England reign in Spain in UEFA Nations League win against Spain.

England reign in Spain in UEFA Nations League win against Spain.

So it was that England overcame the matador, the picador and the toreador all at once. There, that was easy enough. After performing before the proverbial two dogs and a cat in Croatia, England showed both their feline and canine side against a Spain side who once boasted a couple of European Championship titles and a World Cup for good measure.

Last night in the place where they grow oranges, England gave one of the juiciest and appealing of  UEFA Nations League 3-2 victories and then began to realise just how good that felt. Besides it isn't every day that you get to meet the former World Champions and then dismissively sweep them away like dust from the floor. This was an excellent England display and once again replicated the feelgood factor still accompanying England after the most epic of all World Cups in Russia this summer.

True, this may have been the UEFA Nations League and there are some of us who may be feeling sold down the river and  desperately short changed but England have undeniably won again and that has to be good. Of course something has been lost in the translation and the UEFA Nations League still has echoes of those distant 1970s English club pre- season tournaments such as the Texaco Cup or the Watney Cup, international matches but international matches without clout and prestige. Or maybe the UEFA Nations League should be taken seriously.

Still, here we are in what feels suspiciously like dress rehearsals for the European Championship qualifiers and it all feels very strange even mundane. You're reminded of that phoney war known as the Confederations Cup, the tournament that now precedes the World Cup the year before the real thing takes place. Some of us though are still tapping our fingers on the table, searching for some kind of clarification and wondering why this is happening at all.

But onwards and upwards and we must confront the immediate future rather than a dusty, antiquated past where nothing useful can be gained. This was another incarnation of the England side who had bent over backwards and bust a gut to give the whole of England both at home and in Russia such enormous pleasure under the stern gazes of both Stalin and Lenin which couldn't have been easy given that the equally as forbidding faces of  Brezhnev and Yeltsin may have well been looking on judgmentally as well.

This could have been regarded as simply a continuation of those heady, giddy and dizzy days of wine and roses which came perfectly delivered to our doorsteps like the most magnificent bouquet of flowers. Russia is now history and now Gareth Southgate's newly refreshed England side came flying out of the traps like the sleekest of greyhounds. Slight alterations and minor tweaks had been made to last night's most delectable of victories. It was as if somebody had given us the most mouth watering marzipan cake and smothered it with cherries and overflowing cream.

Against Spain, England looked once again like a stunning replica of the side who'd flattened Panama, dealt admirably with Colombia in the face of spiky and often unforgivable provocation and then slipped Sweden into their pockets like a child picking up their sweet wrapper. There were some old faces, new faces, welcome faces and faces that just fitted into the side seamlessly. England looked something close to the finished article that almost ended up in a World Cup Final, a position that must have beyond any of their wildest fantasies at the beginning of the year.

There was the return of Chelsea's Ross Barkley, an excellently creative midfield playmaker whose remarkable vision and almost extra sensory perception singled him out at Everton as one of the most refined of footballing architects. Barkley seems to weigh up his passes like one of those supermarket shoppers from yesteryear who used to insist that their meat and cheese be cut and measured to the exact amount.

Barkley once again then floated and glided around the middle of the Seville pitch, cutting inside, loitering with commendable intent and then thrusting forward into the opposition half rather like some devious impostor at a party who, quite clearly, hadn't been invited. Barkley is one of England's  most complete of midfield players and, you feel sure, will inevitably be given his chance to cement his place in Gareth Southgate's flowering England side.

Next to Barkley is Harry Winks, a wet behind the ears Spurs discovery who has shown quite consistently that he too can wear the artists smock when called upon. Winks plays with the ball delicately, tenderly, easily and precisely, laying the ball into his colleague's path with pleasing economy of effort and then showing a relaxed assurance on the ball. It is impossible to know whether Winks could be the next Glen Hoddle but Winks has the most feathery and gossamer touch and could be among one of Gareth Southgate's essential fixtures and fittings.

As usual England looked rock solid and secure at the back with Eric Dier locking up the keys commandingly at the back before venturing forward into that definitive defensive holding midfield role that he seems to have made his province. The exceptionally young but superbly promising Joe Gomez, a real find for Liverpool and that formidable set piece corner exponent Harry Maguire look like human fortresses. veritable brick walls at the back through whom nothing should ever pass.

But it was the exciting contributions of Raheem Sterling, Marcus Rashford and above all World Cup skipper and record goal scorer Harry Kane who tempted us to think that one day it could all fall into place with no hesitation or deviation. Most of us know what we're going to get with England and the element of surprise could be something to work on. We can only be thankful and look back on that festival of football with the fondest of memories and an affectionate acknowledgement of what it was like to be an England football supporter without getting too sentimental.

 Quite obviously the players who succeeded at every level for England during the summer are now blending in perfectly, a nicely integrated attacking unit who could yet step up to a far higher footballing platform provided nobody mentions penalty shoot outs at dinner parties across the land.

England made that all important breakthrough after, ironically a tidal wave of Spanish pressure which bore no resemblance to the Armada but did threaten English confidence and equilibrium. Raheem Sterling, running purposefully onto a neatly weighted pass  rifled the ball into the Spanish net with a drilled shot which gave the Spain keeper no chance whatsoever.

Then before the Spanish could resort to sangria by way of liquid refreshment, England extended their lead. Marcus Rashford, who really does possess the potential to emerge as one of England's finest of all strikers, latched onto sharply to a deft Harry Kane lay back. Another well structured England movement, quick and clinical, resulted in Rashford barging his way into the box before steering the ball fiercely past the keeper. This was perhaps one of the most rewarding nights England have had for some time against one of the top notch, nouveau riche and classical of European teams.

Although Spain briefly rallied with what proved to be consolation goals, England were firing from all angles, constantly upsetting and troubling Spain with pacy, cuttingly penetrative football. England's attacking forward line were full of salt, vinegar and spice, a combination of  controlled aggression and bullish combativeness, beefy ingredients with steak and kidney pie in one healthy serving.

After the match itself the considered opinion was that this was England's best result in recent times and one that bore comparison with that famous night when England just sliced open the Germans with a 5-1 demolition 17 years ago. This was no Munich though rather the most delicious Spanish paella with maybe a fine vintage of red wine to wash it down with.

And so it was that we move away from the international scene for a while and revert back to the toil and drudgery of the Premier League. The factory floor is still humming and the workers will be as industrious as ever. This weekend we will once again cast our eyes towards  the grumpy one who goes by the name of Manchester United's Jose Mourinho, the attractively fashionable one who is Pep Guardiola at Manchester City, the new Unai Emery at Arsenal and that financial whizz kid who used to be a banker and is now Chelsea manager.

 We will watch Maurizio Sarri with some interest if you'll forgive yet another pun and hope that he doesn't get quite as excitable as his predecessor Antonio Conte who loved nothing better than a good dive into the Chelsea crowd and always wore black. These are notable times in our lives and when the Premier League does get back to some semblance of order we may find that the familiar names will be ready and waiting with the same clothes and the same habits. We can hardly wait.

National Train Your Brain Day

National Train Your Brain Day.

I know what you're thinking. What will he think of next? The fact is that today is National Train Your Brain Day. What kind of topic for discussion is that? It's a kind of no brainer if you'll forgive the unintended pun. More of a brainwave. Oh, alright then this is one of those perhaps insignificant days when nothing of any real interest will be taking place apart  of course from those vexing issues that really do wind us up from time to time such as Brexit, Donald Trump's leg measurements and Theresa May's innovative dancing routines.

Yes indeed. Today is National Train Your Brain Day whereby a whole nation of crossword puzzle enthusiasts, Sudoko zealots, word game fans and those who are simply partial to the most complicated  mathematical equations sit down together, stare thoughtfully into their respective books or pieces of paper and wonder exactly what goes through the cerebral senses when the brain and mind clock on for another shift at the coal face on a daily basis.

So what, you may be interested to know, goes on in that grey matter of ours when we're confronted with seemingly insoluble problems that require intensive thinking and cool calculation. Isn't it interesting how the human brain takes on board so much information during the day that by the end of it, a sense of mental exhaustion probably sets in without any of us being remotely conscious of it?

Back in the 1980s there was the famous Rubik's Cube, a fascinating object that looked like a cube and had different colours on it, driving most of us to the verge of drink and sleepless nights. The Rubik's Cube required us to match up four squares on a cube without drifting into a state of complete agitation and anger. At the time though we thought it was one of those passing toy fads that would meet the same fate as any other infuriating novelty that would drive us around the bend.

But for ages the whole of world was tormented, challenged, angered and outraged by the Rubik's Cube, an object of hate, enjoyment in some quarters and then contempt by others when you just couldn't work out why it was taking an inordinate amount of time to sort it out . So it was that one day we consigned it to the dustbin of history, obliterated it from our crowded brain and just stuck to crossword puzzles.

For a while the thought of twisting around reds, blues, greens and yellows to their appropriate places must have seemed an insane waste of a day because you were never likely to achieve anything of substance by twiddling with a crazy toy that didn't really seem to prove anything. Even the Hungarian inventor got ever so slightly cross with himself at his complete inability to solve his own creation. Or so we were led to believe at the time.

For many though perhaps the most satisfying of brain challenges would have to be The Times cryptic crossword. Now here was something to get your teeth into. The Times cryptic crossword has sent most of our brightest minds into both the coldest of sweats and reaching for a Thesaurus. The fact is that the Times crossword can be completed and many a mind, both deeply contemplative and serious of thought, has found there was nothing to it and proudly owned up to the fact that it had taken them no time at all. Simple really they will tell you.

But the Times crossword would have to be much cleverer, thought provoking and cunning than the conventional and simple tea time break crossword. It sets up those obscure and convoluted statements and remarkable plays on words that look as though they were designed for professors and scientists. Suddenly, training the brain takes on a whole new meaning. This is brain training on the most gigantic scale.

Coming right up to the present day though and one brain training puzzle has gripped the world in a way that few have been able to do for quite some time. It's called Sudoko and it's a mathematical conundrum that leaves some of us desperately begging for enlightenment. For the best part of an eternity it has left me in a dizzying state of incomprehension. Maths just wasn't my thing, not my forte as they say. Sudoko, although seemingly logical and straightforward to the mind of a mathematician, is just beyond me. Maybe now this is the time though to try harder and concentrate but at the moment the inclination is not there.

For the moment though this could be the time to reflect on how much we take the brain for granted. All of those brain teasers and puzzles are all very well but is it really necessary to stress ourselves out over the most trivial questions and imponderables? Do we really have to convince ourselves that when it comes to crossword puzzles we should treat them as some inoffensive fun where it no longer matters whether you can actually solve them or not?

Still, the next time you begin to pepper questions at the most influential part of the human anatomy you may be interested to know that perhaps the brain is a delicate and vulnerable mechanism that only responds to you favourably when it knows that you're posing it inquiries that it can answer at the snap of the finger. Oh, if only I could begin to understand the Times Crossword. Still, there's always Sudoko. On second thoughts maybe not.     

International football and that anti climactic feeling.

International football and that anti climactic feeling.

So here we are four months after that famous World Cup journey for the England football team. How agonisingly close did we come after all of those helter skelter moments, those emotional highs and ultimately lows that unfolded in the space of four glorious weeks. It was a time when it seemed as if the whole of England had gathered in every market town, village square, timber beamed pub and vast, sprawling shopping mall. They were there to witness some of the most tumultuous moments  of our time when blood pressures soared through the roof and plastic cups of beer were sent flying into another city.

Roll forward to early autumn in England and the sense of a shuddering anti climax may have set in. Every farmer, postman, milkman, slick City lawyer, accountant, carpenter, office worker, supermarket shelf stacker and factory hand will now be suffering that weirdly anti climactic sensation that we must have felt when England last reached a World Cup semi final in 1990.

True, on this occasion there weren't any penalty shoot outs nor disconsolate figures such as Stuart Pearce and Chris Waddle to lay the blame on. But there was a very well organised and disciplined Croatia side lying in waiting for Gareth Southgate's England and at the end of an enthralling semi final which went right to the wire England once again trooped off the pitch in Russia much richer for the experience but slightly disappointed. Perhaps they were just relieved to know that they wouldn't have to deal with a rampant, youthfully irrepressible France side who would have probably taken them to the cleaners.

After having the lion's share of the possession in the opening stages and threatening to make a game of it against France Croatia were simply blown away by a rampant French side who became a side possessed, brimming over with  powerful counter attacking, youthful energy and immense skill. It was as if somebody had stolen Croatia's keys to the palace only to find that the palace was a bed and breakfast hotel. From the sublime to ridiculous or so it seemed.

But this is October and England are back on the UEFA Nations League trail. Or is it the European Championship? At some point in the footballing calendar some of us have lost track of where we are. We've now discovered that somebody seems to be tampering with the international footballing diary and this is very confusing. There is still an abiding sense of bewilderment and some of us are not entirely sure whether we've any reason to get fully excited about it.

This is the problem. What is the UEFA Nations League? How to explain quantum physics or the last 500 or so pages of Leo Tolstoy's War and Peace although it was a remarkably entertaining novel if a little on the long side. But what is this UEFA Nations Champions League, this new fangled competition with admittedly a League table to it but nothing to suggest that any of us will  feel any sense of glowing pride even if we do qualify from a group that includes Spain and Croatia.

To the best of my recollection the international football calendar used to consist of European Championship qualifiers or World Cup qualifying campaign at roughly this time. England normally began their international campaign to a new season with a gentle friendly followed by a rigorous schedule of  Euro or World Cup qualifying games.

Now we have the UEFA Nations League, some indecipherable addition to the world footballing merry go round which makes no sense whatsoever or maybe I've missed something along the way. Are we to assume that because England seemed to have led the rest of Europe up  the garden path in that perhaps those in the highest circles of UEFA are determined to inflict some kind of cruel revenge on us for all the mess and inconvenience caused by Brexit.

Have England indeed been relegated from Europe's top table, excommunicated, shoved into the background and condemned to a life in some third class competition that none of us can make head or tail of. And yet it doesn't feel as though England have in any way been rejected or marginalised by the powers to be because we are playing Spain and Croatia and they're still forces to be reckoned with.

Still we mustn't grumble because England have still got Gareth Southgate and that has to be worth three points even before the start of a game. When he first appeared as manager of England many of us would have been forgiven that Southgate had just stepped out of a high street bank or just left a very important function in the City of London.

Southgate of course was the best dressed football manager at the World Cup by a several hundred country miles. He wore this very sartorially striking blue waistcoat that suggested that he'd just inquired how much the mortgage rate was or the prices of property in Kensington. But Southgate looked immaculate, a model of quite modesty, respectability, credibility, street cred, no airs or graces at all and the kind of son every daughter would have been desperate to take home and show to her parents.

And so it was that Southgate transported us to a very special place where even the wildest of optimists thought they'd never tread. They strolled to victory against Tunisia with a businesslike victory, chanced their luck against Colombia before finally cracking that hitherto impenetrable nut known as the penalty shoot out and then pickled the Swedes in a quarter final that almost seemed too good to be true.

Along the way that vast hard core of England's travelling supporters must have privately felt that finally after 52 years of humiliation, rejection, feeling sorry for themselves, self pity perhaps and shame faced degradation it was time to imagine what exactly would have been going through the minds of England supporters who followed their team during 1966.

They'd all suffered through those horribly deflating, disheartening, dispiriting years when the England football team simply fell apart, melted into oblivion, only narrowly missed out on World Cup glory and then just gave up. Maybe England were indeed banging their heads on the proverbial wall in which case they should have been wearing a protective builder's hard hat.

Then, for lengthy periods of their semi final, the ruggedly dependable Eric Dier, the free spirited Delle Ali, the floating, fast, athletic and very resourceful Raheem Sterling tried thrillingly to engineer and carve out some of England's most progressive attacking movements. Occasionally Sterling seemed to collide into a street bollard or stumble awkwardly at a critical moment. Jordan Henderson, who seemed to be criminally overlooked as captain material, was moderately effective when slowing the game down and then measuring his passes across England's midfield columns.

But the man upon whom most of England seemed to become heavily dependent for all of those crucial winning goals almost led his country into uncharted territory. 52 years earlier the nation's hearts were similarly broken upon learning that another Spurs poster boy hero Jimmy Greaves would be injured and therefore not available for the 1966 World Cup Final.

Of course Harry Kane has an indeterminate amount of time to prove himself as one of England's greatest of all centre forwards. Already Kane has smashed the records set  respectively by Bobby Charlton and Gary Lineker but there remains a nagging feeling that Russia 2018 has gone and by the time of Qatar in four years the desert will be a lonely place and besides it'll be far too hot to play anyway. But hey who cares it's only the World Cup and even Montgomery found it tough at  times.

Anyway it's time to get back to brass tacks and time for England to climb their way up the torturous foothills of international football. They may come up against some of the most treacherous rocks and boulders before attempting some giant leap into what they will hope become their very own Promised Land.

Following the England football team in recent years has never been easy and this could be the time for a leisurely re-assessment, repositioning and rapidly changing direction before the Satnav takes us somewhere else. Russia 2018, you feel sure felt like some tropical paradise for a while before England came up against those familiar mangrove swamps where all of those dense jungles can leave you feeling angry and frustrated.

Now though should be the time to once again salute one Gareth Southgate there's only one Gareth Southgate. Southgate was the presentable one, the estimable one, the well mannered one, a polite, proper, chatty, charming and diplomatic football manager always ready with the most well crafted quip. When Southgate went over to the England supporters and punched the air with both fists joyously and exultantly he did it not once but over and over again. It has been a jolly good year for the England football team even if the Jules Rimes Trophy World Cup didn't quite reach its intended destination. It's time to tackle that dreadful maze that is UEFA Nations League. We wish Southgate the very best of wishes.   

It's still summer in October.

It's still summer in October.


Yes folks it's back by popular demand and looking better than ever. Summer is indeed back and it's hard to believe that here we at the beginning of October and the good people of North London and Manor House are still walking around the streets with T-shirts on, beach shirts, flip flops and basking in the surreally warm heat of early autumn. There's something there that doesn't seem to be quite right and yet how excessively grateful we are for this most completely unexpected of returns.

It did look as though the last few weeks or so were more or less the accepted norm for this time of the year as Britain woke to angry skies, grey, murky mists and dark, incensed clouds that were gathering together their battalions for a full frontal attack of heavy rain and blustery winds. But this was quite literally a false dawn because today most of Britain woke up this morning and was convinced that the Mediterranean had made a welcome re-appearance. We hadn't prepared for this and there were never any indications that blue skies, warm sunshine and July had popped in for a flying visit.

Still here we on this most gorgeous October day, wondering if this may be too good to last. Besides, this could be a forerunner for gale force winds, monsoons, even thick blankets of snow within the next week or so. But rest assured it's here at the moment and let us just take everything in, absorb the sheer perfection of it all, dismissing from our minds immediately that it won't last and by the end of the week we'll all be shivering with cold and freezing in which case that was merely some temporary lull before the storm.

Here in Manor House the fresh, brand new regeneration of the whole area is well and truly underway. Everywhere you look there are those towering, magisterial looking cranes soaring over our homely home from home like a giant set of Lego or Meccano. Truly, these cranes and JCBs are quite the tallest and most intimidating sight you're ever likely to see in suburban London. They hover in the air with red winking lights that go on at night just to remind you that they're still there.

But the fact is that, as my wife rightly points out, this is the biggest building site in Europe. You wouldn't believe the monumental scale of these ludicrously expensive flats and apartments, the vast immensity of it all, the monstrous cement mixers whirling, grinding, moaning and moping, forever making the most extraordinary noise. It is the sound of modern British industrialism, groaning and heavy machinery, things that go beep and sound like a constant sequence of fire drill alarms.

Most of the brand new blocks of flats behind us have now been built but behind one of our garden walls it looks as if a new city is in the process of being developed. A huge set of massive foundation stones, thick girders the size of London itself and all manner of building equipment is beginning to block out all natural light.

For as far as the eye can see there is evolution, progress and futuristic architecture that looks and feels as if the 21st century has arrived with fanfares, bells and whistles. Gone are the old blocks of flats and now in its place are the fresh, luxuriously furnished and spectacular homes with smart looking balconies and quite the most astonishing views over the beautiful Woodberry Wetlands.

That's it Woodberry Wetlands. Who knew that such a place existed years ago. But this is the Woodberry Wetlands opened up recently by the legendary Sir David Attenborough. Woodberry Wetlands is an explosion of nature at her prettiest and most natural. In fact Manor House is beginning to look irresistibly picturesque so much so that you'd be forgiven for thinking that you were indeed in the country and John Constable was still alive.

The Wetlands is now the place to go for every imaginable gathering of birds, every conceivable colour and every variety of our avian friends. There are doubtless great crested grebes, kingfishers proudly surveying their stretch of water nobly, Canadian geese strutting around imperiously as if they owned Manor House, magpies, finches tightly tucked away behind bushes and anything with feathers and a beak.

There are butterfly catching parties who stop in awed admiration, the Coal House cafe, ducks perched delicately on small islands in the middle of the water and nothing but the most idyllic silence when all is still calm and at peace with the world. People stroll around in their small knots all the while gazing into the far distance, their faces totally enraptured by the teeming wildlife. Then they stop for a while fascinated, engrossed by the spectacle around them, standing for a while and then pointing out the names of the birds to eager, receptive children.

So there you have it everybody. Summer is back in North London, healthier, fitter and stronger than ever before. October is still pinching itself because it just can't take it all in. It almost seems as if it was determined to surprise us without us noticing, catching us out suddenly and maybe deluding us into thinking that these warm, sultry days are here to stay until Christmas Day.

Perhaps it should have given us prior warning or made some grand announcement, a pleasant surprise that none of us could have expected. Sadly though you suspect that winter may be hiding covertly behind some chaotic hawthorn bush away from the hustle and bustle of the City and ready to pounce on us while we aren't watching. Still, it's time we poured ourselves a refreshing Pimms, dug out the industrial fan, opened the living room doors and then thought of sun dappled seaside resorts with their ravenous gulls.

These early October days have to be savoured and relished because you never know what might be around the corner. In a couple of weeks time the clocks will go back and a huge enveloping blanket of darkness will descend on us emphatically. Before you know it, 3.30 in the afternoon will seem like midnight, the central heating will be switched on with a decisive switch and we'll all be harking back to those bronzed, silvery and golden days when the sun shone with a handsome authority and longevity.

But for now at least we can at least kid ourselves that summer will never desert us and 2018 witnessed some of the most incredible weather since that joyfully jubilant heatwave of 1976. True this may not be a time for hose pipe bans and an abundance of ice creams but thick coats and pullovers may have to wait a while longer. This is Britain, England, still totally wrapped up in Brexit talk, still occasionally squabbling with itself and unnecessarily running itself down and still being far too modest. October in England hey. Phew what a scorcher!

Doctor Who- the first woman doctor.

Doctor Who - the first woman doctor.

It's hard to imagine what HG Wells would have made of Doctor Who. Would he have sighed reflectively, raged disapprovingly or just harrumphed his disgust at the sheer nerve of using an old blue police box as the main headquarters of an imaginary time travelling machine in some remote century from way back when?

But tonight BBC One welcomes back one of its old friends from its black and white days. Doctor Who is back on our TV screens and for the first time in its escapist science fiction history a woman will become the new Doctor. As the trailer for the programme has repeatedly told us this is not before time, the implication being that men have had it their way for too long and it's about time that the female sisterhood had a go.

For the first time in the lifetime of Doctor Who those stuffily conservative and sexist barriers are about to come crashing down and a woman will step into the academic boots of the good Doctor Who. If this is to be seen as a dramatic breakthrough then so be it because the days of the Old Boys Network are long gone and now the time is right for an sharp injection of feminine glamour, flirtatious fluttering of eye lashes and girl power with a very robust Yorkshire charm.

The new Doctor Who is one Jody Whittaker, who just happens to come from Yorkshire, a woman who will presumably take no nonsense, asserting her presence almost immediately and making sure that nobody will ever get the better of her. Whittaker, who recently appeared in the ITV drama Broadchurch, is the latest in a long and celebrated line of Doctor Whos and will undoubtedly have been informed and swotted up on the traditions of a TV institution that stretches back to 1963.

From its earliest days of scary shock horror monsters, weird and wonderful creatures to some of the most richly memorable action scenes Doctor Who was, and still is, compulsive watching for those who love to be scared witless and subsequently hide behind the sofa. From those peculiar looking figures known as the daleks to the more recent cybermen there is something about Doctor Who that demands you suspend your belief and pretend that you simply bite your fingernails or cover your hands over your eyes, quivering with fear and hoping that you won't be afflicted with nightmares.

The first doctor was William Hartnell, a rather lofty and upper class doctor who seemed to find the whole idea of being a science fiction doctor perhaps beneath him. Hartnell of course had the audacity to appear in Doctor Who rather than celebrate my first birthday so the benefit of the doubt will certainly be given to him. Hartnell, so it seems, looked as though he belonged in some aristocratic BBC period drama- perhaps the Forsyte Saga or a Dickensian adaptation.

When Patrick Troughton took over several years later some of us were running around their parents garden and riding on our bikes around our neighbourhood. So Troughton remains outside any of my personal recollections but he did look a rather sinister and suspicious character full of cleverly devised schemes to take his assistant back to Victorian or Georgian times and then wondering how to get back to the present day.

My first distinct memories of Doctor Who were those of Jon Pertwee's making. For somebody who wouldn't have known one tardis from another and thought daleks were strange, alien creatures from another planet, Pertwee explained everything to the totally uninitiated. Pertwee had that wild thatch of curly blond hair that seemed to be engaged in a permanent fight with itself. Pertwee wore that very expensive velvet mauvish coat and always seemed to be running away from something or somebody.

But Pertwee was my first window on the TV family tea time Saturday favourite that eventually established a very warm spot in our hearts. Pertwee was posh, quintessentially English, spoke with that very cut glass 1950s English accent and always had that air of distinction about him that almost defined him as Doctor Who.

In later years the good Doctor took on us the most magical mystery tour of Doctors. There was the wonderfully eccentric Tom Baker who presented the nation with one of the dottiest but enchanting of scarves which seemed to go on for ever. There was Sylvester McCoy another science lab boffin who scuttled around restlessly. forever goofy but eternally lovable. Peter Davidson was rather more laid back and sedate, well intentioned, presentable, always calm and restrained even if under attack from the daleks.

Briefly there was Colin Baker or at least it seemed that way and then suddenly the good Doctor Who packed away his stethoscope and crazy sci fi instruments, leaving the country for far too long. The days of travelling through time and crash landing in some bizarre location, had now passed their sell by date. Doctor Who had now left our TV screens for what must have been an eternity but one day.... well, who knew it at the time?

And then as if by some miracle Doctor Who, after a considerable and unaccountably lengthy absence from BBC1, landed its tardis on our telly screens at the beginning of the new 21st century which in retrospect sounds like an irony in its own right. It was rather like a very old college friend had moved in down the road and had amiably shaken our hand. The reconciliation was now complete and Saturday tea times would feel like some nostalgic reunion.

Christopher Eccleston was the first Doctor of the new century but the Doctor Who theme and its content had remained intact and allowed to flourish like a springtime tulip. Eccleston embraced the whole Doctor Who brand name with open arms and an equally as open mind. Eccleston was superbly organised, witty, splendidly snobbish and hilariously haughty into the bargain. Once again Eccleston tackled and conquered the daleks, cybermen and any other abstract obstacle that fell across his path.

Then there followed my personal favourite from recent Doctor Who vintage. David Tennant was a fresh faced Scotsman who spoke flawless English. Tennant captured the essence of what Doctor Who and his distinctive role as the character, represented. Tennant was smooth, suave, intelligent, humorous and unflappable, a doctor who took on all of the responsibilities of being Doctor Who seriously but not that seriously. He was both cool and diplomatic but never arrogant.

And so it is that the nation holds its breath for the welcome return of Doctor Who. After Matt Smith and Peter Capaldi did complete justice to the doctor, now we await Jodie Whittaker. It does seem that  the programme may continue for as long as it possibly can. Of course there is a demand for spinning old police boxes that swirl around in the ether and land quite suddenly on Henry the Eighth's banqueting table. Of course we need an imaginary Doctor to battle the Roundheads and Cavaliers and we must insist that he nip into the Battle of Hastings if only as an interested observer.

After a 56 year residence on our TV screens Doctor Who is ready to take its place comfortably in the living rooms of Britain and eventually the world. It still seems strange that after all that time new generations have discovered and re- discovered something that may never lose its appeal or lustre to all families and of course children.

Later this evening a woman will become the first female Doctor Who and millions of girls who could only have dreamt that the nation's most familiar doctor should be female is now both strongly identifiable and imprinted on their memories for years to come. Some of us though are still cowering behind the sofa because years ago we were traumatised by Doctor Who's take on John Wyndham's The Day of the Triffids. It left us shocked and stunned for many years and we'd like to know whether we can come out of our hiding place. Maybe this long running classic should perhaps should be known as Doctor Why. Those daleks have a lot to answer for. 

My books No Joe Bloggs and Joe's Jolly Japes, Autism, Aspergers Syndrome

My books No Joe Bloggs and Joe's Jolly Japes, Autism and Aspergers Syndrome.

It's time to press the play button yet again. I know I've mentioned this on more than one occasion and you're probably wondering if this author will ever stop singing the praises of his books but here I go and this is, unashamedly. my chance to indulge in some shameless book promotion.

Firstly I'd like to highlight once again how deeply proud I am of both my memoir No Joe Bloggs and my latest book Joe's Jolly Japes. Both books were just a constant source of pleasure to write and if you like rapturously lyrical description, a festival of words and stories from my heart then No Joe Bloggs is definitely the book for you.

No Joe Bloggs is of course- or at least I think it is - funny, moving, nostalgic, very lyrical, heartwarming, uplifting, and, I think, a poetic journey around my life. It is full of rich language, vividly nostalgic tinted prose, an all singing, all dancing story about my life, the joyous childhood, the teenage angst, the triumphs and disasters, the difficulties that adolescence confronted me with and the arrival in the land of adults when it all came right for me and gloriously so.

I feel duty bound to put the record straight here. My teenage years were almost impossibly hellish and I'm quite to happy to clarify some important points here. I was embarrassingly shy and immature, nervous of my own shadow, terrified in fact. I had no social interaction with the kids of my age and feared on more on more than one occasion that I'd never be to mix with my peers at any time.

Before I go any further I feel I have to point out here that I'm not looking for the sympathy vote but what I would like to tell everybody in this blog is that my teenage years were wasted, lonely and terribly frightening at times. So here goes the confession. It was a difficult and traumatic adolescence. In fact I hadn't a clue what I was doing and it's only now that I can be perfectly frank and admit to shortcomings and deficiencies as a teenage lost soul.

So here we go. I was diagnosed several years ago with Autism and have Aspergers Syndrome. There you are. I've said it and I've admitted to chronic vulnerability. I'm flawed, very sensitive at times, human, at times very perplexed, almost certainly totally baffled by the everyday events around me at times and unreasonably petrified by the speed of change around me. I admit here and now that I have a very unconventional approach to decision making that may come naturally to those who find life much easier to cope with than me.

I admit it. I didn't do the kind of things that should have been simple and straightforward. I was afraid that 11 or 12 year old kids would laugh at me, hurl ridicule and derision at me almost incessantly and just make life almost unbearable. But this was never the case. When my late and wonderful dad pleaded with his very young son to join in with the fun at a Jewish youth club in Barkingside, Essex it represented, quite singularly, the most terrifying experience of my life.

I don't think anybody will ever be to appreciate the severity of my fear or terror, the tearful trepidation that racked every bone in my body. But that's how it felt and as much as I would like to admit that it was just a part of my teenage mindset I can't deny that one September evening in 1974 will not live on as one of my finest moments.

There I stood there with my lovely dad, shaking and trembling, trying desperately to escape from the youth club and not really knowing why. I can still see the rabbi in his immaculately white shawl(talit) smiling very sympathetically at this nervous as a kitten kid who just wanted to run for the hills and never ever be seen again by anybody. There was a very real confusion and bewilderment about that whole period that I now recognise and fully understand why it happened.

So there you have it folks I have Aspergers Syndrome and although the whole subject of mental health has never been more widely discussed than it is now, I still find myself caught up in a world of misunderstanding, where there still seems to be a stigma attached to people with autism. For whatever reason society, or so it would seem, simply can't get its head around this very modern day condition.

Of course I look away when I'm being spoken to and that complete lack of eye contact has now rendered any future employment a no go area. I can assure you it was never deliberate and intentional and I make no apologies at all because that's the way I am. Yes of course I'm  hard wired differently but I'm not ashamed at all about who I am and where I've come from.

Six years ago I had the most enormous of all breakdowns. It was a complete mental meltdown and I vowed there and then that it would never happen again. So it was that I reluctantly decided that retirement from the world of employment on obvious mental health grounds was the logical choice. It was with a heavy heart that I'd resolved that I had enough and wanted to follow an entirely new path in my life.

Now I turned my hand to something I'd always loved doing albeit in the pre digital, pre computer age when pen, pencil and A4 paper seemed to be my only means of expression, But once I'd got going again I knew that the appetite to write had never really deserted me, that my love of the English language and grammar was still there and hadn't left me.

Then it was that I slowly, but surely, but gradually and lovingly pieced together my life story to the present day. No Joe Bloggs is the realisation of that dormant ambition, illuminated into life on the written page and finally I knew I was onto something. The construction period was very deliberate but by the time I'd finished No Joe Bloggs, my mind had reached its peak of clarity.

No Joe Bloggs is my life story, growing up in Ilford, Essex, my parents and grandparents, a deeply heartfelt and affectionate homage to my wonderful and late dad, my favourite movies, my favourite radio stations, loads of pop culture from the 1960s and 70, the celebrities of the time, the movers and shakers, the brilliant TV programmes from Britain and the USA, a fictitious but I think amusing story about my dad's visit to Las Vegas, my dad schmoozing and fraternising with Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett, Ella Fitzgerald, Sammy Davis Junior, my favourite football teams and funny pen portraits on Arsenal, Aston Villa, Everton, Ipswich Town, Spurs, Liverpool, Leeds United, Chelsea, Wolves and Ipswich Town, Manchester United and Manchester City, very lyrical descriptions about the West End of London that my dad introduced to me at a young age.

Then I talk about my favourite pop stars, the thriving music scene, the bands and artists who entertained me, made me feel good about me, galvanised me to such an extent that I genuinely felt that the 1970s had been one of the greatest decades for popular music. There are those who will understandably disagree with me but that's what it felt like for this rather solitary nebbish, almost by way of compensation for those frightening times in that cold wilderness.

I'd completely alienated a generation that had no idea who I was and of course were determined to enjoy the kind of activities that I should have taken part in without any prompting: table tennis, badminton, football, going to the cinema and generally having the time of their lives. But this was a completely different world for me. Regrets? Not at all.

I have now the most loving, loveliest, brilliantly supportive and beautiful family, a beautiful wife, two wonderful kids who I adore and the most perfect family support network who have always been there for me and I can never thank them enough. I love you all deeply and always will.

So there you have it. No Joe Bloggs, my world, my words, my descriptions and my outlook on life. It which provided me with the happiest and creative outlet at a time when things could have spiralled out of control and gone disastrously haywire. No Joe Bloggs is available at Amazon, Waterstones online, Foyles online and Books-A-Million online. This is what I think is my brave admission. I have Aspergers Syndrome and I have Autism. I would like to think that one day I can try to explain and make people understand that I can still smile, laugh, crack silly jokes, still play sport, read, cry in soppy, sentimental movies, watch some of the most stunning West End musicals in town and glow with elation afterwards. I know that I have complete acceptance from my family but I'm not sure whether the rest of society can fully get their head around my Autism. Still, I'll always respect you, I didn't snub you and you're all the best.

As for my latest book Joe's Jolly Japes, that's still available at Amazon, Waterstones online, Foyles online and Books- A-Million online. This is my take on England, the Chelsea Flower Show, the Henley Regatta, Polo on the playing fields of England, the England football team at the World Cup, the players and managers, the victories and defeats, British seaside resorts and West End department stores in the heart of London.

If you're the reminiscing type and would find a very descriptive take on the past then No Joe Bloggs is definitely the book for you, Oh of course if you'd like to find out about my social commentary perspective then you'll also enjoy Joe's Jolly Japes.

Thanks everybody.   

Tories at war or is Theresa May a safe pair of hands as PM?

Tories at war - or is Theresa May a safe pair of hands as PM.

This week the Conservative Party in Britain are fighting battles on so many fronts that it's hard to see who's winning and who simply doesn't care anymore. The ammunition has been fired, the artillery are moving in with a bristling snarl of menace and the foot soldiers are just getting their feet stuck in the mud. Who on earth would be a British politician?

The Tories are digging in both collectively and physically in the hope that should it all go perilously wrong they can still say they've been to Birmingham for the week which in the first week of October is probably very pleasant and desirable. Party political conferences are always worth the entrance money alone if only because they reinforce all of those stereotyped notions of politicians and how they should conduct themselves before their devoted followers.

Years ago all of the three mainstream British political parties would think nothing of rolling up their trousers, grabbing a deckchair, sticking knotted handkerchiefs on their heads and tucking into the customary plate of fish and chips when the sun had gone down on their yearly seaside visits. It was all very exciting, bracing and completely fascinating. But there was always something of the end of pier about these perennial shouting matches that nobody could ever hear let alone comment upon.

 All three parties including the Conservatives, Labour and Lib Dems or- Liberals, as they used to be known, would get up on a platform at either Bournemouth, Brighton and Blackpool and spout their respective ideologies until some rational thinking stage director would whip them off their platform, switch off the lights and tell them that it was time to go home. Then the Punch and Judy show moved on and the party political conferences took themselves off to some of Britain's most important cities.

After the horror show that was the Labour Party debacle, the Tories have now travelled to Birmingham for their yearly conference. And this is where it gets serious for the government of the day because if the Tories are to survive perhaps the most tempestuous week in their recent history then they might be advised to strap themselves in, close their eyes and just hope that nobody gets hurt. There is a good deal of huffing and puffing, sighing and gritting of teeth to be negotiated and by the end of the week Prime Minister Theresa May may have to summon all her reserves of defiance just to get through it all.

Because this is the story so far. Britain is now into the kind of territory that it may have wished it had never got involved in the first place. The dominant issue of course is, as we've been repeatedly reminded since the Crimean War, is Brexit. Oh yes it's a gross exaggeration and total hyperbole but to those who remain impartial on such matters Brexit has to be the most appallingly, revoltingly and dreadfully irritating news agenda since the beginning of time. If we haven't heard or seen the same word over and over and over again then it's safe to say that we have.

But new buzzwords, phrases and peculiar uses of the English language are being deployed with such annoying frequency that at times it's rather like listening to some crazy, made up and garbled narrative that even a tourist from another country would have to ask questions. First Brexit entered our consciousness and we had no idea what that meant. So we looked  up the word in the Oxford English Dictionary and we were none the wiser.

Recent additions to the mad, crazy world of political vocabulary are Brexit with a million variations and inflections on the word itself. Suddenly the great British public have been confronted with hard Brexit and soft Brexit, Brexiteers accompanied by hard Irish borders and soft Irish borders. Then ladies and gentlemen we give you Chequers, Custom House, Remainers and Remoaners with just a small pinch of some completely incomprehensible word that has rendered the English language a nightmarish complexity.

Night after night, day after day the radio, TVs, Smartphones and Tablets of modern society have been bombarded us with constant references to a political agenda that would probably have driven Churchill completely bonkers. In the general scheme of things Brexit may well come to be regarded as one of those passing and faddish pains in the neck. It could be that, rather like one of those transient Christmas Day toys that the kids get, Brexit will simply lose its batteries and get broken by Boxing Day.

But for what seems like the best part of two decades, Brexit is here to stay until one day everything will be settled agreeably and we can all find something else to talk about. For the time being British radio phone in stations of every description will be filling their airwaves with the kind of conversations and boring rhetoric that none of us could ever have imagined.

We are now, or so it would seem, required to know that if we don't clinch a deal with our EU neighbours on our withdrawal from the EU next March then the consequences could be very damaging. Then we are told that it has to be the right deal and if it's the wrong one with strings attached then that could be curtains for Britain. Whether the fairground carousel will ever stop remains one of the most pertinent questions of our time or any time for that matter.

Now though another sub plot has emerged in the first couple of days of the Conservative Party conference. Just when the Tories thought it was safe to swim a formerly leading light in the party has jumped out of his hiding place ready to claim his revenge on Theresa May. His face is red with loathing, burning with anger, champing at the bit, and boiling over with furious indignation. He's determined to upset the proverbial apple cart, push over everybody in his sight and, above all, create a terrible scene into the bargain.

His name of course is Boris Johnson, probably one of Britain's cleverest and most idiosyncratic politicians of all time. The Boris Johnson CV could best be described as both varied and barely credible at times in the light of recent events. Johnson has been the Mayor of London, constituency member for Uxbridge and, most recently, the Foreign Secretary. Sadly though the Johnson juggernaut has come flying off the road and now his eventful career in the limelight has reached a crossroads.

We may be on Tuesday but the growling grizzly bear that is the blond bombshell of Boris Johnson is on the warpath. Yesterday he launched his first attack on the Prime Minister if attack it was. Johnson, in a comical dig at Theresa May, went galloping through a cornfield in a satirical swipe at May's occasionally stated ambition to run through a field. It had to be seen to be believed.

Then Philip Hammond, another Cabinet minister got stuck in as well with well aimed venom at Johnson. You're reminded of another famous Tory Prime Minister whose leadership qualities were severely tested to the full. When Margaret Thatcher was in full flight during the 1980s none dared to get anywhere near her ego or all conquering aura. It was all very bloody and very messy, sloppy and very unsavoury. The sight of Thatcher weeping quite openly as she ducked into her car at 10 Downing Street for the last time is engraved on the mind for ever. It was time to go for Margaret Thatcher.

It is hard to believe that Theresa May would never welcome any comparison with her Prime Ministerial predecessor but things could get very nasty for the Tories if Boris has his way. There are malicious whispers to be heard in wine scented Tory back rooms, petty in fighting, gallows humour, knockabout innuendo and perhaps unnecessary back biting. Voices are being raised, the verbal exchanges sometimes close to threatening absolute pandemonium and, quite possibly, bouts of childish bickering will follow. Then long held, deeply entrenched grudges will be exposed for everybody to see. 

And yet we've all been here before. This is the pantomime season known better as the party political conference circuit. If things turn out the way they normally do then it'll go off without any major international incidents. Reputations will be battered, insults will just bounce off walls and ceilings in the main hall and we'll all wonder why they bothered in the first place.

Still, all the traditional Tories will go back to their base camps ready to prepare for a General Election which Theresa May will call when she's ready and not before then. For the time being her immediate task is to tackle the minefield that is Brexit. She will gather her troops together, pull on her helmet, charge forward with all bloody minded courage and gritty determination, while acutely aware that by the end of  next March she could still be in the land of indecisiveness and muddled thinking.

So here we go then. It's that classic confrontation between a mild mannered, prim and proper lady and and a fearsome, fiery firebrand man with a score to settle. Theresa May against Boris Johnson does sound a fairly meaningless contest between two politicians who are quite civilly agreeing to disagree. By the end of this strangely surreal week for British politics we may find a good deal of bruising and sore heads. Then Judy will produce another string of sausages to hit Punch over the head with and Britain will stifle another belly laugh. Oh what a circus.