England collapse in the first Test against India.
Oh dear! Just when we thought the English sporting season would end on a high, suddenly we came across a devastating Indian quickfire seaming bowling attack that made English cricket squirm with embarrassment. It is far from the end of the world and the footballers of England still performed creditably in the Russian World Cup. Perhaps for the first time though in this glorious summer, the cricketers of England still missed their cue on the first day of the first test against India.
On a beautifully hot day at Edgbaston, the good people of Warwickshire witnessed an England batting side who collapsed like the traditional deck of cards or pub set of dominoes. This is not the way things were supposed to work out for English sport. It may be the first day of a cricket first test and how we've feared that the very concept of a Test match would be jeopardised by some corrosive outside force.
But on the first day of August, with not an intrusive cloud in the sky to upset anybody's after breakfast mood, Edgbaston positively gleamed and sparkled in the very early August sunshine. The huge, imposing acres of Warwickshire grass were still in evidence despite the recent heatwave and the crease naturally looked as grey as you would expect it to be.
England though, after the most positive start against the India, wilted alarmingly during the day and by the end of the day reminded you of those sagging petunias seen in many a suburban garden. Sometimes you begin to wonder whether English sport may have had too much of a good thing and cricket was probably the last thing on their minds. Football may have given us a healthy four course meal but cricket now seems like a heavy and indigestible dessert.
Still, the formalities were there to be carried out and you had to wonder if the cricketers of England may have temporarily taken their eye off the ball. When Alistair Cooke and Keaton Jennings came out to bat you rubbed your hands in anticipation in much the way that some of us looked forward to the opening partnership of a Dennis Amiss or John Edrich innings or indeed the highly industrious legend that is Geoff Boycott.
Boycott it was who used to build and assemble an innings rather like a construction worker with a pile of bricks in his hands. Boycott remains one of our finest and patient of batsmen and who cares if he was still there when evening came and stumps were about to be pulled. Of course our Geoff was an accumulator rather than a speculator but there were times when this current generation looked to be in desperate need of a cool, calculating Boycott head. When Boycott chalked up centuries they were result of sweat, toil, hard graft, knowledge and experience.
Alistair Cooke came out to bat with the air of calm maturity and responsibility that we've come to expect from England opening batsmen. Cooke was utterly composed, unflustered by anything that might have been considered to be a major distraction and did everything the right way. He flicked the ball off the back foot quite majestically, before slashing cover drives purposefully to all four corners of Edgbaston. He began to look secure and set for the rest of the day, cutting the loose ball to exactly the right spots, generally giving off the air of technical mastery.
Then eventually Cooke, after settling in for the day's proceedings, failed to read the deceptively wicked spin and break back of Ravichandran Ashwin who managed to induce the loveliest of teasers that Cook simply couldn't handle. So far so moderately good. Early wickets taken in Test matches are standard practice in the modern game so England could have had little to overly trouble themselves. There was though an underlying tension and concern as the day progressed so that by tea England, though still sitting comfortably at 163-3, were nervously looking over their collective shoulders.
Now the air of superiority that England must have thought they'd have asserted vanished, crumbling away like the brickwork and masonry of an old building. It came crashing to the ground, toppling over like the most wind swept of birch trees, flopping and crumpling into the ground before blowing away amid darkening skies.
It was now that Joe Root, who was beginning to establish a handsome innings with Jonny Bairstow, threw caution to the wind. Of course Root is one of the most skilful and brilliantly assertive of English batsmen. And when he came in to bat for England, India must have thought they were about to face a long and punishing afternoon in the field. For a while it certainly looked that way and Root, the very model of controlled aggression and superbly adventurous batting, reverted to type, flicking and pulling powerfully through the covers, dismissive and contemptuous of any the ball that had to be punished and then launching a series of flowing cover drives that clattered to the pavilion in no time at all.
Suddenly on 80 and a mere whisker away from a well deserved century Root was horribly run out for by fellow Yorkshireman Jonny Bairstow who went for another run when the need was never there. Root, who must have thought he'd taken out a leasehold on the Edgbaston batting strip had now gone. Bairstow crouched despairingly, shaking his apologetic head and wondering whether the ground would swallow him up.
Then Keaton Jennings who also looked as though the day had suited him perfectly was unfortunately out, accidentally tangling himself in knots and knocking back his wicket for 42. Bairstow had compiled a neat half century but England were beginning to look chronically vulnerable. Bairstow then dragged a ball back softly clipping his own wicket perhaps submissively. Oh woe England 163-3 had now turned into a disastrous collapse. Dawid Malan couldn't quite find his bearings and lost his wicket reasonably cheaply.
By the time the Indian pace attack had broken the heart and soul of the English batting, most of the Edgbaston crowd were beginning to find comfort in an idyllic English summer. Jos Buttler only seemed to stick around for as long as he felt was necessary before heading back for the dressing room for a duck. When Ben Stokes was smartly caught and bowled by Ashwin again England had been well and truly hung out to dry.
And yet in a year of remarkable sporting surprises and novelties many of us may harbour just a modicum of optimism. Besides, who could have predicted that the England team, under the wonderfully respectable and gentlemanly Gareth Southgate would reach a World Cup semi final? The certainties and finalities of modern sport are no longer set in stone.
Of course defeat can be the most painful and sobering of feelings and this first test against India may yet have a long way to go but English cricketers are a quietly optimistic lot and anything and everything may come up roses for them. A certain Geoff Boycott would have regarded as alien the very hint of defeat. This is one Test match which may well blossom and keep growing. You never know.
Wednesday, 1 August 2018
Monday, 30 July 2018
It's 52 years today and England were World Champions.
It's 52 years today and England were World Champions.
It only seems like yesterday and for those who followed the Beatles the musical coincidence could hardly have been more bizarre. It was day unlike any other day and one that will be etched indelibly in the minds of hundreds and thousands, millions nay less, England football supporters. It was 1966, the year England won the World Cup, the Jules Rimet Trophy, the year we danced in the Trafalgar Square fountains after the World Cup had been won, the year we cheered the England players as they emerged from the Royal Garden Hotel in Kensington and out onto the balcony.
It was the 1960s, the decades that unashamedly gave us outrageous fashions, hilarious haute couture, crazy but happy, clappy psychedelic music, Woodstock, Vietnam and catastrophic world events that would shape the world we would inhabit for many years after the decade had drawn to a close. But on one Saturday afternoon at the end of July in 1966 England achieved something that most of their vocal critics were convinced would never happen in any lifetime least of all theirs.
After all the teeth gnashing, soul baring, melodramatic weeks leading up to the World Cup opening evening when England could barely scrabble a goal-less draw in their opening group match against Uruguay, none of us could have known the sheer enormity of the events that would follow that game. With the benefit of hindsight it still seems like some huge dreamscape where the things England supporters must have thought they'd never see again, flared into life with all the vibrancy of a Woodstock or maybe that show stopping cabaret at the Talk of the Town at London's West End.
It's now 52 years since a young, shy, modest and humble man with blond hair stepped up to the Royal Box at the old Wembley Stadium, wiped any dirt he thought may have existed on his hands and accepted football's most valuable of all trophies with the broadest smiles. For those who witnessed it all the occasion, in isolation, now assumes an almost historic significance. The man with the blond hair and an engaging smile was West Ham captain Bobby Moore and Moore, overnight, became one of the most celebrated and iconic figures in not only footballing culture but a global superstar.
And yet frustratingly and incredulously, England have never won the World Cup since but it hasn't been for the want of trying. Recently, they reached the semi finals of a World Cup for the first time since 1990 and a vast majority of the nation bit their fingernails once again, privately hoping but never suspecting that maybe it could be this time. But then for reasons that can never be properly understood England graciously acknowledged that they'd got as far as they could and that realistically we were never really destined to reach a World Cup Final because maybe that final obstacle could never be overcome.
Still, there can be no harm in misty eyed recollections and perhaps nostalgia can have its ample consolations. As a three year old child the memories are simply non existent but my grandfather and his colleagues did proclaim both accurately and victoriously that indeed West Ham had won the World Cup. The football historians are many who will tell you that three West Ham players were instrumental in the downfall of West Germany. They were right and the English were besides themselves with delight.
Undeniably Bobby Moore, Sir Geoff Hurst and Martin Peters were trained, coached, nurtured, guided, coaxed and cajoled by the patient and avuncular Ron Greenwood at the old Upton Park. Sir Geoff Hurst had ghosted swiftly into acres of space in the West Germany penalty area before leaping like the proverbial salmon and, criminally neglected by the German defence, glanced his header sweetly into the net for England's equaliser after the Germans had taken the lead. Bobby Moore could never have struck a more perfectly weighted free kick for Hurst if he'd rehearsed it a thousand times.
Then in the second half England gained a stronger foothold on the game and always looked the likelier of the two sides to break through decisively. Once again the ball had travelled back into the West German penalty area and after a surge of electricity had run through the six yard box, Martin Peters of Dagenham and West Ham picked up a loose ball and thrashed the ball home for England's second. Peters jumped into the air, a thrilled and elated figure who reacted in much the way any of us would on receiving good news.
For the rest of this elegant epic, Alan Ball gave us his impersonation of a combustion engine that keeps exploding, tireless, indefatigable, immense, running here and there, hither and thither, the lightning bolt in England's relentless attack, full of sound and fury. There was Bobby Charlton, the Manchester United wonder kid who had survived one of the most horrendous of football related tragedies when literally on the brink.
In 1958 Charlton was about to fly back to England after United had just played Red Star Belgrade in the European Cup and then found himself stranded on a Munich airport runaway. While the rest of his closest friends would die in the plane that should never have been allowed to take off, Charlton would embark on the most heroic rehabilitation. Then ten years later after a loyal and emotional attachment to his beloved Manchester United, Charlton would lift the European Cup for United in a stunning 4-1 victory against Benfica.
But on World Cup Final day, Bobby Charlton, he of the dynamic, dynamite shot from long distances, would cry seemingly indefinitely because this had been his day in the sun. Then the explosive Charlton would glance over to his brother Jack, weep ever more copiously, hug his sibling and just embrace both the family feeling engendered by the day and the closely knit communality of this day of all days.
There were the defensive titans of the day, players such as Nobby Stiles. Stiles of course was that toothy kid in the playground who didn't care what the score was as long as he could take the ball home and tell his family all about it. Stiles was hard running, hard in the tackle, totally, remorselessly devoted to the cause. Stiles quite literally, wore his heart on his sleeve, aggressive because he knew he had to be but unforgivably uncompromising. Nobody messed with Stiles and nobody knew more about the opposition he was facing.
Jack Charlton, Bobby Charlton's brother could never be erased from anybody's memory bank. When the final whistle went for the end of the 1966 World Cup Final, Charlton slumped to his knees, looked to the skies and wondered if life could get any better. Our Jack was naturally exhausted but many of us knew that Charlton had been a rock, a deeply inspirational presence, an almost evangelical presence at the heart of the England defence. He was tall if not taller than the average giraffe, patrolling the centre of his back four like a security officer employed by the Bank of England.
The story was that after the game Jack Charlton had wandered away from the joyful hokey cokey celebrations in the West End of London and decided that he just wanted to be alone. Eventually and allegedly Charlton ended up knocking on a stranger's door in Leytonstone in Essex and asking quite innocently whether he could share his World Cup experience with them over a cup of tea.
In the hullabaloo and high fiving revelry, the contribution of Liverpool striker Roger Hunt may have been conveniently overlooked. And yet Hunt was the one man at Wembley that day who simply assumed that the debatable third Sir Geoff Hurst goal had crossed the line by quite a distance. Hunt tore around Wembley, hunting, niggling, pestering, badgering, always making himself available in space for those important touches, tussling for possession and invariably winning it.
And so we come to that moment when the world stopped for a moment, paused for breath, sighed pessimistically and then hit the roof in the full knowledge that nobody could take that moment away from us. When Sir Geoff Hurst turned smartly in the German penalty area after excellent work by Alan Ball the whole nation took another sharp intake.
But we should never have worried for a single second because fate had suddenly intervened. Hurst adjusted his body, moved his feet quite brilliantly and strategically and flashed a thunderous first time shot that hit the crossbar, scraped the white goal line and then bounced out of the goal rather like one of those silver balls in one of those old fashioned pin ball machines. What on earth had happened there? It must be a goal because the whole of the England team had thought it had.
Then all hell broke loose. White shirted West Germany defenders chased the referee around the old Wembley Stadium as if the whole England team had stolen all of their worldly belongings. They surrounded the man at the heart of it all as if a grievous sense of injustice had been visited upon them. Couldn't the referee see the obvious evidence in front of everybody's eyes? The ball had never crossed the line and the Germans were livid. This had to go before the learned judge at the Old Bailey.
After what seemed an eternity and judicial deliberation the jury delivered their considered verdict. The Russian linesman- for that was his title in 1966- thrust his flag in the air with an officiously serious look on his face and England had scored their third goal. Hurst looked around him briefly, shocked for a minute or three and was then relieved at the end of that hiatus in the action. Hair matted with sweat and bemusement on every feature of his face, Hurst jumped up and down again, knees and legs in unison and then there was the realisation that he had scored. Yes, he had scored for England again.
With the game stretched beyond belief England flowed forward over and over again, determined to put their West German rivals well and truly in their place. The Germans had nothing more to give and it was now that English doggedness and red blooded gallantry took over. England were gambling and gambolling around the Germans like the proverbial sheep in springtime. It was almost game over for Helmet Schoen's Germans and the minutes were inexorably ticking away.
With minutes to go the ball had found its way back in their own defence. Now Bobby Moore would encounter one of those life changing decisions he would never regret. Picking up the ball tight near the touchline, Moore controlled the ball with all the time in the world at his disposal except Moore couldn't hear the cries of exhortation from Jack Charlton. Charlton apparently told Moore to dispose of the ball with all the haste of a man with an unexploded bomb in his hands. Please Bobby. Just get rid of it or words to that effect.
But Moore did heed the well intentioned advice of his esteemed colleague. He looked up, surveyed the geography of the Wembley pitch like a Roman emperor before chipping the most glorious through ball over the top of the fading West German defence. Galloping into vast and open acres of empty grass, Geoff Hurst raced away like the most accomplished sprinter, pulling the ball towards him and then rifling a shot which bulged the German net for the fourth and conclusive goal.
So it was that 52 years ago today, England, that green and pleasant land, that peaceful, serene and placid land where the pubs used to shut at 11pm and Sundays were sacred, were declared winners of the 1966 World Cup. In years to come we may come to believe that such days in our lives will never be witnessed ever again although we can only hope that they might.
Still we love anniversaries and those great state occasions when everything goes exactly according to plan. We did win the World Cup 52 years ago and although the gap is widening and the years are increasing England made all of us proud to be associated with everything that the country had so fondly held dear. But England had created its very personal niche. For one year it was our World Cup rather than the one that dog called Pickles had found, a World Cup we were temporarily deprived of Still dogs have always been our best friends and when was the last time a dog scored a hat-trick in the World Cup Final? 1966 hey, what a year that was.
It only seems like yesterday and for those who followed the Beatles the musical coincidence could hardly have been more bizarre. It was day unlike any other day and one that will be etched indelibly in the minds of hundreds and thousands, millions nay less, England football supporters. It was 1966, the year England won the World Cup, the Jules Rimet Trophy, the year we danced in the Trafalgar Square fountains after the World Cup had been won, the year we cheered the England players as they emerged from the Royal Garden Hotel in Kensington and out onto the balcony.
It was the 1960s, the decades that unashamedly gave us outrageous fashions, hilarious haute couture, crazy but happy, clappy psychedelic music, Woodstock, Vietnam and catastrophic world events that would shape the world we would inhabit for many years after the decade had drawn to a close. But on one Saturday afternoon at the end of July in 1966 England achieved something that most of their vocal critics were convinced would never happen in any lifetime least of all theirs.
After all the teeth gnashing, soul baring, melodramatic weeks leading up to the World Cup opening evening when England could barely scrabble a goal-less draw in their opening group match against Uruguay, none of us could have known the sheer enormity of the events that would follow that game. With the benefit of hindsight it still seems like some huge dreamscape where the things England supporters must have thought they'd never see again, flared into life with all the vibrancy of a Woodstock or maybe that show stopping cabaret at the Talk of the Town at London's West End.
It's now 52 years since a young, shy, modest and humble man with blond hair stepped up to the Royal Box at the old Wembley Stadium, wiped any dirt he thought may have existed on his hands and accepted football's most valuable of all trophies with the broadest smiles. For those who witnessed it all the occasion, in isolation, now assumes an almost historic significance. The man with the blond hair and an engaging smile was West Ham captain Bobby Moore and Moore, overnight, became one of the most celebrated and iconic figures in not only footballing culture but a global superstar.
And yet frustratingly and incredulously, England have never won the World Cup since but it hasn't been for the want of trying. Recently, they reached the semi finals of a World Cup for the first time since 1990 and a vast majority of the nation bit their fingernails once again, privately hoping but never suspecting that maybe it could be this time. But then for reasons that can never be properly understood England graciously acknowledged that they'd got as far as they could and that realistically we were never really destined to reach a World Cup Final because maybe that final obstacle could never be overcome.
Still, there can be no harm in misty eyed recollections and perhaps nostalgia can have its ample consolations. As a three year old child the memories are simply non existent but my grandfather and his colleagues did proclaim both accurately and victoriously that indeed West Ham had won the World Cup. The football historians are many who will tell you that three West Ham players were instrumental in the downfall of West Germany. They were right and the English were besides themselves with delight.
Undeniably Bobby Moore, Sir Geoff Hurst and Martin Peters were trained, coached, nurtured, guided, coaxed and cajoled by the patient and avuncular Ron Greenwood at the old Upton Park. Sir Geoff Hurst had ghosted swiftly into acres of space in the West Germany penalty area before leaping like the proverbial salmon and, criminally neglected by the German defence, glanced his header sweetly into the net for England's equaliser after the Germans had taken the lead. Bobby Moore could never have struck a more perfectly weighted free kick for Hurst if he'd rehearsed it a thousand times.
Then in the second half England gained a stronger foothold on the game and always looked the likelier of the two sides to break through decisively. Once again the ball had travelled back into the West German penalty area and after a surge of electricity had run through the six yard box, Martin Peters of Dagenham and West Ham picked up a loose ball and thrashed the ball home for England's second. Peters jumped into the air, a thrilled and elated figure who reacted in much the way any of us would on receiving good news.
For the rest of this elegant epic, Alan Ball gave us his impersonation of a combustion engine that keeps exploding, tireless, indefatigable, immense, running here and there, hither and thither, the lightning bolt in England's relentless attack, full of sound and fury. There was Bobby Charlton, the Manchester United wonder kid who had survived one of the most horrendous of football related tragedies when literally on the brink.
In 1958 Charlton was about to fly back to England after United had just played Red Star Belgrade in the European Cup and then found himself stranded on a Munich airport runaway. While the rest of his closest friends would die in the plane that should never have been allowed to take off, Charlton would embark on the most heroic rehabilitation. Then ten years later after a loyal and emotional attachment to his beloved Manchester United, Charlton would lift the European Cup for United in a stunning 4-1 victory against Benfica.
But on World Cup Final day, Bobby Charlton, he of the dynamic, dynamite shot from long distances, would cry seemingly indefinitely because this had been his day in the sun. Then the explosive Charlton would glance over to his brother Jack, weep ever more copiously, hug his sibling and just embrace both the family feeling engendered by the day and the closely knit communality of this day of all days.
There were the defensive titans of the day, players such as Nobby Stiles. Stiles of course was that toothy kid in the playground who didn't care what the score was as long as he could take the ball home and tell his family all about it. Stiles was hard running, hard in the tackle, totally, remorselessly devoted to the cause. Stiles quite literally, wore his heart on his sleeve, aggressive because he knew he had to be but unforgivably uncompromising. Nobody messed with Stiles and nobody knew more about the opposition he was facing.
Jack Charlton, Bobby Charlton's brother could never be erased from anybody's memory bank. When the final whistle went for the end of the 1966 World Cup Final, Charlton slumped to his knees, looked to the skies and wondered if life could get any better. Our Jack was naturally exhausted but many of us knew that Charlton had been a rock, a deeply inspirational presence, an almost evangelical presence at the heart of the England defence. He was tall if not taller than the average giraffe, patrolling the centre of his back four like a security officer employed by the Bank of England.
The story was that after the game Jack Charlton had wandered away from the joyful hokey cokey celebrations in the West End of London and decided that he just wanted to be alone. Eventually and allegedly Charlton ended up knocking on a stranger's door in Leytonstone in Essex and asking quite innocently whether he could share his World Cup experience with them over a cup of tea.
In the hullabaloo and high fiving revelry, the contribution of Liverpool striker Roger Hunt may have been conveniently overlooked. And yet Hunt was the one man at Wembley that day who simply assumed that the debatable third Sir Geoff Hurst goal had crossed the line by quite a distance. Hunt tore around Wembley, hunting, niggling, pestering, badgering, always making himself available in space for those important touches, tussling for possession and invariably winning it.
And so we come to that moment when the world stopped for a moment, paused for breath, sighed pessimistically and then hit the roof in the full knowledge that nobody could take that moment away from us. When Sir Geoff Hurst turned smartly in the German penalty area after excellent work by Alan Ball the whole nation took another sharp intake.
But we should never have worried for a single second because fate had suddenly intervened. Hurst adjusted his body, moved his feet quite brilliantly and strategically and flashed a thunderous first time shot that hit the crossbar, scraped the white goal line and then bounced out of the goal rather like one of those silver balls in one of those old fashioned pin ball machines. What on earth had happened there? It must be a goal because the whole of the England team had thought it had.
Then all hell broke loose. White shirted West Germany defenders chased the referee around the old Wembley Stadium as if the whole England team had stolen all of their worldly belongings. They surrounded the man at the heart of it all as if a grievous sense of injustice had been visited upon them. Couldn't the referee see the obvious evidence in front of everybody's eyes? The ball had never crossed the line and the Germans were livid. This had to go before the learned judge at the Old Bailey.
After what seemed an eternity and judicial deliberation the jury delivered their considered verdict. The Russian linesman- for that was his title in 1966- thrust his flag in the air with an officiously serious look on his face and England had scored their third goal. Hurst looked around him briefly, shocked for a minute or three and was then relieved at the end of that hiatus in the action. Hair matted with sweat and bemusement on every feature of his face, Hurst jumped up and down again, knees and legs in unison and then there was the realisation that he had scored. Yes, he had scored for England again.
With the game stretched beyond belief England flowed forward over and over again, determined to put their West German rivals well and truly in their place. The Germans had nothing more to give and it was now that English doggedness and red blooded gallantry took over. England were gambling and gambolling around the Germans like the proverbial sheep in springtime. It was almost game over for Helmet Schoen's Germans and the minutes were inexorably ticking away.
With minutes to go the ball had found its way back in their own defence. Now Bobby Moore would encounter one of those life changing decisions he would never regret. Picking up the ball tight near the touchline, Moore controlled the ball with all the time in the world at his disposal except Moore couldn't hear the cries of exhortation from Jack Charlton. Charlton apparently told Moore to dispose of the ball with all the haste of a man with an unexploded bomb in his hands. Please Bobby. Just get rid of it or words to that effect.
But Moore did heed the well intentioned advice of his esteemed colleague. He looked up, surveyed the geography of the Wembley pitch like a Roman emperor before chipping the most glorious through ball over the top of the fading West German defence. Galloping into vast and open acres of empty grass, Geoff Hurst raced away like the most accomplished sprinter, pulling the ball towards him and then rifling a shot which bulged the German net for the fourth and conclusive goal.
So it was that 52 years ago today, England, that green and pleasant land, that peaceful, serene and placid land where the pubs used to shut at 11pm and Sundays were sacred, were declared winners of the 1966 World Cup. In years to come we may come to believe that such days in our lives will never be witnessed ever again although we can only hope that they might.
Still we love anniversaries and those great state occasions when everything goes exactly according to plan. We did win the World Cup 52 years ago and although the gap is widening and the years are increasing England made all of us proud to be associated with everything that the country had so fondly held dear. But England had created its very personal niche. For one year it was our World Cup rather than the one that dog called Pickles had found, a World Cup we were temporarily deprived of Still dogs have always been our best friends and when was the last time a dog scored a hat-trick in the World Cup Final? 1966 hey, what a year that was.
Saturday, 28 July 2018
Tour De France- cycling at its most competitive.
Tour De France- cycling at its most competitive.
The Tour De France is cycling at its most competitive. Not for those hardened professionals in lycra a gentle pedal up and down the swooping, undulating hills of the Yorkshire Dales or a leisurely cycle to the local village post office where the only exertion involved is that of a brief gasp or pant before wiping off a mere bead of sweat from a slightly reddish forehead, the result of a quick sprint to the top and then hurtling down a sun baked road all the while gleefully clinging on to the handlebars for dear life.
But the Tour De France is serious business. It is cycling for big bucks, cycling at its most combative, fiercely contested and above all cycling where the only motivation comes from within, where the battle of wits with your fellow cyclist becomes much more than a handsome sum of prize money although that has to be the main incentive.
For those of us on the outside and merely impartial of observers cycling has always looked hugely exciting, a tactical sporting spectacle where the survival of the fittest becomes the predominant theme of the whole contest. Throughout the decades every July when summer reaches its most glorious pinnacle, whole bunches of riders and deeply committed cyclists struggle and toil their way through the sweltering heat of the French countryside.
Every year the streets, roads, winding and twisting country lanes and pretty farmyards of idyllic rural France become the main setting for one of sport's most remarkable of road races, as men with a fanatical determination to get to Paris tomorrow with the winning wreath around their necks pump muscular thighs towards the finishing line.
It is sport at its most ferocious, sport at its most fascinating and sport that is exhausting to watch, breathlessly exhilarating and sport at its maximum speed. The Tour De France has always delivered some of the most controversial and colourful of characters. It is undoubtedly and quite obviously one of the fastest and most intriguing of all sporting events. Because once those guys on their streamlined, designer bikes get on their bikes there can be no stopping them. For years and years, decades and decades the good people of France have stepped outside their French farmhouses and vineyards to watch the greatest road race in the world. It is sport that beggars description and simply unbelievable.
This year Welshman Geraint Thomas is one of the leading contenders in the British search for yet another Tour De France crown. In recent years, Chris Froome, Sir Bradley Wiggins and Mark Cavendish have all claimed the shining limelight when the focus has fallen on British hopes for success but this year it's Thomas's big chance to win back the cycling plaudits for Britain in this year's Tour De France.
As a mere spectator on a metaphorical roadside, the Tour De France has always been a spectacular watch. Admittedly I haven't been on a bike since I was a wee lad in shorts when my parents bought me one of those lime green bikes with the obligatory stabilisers attached to them. The smell and sight of grease and oil of course, are remembered with enormous affection but it didn't really occur to me at the time that I would ever pursue this childhood activity with any great passion or businesslike intent.
But the Tour De France does look positively frightening and one of the major challenges you could ever be confronted with. There go tightly knotted bunches of cyclists, frantically and frenetically pushing and pedalling to the front, arms and fingers wrapped around their handlebars, backs bent forwards, helmets securely fastened onto their heads and then jostling, pushing and pulling, shoving and wriggling their way through a chaotic field as if their lives depended on it.
Then there begins the fight to the finishing line, eyes narrowing like late night owls, rocking and rolling athletic bodies from side to side, all the while glancing over their heads, watching, carefully monitoring their opponents. Most seem to be wearing appropriate sunglasses or the very latest in goggles as the race spreads out expansively across vast mountain ranges and then loops around France, snaking its incomparable way past enthusiastic farmers and never pausing for breath.
The bikes swerve, sway and slide, heaving their bikes up seemingly impossible climbs into the middle of nowhere, past cheerful shops and newsagents, across fertile lands of rich fruit picking and fragrant vats of grapes with a hint of blackberry in the air. The race continues along neatly built haystacks, dusty fields, green fields with thick rows of arable and agricultural land. The cheers get progressively louder and more vociferous, the cyclists responding with the briefest of grins and then charging off into the distance once again.
The Tour De France is sport at its most red blooded and masculine with men of courage, heroism and unbelievable stamina. It is cycling with just a hint of personal bitterness in its soul, but nonetheless fair minded and honourable. Of course there are the innumerable roadside crashes, the falls from grace and the embarrassing tumble to the ground. But at its heart the Tour De France is as good as it gets in the great sporting community. There are deeply rooted rivalries, scores to settle, grudges to be addressed but for those who devote themselves to their long distance bike marathons these are men who should be admired unstintingly.
So as the Tour De France reaches its enthralling climax with that famous appearance at the Champs Elysses and the Arc De Triomphe in Paris our best wishes are naturally extended to the runners and riders, the leaders, the runners up, the heroes and the worthy triers. Then Paris will extend its warmest welcome to the winner of the Tour De France because that's what sport should be about.
It is time to forget about cycling's darkest and most unsavoury hour when the sport became the unwitting victim of doping scandals and self destructive drug taking. The whole sorry Lance Armstrong episode is now nothing more than a horror movie where everything that could go wrong for cycling quite certainly did. Sport has to move on and try to embrace its virtues rather than its pernicious vices. But the Tour De France rolls on year after year and after recently being appointed as football World Champions, the French may be entitled to a private spot of gloating. Vive La France once again.
The Tour De France is cycling at its most competitive. Not for those hardened professionals in lycra a gentle pedal up and down the swooping, undulating hills of the Yorkshire Dales or a leisurely cycle to the local village post office where the only exertion involved is that of a brief gasp or pant before wiping off a mere bead of sweat from a slightly reddish forehead, the result of a quick sprint to the top and then hurtling down a sun baked road all the while gleefully clinging on to the handlebars for dear life.
But the Tour De France is serious business. It is cycling for big bucks, cycling at its most combative, fiercely contested and above all cycling where the only motivation comes from within, where the battle of wits with your fellow cyclist becomes much more than a handsome sum of prize money although that has to be the main incentive.
For those of us on the outside and merely impartial of observers cycling has always looked hugely exciting, a tactical sporting spectacle where the survival of the fittest becomes the predominant theme of the whole contest. Throughout the decades every July when summer reaches its most glorious pinnacle, whole bunches of riders and deeply committed cyclists struggle and toil their way through the sweltering heat of the French countryside.
Every year the streets, roads, winding and twisting country lanes and pretty farmyards of idyllic rural France become the main setting for one of sport's most remarkable of road races, as men with a fanatical determination to get to Paris tomorrow with the winning wreath around their necks pump muscular thighs towards the finishing line.
It is sport at its most ferocious, sport at its most fascinating and sport that is exhausting to watch, breathlessly exhilarating and sport at its maximum speed. The Tour De France has always delivered some of the most controversial and colourful of characters. It is undoubtedly and quite obviously one of the fastest and most intriguing of all sporting events. Because once those guys on their streamlined, designer bikes get on their bikes there can be no stopping them. For years and years, decades and decades the good people of France have stepped outside their French farmhouses and vineyards to watch the greatest road race in the world. It is sport that beggars description and simply unbelievable.
This year Welshman Geraint Thomas is one of the leading contenders in the British search for yet another Tour De France crown. In recent years, Chris Froome, Sir Bradley Wiggins and Mark Cavendish have all claimed the shining limelight when the focus has fallen on British hopes for success but this year it's Thomas's big chance to win back the cycling plaudits for Britain in this year's Tour De France.
As a mere spectator on a metaphorical roadside, the Tour De France has always been a spectacular watch. Admittedly I haven't been on a bike since I was a wee lad in shorts when my parents bought me one of those lime green bikes with the obligatory stabilisers attached to them. The smell and sight of grease and oil of course, are remembered with enormous affection but it didn't really occur to me at the time that I would ever pursue this childhood activity with any great passion or businesslike intent.
But the Tour De France does look positively frightening and one of the major challenges you could ever be confronted with. There go tightly knotted bunches of cyclists, frantically and frenetically pushing and pedalling to the front, arms and fingers wrapped around their handlebars, backs bent forwards, helmets securely fastened onto their heads and then jostling, pushing and pulling, shoving and wriggling their way through a chaotic field as if their lives depended on it.
Then there begins the fight to the finishing line, eyes narrowing like late night owls, rocking and rolling athletic bodies from side to side, all the while glancing over their heads, watching, carefully monitoring their opponents. Most seem to be wearing appropriate sunglasses or the very latest in goggles as the race spreads out expansively across vast mountain ranges and then loops around France, snaking its incomparable way past enthusiastic farmers and never pausing for breath.
The bikes swerve, sway and slide, heaving their bikes up seemingly impossible climbs into the middle of nowhere, past cheerful shops and newsagents, across fertile lands of rich fruit picking and fragrant vats of grapes with a hint of blackberry in the air. The race continues along neatly built haystacks, dusty fields, green fields with thick rows of arable and agricultural land. The cheers get progressively louder and more vociferous, the cyclists responding with the briefest of grins and then charging off into the distance once again.
The Tour De France is sport at its most red blooded and masculine with men of courage, heroism and unbelievable stamina. It is cycling with just a hint of personal bitterness in its soul, but nonetheless fair minded and honourable. Of course there are the innumerable roadside crashes, the falls from grace and the embarrassing tumble to the ground. But at its heart the Tour De France is as good as it gets in the great sporting community. There are deeply rooted rivalries, scores to settle, grudges to be addressed but for those who devote themselves to their long distance bike marathons these are men who should be admired unstintingly.
So as the Tour De France reaches its enthralling climax with that famous appearance at the Champs Elysses and the Arc De Triomphe in Paris our best wishes are naturally extended to the runners and riders, the leaders, the runners up, the heroes and the worthy triers. Then Paris will extend its warmest welcome to the winner of the Tour De France because that's what sport should be about.
It is time to forget about cycling's darkest and most unsavoury hour when the sport became the unwitting victim of doping scandals and self destructive drug taking. The whole sorry Lance Armstrong episode is now nothing more than a horror movie where everything that could go wrong for cycling quite certainly did. Sport has to move on and try to embrace its virtues rather than its pernicious vices. But the Tour De France rolls on year after year and after recently being appointed as football World Champions, the French may be entitled to a private spot of gloating. Vive La France once again.
Wednesday, 25 July 2018
Mamma Mia 2- Here We Go Again.
Mamma Mia 2- Here We Go Again.
It could hardly have gone any better. Film sequels can often be either a huge let down or just too incredible for words. In the trailers before Mamma Mia 2- Here we go again, the man reminded us that going to the cinema to watch the latest movie is the ultimate in escapism. He certainly wasn't wrong because this film did everything it said on the tin and much more. If we were in any doubts about its sheer cinematic brilliance then they were swiftly blown away and never to be seen again.
After their sheer superlative magic of the first Mamma Mia most of us had prepared us for yet another spectacular party on the screen. Mamma Mia 2- Here we go again was quite the most exquisitely entertaining, hugely enjoyable, delightfully simple story told with love and utter sincerity. There were no airs or graces, no affected sense of pretence or bombast just good, old fashioned fun, genuine comedy and gloriously marshmallow sweet frivolity. There were smiles, jokes, hilarity and outrageous silliness but Mamma Mia was the one reason why most of us went to the movies in the first place as kids.
Mamma Mia was a fairground ride, a helter skelter, giggling, chuckling, side splittingly funny film with all the right messages and moral values you'd expect from a family film. It had happiness, laughter, sadness, pathos, triumph and disappointment- all in one giant package of movie classicism about it. It had heartbreak, tears, trembling lips, declarations of love, anger and the kind of joyful collective dancing you probably only see at weddings and bar and bat mitzvahs. It was utterly brilliant and transcended everything that the film experience had to offer.
From its astonishing opening sequence to the very last moments of christening bliss and happy ever after, Mamma Mia 2- Here we go again didn't stop for a single moment, never even remotely suggesting that it would ever come up for air or fail to go any further than it had already had. Sometimes you can have too much of a good thing but none of us were in any way spoilt by the sorcery of the silver screen.
By the end some of us were just mesmerised by the sumptuousness of it all, the tug and war family relationships, the kissing and making up, the petty arguments and then there was relief when agreement and reconciliation had finally won the day. It was the underlying theme of victory against all the odds that provoked many of us into belly aching laughter. We cried, we wept and then we just gave up any other kind of emotion because we knew we'd witnessed one of those beautifully designed films that are somehow uniquely untouchable in their perfection.
In the opening scene of the film we were treated to quite the most magnificent piece of film making ever conceived or executed. Set in a university and a graduation ceremony, the successful academics burst into a diaphragm bursting song that was straight from the 1980s blockbuster movie 'Fame'. The only difference here was that there were no teenagers jumping and dancing over yellow New York taxis. But what we did get was a stunning set that had to be seen to be believed.
Suddenly we were treated to Abba's classic 'When I Kissed the Teacher' which was an instant cue for wild dancing, the complete abandonment of caps and gowns and a fantastic singing, cavorting and carousing spectacle. Both the caps and gowns were now flung into the air, students joking, crazily running up and down a hall before flopping to the floor with utter exhaustion.
There followed quite the most amazing film, a carnival of real human emotions, a rich pageant of wonderfully drawn characters and household names who were determined to have the time of their lives. Little could we have known after the first Mamma Mia that another one was being cooked, boiled and gently nurtured before being delivered like a mouth watering meal in a top class restaurant.
Once again there was the glorious Julie Waters, undoubtedly one of the great comic geniuses of our time and after her debut Mamma Mia, still producing diamonds, emeralds and rubies in every moment of this film. There were the distinctive gestures, the unmistakable comedy mannerisms and that sense of star and stage struck wonder when you couldn't help but scream out with amusement. Walters was simply delightful, a force of nature and permanently up for a grandstanding, boogie woogie dance.
Of course we had, in no particular order, Amanda Seyfried as the sweet and winsome Sophie, the girl whose heart had been broken and then seemingly repaired only to be fixed again by another man. Seyfried captures all of those bottled up feelings that have to be expressed when she finds the man she thought she could rely on only to find that he's two timed her quite brazenly. Sophie is a fragile and vulnerable soul, pleading for love, romance and then marriage, relentless in her pursuit of her man. Perhaps we've seen this romcom a million times without realising what we were witnessing.
But how could we not mention the three men, the three fathers who claimed to be Sophie's dad or so it seemed. There was the outstanding Piers Brosnan, very much the alpha male, macho, strong, suave, debonair, masculine and dependable. Brosnan was all smart suits and shirts, a dependably fatherly and paternal figure who Sophie could always talk to and confide in.
How could we ever forget Colin Firth who at the beginning of the film is seen at a highly important business meeting falling asleep and wondering how he can escape from this Far East summit without humiliating anybody? Firth is straightforwardly English, assured, diplomatic, bluffly humorous and ultra confident in his handling of family issues. Pride and Prejudice must have seemed like a a long time ago.
Then there was Swedish star Stellan Skarsgard, always smooth and splendidly understated throughout with his memorable choice of beach shirts and casual jackets. Skarsgard was another one of Sophie's alleged dads and the character of Bill Austin that Skarsgard gave us was perfectly pitched, veering from deeply compassionate to more jokey comments.
We marvelled at the snobbish haughtiness of Christine Baranski, sunglasses swaying from side to side and an air of judgmental disapproval in her every walk. Alexa Davies was full of cutesy girlishness and flirtatious in the extreme. Hugh Skinner was Harry Bright, a character convinced that he'd fallen head over heels in love with his sketchy command of French and then Lily James was Donna, dizzy headed, ambitious and, rather like Sophie and Rosie, stubbornly independent.
Andy Garcia of course is one of those experienced veterans of the cinema who always lends an air of authority to any film. Garcia is now grey bearded and ageing impeccably but here in Mamma 2- Here We Go Again Garcia was amusing without bringing the house down with a comic masterclass.
Half way through the film there came that classic moment we'd all been waiting for. In the blink of an eye lid she stood proudly at the top of some winding steps. This woman had seen everything that pop stardom during the 1960s could ever give us. She was part of a legendary boy and girl partnership singing her way effortlessly into the legendary Hall of Fame. She had thick black hair, wore beads and bangles and sung 'I've Got You Babe' with Sonny in a phenomenal, chart busting record.
Her name was Cher. Cher, since the unfortunate death of Sonny, has since undergone reinvention and pop music resurrection. With her excellent version of Abba's Fernando, Cher sung with all the note perfect poise of a woman much younger than her age. Now in her 70s Cher can still sing like an angel, moulding an old Abba song to her requirements and then belting out it like a blackbird in morning song.
And finally there was the Abba songbook in all its musical splendour. There was the majestic boat disco dance collective of 'Dancing Queen' which after its first airing in the first Mamma Mia, did the trick again supremely well. 'Dancing Queen' must have been played on every retro music radio station around the world so many times that some of us may have memorised every lyric since time immemorial.
Waterloo of course was the one that launched Abba to star spangled prominence in the 1974 Eurovision Song Contest. Waterloo was featured yet again in Mamma Mia - Here We Go Again and it was as if Waterloo had never really been about a battle. It was singalong, easy listening and vibrantly uplifting to your soul. Waterloo rocked from side to side like a boat about to drop anchor.
'I Have A Dream' was tenderly touching and romantically reflective, a song about genuine dreams and visions of the future. 'Knowing Me, Knowing You' was that painful time in the illustrious career of Abba's finest years when everything went terribly wrong. The husbands and wives split, the sense of identity had gone and the accusations began to fly. 'Angel Eyes', by contrast, represented just how close the group had grown to each other and thought butter wouldn't have melted in each other's mouths.
When 'Name of the Game' explored another set of relationship issues and dynamics in the group's career learning curve, we had to sigh once again because that's the way things pan out at times. We can never turn the clock back because we'd only find ourselves in a permanent world of deep reflection, regretting on what might have been but then re-assuring ourselves that it was all for the good.
It is time now for a final recommendation for Mamma Mia 2- Here We Go Again. If you like your films with a dazzling touch of tongue in cheek, feelgood vibes and then a glowing pleasure in every bone in your body then this is the film for you. Besides, the cinema has always been our friend, in many ways an extension of our family and above all, a throwback to those childhood days when Saturday mornings had a very special significance. Pass me the popcorn please.
It could hardly have gone any better. Film sequels can often be either a huge let down or just too incredible for words. In the trailers before Mamma Mia 2- Here we go again, the man reminded us that going to the cinema to watch the latest movie is the ultimate in escapism. He certainly wasn't wrong because this film did everything it said on the tin and much more. If we were in any doubts about its sheer cinematic brilliance then they were swiftly blown away and never to be seen again.
After their sheer superlative magic of the first Mamma Mia most of us had prepared us for yet another spectacular party on the screen. Mamma Mia 2- Here we go again was quite the most exquisitely entertaining, hugely enjoyable, delightfully simple story told with love and utter sincerity. There were no airs or graces, no affected sense of pretence or bombast just good, old fashioned fun, genuine comedy and gloriously marshmallow sweet frivolity. There were smiles, jokes, hilarity and outrageous silliness but Mamma Mia was the one reason why most of us went to the movies in the first place as kids.
Mamma Mia was a fairground ride, a helter skelter, giggling, chuckling, side splittingly funny film with all the right messages and moral values you'd expect from a family film. It had happiness, laughter, sadness, pathos, triumph and disappointment- all in one giant package of movie classicism about it. It had heartbreak, tears, trembling lips, declarations of love, anger and the kind of joyful collective dancing you probably only see at weddings and bar and bat mitzvahs. It was utterly brilliant and transcended everything that the film experience had to offer.
From its astonishing opening sequence to the very last moments of christening bliss and happy ever after, Mamma Mia 2- Here we go again didn't stop for a single moment, never even remotely suggesting that it would ever come up for air or fail to go any further than it had already had. Sometimes you can have too much of a good thing but none of us were in any way spoilt by the sorcery of the silver screen.
By the end some of us were just mesmerised by the sumptuousness of it all, the tug and war family relationships, the kissing and making up, the petty arguments and then there was relief when agreement and reconciliation had finally won the day. It was the underlying theme of victory against all the odds that provoked many of us into belly aching laughter. We cried, we wept and then we just gave up any other kind of emotion because we knew we'd witnessed one of those beautifully designed films that are somehow uniquely untouchable in their perfection.
In the opening scene of the film we were treated to quite the most magnificent piece of film making ever conceived or executed. Set in a university and a graduation ceremony, the successful academics burst into a diaphragm bursting song that was straight from the 1980s blockbuster movie 'Fame'. The only difference here was that there were no teenagers jumping and dancing over yellow New York taxis. But what we did get was a stunning set that had to be seen to be believed.
Suddenly we were treated to Abba's classic 'When I Kissed the Teacher' which was an instant cue for wild dancing, the complete abandonment of caps and gowns and a fantastic singing, cavorting and carousing spectacle. Both the caps and gowns were now flung into the air, students joking, crazily running up and down a hall before flopping to the floor with utter exhaustion.
There followed quite the most amazing film, a carnival of real human emotions, a rich pageant of wonderfully drawn characters and household names who were determined to have the time of their lives. Little could we have known after the first Mamma Mia that another one was being cooked, boiled and gently nurtured before being delivered like a mouth watering meal in a top class restaurant.
Once again there was the glorious Julie Waters, undoubtedly one of the great comic geniuses of our time and after her debut Mamma Mia, still producing diamonds, emeralds and rubies in every moment of this film. There were the distinctive gestures, the unmistakable comedy mannerisms and that sense of star and stage struck wonder when you couldn't help but scream out with amusement. Walters was simply delightful, a force of nature and permanently up for a grandstanding, boogie woogie dance.
Of course we had, in no particular order, Amanda Seyfried as the sweet and winsome Sophie, the girl whose heart had been broken and then seemingly repaired only to be fixed again by another man. Seyfried captures all of those bottled up feelings that have to be expressed when she finds the man she thought she could rely on only to find that he's two timed her quite brazenly. Sophie is a fragile and vulnerable soul, pleading for love, romance and then marriage, relentless in her pursuit of her man. Perhaps we've seen this romcom a million times without realising what we were witnessing.
But how could we not mention the three men, the three fathers who claimed to be Sophie's dad or so it seemed. There was the outstanding Piers Brosnan, very much the alpha male, macho, strong, suave, debonair, masculine and dependable. Brosnan was all smart suits and shirts, a dependably fatherly and paternal figure who Sophie could always talk to and confide in.
How could we ever forget Colin Firth who at the beginning of the film is seen at a highly important business meeting falling asleep and wondering how he can escape from this Far East summit without humiliating anybody? Firth is straightforwardly English, assured, diplomatic, bluffly humorous and ultra confident in his handling of family issues. Pride and Prejudice must have seemed like a a long time ago.
Then there was Swedish star Stellan Skarsgard, always smooth and splendidly understated throughout with his memorable choice of beach shirts and casual jackets. Skarsgard was another one of Sophie's alleged dads and the character of Bill Austin that Skarsgard gave us was perfectly pitched, veering from deeply compassionate to more jokey comments.
We marvelled at the snobbish haughtiness of Christine Baranski, sunglasses swaying from side to side and an air of judgmental disapproval in her every walk. Alexa Davies was full of cutesy girlishness and flirtatious in the extreme. Hugh Skinner was Harry Bright, a character convinced that he'd fallen head over heels in love with his sketchy command of French and then Lily James was Donna, dizzy headed, ambitious and, rather like Sophie and Rosie, stubbornly independent.
Andy Garcia of course is one of those experienced veterans of the cinema who always lends an air of authority to any film. Garcia is now grey bearded and ageing impeccably but here in Mamma 2- Here We Go Again Garcia was amusing without bringing the house down with a comic masterclass.
Half way through the film there came that classic moment we'd all been waiting for. In the blink of an eye lid she stood proudly at the top of some winding steps. This woman had seen everything that pop stardom during the 1960s could ever give us. She was part of a legendary boy and girl partnership singing her way effortlessly into the legendary Hall of Fame. She had thick black hair, wore beads and bangles and sung 'I've Got You Babe' with Sonny in a phenomenal, chart busting record.
Her name was Cher. Cher, since the unfortunate death of Sonny, has since undergone reinvention and pop music resurrection. With her excellent version of Abba's Fernando, Cher sung with all the note perfect poise of a woman much younger than her age. Now in her 70s Cher can still sing like an angel, moulding an old Abba song to her requirements and then belting out it like a blackbird in morning song.
And finally there was the Abba songbook in all its musical splendour. There was the majestic boat disco dance collective of 'Dancing Queen' which after its first airing in the first Mamma Mia, did the trick again supremely well. 'Dancing Queen' must have been played on every retro music radio station around the world so many times that some of us may have memorised every lyric since time immemorial.
Waterloo of course was the one that launched Abba to star spangled prominence in the 1974 Eurovision Song Contest. Waterloo was featured yet again in Mamma Mia - Here We Go Again and it was as if Waterloo had never really been about a battle. It was singalong, easy listening and vibrantly uplifting to your soul. Waterloo rocked from side to side like a boat about to drop anchor.
'I Have A Dream' was tenderly touching and romantically reflective, a song about genuine dreams and visions of the future. 'Knowing Me, Knowing You' was that painful time in the illustrious career of Abba's finest years when everything went terribly wrong. The husbands and wives split, the sense of identity had gone and the accusations began to fly. 'Angel Eyes', by contrast, represented just how close the group had grown to each other and thought butter wouldn't have melted in each other's mouths.
When 'Name of the Game' explored another set of relationship issues and dynamics in the group's career learning curve, we had to sigh once again because that's the way things pan out at times. We can never turn the clock back because we'd only find ourselves in a permanent world of deep reflection, regretting on what might have been but then re-assuring ourselves that it was all for the good.
It is time now for a final recommendation for Mamma Mia 2- Here We Go Again. If you like your films with a dazzling touch of tongue in cheek, feelgood vibes and then a glowing pleasure in every bone in your body then this is the film for you. Besides, the cinema has always been our friend, in many ways an extension of our family and above all, a throwback to those childhood days when Saturday mornings had a very special significance. Pass me the popcorn please.
Monday, 23 July 2018
Ramsgate- seaside fun and Kentish charm.
Ramsgate - seaside fun and Kentish charm.
Oh yes, we knew it would eventually happen and it has. For the first time since, quite possibly, 1976 Britain has done it, re- connected with our favourite subject of all time. It's time to go back to the weather, that delightful topic of everyday discussion and one that Britain should be awarded some kind of Olympic medal for if only because we love to talk about, analyse it, despair over it and then pass comment on when Donald Trump isn't quite as controversial as he should be and Boris Johnson loses interest on his hobby horse known as Brexit.
Yesterday in the Garden of England it was hot, hot, hot, warmly pleasant although sporadically cloudy with just a hint of a seductive coastal breeze to cool everybody down. In fact for most of our day in Ramsgate my wife and I were confronted with what could be described as humid, muggy conditions, the type of weather that must have pleased some but then left others in a high state of discomfort and not entirely at ease because this is not something Britain has become accustomed to for quite a while.
But deep in the heart of Kent we decided to do something absolutely spontaneous when quite clearly it was stuffy, sticky and oppressively hot in London. Hold on, this had to be the right time to celebrate warm weather and here we were in the county that continues to hold an enduring fascination for those just outside London who revel in the idyllic peace and tranquillity of the Kent seaside.
For as long as any of us can remember, Kent has always been synonymous with lovely hop picking fields, sedate oasthouses, rows and rows of decorative orchards overflowing with apples, oranges, strawberries, bananas, blueberries and blackberries, acres of well ordered vegetables such as the traditional carrots, cucumbers, mouth watering beetroots and a whole host of blossoming fauna and flora, bustling for attention, bristling with colour and richly tempting for the discerning palate.
And yet yesteryday Ramsgate gave us its annual street carnival, a yearly procession winding and steadily inching its way past deeply appreciate crowds, cheering and hollering for all their worth. This is something that Britain has always done exceptionally well, seasoned experts at times, brilliant organisers and proud of their rich heritage. Street processions are something the Brits have always excelled at and this should be never overlooked as one of our principal strengths.
It all started as we got off our train at Ramsgate station. I couldn't help but notice a lonely looking but enormous white gull standing patiently on the opposite platform, ticket quite probably tucked securely in its beak and ready to board the imminent train for London. How annoyingly slow British trains can be for those birds who desperately needed to reach their destination in time.
For what seemed a couple of minutes or so, the said seagull glanced around at the human passengers with a look that suggested complete confusion. Maybe it had consulted the electronic timetable and found that its train had been delayed for some ridiculous reason. Then the gull found itself lost in a world of curiosity and puzzlement. Things didn't seem to be going well for our feathered friend.
Still, there were things to see and do in the laid back and dignified harbour town of Ramsgate. We ventured forth on one of the longest walks to the sea front any of us had ever experienced. It must have taken us at least three quarters of an hour to reach the bobbing and wealthy looking yachts dotted along the harbour. And then eventually, after what felt like the accomplishment of several walking marathons through the shopping centre and finally hitting the boating heartland we slumped onto our chairs in the loveliest of cafes, gently partook of some hummus and pita bread and soaked up the sunshine.
There is a comfortable respectability about Ramsgate, a serene contentment with Ramsgate life, a timeless sense of deeply rooted tradition and an air of familiarity. You see the point is that Ramsgate feels like the kind of seaside town you've been to a thousand times in a thousand summers before. The pubs look as though they've been there since the English Civil War or even, dare I say it, the Battle of Hastings, the cafes look appealingly trendy and attractive and the bed and breakfast hotels will never ever disappear.
As we took our place for the Ramsgate street procession, you couldn't help but notice the Port and Anchor, the Crows Nest and Royal pub, all immaculately welcoming and hospitable to hundreds of thirsty drinkers immediately intent on quenching their thirsts with several pints of lager. Hundreds of families with their passionately excited children lined the long, meandering roads, streets and esplanades, shining exuberance on their faces and ice creams close to hand.
Then it began eventually but very slowly and surely. In fact by the time the floats began to arrive near our vantage point some of us were yawning soporifically, restless perhaps but wondering what on earth was happening. There seemed a strange reluctance on the organisers part to allow the carnival to move at all. It occurred to us that there have been quicker tortoises or maybe we should have been more tolerant and understanding. After all, we'd only been waiting for at least two years for the floats to arrive and the last train to London would perhaps arrive in the capital city at midnight.
Seriously though it did seem that our friendly street carnival people were stopping and starting at roughly the same blistering pace of the average snail. To all intents and purposes the procession looked as though it had been caught up in some horrendous and imaginary traffic jam stretching back as far as Broadstairs. This had to be the slowest street carnival I'd certainly seen but none of us really cared because we were all basking in the constant heat of a British summer.
There were of course those jokey and jocular street entertainers all entrusted with the thankless responsibility of trying to keep the whole momentum of the day going without any hitches. There were the Mexican maracas shakers and mariachi players, the infectiously rhythmical steel drummers beating out their summery sounds, the Ambre Solaire sun tan cream floats dripping with orange and yellow slogans and last but not least the Kent beauty carnival queens, giggly but almost consumed by the simple joys and enjoyment of this sultry Sunday afternoon at the latter end of July.
Now this is one notable aspect of street carnival furniture that has never really changed. There they all were, assembled from the very regal Whitstable, Ramsgate of course and a whole variety of girls with tiaras from the Medway Towns. Somebody had told me that the Ramsgate street procession is one of the highlights of the British social calendar and you could only agree with them whole heartedly. How we loved just being there, absorbing the very essence of a typically English day in high summer.
Finally, there was something almost quirkily amusing about something we might have taken as granted at these kind of events. Suddenly and exhaustedly, there were the girl majorettes, those tireless cheerleaders with their twirling batons and beaming smiles. On careful reflection you had to feel immensely sorry for these experienced but now desperately tired girls. You could almost feel a wave of sympathy flooding over Ramsgate as the last of the majorettes wearily spun her baton for what seemed the 254th time.
On and on they trudged and traipsed, energy sapping out of their bodies and arms that must have felt like the thickest of rope. There was one girl who passed me whose body language suggested that she didn't want to go any further and only a rousing edition of BBC One's Song of Praise would lift her sagging spirits.
So a Sunday afternoon at the end of another heavenly day of British heat had come to a close. This astonishing summer just seems to keep giving and giving. The almost incessant sun of both June and July may well take us comfortably into late August and maybe longer. The fans are whirling ecstatically in offices and homes across Britain, windows have been flung open with carefree abandon and some of us are reminiscing on 1976 when blue skies and the Electric Light Orchestra, during the 1970s, struck up the most harmonious of pop songs. What perfection! England oh England!
Oh yes, we knew it would eventually happen and it has. For the first time since, quite possibly, 1976 Britain has done it, re- connected with our favourite subject of all time. It's time to go back to the weather, that delightful topic of everyday discussion and one that Britain should be awarded some kind of Olympic medal for if only because we love to talk about, analyse it, despair over it and then pass comment on when Donald Trump isn't quite as controversial as he should be and Boris Johnson loses interest on his hobby horse known as Brexit.
Yesterday in the Garden of England it was hot, hot, hot, warmly pleasant although sporadically cloudy with just a hint of a seductive coastal breeze to cool everybody down. In fact for most of our day in Ramsgate my wife and I were confronted with what could be described as humid, muggy conditions, the type of weather that must have pleased some but then left others in a high state of discomfort and not entirely at ease because this is not something Britain has become accustomed to for quite a while.
But deep in the heart of Kent we decided to do something absolutely spontaneous when quite clearly it was stuffy, sticky and oppressively hot in London. Hold on, this had to be the right time to celebrate warm weather and here we were in the county that continues to hold an enduring fascination for those just outside London who revel in the idyllic peace and tranquillity of the Kent seaside.
For as long as any of us can remember, Kent has always been synonymous with lovely hop picking fields, sedate oasthouses, rows and rows of decorative orchards overflowing with apples, oranges, strawberries, bananas, blueberries and blackberries, acres of well ordered vegetables such as the traditional carrots, cucumbers, mouth watering beetroots and a whole host of blossoming fauna and flora, bustling for attention, bristling with colour and richly tempting for the discerning palate.
And yet yesteryday Ramsgate gave us its annual street carnival, a yearly procession winding and steadily inching its way past deeply appreciate crowds, cheering and hollering for all their worth. This is something that Britain has always done exceptionally well, seasoned experts at times, brilliant organisers and proud of their rich heritage. Street processions are something the Brits have always excelled at and this should be never overlooked as one of our principal strengths.
It all started as we got off our train at Ramsgate station. I couldn't help but notice a lonely looking but enormous white gull standing patiently on the opposite platform, ticket quite probably tucked securely in its beak and ready to board the imminent train for London. How annoyingly slow British trains can be for those birds who desperately needed to reach their destination in time.
For what seemed a couple of minutes or so, the said seagull glanced around at the human passengers with a look that suggested complete confusion. Maybe it had consulted the electronic timetable and found that its train had been delayed for some ridiculous reason. Then the gull found itself lost in a world of curiosity and puzzlement. Things didn't seem to be going well for our feathered friend.
Still, there were things to see and do in the laid back and dignified harbour town of Ramsgate. We ventured forth on one of the longest walks to the sea front any of us had ever experienced. It must have taken us at least three quarters of an hour to reach the bobbing and wealthy looking yachts dotted along the harbour. And then eventually, after what felt like the accomplishment of several walking marathons through the shopping centre and finally hitting the boating heartland we slumped onto our chairs in the loveliest of cafes, gently partook of some hummus and pita bread and soaked up the sunshine.
There is a comfortable respectability about Ramsgate, a serene contentment with Ramsgate life, a timeless sense of deeply rooted tradition and an air of familiarity. You see the point is that Ramsgate feels like the kind of seaside town you've been to a thousand times in a thousand summers before. The pubs look as though they've been there since the English Civil War or even, dare I say it, the Battle of Hastings, the cafes look appealingly trendy and attractive and the bed and breakfast hotels will never ever disappear.
As we took our place for the Ramsgate street procession, you couldn't help but notice the Port and Anchor, the Crows Nest and Royal pub, all immaculately welcoming and hospitable to hundreds of thirsty drinkers immediately intent on quenching their thirsts with several pints of lager. Hundreds of families with their passionately excited children lined the long, meandering roads, streets and esplanades, shining exuberance on their faces and ice creams close to hand.
Then it began eventually but very slowly and surely. In fact by the time the floats began to arrive near our vantage point some of us were yawning soporifically, restless perhaps but wondering what on earth was happening. There seemed a strange reluctance on the organisers part to allow the carnival to move at all. It occurred to us that there have been quicker tortoises or maybe we should have been more tolerant and understanding. After all, we'd only been waiting for at least two years for the floats to arrive and the last train to London would perhaps arrive in the capital city at midnight.
Seriously though it did seem that our friendly street carnival people were stopping and starting at roughly the same blistering pace of the average snail. To all intents and purposes the procession looked as though it had been caught up in some horrendous and imaginary traffic jam stretching back as far as Broadstairs. This had to be the slowest street carnival I'd certainly seen but none of us really cared because we were all basking in the constant heat of a British summer.
There were of course those jokey and jocular street entertainers all entrusted with the thankless responsibility of trying to keep the whole momentum of the day going without any hitches. There were the Mexican maracas shakers and mariachi players, the infectiously rhythmical steel drummers beating out their summery sounds, the Ambre Solaire sun tan cream floats dripping with orange and yellow slogans and last but not least the Kent beauty carnival queens, giggly but almost consumed by the simple joys and enjoyment of this sultry Sunday afternoon at the latter end of July.
Now this is one notable aspect of street carnival furniture that has never really changed. There they all were, assembled from the very regal Whitstable, Ramsgate of course and a whole variety of girls with tiaras from the Medway Towns. Somebody had told me that the Ramsgate street procession is one of the highlights of the British social calendar and you could only agree with them whole heartedly. How we loved just being there, absorbing the very essence of a typically English day in high summer.
Finally, there was something almost quirkily amusing about something we might have taken as granted at these kind of events. Suddenly and exhaustedly, there were the girl majorettes, those tireless cheerleaders with their twirling batons and beaming smiles. On careful reflection you had to feel immensely sorry for these experienced but now desperately tired girls. You could almost feel a wave of sympathy flooding over Ramsgate as the last of the majorettes wearily spun her baton for what seemed the 254th time.
On and on they trudged and traipsed, energy sapping out of their bodies and arms that must have felt like the thickest of rope. There was one girl who passed me whose body language suggested that she didn't want to go any further and only a rousing edition of BBC One's Song of Praise would lift her sagging spirits.
So a Sunday afternoon at the end of another heavenly day of British heat had come to a close. This astonishing summer just seems to keep giving and giving. The almost incessant sun of both June and July may well take us comfortably into late August and maybe longer. The fans are whirling ecstatically in offices and homes across Britain, windows have been flung open with carefree abandon and some of us are reminiscing on 1976 when blue skies and the Electric Light Orchestra, during the 1970s, struck up the most harmonious of pop songs. What perfection! England oh England!
Saturday, 21 July 2018
It's National Junk Food Day folks.
It's National Junk Food Day folks.
You'll never guess what today is everybody. It's on the tip of your tongue which in many ways, given the nature of that famous phrase, should give you a clue. You'll kick yourself when I tell you. It's something to do with a multi billion pound or dollar industry and we do like to treat ourselves to it every so often. If your mouth is salivating and you can hardly wait any longer then this may be the time to tell you.
According to my reliable sources today is National Junk Food Day. Yes, honestly I kid you not. It's that day devoted to conspicuous consumption of the kind of food that's bad for you and expands your waistline no end. It's a day for excessive eating of burgers, chips, pizzas, crisps, mountainous bars of chocolate while there's nobody around and generally giving in meekly to the temptation of cholesterol coated, sweet things that stimulate the senses and generally leave you feeling happy but guilty at the same time.
Don't think I didn't see you sneaking into the biscuit tin or raiding the fridge for mouth watering cakes from last night's party. And yet seriously folks this is National Junk Food Day, a day when insatiable appetites can never be satisfied because it seemed like a good idea at the time. But fear not because our learned dieticians and nutritionists never tire of telling us about the remarkable amount of sugar in all of those food products that were once considered as perfectly edible.
It does seem that wherever you look some perfectly innocent supermarket product that might have been declared safe to eat 40 years ago is now regarded as a potential killer if eaten or drunk obsessively. How often are we now told that sugary drinks for kids can be so harmful and dangerous to their health that at some point they may be in urgent need of immediate medical attention or a swift visit to the local hospital?
And yet for years and years the likes of Burger King, Pizza Hut, Pizza Express and, above all, the allegedly worst culprit Mcdonalds, have been beckoning us into their junk food parlours for too many decades to mention. Now, one of the world's most famous or infamous restaurants - depending on your point of view, Mcdonalds is one of the most visible burger and French fries eateries in the world. It is a huge, global marketing brand, stretching its influence to every corner of the planet and still at the forefront of everybody's attention where sport is played and money is to be made in the mainstream commercial world.
So what was the attraction of Mcdonalds in the first place? Is it that rather outlandish red sign with that very prominent letter M in yellow that lures us into its golden palace of burgers, chips and everything rich in so called fat. Or do we genuinely believe that if you happen to be rushing around at lunchtime for a comforting snack and you're too busy to buy what seems to be the healthier option then junk food can be the only plausible option?
But we love indulgence and what's wrong with a little gluttony. Besides it can't hurt and who are our wonderful doctors to tell us what's right or wrong for us? Junk food can make you, albeit temporarily, feel good about yourself, a socially acceptable member of the human race and what's the point in going to a party if you're told to refrain from nibbling at the dreaded crisps, savouries and the hundreds of those sandwiches. There can be little to be derived in the way of enjoyment if diets and abstinence are uppermost on your mind.
Yes ladies and gentleman. Today should be a day for riotous junk food eating, stoking up a medieval banquet of food in your garden, digging out the trusty barbecue, throwing thousands of sausages, steaks and burgers onto a sizzling griddle and making hay in the sweltering British summer sun. You may even be tempted to provide the children with as many boxes of chocolates and sweets as you possibly can, mixing together an enormous bowl of Pimms and then relaxing with a liberal sprinkling of deeply alcohol drinks just for good measure. It is, after all summer, so who cares?
Hold on a minute though. Many of us can still hear those healthy eating do gooders crying out for commonsense and moderation in everything. They believe, perhaps rightly, that junk food can only damage your heart and eventually lead down the road to ruination. It could, quite possibly, play havoc with your blood pressure, leaving you feeling both bloated, heavy and deeply uncomfortable. You'll put on vast amounts of weight, never be able to catch the bus or train and you can forget about that svelte six pack stomach at some very exotic beach.
For today is National Junk Food Day. a day for snacking, comfort eating, abandoning yourself wildly to huge KFC buckets of chicken in abundance, trays of Coca Cola, fizzy lemonade and all of those dreaded fried foods designed to satisfy that taste sensation, that craving for more and more until you're simply fit to burst.
Then there's the simple matter of ice cream, delicious helpings of ice-cream, the traditional favourite among many of us on those warm, lingeringly hot days of summer when the sun shimmers over the rooftops of the City and suburbia for ever and ever. Ice cream, while never strictly a junk food, still exerts the most powerful hold on children across the world because this is the one treat of the day we're always likely to remember.
This is indeed National Junk Food Day folks, for feasting on mouth watering burgers that look suspiciously like shoe leather and must leave you with a sense that you've been horribly short changed and of course hungrier than ever before.
Of course before we forget, that alluring chocolate cream gateau in the fridge has to be devoured and those Friday night kebabs with gallons of chili sauce have to be wolfed down. Yes folks it's time to celebrate National Junk Food Day with a massive celebration of everything that can only clutter up the kidneys, liver, digestive system and then all of those arteries that keep us ticking over. Sometimes a balance has to be struck, a happy medium met but then the sensitive issue of obesity that is currently pre-occupying us may never ever go away. Anybody for a choc ice.
You'll never guess what today is everybody. It's on the tip of your tongue which in many ways, given the nature of that famous phrase, should give you a clue. You'll kick yourself when I tell you. It's something to do with a multi billion pound or dollar industry and we do like to treat ourselves to it every so often. If your mouth is salivating and you can hardly wait any longer then this may be the time to tell you.
According to my reliable sources today is National Junk Food Day. Yes, honestly I kid you not. It's that day devoted to conspicuous consumption of the kind of food that's bad for you and expands your waistline no end. It's a day for excessive eating of burgers, chips, pizzas, crisps, mountainous bars of chocolate while there's nobody around and generally giving in meekly to the temptation of cholesterol coated, sweet things that stimulate the senses and generally leave you feeling happy but guilty at the same time.
Don't think I didn't see you sneaking into the biscuit tin or raiding the fridge for mouth watering cakes from last night's party. And yet seriously folks this is National Junk Food Day, a day when insatiable appetites can never be satisfied because it seemed like a good idea at the time. But fear not because our learned dieticians and nutritionists never tire of telling us about the remarkable amount of sugar in all of those food products that were once considered as perfectly edible.
It does seem that wherever you look some perfectly innocent supermarket product that might have been declared safe to eat 40 years ago is now regarded as a potential killer if eaten or drunk obsessively. How often are we now told that sugary drinks for kids can be so harmful and dangerous to their health that at some point they may be in urgent need of immediate medical attention or a swift visit to the local hospital?
And yet for years and years the likes of Burger King, Pizza Hut, Pizza Express and, above all, the allegedly worst culprit Mcdonalds, have been beckoning us into their junk food parlours for too many decades to mention. Now, one of the world's most famous or infamous restaurants - depending on your point of view, Mcdonalds is one of the most visible burger and French fries eateries in the world. It is a huge, global marketing brand, stretching its influence to every corner of the planet and still at the forefront of everybody's attention where sport is played and money is to be made in the mainstream commercial world.
So what was the attraction of Mcdonalds in the first place? Is it that rather outlandish red sign with that very prominent letter M in yellow that lures us into its golden palace of burgers, chips and everything rich in so called fat. Or do we genuinely believe that if you happen to be rushing around at lunchtime for a comforting snack and you're too busy to buy what seems to be the healthier option then junk food can be the only plausible option?
But we love indulgence and what's wrong with a little gluttony. Besides it can't hurt and who are our wonderful doctors to tell us what's right or wrong for us? Junk food can make you, albeit temporarily, feel good about yourself, a socially acceptable member of the human race and what's the point in going to a party if you're told to refrain from nibbling at the dreaded crisps, savouries and the hundreds of those sandwiches. There can be little to be derived in the way of enjoyment if diets and abstinence are uppermost on your mind.
Yes ladies and gentleman. Today should be a day for riotous junk food eating, stoking up a medieval banquet of food in your garden, digging out the trusty barbecue, throwing thousands of sausages, steaks and burgers onto a sizzling griddle and making hay in the sweltering British summer sun. You may even be tempted to provide the children with as many boxes of chocolates and sweets as you possibly can, mixing together an enormous bowl of Pimms and then relaxing with a liberal sprinkling of deeply alcohol drinks just for good measure. It is, after all summer, so who cares?
Hold on a minute though. Many of us can still hear those healthy eating do gooders crying out for commonsense and moderation in everything. They believe, perhaps rightly, that junk food can only damage your heart and eventually lead down the road to ruination. It could, quite possibly, play havoc with your blood pressure, leaving you feeling both bloated, heavy and deeply uncomfortable. You'll put on vast amounts of weight, never be able to catch the bus or train and you can forget about that svelte six pack stomach at some very exotic beach.
For today is National Junk Food Day. a day for snacking, comfort eating, abandoning yourself wildly to huge KFC buckets of chicken in abundance, trays of Coca Cola, fizzy lemonade and all of those dreaded fried foods designed to satisfy that taste sensation, that craving for more and more until you're simply fit to burst.
Then there's the simple matter of ice cream, delicious helpings of ice-cream, the traditional favourite among many of us on those warm, lingeringly hot days of summer when the sun shimmers over the rooftops of the City and suburbia for ever and ever. Ice cream, while never strictly a junk food, still exerts the most powerful hold on children across the world because this is the one treat of the day we're always likely to remember.
This is indeed National Junk Food Day folks, for feasting on mouth watering burgers that look suspiciously like shoe leather and must leave you with a sense that you've been horribly short changed and of course hungrier than ever before.
Of course before we forget, that alluring chocolate cream gateau in the fridge has to be devoured and those Friday night kebabs with gallons of chili sauce have to be wolfed down. Yes folks it's time to celebrate National Junk Food Day with a massive celebration of everything that can only clutter up the kidneys, liver, digestive system and then all of those arteries that keep us ticking over. Sometimes a balance has to be struck, a happy medium met but then the sensitive issue of obesity that is currently pre-occupying us may never ever go away. Anybody for a choc ice.
Wednesday, 18 July 2018
The British Open at Carnoustie and memories of Tony Jacklin in 1969.
The British Open at Carnoustie and memories of Tony Jacklin in 1969.
Next year it'll be 50 years since the great British golfer Tony Jacklin won the British Open at Royal Lytham Saint Annes on the Lancashire coast. Fresh faced and cherubic Jacklin, still pretty chipper and infused with a good deal of hale and hearty good cheer, will undoubtedly look back on that wind swept, summery day of 1969 and wonder whether British golf has ever produced a more popular and likeable sportsman. He grinned delightedly for the TV cameras, probably bought the first pint for BBC commentators Peter Alliss and Henry Longhurst and thought what a jolly good game golf was and still is.
And indeed it is. But there are times when the mind dwells on the famous Mark Twain quote about golf being a good walk spoiled, wondering whether the notable Mr Twain may have had a valid point or simply complaining and moaning about nothing in particular. Besides, the successful completion of a long and seemingly interminable 18 hole course in any part of the world does seem a major slog and unnecessarily demanding. But maybe this couldn't be further from the truth and is just some nonsensical objection based on total ignorance.
Of course the perception of golf as a middle class elitist sport designed for the respectable property developer or the dynamic City stockbroker who now lives in deepest Surrey, could hardly be more inaccurate. Golf is marvellously relaxing, mentally and physically good for you and bracingly invigorating. It is sport for the purist, hand to eye coordination employed to the best use and great exercise on a Sunday morning. Or any morning and perhaps the entire day.
Tony Jacklin may have good cause to remember the 1969 British Open because it was here that Jacklin swung his driver with a vengeance and did what very few had done before him. Jacklin achieved a hole in one and to this day the image is engraved on the minds of all golfing aficionados both in Britain and the rest of the world. The ball gently plopped into the hole from quite the most remarkable distance and ever since the British golfers who have followed Jacklin have always been grateful for Jacklin's lead.
The conveyor belt of British golfers who have since reached the most exalted heights is endless. There was Nick Faldo, Sandy Lyle, Peter Oosterhuis, Ian Woosnam, and more recently Justin Rose, players with fashionable pullovers, huge, booming swings, perfectly pitched chips out of the roughest fairways and the most controlled of putts on carpet greens. All of course had and may still have their very own distinctive styles, temperaments, lovable idiosyncrasies and a natural flair for the game that should never be questioned.
Nick Faldo of course was, allegedly, the bear with the sore head, a grizzly who could hardly control his emotions, irritable, irascible and, according to some, just infuriatingly slow. And yet Faldo would always address a golf ball with a good old fashioned iron and impeccable concentration on his face, swivelling his hips perfectly in line with the ball and blasting the ball into mid air as if he knew exactly where it was going to land. Faldo always oozed class and complete control on a golf course.
Then there was Sandy Lyle and Ian Woosnam, players with an immense geographical knowledge of a golf course, carefully weighing up their shots, crouching on their haunches and measuring their putts with a formidable commonsense and discretion. Lyle always seemed to be a perfectionist and stylist while Woosnam was always confident and sure of himself. Oosterhuis was a good, old fashioned professional, thorough in his preparation and full of cunning strategies.
Tomorrow though, the latest generation of British golfers will wake up at the crack of dawn, stretch their flexible shoulders and arms, clench their irons and woods with supple fingers, and then spend the better part of half an hour swinging at thin air, following through with the ball, practising, practising and then rehearsing over and over again because that's how dedicated golfers are. They live, eat, drink, sleep and eat their sport as if it was the only thing on their mind, their overriding pre-occupation, a livelihood that may well be financially lucrative - and handsomely so- but a sport to be treasured.
In the early hours of Thursday morning the likes of Rory Mcilroy and Ian Poulter will be driving off from the first tee at Carnoustie. The hugely appreciative Scottish public will be gathered in their multitudes, perhaps with umbrellas over their heads or maybe basking in the sweltering Scottish heat. They will huddle together, agog with an enduring anticipation and hardly able to hold back their lifetime love of the game. They will then launch into thunderous applause when the first drive from the first hole is thumped decisively into the air.
Golf has always had its gifted legends, its players of craft and technical genius, players with the most infectious humour and sense of fun and men who, for just a couple of days, happily share their bubbly effervescence and gushing enthusiasm for the game. Down the years and decades their names have been like gleaming gold shields, sparkling jewellery, precious diamonds that can never be valued.
There was the late Arnold Palmer, one of golfing's greatest technicians, a player of grace and graciousness, politeness and utter charm. Palmer would seem to float around the fairways, bunkers and greens with that gentlemanly demeanour that very few of his peers could ever match. He would joke with the crowds from time to time, roll his wrists in search of the most flawless swing, chip the ball out of fairways with an uncanny accuracy and then check his score card.
Who could ever forget Lee Trevino, the ultimate joker and comedian on any golf course whether it be the US Masters or the British Open? Trevino was of course one of the game's greatest entertainers, extrovert, hugely talented, sociable, a man for all seasons and never afraid to try the unexpected. The memory remains of Trevino audaciously holing from a bunker as if it were as natural as breathing or brushing your teeth.
When the subject of golf comes up for discussion in any clubhouse or bar the names of Jack Nicklaus and Tom Watson are almost recited like a familiar song. Nicklaus of course was born to be one of the greatest golfers the game has ever given us. In fact, he was probably memorising his drives from the tee in his cot. Nicklaus was a stunning exponent of the game, majestically striking the ball with eye popping accuracy, mapping out his game, planning his every shot, studying his next moves with a remarkable foresight and then beating his opponent out of sight with a merciless menace.
Watson also won the hearts of the British golfing public with that cheerful but steely eyed determination that always demoralised the rest of the field before they'd had even time to swallow their first bowl of Corn Flakes. Watson was similarly cool, calculating, methodical and the firmest of favourites with British crowds, charming them, captivating them and making them feel as if they were always the most important people every time he set eyes on them.
And so it is that our Irish showman Rory Mcilroy will be the main, headlining attraction, a golfer of smoothness, suppleness and exquisite gifts. Mcilroy is very much the player of our times, embodying the very best that golf can offer. His long and short game is well documented and there is a growing belief that this could be his year to win the British Open.
It is hard to believe that the football World Cup has now left with us with so many delightful images that it may be impossible to forget them. Still, it's time for British and world golfers to turn their attentions to the British Open tomorrow. Then we remembered the words of Mark Twain and couldn't quite understand what he was talking about. The finer points of golf seem to be permanently lost on him and besides when was the last time he won the British Open. We will never know.
Next year it'll be 50 years since the great British golfer Tony Jacklin won the British Open at Royal Lytham Saint Annes on the Lancashire coast. Fresh faced and cherubic Jacklin, still pretty chipper and infused with a good deal of hale and hearty good cheer, will undoubtedly look back on that wind swept, summery day of 1969 and wonder whether British golf has ever produced a more popular and likeable sportsman. He grinned delightedly for the TV cameras, probably bought the first pint for BBC commentators Peter Alliss and Henry Longhurst and thought what a jolly good game golf was and still is.
And indeed it is. But there are times when the mind dwells on the famous Mark Twain quote about golf being a good walk spoiled, wondering whether the notable Mr Twain may have had a valid point or simply complaining and moaning about nothing in particular. Besides, the successful completion of a long and seemingly interminable 18 hole course in any part of the world does seem a major slog and unnecessarily demanding. But maybe this couldn't be further from the truth and is just some nonsensical objection based on total ignorance.
Of course the perception of golf as a middle class elitist sport designed for the respectable property developer or the dynamic City stockbroker who now lives in deepest Surrey, could hardly be more inaccurate. Golf is marvellously relaxing, mentally and physically good for you and bracingly invigorating. It is sport for the purist, hand to eye coordination employed to the best use and great exercise on a Sunday morning. Or any morning and perhaps the entire day.
Tony Jacklin may have good cause to remember the 1969 British Open because it was here that Jacklin swung his driver with a vengeance and did what very few had done before him. Jacklin achieved a hole in one and to this day the image is engraved on the minds of all golfing aficionados both in Britain and the rest of the world. The ball gently plopped into the hole from quite the most remarkable distance and ever since the British golfers who have followed Jacklin have always been grateful for Jacklin's lead.
The conveyor belt of British golfers who have since reached the most exalted heights is endless. There was Nick Faldo, Sandy Lyle, Peter Oosterhuis, Ian Woosnam, and more recently Justin Rose, players with fashionable pullovers, huge, booming swings, perfectly pitched chips out of the roughest fairways and the most controlled of putts on carpet greens. All of course had and may still have their very own distinctive styles, temperaments, lovable idiosyncrasies and a natural flair for the game that should never be questioned.
Nick Faldo of course was, allegedly, the bear with the sore head, a grizzly who could hardly control his emotions, irritable, irascible and, according to some, just infuriatingly slow. And yet Faldo would always address a golf ball with a good old fashioned iron and impeccable concentration on his face, swivelling his hips perfectly in line with the ball and blasting the ball into mid air as if he knew exactly where it was going to land. Faldo always oozed class and complete control on a golf course.
Then there was Sandy Lyle and Ian Woosnam, players with an immense geographical knowledge of a golf course, carefully weighing up their shots, crouching on their haunches and measuring their putts with a formidable commonsense and discretion. Lyle always seemed to be a perfectionist and stylist while Woosnam was always confident and sure of himself. Oosterhuis was a good, old fashioned professional, thorough in his preparation and full of cunning strategies.
Tomorrow though, the latest generation of British golfers will wake up at the crack of dawn, stretch their flexible shoulders and arms, clench their irons and woods with supple fingers, and then spend the better part of half an hour swinging at thin air, following through with the ball, practising, practising and then rehearsing over and over again because that's how dedicated golfers are. They live, eat, drink, sleep and eat their sport as if it was the only thing on their mind, their overriding pre-occupation, a livelihood that may well be financially lucrative - and handsomely so- but a sport to be treasured.
In the early hours of Thursday morning the likes of Rory Mcilroy and Ian Poulter will be driving off from the first tee at Carnoustie. The hugely appreciative Scottish public will be gathered in their multitudes, perhaps with umbrellas over their heads or maybe basking in the sweltering Scottish heat. They will huddle together, agog with an enduring anticipation and hardly able to hold back their lifetime love of the game. They will then launch into thunderous applause when the first drive from the first hole is thumped decisively into the air.
Golf has always had its gifted legends, its players of craft and technical genius, players with the most infectious humour and sense of fun and men who, for just a couple of days, happily share their bubbly effervescence and gushing enthusiasm for the game. Down the years and decades their names have been like gleaming gold shields, sparkling jewellery, precious diamonds that can never be valued.
There was the late Arnold Palmer, one of golfing's greatest technicians, a player of grace and graciousness, politeness and utter charm. Palmer would seem to float around the fairways, bunkers and greens with that gentlemanly demeanour that very few of his peers could ever match. He would joke with the crowds from time to time, roll his wrists in search of the most flawless swing, chip the ball out of fairways with an uncanny accuracy and then check his score card.
Who could ever forget Lee Trevino, the ultimate joker and comedian on any golf course whether it be the US Masters or the British Open? Trevino was of course one of the game's greatest entertainers, extrovert, hugely talented, sociable, a man for all seasons and never afraid to try the unexpected. The memory remains of Trevino audaciously holing from a bunker as if it were as natural as breathing or brushing your teeth.
When the subject of golf comes up for discussion in any clubhouse or bar the names of Jack Nicklaus and Tom Watson are almost recited like a familiar song. Nicklaus of course was born to be one of the greatest golfers the game has ever given us. In fact, he was probably memorising his drives from the tee in his cot. Nicklaus was a stunning exponent of the game, majestically striking the ball with eye popping accuracy, mapping out his game, planning his every shot, studying his next moves with a remarkable foresight and then beating his opponent out of sight with a merciless menace.
Watson also won the hearts of the British golfing public with that cheerful but steely eyed determination that always demoralised the rest of the field before they'd had even time to swallow their first bowl of Corn Flakes. Watson was similarly cool, calculating, methodical and the firmest of favourites with British crowds, charming them, captivating them and making them feel as if they were always the most important people every time he set eyes on them.
And so it is that our Irish showman Rory Mcilroy will be the main, headlining attraction, a golfer of smoothness, suppleness and exquisite gifts. Mcilroy is very much the player of our times, embodying the very best that golf can offer. His long and short game is well documented and there is a growing belief that this could be his year to win the British Open.
It is hard to believe that the football World Cup has now left with us with so many delightful images that it may be impossible to forget them. Still, it's time for British and world golfers to turn their attentions to the British Open tomorrow. Then we remembered the words of Mark Twain and couldn't quite understand what he was talking about. The finer points of golf seem to be permanently lost on him and besides when was the last time he won the British Open. We will never know.
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