Johnny Rae and the formidably amusing Danny Kaye. There was the giant model of the Palladium with dancing girls, notable landmark dates that came to define the Palladium through the years. It was a night to remember and the night when the entire showbiz industry took off its Top Hat to a dancing genius. The West End were taking off their hats to a quite outstanding Hollywood star.
Friday, 6 April 2018
The Brownlee brothers miss out on Commonwealth Games medals.
The Brownlee brothers miss out on Commonwealth Games medals.
The Brownlee brothers have always been there for each other. So it was inevitable that when things go ever so slightly pear shaped sport's finest and closest of siblings come together, wrap a comforting arm around each other's shoulders and smile very philosophically in the face of defeat. There was nothing else they could have done under the circumstances because they did bust a gut, they did give everything for their country and the best man won on the day.
We are now a couple of days into the Commonwealth Games in the Gold Coast of Australia and those two brothers in arms did their utmost to cement a place in British sporting memories. They swam gallantly for England, ran determinedly for England and they sweated blood for England. You simply couldn't have asked for any more. The Brownlee brothers are fine, upstanding, deeply patriotic men who must have thought that their world had come to an end when the Commonwealth Games triathlon reached its conclusion.
But on the day it wasn't quite good enough. And yet six years ago in London the Brownlee brothers had gone well beyond the call of duty. They were the gold medal winning duo who electrified the London Olympic Games in 2012. They crushed the opposition, made mincemeat of the rest of the field and won quite comprehensively with plenty of time to spare. They must have broken all kinds of records, left their indelible imprint on the pages of Olympic history and warmed the cockles of British hearts.
Still this is what we've come to expect from brothers. Brothers look after each other, come to each other's rescue when they fall off their childhood bikes, graze themselves, injure themselves or generally support and console one another when their dreams and hopes disappear into obscurity. Brothers often go to the same primary school and secondary school as each other, their hobbies and interests are similar while nothing is too much trouble when the chips are down and adversity lurks in a dark corner.
On one of the first days of this Commonwealth Games that warmth, brotherly camaraderie and a driven, totally focused approach to their sport once again made itself readily apparent. You could almost feel their disappointment at the end of the triathlon and there was an admirable empathy between the two that was deeply heartwarming.
The triathlon itself is the ultimate test of endurance and stamina, a wondrous display of athleticism, colossal strength, cardiovascular fitness in a race against time and sheer bloody minded determination to reach the giddiest heights of perfection. In the Commonwealth Games triathlon, the competitors did their utmost to achieve the impossible, swimming like the most energetic fish, thrashing their way through the Australian water, arms front crawling with furious intent and for the Brownlee brothers it was all going according to the script. They were out in front by some considerable distance but once out of the water both men began to flag and run out of steam.
After that first punishing swim, men from all corners of Commonwealth scrambled their way onto dry land, foamy water now trailing behind them and it was every man for themselves. The triathlon is quite the most amazing spectacle and none could deny its captivating appeal. Denying anything that might have looked like exhaustion the two British triathlon giants, surged forward, pushing themselves to the limit, thrusting their bodies forward and giving everything in the cause of sport.
Once out of the water, Jonny Brownlee and Alistair Brownlee must have exchanged the most fleeting of glances, reluctantly accepted that this was not going to be their day and then bit their lips when they knew the race had been lost. Both of the Brownlees now hopped onto their cycles, pedalled like crazy, pumped their legs frantically and furiously but couldn't keep up with the rest of the chasing pack. On another day this could have been their day in the sun, a lung bursting and heroic charge for the finishing line. Not now though.
With the bike race now successfully accomplished it had become patently clear that Jonny and Alistair were now puffing and panting, struggling to make up the ground. Then a Scotsman by the name of Marc Austin arrived on the shoulders of the brothers and nonchalantly flew past their next door neighbours in much the way the Scottish football team had grinned at their English counterparts after they had been beaten at the old Wembley, a year following England's 1966 World Cup victory. How Austin must have derived an almost sadistic pleasure in beating his English rival.
Further back in the field was the lonely sight of Alistair Brownlee who was nowhere to be seen and potentially stirring day for British sport had now become one of those off days at the office when nothing seems to go your way. Eventually Jonny finished seventh and Alistair was now sadly trailing way back out of contention in 10th. This was one of those teeth clenching days of what might have been and what ifs, the best laid plans of mice and men going up in smoke.
Meanwhile at the front of the triathlon the race had been won by Henri Schoeman, a South African whirlwind, a human dynamo, a force of nature and a man who on the day had amply demonstrated all of the qualities needed to become a Commonwealth gold medal. He flung himself over the winning line, milking the applause and leaving our battle hardened Brownlees privately hurt and bruised but pride firmly intact.
In the way that brothers have always behaved they'll probably come back to Britain, climb onto their bikes once again, slap each other on the backs in a show of utter mutual respect and then hurtle up and down the heavenly hills of the Yorkshire Dales. Then after a gruelling session of pedalling and more pedalling they will probably engage in heart to heart discussions about the weather and Brexit before downing a quintessentially English pint of lager. At some point they will shrug their shoulders, smile wistfully at the clouds and then share a blissful moment of brotherly love. This was sport at its most richly satisfying. We knew it wouldn't let us down.
The Brownlee brothers have always been there for each other. So it was inevitable that when things go ever so slightly pear shaped sport's finest and closest of siblings come together, wrap a comforting arm around each other's shoulders and smile very philosophically in the face of defeat. There was nothing else they could have done under the circumstances because they did bust a gut, they did give everything for their country and the best man won on the day.
We are now a couple of days into the Commonwealth Games in the Gold Coast of Australia and those two brothers in arms did their utmost to cement a place in British sporting memories. They swam gallantly for England, ran determinedly for England and they sweated blood for England. You simply couldn't have asked for any more. The Brownlee brothers are fine, upstanding, deeply patriotic men who must have thought that their world had come to an end when the Commonwealth Games triathlon reached its conclusion.
But on the day it wasn't quite good enough. And yet six years ago in London the Brownlee brothers had gone well beyond the call of duty. They were the gold medal winning duo who electrified the London Olympic Games in 2012. They crushed the opposition, made mincemeat of the rest of the field and won quite comprehensively with plenty of time to spare. They must have broken all kinds of records, left their indelible imprint on the pages of Olympic history and warmed the cockles of British hearts.
Still this is what we've come to expect from brothers. Brothers look after each other, come to each other's rescue when they fall off their childhood bikes, graze themselves, injure themselves or generally support and console one another when their dreams and hopes disappear into obscurity. Brothers often go to the same primary school and secondary school as each other, their hobbies and interests are similar while nothing is too much trouble when the chips are down and adversity lurks in a dark corner.
On one of the first days of this Commonwealth Games that warmth, brotherly camaraderie and a driven, totally focused approach to their sport once again made itself readily apparent. You could almost feel their disappointment at the end of the triathlon and there was an admirable empathy between the two that was deeply heartwarming.
The triathlon itself is the ultimate test of endurance and stamina, a wondrous display of athleticism, colossal strength, cardiovascular fitness in a race against time and sheer bloody minded determination to reach the giddiest heights of perfection. In the Commonwealth Games triathlon, the competitors did their utmost to achieve the impossible, swimming like the most energetic fish, thrashing their way through the Australian water, arms front crawling with furious intent and for the Brownlee brothers it was all going according to the script. They were out in front by some considerable distance but once out of the water both men began to flag and run out of steam.
After that first punishing swim, men from all corners of Commonwealth scrambled their way onto dry land, foamy water now trailing behind them and it was every man for themselves. The triathlon is quite the most amazing spectacle and none could deny its captivating appeal. Denying anything that might have looked like exhaustion the two British triathlon giants, surged forward, pushing themselves to the limit, thrusting their bodies forward and giving everything in the cause of sport.
Once out of the water, Jonny Brownlee and Alistair Brownlee must have exchanged the most fleeting of glances, reluctantly accepted that this was not going to be their day and then bit their lips when they knew the race had been lost. Both of the Brownlees now hopped onto their cycles, pedalled like crazy, pumped their legs frantically and furiously but couldn't keep up with the rest of the chasing pack. On another day this could have been their day in the sun, a lung bursting and heroic charge for the finishing line. Not now though.
With the bike race now successfully accomplished it had become patently clear that Jonny and Alistair were now puffing and panting, struggling to make up the ground. Then a Scotsman by the name of Marc Austin arrived on the shoulders of the brothers and nonchalantly flew past their next door neighbours in much the way the Scottish football team had grinned at their English counterparts after they had been beaten at the old Wembley, a year following England's 1966 World Cup victory. How Austin must have derived an almost sadistic pleasure in beating his English rival.
Further back in the field was the lonely sight of Alistair Brownlee who was nowhere to be seen and potentially stirring day for British sport had now become one of those off days at the office when nothing seems to go your way. Eventually Jonny finished seventh and Alistair was now sadly trailing way back out of contention in 10th. This was one of those teeth clenching days of what might have been and what ifs, the best laid plans of mice and men going up in smoke.
Meanwhile at the front of the triathlon the race had been won by Henri Schoeman, a South African whirlwind, a human dynamo, a force of nature and a man who on the day had amply demonstrated all of the qualities needed to become a Commonwealth gold medal. He flung himself over the winning line, milking the applause and leaving our battle hardened Brownlees privately hurt and bruised but pride firmly intact.
In the way that brothers have always behaved they'll probably come back to Britain, climb onto their bikes once again, slap each other on the backs in a show of utter mutual respect and then hurtle up and down the heavenly hills of the Yorkshire Dales. Then after a gruelling session of pedalling and more pedalling they will probably engage in heart to heart discussions about the weather and Brexit before downing a quintessentially English pint of lager. At some point they will shrug their shoulders, smile wistfully at the clouds and then share a blissful moment of brotherly love. This was sport at its most richly satisfying. We knew it wouldn't let us down.
Wednesday, 4 April 2018
Ray Wilkins - another English Rolls Royce dies at 61.
Ray Wilkins - another English Rolls Royce dies at 61.
Today the world of football once again bowed its head respectfully and inhaled a sharp intake of breath. A dark pall of mourning and loss hung over English football as another of its own died. Recently, the deaths of England legends Jimmy Armfield and Cyrille Regis deprived football of two of its most devoted professionals, players of style and stature, wisdom and shrewdness, players who were never afraid to express an enduring love of the game without ever resorting to underhand measures.
Now Ray Wilkins, one of Chelsea's finest and most refined of England midfield players has died at the age of 61, horrendously early for one of football's most technical craftsmen, a player of vision, intuition, smoothness, uncanny awareness, a footballer with a magnificent sense of timing, a delectable passing range both long and short, and a perfect command of the game's finer nuances.
Wilkins had an almost geographical knowledge of any football pitch, a sixth sense of where his colleagues were and the supporting runs they were about to make. But today football lost one of its most accomplished artists, a playmaker in every sense of the term in an age when football's grafters, toilers, engine room stokers and, frequently, cloggers ruled the 1970s football empire.
When Wilkins pulled on a blue Chelsea shirt as a wet behind the ears apprentice and wonderfully ambitious youngster, the old First Division was still populated by genuinely colourful and charismatic characters such as Billy Bremner, Norman Hunter, Tommy Smith, Eddie Kelly and Peter Storey. It was a footballing landscape littered with flinty, niggly, nuggety, hard as nails footballers whose only assignment on match day would surely have been the complete humiliation of their opponents.
But then there was Ray Wilkins, smooth as silk, a player with a gossamer touch, gliding gracefully across a Stamford Bridge pitch that bore an obvious resemblance to a local allotment site during the early part of the 1970s. Wilkins though was modestly majestic, quietly influential at first but when given the licence to roam further forward to attack opponents, hard, gritty and often abrasive.
Still there remains in the mind a lingering impression of grace under pressure, of all embracing authority, responsible decision making, immaculate precision in his choice of passes and often scorer of the important goal on important occasions. Wilkins once lobbed a ball over a Belgium keeper for England's equaliser in the 1980 European Championship, a model of arrogance and characteristic subtlety.
So stylish and imposing had Wilkins become that once established at Chelsea, it wasn't long before he was attracting the attention of so called bigger clubs. When Ron Atkinson, Manchester United's flamboyant manager began to hunt around for a player with genuine leadership skills, Wilkins was like putty in his hands. Atkinson was now totally besotted and smitten by a player who would take complete charge of a Manchester United team who were not quite where they would have liked to have been at the time.
For a number of seasons Wilkins settled into his new home at Old Trafford with the likes of Norman Whiteside, Arthur Albiston, Frank Stapleton, Kevin Moran and Bryan Robson, another England captain and affectionately referred to as 'Captain Marvel'. Then there was the beautifully balanced Dutchman Arnold Muhren, a player with whom Wilkins must have formed an instant relationship with and somebody he must have felt a kindred spirit with. Muhren floated and Wilkins swaggered. Both had much in common with each other.
In the 1983 FA Cup Final Wilkins scored one of the Cup Final's most memorable of goals. Picking up the ball on the edge of the Brighton penalty area, Wilkins curled the most delicious of shots past the Brighton keeper. United won the Cup Final replay against Brighton and Wilkins had made that first clear statement of his intentions.
Inevitably England manager of the time Ron Greenwood found it impossible to resist Wilkins world class credentials. It was somehow ironic that English football was almost abundantly spoilt for players with creative gifts and overflowing talents on the ball. There was Tony Currie, Trevor Brooking, Alan Hudson, Stan Bowles and of course Wilkins himself. Both Currie and Brooking completely dictated the tempo of a game rather like a metronome swinging from side to side, full of accurate measurements rather than hit and hope percentages. Wilkins fitted in almost immediately winning a richly deserved haul of FA Cup medals and highly decorated England displays.
Wilkins one blot on an otherwise flawless and unblemished international career was a group game in the 1986 Mexico World Cup against Morocco. After a frustrating opening half hour of England's match against Morocco Wilkins, inexplicably, threw the ball angrily at the referee in what seemed like a childish tantrum. Wilkins was promptly sent off and on a hot day in Central America, he slowly trooped off the pitch, sweat pouring from a troubled forehead and a mounting air of injustice building in his mind.
When Wilkins retired the temptations of management began to beckon and his first love Chelsea must have been calling. But after Chelsea came a surprisingly unexpected interest from Glasgow Rangers and a short but distinguished spell at Rangers did reap a moderate degree of success. Then Italian football left the most enticing of carrots dangling in front of him. The red and black stripes of the legendary AC Milan were determined to get their man and Wilkins needed no further persuasion. For many years Italian football had become trapped in a defensive hole of their own making and here was an English midfield pass master intent on releasing and liberating them.
And so it was that Wilkins returned to England where Queens Park Rangers made no secret of their admiration of a player who could certainly play and do so with a splendid nobility. Even now in his 30s Wilkins was still spraying his passes around Loftus Road like a gushing garden hose. The ability to control a game, organise and orchestrate his midfield colleagues was something that could never be underestimated because his influence on a game was still as priceless as ever. He was the ticking clock of a game, the inner component and mechanism who made QPR a side to be respected.
After varying spells as assistant coach to Carlo Ancelotti at Chelsea and the briefest of spells at Aston Villa Wilkins seemed to get lost in something of a soul destroying hinterland where the modern managers of today's generation felt that a once great player like Wilkins was somehow surplus to requirements and no longer the man to guide once celebrated clubs back to their former glories.
So it is that we today lament the loss of Ray Wilkins. Sadly there are very few midfield players nowadays who could unlock defences with the most perfectly weighted of passes, pointing his fingers at players who needed perhaps the slightest encouragement followed by a gentle coaxing and cajoling in the right direction. Both Chelsea, Manchester United, Rangers and AC Milan have lost a shining light and inspiration to both young and old players alike. 'Butch' Wilkins always seemed to have time for everybody and football will be much the poorer for Wilkins passing. A man with indeed, a touch of class.
Today the world of football once again bowed its head respectfully and inhaled a sharp intake of breath. A dark pall of mourning and loss hung over English football as another of its own died. Recently, the deaths of England legends Jimmy Armfield and Cyrille Regis deprived football of two of its most devoted professionals, players of style and stature, wisdom and shrewdness, players who were never afraid to express an enduring love of the game without ever resorting to underhand measures.
Now Ray Wilkins, one of Chelsea's finest and most refined of England midfield players has died at the age of 61, horrendously early for one of football's most technical craftsmen, a player of vision, intuition, smoothness, uncanny awareness, a footballer with a magnificent sense of timing, a delectable passing range both long and short, and a perfect command of the game's finer nuances.
Wilkins had an almost geographical knowledge of any football pitch, a sixth sense of where his colleagues were and the supporting runs they were about to make. But today football lost one of its most accomplished artists, a playmaker in every sense of the term in an age when football's grafters, toilers, engine room stokers and, frequently, cloggers ruled the 1970s football empire.
When Wilkins pulled on a blue Chelsea shirt as a wet behind the ears apprentice and wonderfully ambitious youngster, the old First Division was still populated by genuinely colourful and charismatic characters such as Billy Bremner, Norman Hunter, Tommy Smith, Eddie Kelly and Peter Storey. It was a footballing landscape littered with flinty, niggly, nuggety, hard as nails footballers whose only assignment on match day would surely have been the complete humiliation of their opponents.
But then there was Ray Wilkins, smooth as silk, a player with a gossamer touch, gliding gracefully across a Stamford Bridge pitch that bore an obvious resemblance to a local allotment site during the early part of the 1970s. Wilkins though was modestly majestic, quietly influential at first but when given the licence to roam further forward to attack opponents, hard, gritty and often abrasive.
Still there remains in the mind a lingering impression of grace under pressure, of all embracing authority, responsible decision making, immaculate precision in his choice of passes and often scorer of the important goal on important occasions. Wilkins once lobbed a ball over a Belgium keeper for England's equaliser in the 1980 European Championship, a model of arrogance and characteristic subtlety.
So stylish and imposing had Wilkins become that once established at Chelsea, it wasn't long before he was attracting the attention of so called bigger clubs. When Ron Atkinson, Manchester United's flamboyant manager began to hunt around for a player with genuine leadership skills, Wilkins was like putty in his hands. Atkinson was now totally besotted and smitten by a player who would take complete charge of a Manchester United team who were not quite where they would have liked to have been at the time.
For a number of seasons Wilkins settled into his new home at Old Trafford with the likes of Norman Whiteside, Arthur Albiston, Frank Stapleton, Kevin Moran and Bryan Robson, another England captain and affectionately referred to as 'Captain Marvel'. Then there was the beautifully balanced Dutchman Arnold Muhren, a player with whom Wilkins must have formed an instant relationship with and somebody he must have felt a kindred spirit with. Muhren floated and Wilkins swaggered. Both had much in common with each other.
In the 1983 FA Cup Final Wilkins scored one of the Cup Final's most memorable of goals. Picking up the ball on the edge of the Brighton penalty area, Wilkins curled the most delicious of shots past the Brighton keeper. United won the Cup Final replay against Brighton and Wilkins had made that first clear statement of his intentions.
Inevitably England manager of the time Ron Greenwood found it impossible to resist Wilkins world class credentials. It was somehow ironic that English football was almost abundantly spoilt for players with creative gifts and overflowing talents on the ball. There was Tony Currie, Trevor Brooking, Alan Hudson, Stan Bowles and of course Wilkins himself. Both Currie and Brooking completely dictated the tempo of a game rather like a metronome swinging from side to side, full of accurate measurements rather than hit and hope percentages. Wilkins fitted in almost immediately winning a richly deserved haul of FA Cup medals and highly decorated England displays.
Wilkins one blot on an otherwise flawless and unblemished international career was a group game in the 1986 Mexico World Cup against Morocco. After a frustrating opening half hour of England's match against Morocco Wilkins, inexplicably, threw the ball angrily at the referee in what seemed like a childish tantrum. Wilkins was promptly sent off and on a hot day in Central America, he slowly trooped off the pitch, sweat pouring from a troubled forehead and a mounting air of injustice building in his mind.
When Wilkins retired the temptations of management began to beckon and his first love Chelsea must have been calling. But after Chelsea came a surprisingly unexpected interest from Glasgow Rangers and a short but distinguished spell at Rangers did reap a moderate degree of success. Then Italian football left the most enticing of carrots dangling in front of him. The red and black stripes of the legendary AC Milan were determined to get their man and Wilkins needed no further persuasion. For many years Italian football had become trapped in a defensive hole of their own making and here was an English midfield pass master intent on releasing and liberating them.
And so it was that Wilkins returned to England where Queens Park Rangers made no secret of their admiration of a player who could certainly play and do so with a splendid nobility. Even now in his 30s Wilkins was still spraying his passes around Loftus Road like a gushing garden hose. The ability to control a game, organise and orchestrate his midfield colleagues was something that could never be underestimated because his influence on a game was still as priceless as ever. He was the ticking clock of a game, the inner component and mechanism who made QPR a side to be respected.
After varying spells as assistant coach to Carlo Ancelotti at Chelsea and the briefest of spells at Aston Villa Wilkins seemed to get lost in something of a soul destroying hinterland where the modern managers of today's generation felt that a once great player like Wilkins was somehow surplus to requirements and no longer the man to guide once celebrated clubs back to their former glories.
So it is that we today lament the loss of Ray Wilkins. Sadly there are very few midfield players nowadays who could unlock defences with the most perfectly weighted of passes, pointing his fingers at players who needed perhaps the slightest encouragement followed by a gentle coaxing and cajoling in the right direction. Both Chelsea, Manchester United, Rangers and AC Milan have lost a shining light and inspiration to both young and old players alike. 'Butch' Wilkins always seemed to have time for everybody and football will be much the poorer for Wilkins passing. A man with indeed, a touch of class.
Monday, 2 April 2018
Trafalgar Square, the pigeons may have gone but it's the new Covent Garden.
Trafalgar Square- the pigeons may have gone but it's the new Covent Garden.
For as long as anybody can remember Trafalgar Square was always a menagerie of birds, birds from all over the world, from all four points of the compass, from everywhere and somewhere. In fact there were so many birds in the heart of London's West End that someone must have thought that this would be a great place for a bird sanctuary in the middle of London.
Now, fifty years on the landscape is entirely different and the birds have been emphatically driven away, told never to come back and warned that if they do sneak back very covertly and under cover then those in authority in the land of humanity will give them their marching orders. Besides how dare those marauding pigeons come flying back into our territory?
In the old days we warmly welcomed our feathered friends into the capital city of London because they were quite friendly but also ravenously hungry. They fluttered and circled around that huge open space in Trafalgar Square, forever pecking, hunting, foraging, scavenging, marching around those commanding lion statues, those effervescent fountains and dear old Nelson's Column, that stunning tourist magnet, a soaring, towering column whose occupant did so much to win the hearts of Britain so many centuries ago.
Way back when, I can still see those thousands of grey pigeons, persistently loitering around large swathes of Trafalgar Square, forever strutting, beaks forever sniffing and scenting vast quantities of bird seed. Ah yes, the bird seed! Now that was the reason we all converged on Trafalgar Square. How they came in their droves to see the birds from the West End gathering together in one mass demonstration of greed, survival of the fittest and always in a spirit of fierce competitiveness.
We can all remember the Trafalgar Square of yesteryear. In a small corner of the square there was the bird seed stall, the place where small pots of bird seed were purchased for a princely sum of a couple of shillings. Then we would all make for the central areas of the square where we knew with some certainty that the birds would always be. Suddenly whole squadrons of pigeons would descend on dozens, hundreds of families and the kids now allowed to fulfill lifetime ambitions.
At this point there would be chaos and mayhem as the entire bird population of the world, or seemingly so, would dive bomb into a sparsely populated ghetto land where only the elite birds would be accepted into their pecking order. It was like watching some enormous bird cage where all inhibitions were thrown to the wind and birds formed the most dominant backdrop to a disbelieving and incredulous West End.
They flapped, impudently perched themselves onto the shoulders of kids, hovered around children for what seemed like an age and then flew off to the lions or took themselves off for a quick dip in the fountains. There followed a furious frenzy of activity, whole families of pigeons darting or swooping, pushing and shoving to the front of the queue in case they'd missed out on a vital spot of lunch.
But now Trafalgar Square looks entirely different. Trafalgar Square is a pigeon free zone, empty of inquisitive grey pigeons whose only objective used to be complete occupation of the West End. The birds have now migrated to some far distant land where accommodating tourists will feed them happily for most of the day. Besides they can always fly off to St Mark's Square in Venice or Paris, maybe the dancing fountains of Barcelona. What about some idyllic quarter of South America or Asia? They're bound to have some feeding ground for those famished birds. They could do a lot worse.
Yesterday on a Easter Sunday family flying visit we made our way down to Trafalgar Square. It suddenly occurred to me that Trafalgar Square, by some quirky change of character, is slowly turning into the new Covent Garden of the West End. In fact it could be said that it does look more or less like an extension of Covent Garden. The atmosphere reminds you of Covent Garden, it looks like Covent Garden and maybe it is Covent Garden in disguise.
What we were confronted with was a street theatre that Covent Garden does so extremely well. There are no arcades or piazzas but there were columns or arched walkways and Trafalgar Square is a walking, talking, rocking and rolling open air theatre. Wherever you looked there were those silver or gold figures who very rarely move and seem to be standing on one leg. There were those lovely characters whose only purpose it seemed was to make the kids scream with laughter and tickle the adult funny bones.
For me though all of the action seemed to be concentrated on the ground. A couple of gentlemen had created what can only be described as an advertisement playground where members of the public were given free rein to write anything that took their fancy. Packets of coloured chalk were displayed and before you could blink, green, orange and red chalk marks were scrawled garishly on the ground. It was a fascinating insight into the way we conduct our lives on an Easter Sunday afternoon in 2018.
There were also the religious spokesmen and women because this was after all Easter and we all know what happened and why it happened. There were men with vociferous pronouncements who were pouring their hearts about the Last Supper, Jesus and how the Messiah would arrive one day. Funnily enough there were no signs of chocolate eggs or kids treasure hunts nor was a single rabbit to be spotted. Still everybody seemed to be in the best of all moods.
As usual Nelson's Column was packed to capacity, tight huddles of people sitting comfortably next to Nelson and then deep in conversation about who knew what. Maybe they could hardly believe that this once thriving bird haven had become, quite by chance, some very arty and bohemian place where the people of the world could openly write messages on the ground. It was time to just take the air without feeling that they were also sharing their space with a remarkable multitude of birds. No more seeds for those pigeons though and how good that must have felt or maybe they were still nostalgic and longed to see them back again.
I've always loved the West End, the buzz, the vibe, the vibrancy, the sense that quite unexpectedly something will happen when least expected. My late dad had given me a more or less ample guided tour of the West End and it was a good enough explanation to a transfixed kid. I'd no idea though that one day though that Trafalgar Square would slowly morph into nearby Covent Garden. There are no more birds anymore, simply a pedestrian playground where strollers and passers by take out their Selfie sticks and take classic photos of each other. Now Trafalgar Square was the new home for art and pavement literature. Who could have seen that coming?
We retired to the National Gallery for a pot of tea which provided the perfect conclusion to a day of avid people watching in the West End. It's the Easter weekend, a time of springtime transition, bonnets, Judy Garland, the Easter Parade, chocolate eggs, sharing and caring and humane consideration for our fellow human being.
We had now found ourselves in Drury Lane, West End theatreland and the home of the blockbusting, spellbinding 42nd Street, a musical that remains a box office sensation. And by some wonderful twist of fate we were back in Covent Garden or was it Trafalgar Square? It was hard to make a proper distinction between the two because there were striking similarities. We all blinked in some amazement and jumped onto a red London bus for home. Day over. An Easter Sunday in London's West End had once again lived up to all expectations. London, what a capital and what a city!
For as long as anybody can remember Trafalgar Square was always a menagerie of birds, birds from all over the world, from all four points of the compass, from everywhere and somewhere. In fact there were so many birds in the heart of London's West End that someone must have thought that this would be a great place for a bird sanctuary in the middle of London.
Now, fifty years on the landscape is entirely different and the birds have been emphatically driven away, told never to come back and warned that if they do sneak back very covertly and under cover then those in authority in the land of humanity will give them their marching orders. Besides how dare those marauding pigeons come flying back into our territory?
In the old days we warmly welcomed our feathered friends into the capital city of London because they were quite friendly but also ravenously hungry. They fluttered and circled around that huge open space in Trafalgar Square, forever pecking, hunting, foraging, scavenging, marching around those commanding lion statues, those effervescent fountains and dear old Nelson's Column, that stunning tourist magnet, a soaring, towering column whose occupant did so much to win the hearts of Britain so many centuries ago.
Way back when, I can still see those thousands of grey pigeons, persistently loitering around large swathes of Trafalgar Square, forever strutting, beaks forever sniffing and scenting vast quantities of bird seed. Ah yes, the bird seed! Now that was the reason we all converged on Trafalgar Square. How they came in their droves to see the birds from the West End gathering together in one mass demonstration of greed, survival of the fittest and always in a spirit of fierce competitiveness.
We can all remember the Trafalgar Square of yesteryear. In a small corner of the square there was the bird seed stall, the place where small pots of bird seed were purchased for a princely sum of a couple of shillings. Then we would all make for the central areas of the square where we knew with some certainty that the birds would always be. Suddenly whole squadrons of pigeons would descend on dozens, hundreds of families and the kids now allowed to fulfill lifetime ambitions.
At this point there would be chaos and mayhem as the entire bird population of the world, or seemingly so, would dive bomb into a sparsely populated ghetto land where only the elite birds would be accepted into their pecking order. It was like watching some enormous bird cage where all inhibitions were thrown to the wind and birds formed the most dominant backdrop to a disbelieving and incredulous West End.
They flapped, impudently perched themselves onto the shoulders of kids, hovered around children for what seemed like an age and then flew off to the lions or took themselves off for a quick dip in the fountains. There followed a furious frenzy of activity, whole families of pigeons darting or swooping, pushing and shoving to the front of the queue in case they'd missed out on a vital spot of lunch.
But now Trafalgar Square looks entirely different. Trafalgar Square is a pigeon free zone, empty of inquisitive grey pigeons whose only objective used to be complete occupation of the West End. The birds have now migrated to some far distant land where accommodating tourists will feed them happily for most of the day. Besides they can always fly off to St Mark's Square in Venice or Paris, maybe the dancing fountains of Barcelona. What about some idyllic quarter of South America or Asia? They're bound to have some feeding ground for those famished birds. They could do a lot worse.
Yesterday on a Easter Sunday family flying visit we made our way down to Trafalgar Square. It suddenly occurred to me that Trafalgar Square, by some quirky change of character, is slowly turning into the new Covent Garden of the West End. In fact it could be said that it does look more or less like an extension of Covent Garden. The atmosphere reminds you of Covent Garden, it looks like Covent Garden and maybe it is Covent Garden in disguise.
What we were confronted with was a street theatre that Covent Garden does so extremely well. There are no arcades or piazzas but there were columns or arched walkways and Trafalgar Square is a walking, talking, rocking and rolling open air theatre. Wherever you looked there were those silver or gold figures who very rarely move and seem to be standing on one leg. There were those lovely characters whose only purpose it seemed was to make the kids scream with laughter and tickle the adult funny bones.
For me though all of the action seemed to be concentrated on the ground. A couple of gentlemen had created what can only be described as an advertisement playground where members of the public were given free rein to write anything that took their fancy. Packets of coloured chalk were displayed and before you could blink, green, orange and red chalk marks were scrawled garishly on the ground. It was a fascinating insight into the way we conduct our lives on an Easter Sunday afternoon in 2018.
There were also the religious spokesmen and women because this was after all Easter and we all know what happened and why it happened. There were men with vociferous pronouncements who were pouring their hearts about the Last Supper, Jesus and how the Messiah would arrive one day. Funnily enough there were no signs of chocolate eggs or kids treasure hunts nor was a single rabbit to be spotted. Still everybody seemed to be in the best of all moods.
As usual Nelson's Column was packed to capacity, tight huddles of people sitting comfortably next to Nelson and then deep in conversation about who knew what. Maybe they could hardly believe that this once thriving bird haven had become, quite by chance, some very arty and bohemian place where the people of the world could openly write messages on the ground. It was time to just take the air without feeling that they were also sharing their space with a remarkable multitude of birds. No more seeds for those pigeons though and how good that must have felt or maybe they were still nostalgic and longed to see them back again.
I've always loved the West End, the buzz, the vibe, the vibrancy, the sense that quite unexpectedly something will happen when least expected. My late dad had given me a more or less ample guided tour of the West End and it was a good enough explanation to a transfixed kid. I'd no idea though that one day though that Trafalgar Square would slowly morph into nearby Covent Garden. There are no more birds anymore, simply a pedestrian playground where strollers and passers by take out their Selfie sticks and take classic photos of each other. Now Trafalgar Square was the new home for art and pavement literature. Who could have seen that coming?
We retired to the National Gallery for a pot of tea which provided the perfect conclusion to a day of avid people watching in the West End. It's the Easter weekend, a time of springtime transition, bonnets, Judy Garland, the Easter Parade, chocolate eggs, sharing and caring and humane consideration for our fellow human being.
We had now found ourselves in Drury Lane, West End theatreland and the home of the blockbusting, spellbinding 42nd Street, a musical that remains a box office sensation. And by some wonderful twist of fate we were back in Covent Garden or was it Trafalgar Square? It was hard to make a proper distinction between the two because there were striking similarities. We all blinked in some amazement and jumped onto a red London bus for home. Day over. An Easter Sunday in London's West End had once again lived up to all expectations. London, what a capital and what a city!
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