D-Day for Theresa May.
The lady in white faced her audience defiantly and wished she could disappear into a hole in the ground. She just wants to flee the country perhaps and, quite possibly, take a sabbatical where nobody could find her. Perhaps she just needed time to gather her confused thoughts because this is turning into some comical feud where nothing can be achieved and the only people who end up any the wiser are the ones who convinced that the whole subject in hand is both easy to understand and simple as the multiplication table or the alphabet.
Prime Minister Theresa May glared across at her Labour and Lib Dem opponents rather like some stern and incensed school headmistress who is so mortally offended that anybody should challenge her authority that she just stares them out as if determined to get her way. It all looks like some horrendous shambles reminding you of a storage cupboard full of dust, dirt and old board games cluttering up your room.
Today Mrs May faces the ultimate judgment on our withdrawal from the EU. Does she stick or twist? Does she keep a poker face and call her European counterparts bluff? Here we now have the vitally important terms and conditions which could either make or break May. It is hard to know what exactly it all means, those long term implications for our departure from the battleground that is the rest of Europe.
We have now reached the point where everything is becoming so wearisome and complex that we may be tempted to switch off all our means of communication with the outside world for ever. Wherever we go we seem to be surrounded by this awful noise, this baffling double speak, this piffling silliness and absurdity, these grammatical mysteries, the insults to our intelligence and the unbearable references to the same words over and over and over again. When on earth are they going to put a sock in it?
At this point in the proceedings today could be the end of the road for Theresa May which does seem a crying shame because to all intents and purposes she does seem a nice, decent and friendly Prime Minister. In fact Theresa May is a woman of both of the highest integrity and principle. Essentially, she hasn't really done anything wrong as such but to her increasingly vocal critics she has dropped so many clangers that you wouldn't know where to start.
For the last couple of weeks or so we have been bombarded with threats of a civil war on the streets of London if things simply get out of control. Blood will be spilled and men will take up rifles, flintlocks and blunderbusses if they don't get what they want. The military will be called in and the British army may well have their work cut out.
There will be mutiny, rebellion and then a good, old fashioned bust up in the heart of London. Banners and placards will be unveiled with messages of hatred and hot headed bitterness. People will tell us that they just can't stand it any more and then they'll refuse to to be told what to do. They will stomp up and down Oxford Street, faces twisted with anger, shouting and bawling, fist pumping, gesticulating forcefully at the tops of their voices, outraged and emotionally at the end of their tether.
So this is what has happened to British society. We are now at war with ourselves, internalising our hurt and then blaming each other for something we can no longer understand. Brexit is rather like the worst of our nightmares, a lingeringly rancid smell that keeps hanging about us which we simply cannot remove. We keep using the same old disinfectant but it keeps coming back over and over again. The voices of dissent and discord are rising to deafening levels and sooner rather than later we may have to stuff the thickest cotton wool to our ears.
We begin to count down the hours and scratch our collective heads because very few of us can shed any new light on the one political issue that seems to destined to just go on and on indefinitely regardless of what the British think. The likelihood is of course that once we wake up tomorrow morning all the hullabaloo and kerfuffle will all amount to nothing in particular.
All of the rather strange vocabulary that we've been burdened with for the last two and half years will once again be repeatedly aired for the mouth watering delectation of those who just love new words and phrases. In the far corner we have those seasoned Brexiteers, a growing army of working, middle and upper class men and women who just keeping making what appear to be ill informed or well informed comments about all those cliches and hot air platitudes they may have heard a million times either on the radio or TV.
Then there are the self righteous ones who are absolutely convinced that the country is about to fall off the map of the world if a proper agreement can't be found. In the very red corner are those ruddy faced, fuming Remainers who for the last two years have been demanding second referendums every week and every month since David Cameron fell on his sword.
Now though it seems though Noel Edmonds has been drawn into this most long winded of arguments. Would it possible to reach a deal or maybe a deal with strings? Perhaps we'll have to settle for a no deal because the other one isn't nearly convincing enough for our liking? Or do we go back to the drawing board and, quite possibly, draw lots or even as a last resort, toss a coin? This is all very inconclusive and terribly incoherent, a loud slanging match where nobody can either hear themselves think let alone make any rational decisions without somebody telling us that we have no right to be thinking along those lines.
But perhaps most importantly there is the eternally thorny issue of the backstop which sounds as though it belongs at an American baseball match. We've been told quite emphatically that the backstop is the insurance policy that may be needed in Ireland if hard and soft borders can't be found. Are you with me at the back? Are we any the clearer or is another explanation required?
The peculiarities of the modern day political system have never been so embarrassingly self evident. At this rate they may well have to compile a completely new set of dictionaries, maybe a new thesaurus or two just to keep pace with the new influx of new verbal variations on a theme. We could always invent a completely different language to make matters even more complicated than they already are.
Still, here we are on the verge of yet another political meltdown. Fingers are being bitten to the quick, the Palace of Westminster could be about to explode and all of those flags and banners could be the catalyst for a full scale street riot. Then again, we could always set a competition to decide which flag or banner is the most striking or well designed. Then the cyclists, who look as though they may be in full training for the Tour De France later on this summer, continue to pedal up and down the road as if clocking up the miles necessary for such a punishing schedule. Somebody really ought to tell them that this is the Houses of Parliament and not a French country lane.
With an hour or tow the lights are blazing away in those small, private rooms where the politicians will be huddling together in a kind of secretive hideaway where only those in the know have any real clue about the result or why they've been summoned here in the first place. The conspiratorial whispers are getting louder and louder, the Tory gang leaders clicking their fingers and bunching their knuckles. Slowly but surely Brexit is turning into that last memorable scene in West Side Story when the Jets and Sharks prepare themselves for warfare.
Anyway by the end of the evening we should have a clearer picture of where we might be going or maybe not. The chances are though that we may have to look each other in complete bemusement because this is not the way we should be going and we're just delaying the inevitable. In the pre life Brexit we all seemed to know exactly where we stood, life was simpler, the sun always shone during the summer and the moon was always in the right place at the right time. But now the air has a sharper edge and things are not the way we'd like them to be.
And yet we'll just keep going because we always have and always will. We'll rush down our breakfast at an electrifying speed, grab an apple, sprint towards the bus stop or railway station for our daily workaday wage and then fix our eyes on a computer that keeps beeping and flashing at us like some ancient Space Invader machine. Life has to go on and besides there has to be something else to talk about.
The fact is though that we can't get enough of Brexit. We may be gluttons for punishment and actually enjoying it all. In which case some of us would love nothing better than a huge nationwide street party just to celebrate that last day in March. Surely, we deserve something else. It's two years too many and some of us need to find a Brexit alternative. Our ears are beginning to ring and we can only take so much. Roll on April.
Tuesday, 15 January 2019
Saturday, 12 January 2019
Stan and Ollie- it certainly was.
Stan and Ollie - it certainly was.
Yesterday saw the long awaited film premiere of Stan and Ollie, two of the funniest, knockabout and lovable comedy men the world has ever seen and the like of whom we may never see again. Quite simply the chemistry between Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy was so perfect that it could only be described as almost telepathic, the right combination.
In a deeply touching, sad but uplifting story, the career of this often blundering and bumbling duo is one that may well have been well documented but can only now be fully re-examined once again for much younger audiences. For today's generation the names of Stan and Ollie are almost as alien to them as the Beatles and Stones would be to the 1960s or Elvis Presley and the Platters would have been to the 1950s. This though was Stan and Ollie as seen through the eyes of the movie industry.
For those who can still hold affectionate memories of Stan and Ollie through the medium of old BBC archive footage this was a gently rewarding trip down memory lane. We thought we were familiar with their backstory but underneath the surface there was much more to Stan and Ollie than some foolhardy comic act whose sole object was to make families and children giggle and chuckle heartily out of the cinema.
Against the backdrop of the Great Depression in the USA, Laurel and Hardy were a huge tonic to a nation that must have felt they were sliding into a calamitous black financial hole. But Stan and Ollie was the perfect pick me up, a face saving antidote to a people who they would have presumed had deserted them.
Stan and Ollie follows the idiosyncratic antics of two utterly contrasting comics whose quirky personalities made them box office stars overnight. For those who might have thought this was a straightforward and light hearted account of two hilarious men Stan and Ollie might have provided a sobering shock. For Stan and Ollie revealed quite clearly the harder and more ruthless side to their characters.
Forever exploited and sent down the river by their demanding director Hal Roach both Stan and Ollie are seen angrily stalking the corridors of a movie set, fiercely criticising Roach for taking Stan and Ollie for granted, refusing to pay them the commensurate amount of money for the work they were doing. Quite clearly the whole studio system in early Hollywood was not to either man's liking and in one telling sequence Stan took Roach to task for letting both he and Ollie down quite severely.
Stan and Ollie followed the paths of two very business savvy and pragmatic men who just wanted to entertain their devoted fans and always leave them laughing. Stan was a surprisingly blunt and outspoken comedian who felt the studio had betrayed him, often resorting to loud slanging matches without ever being tactless.
Our story takes us to Stan and Ollie's trip to England in the early 1950s. Landing in Newcastle on a dark night in the middle of nowhere, Stan and Ollie roll up to what appeared to be a pub-cum hotel. With a minimum of fuss Stan sidles up to the receptionist who promptly tells him that everybody is talking about Stan and Ollie. Eventually both Stan and Ollie settle in to what must have seemed totally unglamorous surroundings.
Then the funny man from a remote town in Lancashire and the warm man from America cement their friendship even further with classic appearances in a local Newcastle music hall before wowing audiences around Britain. The act was a simple one. Ollie, with neat moustache and big stomach, twiddles his well knotted little tie and Stan does likewise with his hair, grinning perhaps childishly and then playing to the camera with the smallest of smiles.
Of course behind every great comedy duo there have to be the strong women guiding and supporting their tireless husbands in the pursuit of the pavements of gold. Stan's wife, sassy and feisty, is no nonsense but realistic, a proper driving force behind Stan's slightly vulnerable persona while Ollie's wife, smitten and clearly in love with her husband, is a sweet and endearing soul, just happy to be Ollie's wife and always lending a sympathetic shoulder to Ollie in his moments of weakness.
In one glorious scene Stan and Ollie, after a petty argument over each other's specific role in the act, are now invited to a seaside resort to drape the winning sash over a beauty queen. While Stan proudly delivers the winner her crown, Ollie, waiting in the wings, begins to sweat anxiously before collapsing.
Under strict doctor's instructions Ollie is told to retire from the stage and take a complete break from performing. Naturally, poor Stan is left distraught and finds it impossible to believe that he could ever function without his dearest friend and partner. For Ollie this must have felt as if he'd have to survive without his much loved colleague. Life though would never be the same for a now very solitary Stan who begins to understandably mope and then pine for the man who always seemed the right fit for him.
Throughout we are now introduced to the great theatrical and showbiz impresario Bernard Delfont whose beneficial influence on the West End scene would flourish much later on. Delfont is the wheeler and dealer, constantly schmoozing, scheming and perhaps manipulating those who felt they could place their trust in him. Delfont would become a renowned ducker and diver, looking after the boys and forever promising them one final, lucrative pay day if they could only hold out for it.
With Ollie now permanently resting, Stan and Ollie finally agree to appear for one more time. Against all the best wishes of his doctor they finally team up emotionally for one last hurrah on an English stage. Now nervous and in some distress Ollie and Stan dance to an old song in perfect harmony. Privately though, Ollie must have known that he hadn't long to live but soldier on he did to the end with both grace and honesty.
For most of us Stan and Ollie will forever be associated with everything that goes wrong with either Ollie being soaked to the skin, falling helplessly over planks of wood, being covered in the most ridiculous of old fashioned mess and then being slapped on the face with thick handfuls of comic cream. The famous piano sketch where Laurel and Hardy manfully heave a piano up a seemingly endless flight of steps is now etched into comedy folklore. There were innumerable pratfalls, awkward accidents and stumbles that could only define them for who they were.
At the end of Stan and Ollie you found yourself privately wondering if some of those other early 20th century capers and comics could also be immortalised on the silver screen. You thought of Robert Downey's superb depiction of Charlie Chaplin a number of years ago. Your thoughts turned to the crazy Keystone Cops who never knew exactly where they were going on film but were nevertheless admired the world over. Then there was the equally as versatile Buster Keaton who once allowed a house to topple over him knowingly fully well that no harm had been done to him.
But above all Stan and Ollie was a very touching film about two lovely comedians who just wanted the world to love them- which they did with some style. By the same token though we were reminded once again of those difficult and challenging moments throughout their career when everything could have finished before it had even started.
Although Ollie died in 1957 and Stan in 1965 the comic legacy would be preserved for ever more. There was the 'Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, that legendary country and western number one hit for the boys, those delightful pushing and shoving routines where both amusingly blame each other and much silly tomfoolery that never disappoints.
We salute Laurel and Hardy because theirs was gentle and simple humour, two men who were totally unaffected by the fame and celebrity that both would enjoy for the rest of their lives. Maybe none will ever replace these carefree charmers. We must assume that Stan and Ollie will always have a special place in our hearts. Stan always told us that they certainly would. Ollie would have rightly referred to the fact that the current state of the world is nothing but a fine mess. Maybe he would have been right.
Yesterday saw the long awaited film premiere of Stan and Ollie, two of the funniest, knockabout and lovable comedy men the world has ever seen and the like of whom we may never see again. Quite simply the chemistry between Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy was so perfect that it could only be described as almost telepathic, the right combination.
In a deeply touching, sad but uplifting story, the career of this often blundering and bumbling duo is one that may well have been well documented but can only now be fully re-examined once again for much younger audiences. For today's generation the names of Stan and Ollie are almost as alien to them as the Beatles and Stones would be to the 1960s or Elvis Presley and the Platters would have been to the 1950s. This though was Stan and Ollie as seen through the eyes of the movie industry.
For those who can still hold affectionate memories of Stan and Ollie through the medium of old BBC archive footage this was a gently rewarding trip down memory lane. We thought we were familiar with their backstory but underneath the surface there was much more to Stan and Ollie than some foolhardy comic act whose sole object was to make families and children giggle and chuckle heartily out of the cinema.
Against the backdrop of the Great Depression in the USA, Laurel and Hardy were a huge tonic to a nation that must have felt they were sliding into a calamitous black financial hole. But Stan and Ollie was the perfect pick me up, a face saving antidote to a people who they would have presumed had deserted them.
Stan and Ollie follows the idiosyncratic antics of two utterly contrasting comics whose quirky personalities made them box office stars overnight. For those who might have thought this was a straightforward and light hearted account of two hilarious men Stan and Ollie might have provided a sobering shock. For Stan and Ollie revealed quite clearly the harder and more ruthless side to their characters.
Forever exploited and sent down the river by their demanding director Hal Roach both Stan and Ollie are seen angrily stalking the corridors of a movie set, fiercely criticising Roach for taking Stan and Ollie for granted, refusing to pay them the commensurate amount of money for the work they were doing. Quite clearly the whole studio system in early Hollywood was not to either man's liking and in one telling sequence Stan took Roach to task for letting both he and Ollie down quite severely.
Stan and Ollie followed the paths of two very business savvy and pragmatic men who just wanted to entertain their devoted fans and always leave them laughing. Stan was a surprisingly blunt and outspoken comedian who felt the studio had betrayed him, often resorting to loud slanging matches without ever being tactless.
Our story takes us to Stan and Ollie's trip to England in the early 1950s. Landing in Newcastle on a dark night in the middle of nowhere, Stan and Ollie roll up to what appeared to be a pub-cum hotel. With a minimum of fuss Stan sidles up to the receptionist who promptly tells him that everybody is talking about Stan and Ollie. Eventually both Stan and Ollie settle in to what must have seemed totally unglamorous surroundings.
Then the funny man from a remote town in Lancashire and the warm man from America cement their friendship even further with classic appearances in a local Newcastle music hall before wowing audiences around Britain. The act was a simple one. Ollie, with neat moustache and big stomach, twiddles his well knotted little tie and Stan does likewise with his hair, grinning perhaps childishly and then playing to the camera with the smallest of smiles.
Of course behind every great comedy duo there have to be the strong women guiding and supporting their tireless husbands in the pursuit of the pavements of gold. Stan's wife, sassy and feisty, is no nonsense but realistic, a proper driving force behind Stan's slightly vulnerable persona while Ollie's wife, smitten and clearly in love with her husband, is a sweet and endearing soul, just happy to be Ollie's wife and always lending a sympathetic shoulder to Ollie in his moments of weakness.
In one glorious scene Stan and Ollie, after a petty argument over each other's specific role in the act, are now invited to a seaside resort to drape the winning sash over a beauty queen. While Stan proudly delivers the winner her crown, Ollie, waiting in the wings, begins to sweat anxiously before collapsing.
Under strict doctor's instructions Ollie is told to retire from the stage and take a complete break from performing. Naturally, poor Stan is left distraught and finds it impossible to believe that he could ever function without his dearest friend and partner. For Ollie this must have felt as if he'd have to survive without his much loved colleague. Life though would never be the same for a now very solitary Stan who begins to understandably mope and then pine for the man who always seemed the right fit for him.
Throughout we are now introduced to the great theatrical and showbiz impresario Bernard Delfont whose beneficial influence on the West End scene would flourish much later on. Delfont is the wheeler and dealer, constantly schmoozing, scheming and perhaps manipulating those who felt they could place their trust in him. Delfont would become a renowned ducker and diver, looking after the boys and forever promising them one final, lucrative pay day if they could only hold out for it.
With Ollie now permanently resting, Stan and Ollie finally agree to appear for one more time. Against all the best wishes of his doctor they finally team up emotionally for one last hurrah on an English stage. Now nervous and in some distress Ollie and Stan dance to an old song in perfect harmony. Privately though, Ollie must have known that he hadn't long to live but soldier on he did to the end with both grace and honesty.
For most of us Stan and Ollie will forever be associated with everything that goes wrong with either Ollie being soaked to the skin, falling helplessly over planks of wood, being covered in the most ridiculous of old fashioned mess and then being slapped on the face with thick handfuls of comic cream. The famous piano sketch where Laurel and Hardy manfully heave a piano up a seemingly endless flight of steps is now etched into comedy folklore. There were innumerable pratfalls, awkward accidents and stumbles that could only define them for who they were.
At the end of Stan and Ollie you found yourself privately wondering if some of those other early 20th century capers and comics could also be immortalised on the silver screen. You thought of Robert Downey's superb depiction of Charlie Chaplin a number of years ago. Your thoughts turned to the crazy Keystone Cops who never knew exactly where they were going on film but were nevertheless admired the world over. Then there was the equally as versatile Buster Keaton who once allowed a house to topple over him knowingly fully well that no harm had been done to him.
But above all Stan and Ollie was a very touching film about two lovely comedians who just wanted the world to love them- which they did with some style. By the same token though we were reminded once again of those difficult and challenging moments throughout their career when everything could have finished before it had even started.
Although Ollie died in 1957 and Stan in 1965 the comic legacy would be preserved for ever more. There was the 'Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, that legendary country and western number one hit for the boys, those delightful pushing and shoving routines where both amusingly blame each other and much silly tomfoolery that never disappoints.
We salute Laurel and Hardy because theirs was gentle and simple humour, two men who were totally unaffected by the fame and celebrity that both would enjoy for the rest of their lives. Maybe none will ever replace these carefree charmers. We must assume that Stan and Ollie will always have a special place in our hearts. Stan always told us that they certainly would. Ollie would have rightly referred to the fact that the current state of the world is nothing but a fine mess. Maybe he would have been right.
Friday, 11 January 2019
Andy Murray announces retirement.
Andy Murray announces retirement.
We feared it would happen sooner rather than later. We knew about the horrendous injury problems and we sympathised. When Andy Murray announced his retirement from the very high profile world of tennis we knew that Murray's body had taken more than enough punishment. It almost felt like the most cruel deterioration, a sharp downward decline that couldn't be stopped no matter how hard he tried. And he certainly tried of that there can be no doubt.
But surely this is the right time to now acknowledge the size of his outstanding achievement within the game and acclaim him rightly as two time Wimbledon champion when it seemed as though Britain would have to wait at least another two centuries before singing the praises of another Wimbledon men's singles champion.
Sadly though, Murray listened to the creaks, snaps and twinges that have so often completely destabilised him, bothered him, irritated him and ultimately defeated him. There are some battles in the life of sportsmen and women that are destined to be lost, wearying and tiring ordeals on the treatment table that just refuse to go away. Murray though, always the fighter and never the quitter, finally decided that he just couldn't go on and that the only memories he'll leave behind were by far the most precious ones.
So it is that we bid farewell to perhaps the greatest and most sublime talent British tennis has ever produced by a thousand country miles. Not only did Murray win Wimbledon twice he slammed the cynics and naysayers with one heck of a ferocious serve from a green Wimbledon baseline. He dismissed out of sight those who believed that Murray lacked the nerve, the bottle, the sheer bloody mindedness, the absolutely focused, narrow eyed determination, aggressive intent and an admirable desire to be the best as soon as possible.
In an age where Murray found himself surrounded by the remarkable Roger Federer, the peerless genius of Novak Djokovic and the handsome gifts of Rafael Nadal, he brought his own very unique brand of fearless daring, powerful, high energy and a relentless will to win that some of us thought we'd never see again on British soil.
Murray's game was based quite unmistakably on an insatiable will power and abundant stamina that maybe Murray himself didn't think he could ever summon when the chips were down. The body language was revealingly moving and inspiring. There were the endless pulls on his shirt, the slow winding up of supple arms and shoulders hardened by dedicated training, that bullishly belligerent growling and snarling, that cold and calculating steeliness that some of his peers must have envied.
Then the trunk of Murray's body would gradually uncoil before throwing the ball into the air and cracking the ball with his racket rather like a sniper in warfare. Murray would hurl the whole weight of his body forward so that the trajectory of the ball would be whipped away from him like a missile. The forehand serve could be regarded as perhaps a tennis player's most offensive weapon but for Murray it seemed to travel with the speed of a bullet.
Murray would then grow into the most important matches and ruthlessly wear down the resistance of his opponents. There would follow a whole succession of explosive returns down both tramlines, swinging, heaving miraculous shots delivered with lethal, uncompromising accuracy and a blase effortlessness that very few of us could ever believe.
The man from Dunblane, who had overcome some of the most personal anguish from a young age was now moving, chipping and charging, racing from one side of the court to the other and then blasting the ball with a merciless brutality that felt as though he was letting go of years of pent up frustrations. You probably thought Murray had the needle to the ball, that there was an unspoken animosity burning away inside his heart that had to come out at the right time and place.
Then there were the immensely gratifying cross court returns, the pitch perfect almost strategic placement of the ball into particular areas, the brilliantly judged backhands that flew past his opponents, the gritty resolve and those swinging forehands, overhead swipes that gloriously turned into unstoppable shots that were hit sweetly and often musically.
But now Murray has made it clear that he can no longer subject his tired body to yet more demanding five set exertions, more agonising contests on both clay and grass. This year, Murray has told us that this will be his last Wimbledon ever and that the final swansong for a now richly decorated Olympian gold medal hero is now only a matter of months away.
Today, in front of an emotional and tear stained press conference Murray pulled on all tightest of heart strings with the brave admission that Murray could go no further. He'd accepted that the hip and back injuries that had so scarred his career with increasing frequency. Regrettably though those self same injuries had left him almost helpless eventually overwhelming him from all sides.
Still, we can still remember this magnificent athlete as the winter nights make us long for a hot summer, reminding Britain once again that they'll always have one of its finest and most lustrous tennis stars. And so it is a nation will recall, cherish fondly and never ever forget Andy Murray, a man whose hunger for success, rampaging ambition and clearly visible appetite for tennis will live long. This could be the ideal moment to send out search parties for yet another Andy Murray. His legacy is set in stone and we wish our bonny Scotsman the happiest retirement. You feel sure he deserves it.
We feared it would happen sooner rather than later. We knew about the horrendous injury problems and we sympathised. When Andy Murray announced his retirement from the very high profile world of tennis we knew that Murray's body had taken more than enough punishment. It almost felt like the most cruel deterioration, a sharp downward decline that couldn't be stopped no matter how hard he tried. And he certainly tried of that there can be no doubt.
But surely this is the right time to now acknowledge the size of his outstanding achievement within the game and acclaim him rightly as two time Wimbledon champion when it seemed as though Britain would have to wait at least another two centuries before singing the praises of another Wimbledon men's singles champion.
Sadly though, Murray listened to the creaks, snaps and twinges that have so often completely destabilised him, bothered him, irritated him and ultimately defeated him. There are some battles in the life of sportsmen and women that are destined to be lost, wearying and tiring ordeals on the treatment table that just refuse to go away. Murray though, always the fighter and never the quitter, finally decided that he just couldn't go on and that the only memories he'll leave behind were by far the most precious ones.
So it is that we bid farewell to perhaps the greatest and most sublime talent British tennis has ever produced by a thousand country miles. Not only did Murray win Wimbledon twice he slammed the cynics and naysayers with one heck of a ferocious serve from a green Wimbledon baseline. He dismissed out of sight those who believed that Murray lacked the nerve, the bottle, the sheer bloody mindedness, the absolutely focused, narrow eyed determination, aggressive intent and an admirable desire to be the best as soon as possible.
In an age where Murray found himself surrounded by the remarkable Roger Federer, the peerless genius of Novak Djokovic and the handsome gifts of Rafael Nadal, he brought his own very unique brand of fearless daring, powerful, high energy and a relentless will to win that some of us thought we'd never see again on British soil.
Murray's game was based quite unmistakably on an insatiable will power and abundant stamina that maybe Murray himself didn't think he could ever summon when the chips were down. The body language was revealingly moving and inspiring. There were the endless pulls on his shirt, the slow winding up of supple arms and shoulders hardened by dedicated training, that bullishly belligerent growling and snarling, that cold and calculating steeliness that some of his peers must have envied.
Then the trunk of Murray's body would gradually uncoil before throwing the ball into the air and cracking the ball with his racket rather like a sniper in warfare. Murray would hurl the whole weight of his body forward so that the trajectory of the ball would be whipped away from him like a missile. The forehand serve could be regarded as perhaps a tennis player's most offensive weapon but for Murray it seemed to travel with the speed of a bullet.
Murray would then grow into the most important matches and ruthlessly wear down the resistance of his opponents. There would follow a whole succession of explosive returns down both tramlines, swinging, heaving miraculous shots delivered with lethal, uncompromising accuracy and a blase effortlessness that very few of us could ever believe.
The man from Dunblane, who had overcome some of the most personal anguish from a young age was now moving, chipping and charging, racing from one side of the court to the other and then blasting the ball with a merciless brutality that felt as though he was letting go of years of pent up frustrations. You probably thought Murray had the needle to the ball, that there was an unspoken animosity burning away inside his heart that had to come out at the right time and place.
Then there were the immensely gratifying cross court returns, the pitch perfect almost strategic placement of the ball into particular areas, the brilliantly judged backhands that flew past his opponents, the gritty resolve and those swinging forehands, overhead swipes that gloriously turned into unstoppable shots that were hit sweetly and often musically.
But now Murray has made it clear that he can no longer subject his tired body to yet more demanding five set exertions, more agonising contests on both clay and grass. This year, Murray has told us that this will be his last Wimbledon ever and that the final swansong for a now richly decorated Olympian gold medal hero is now only a matter of months away.
Today, in front of an emotional and tear stained press conference Murray pulled on all tightest of heart strings with the brave admission that Murray could go no further. He'd accepted that the hip and back injuries that had so scarred his career with increasing frequency. Regrettably though those self same injuries had left him almost helpless eventually overwhelming him from all sides.
Still, we can still remember this magnificent athlete as the winter nights make us long for a hot summer, reminding Britain once again that they'll always have one of its finest and most lustrous tennis stars. And so it is a nation will recall, cherish fondly and never ever forget Andy Murray, a man whose hunger for success, rampaging ambition and clearly visible appetite for tennis will live long. This could be the ideal moment to send out search parties for yet another Andy Murray. His legacy is set in stone and we wish our bonny Scotsman the happiest retirement. You feel sure he deserves it.
Tuesday, 8 January 2019
Wolves roll back the years in shock Cup win against high flying Liverpool.
Wolves roll back the years in shock Cup win against high flying Liverpool.
There was a moment before last night's third round FA Cup tie against Premier League leaders Liverpool when Molineux, the historic ground of Wolves, must have felt like the Molineux of the 1950s. The white flames were shooting up into the night sky, the Wolves light show reminded you of a modern heavyweight boxing match and the dramatic, high voltage electricity of the occasion sent goose bumps down your spine, as darkness and light met head on and Wolves powered their way into the fourth round of the FA Cup.
For those whose memories go back to those pioneering nights at Wolves when the club became one of the first English clubs to play under floodlights, this was a moment when the whole subject of time travel had a certain tang and flavour about it. There were no doctors or tardises around but for much of the match you were taken back to those halcyon days when Wolves used to win things.
Sadly, the 1960 FA Cup victory against Blackburn Rovers is no more than a distant blur on Wolves footballing horizon. But on a night when Wolves legendary giant and gentlemen Bill Slater was remembered after Slater's passing recently, Wolves came out of the traps all guns blazing and Premier League leaders Liverpool were knocked out of the FA Cup, dumped on the ground unceremoniously and left to rue what might have been had they actually bothered to turn up on the night.
For make no mistake about it this was not the night when anybody expected to Liverpool to tread carefully and hope against hope that something would turn up eventually. This was a pale shadow of the Liverpool who have swept all before them in the Premier League season so far. When Manchester City finally brought Liverpool's unblemished unbeaten record to an end at the Etihad Stadium, some of us suspected that nerves and the jitters had caught up with them.
But this was a Liverpool side in drag, in caricature, the lonely actor in his dressing room who once they take off their make up, just become very maudlin and melancholy. For much of the first half of this tale of two halves, Wolves showed both tooth and claw to show streetwise savvy, a complete air of assurance on the ball and promised significantly more to offer in the final third of the pitch. Around the stadium the old gold wolves imagery dotted graphically around the ground reminded you of Guy Fawkes night.
Liverpool, for their part, were awkward, slovenly, slow, too cautious and, above all, clumsy in possession. They dawdled and dithered on the ball as if it were a hot potato and generally looked dreadfully out of sorts. The likes of James Milner, Dejan Lovren, Curtis Jones, even the very clever Fabinho seemed distracted by something indefinable, perhaps wrongly assuming that all they had to do on the night was just turn up on the evening and thrash the living daylights out of Wolves.
You felt sure that up in heaven Bill Slater, Denis Willshaw, Billy Wright, with Jimmy Mullen and Johnny Hancocks on their respective wings were all looking down approvingly on the proceedings. Wolves this season have been the loveliest surprise, a revelation, a refreshing discovery, the proverbial breath of fresh air and for the club who once found themselves trapped at the bottom of football's lowest tier this was a night for extraordinary derring do, get up and go and utter devil may care dynamism.
Finally, the side that chairman Jack Hayward so lovingly built when disaster loomed, have found stable bearings back in the Premier League. Under the wonderfully salt and pepper bearded Nuno Espirito Santo, the Premier League can hardly believe that they have in their possession one of the most agreeable and charming managers, a man who always practises what he preaches, a purist rather than spoiler. a man of art rather than pretension which may or may not be a good thing.
For long periods last night those of a 1950s mindset found themselves back on those early floodlit nights when Honved of Hungary and Dynamo Moscow graced the English game. The current day Wolves seemed to have re-captured the same attitudes and cultural habits of both Honved and Dynamo Moscow, full of neat, one and two touch spontaneity and gloriously spreading the ball around the pitch like the first seeds of spring.
In Reuben Neves Wolves had the player of the night constantly jinking, darting and threading passes long and short with the kind of knowhow and maturity of a man years ahead of himself, slipping in and out of the wide open pockets of space that Liverpool had given him. The wonderful thundercrack of a shot from way outside Liverpool's penalty area flew past a helpless Signolet, a Liverpool keeper who must have wondered what had happened to the rest of his team mates. The Neves winner and goal was a thing of beauty.
Regrettably, the first half itself belonged in some forgettable video out take that should never ever be shown again at any time. It was rather like watching two sets of crabs inching their way painstakingly towards the shore and then sinking into the sand. Both Liverpool and Wolves spent much of the first half jabbing at each other and shuffling around as if wary of the final outcome. Wolves were marginally more skilful, quicker on the ball but still found themselves in a rut when the ball became a bar of soap, a throwback to Peter Sellers fizzing bomb in the Pink Panther. Still, it was pleasant to watch even if it didn't really amount to much.
So it was that both teams lunged forward achingly towards the break with little to choose between the two. But just before half time a Liverpool attack broke down almost meekly, the red shirts carelessly losing the ball in the last place they would have wanted it to do. Wolves, sensing a wide open gap, surged over the half way line and Divock Origi burst forward on his own and, homing in on the Liverpool goal, the alert Mexican striker Raul Jimenez set himself coolly and brilliantly before stroking the ball softly and nonchalantly past Liverpool keeper Mignolet.
This was the blue touch paper for a brief Liverpool recovery. Jurgen Klopp, their warmly dressed manager with the German pop star glasses and fashionably thick beard for comfort, stared daggers at his team. You could almost see the fury rising up to his anguished face, as Liverpool huffed and puffed in that strangely lumpen and pedestrian style so totally out of character with everything that had gone before. It almost felt as if somebody had given them an ill fitting set of trousers and suits and then expected them to wear them on the night.
Still the visitors did enjoy a temporary purple period of good, clear thinking possession, carving out the kind of goal that has become so typical of who Liverpool are at the moment and Bill Shankly would have swooned over when he was boss. A sharp interchange of play on the edge of the Wolves penalty area led to Shaqiri tucking the ball into Milner who looked as though he'd lost it for the moment. Then Divock Origi shifted the ball smartly from one foot to the next in the blink of an eye lid before drilling the ball low and hard past the former Norwich keeper John Ruddy.
Wolves though were not to be disheartened and after another period of leaden footed Liverpool uncertainty, the home side climbed back onto the bandwagon and pushed Liverpool deeper and deeper back into the darkest of holes. From this point onward Liverpool cowered back into their defensive retreat as if not quiet realising just how outplayed they'd been on the night. Eventually, the old gold of Wolves strung together their sparkling set of passes and Liverpool finally crumbled sadly. It was rather like watching an impressive collection of old gold footballing pearls, resulting in a goal of utter purity.
A long diagonal pass over the heads of now terrified Liverpool defenders dropped perfectly at the feet at Reuben Neves who checked back inside his defender, cut inside beautifully and sent a magnificent dipping, swerving shot that seemed to nestle in the net before Signolet had had the chance to even move. Wolves were in complete command of the game and smothered everything Liverpool could offer.
When the final whistle went it was hard to believe that Liverpool had been so poor and submissive. Wolves were into the fourth round of the FA Cup and Liverpool were literally clutching at straws. For the time being the season seems to have taken its toll on Liverpool's well equipped resources. At no point had Liverpool looked as though the football they had embroidered the Premier League season with would ever be suitably replicated on an FA Cup stage.
Jurgen Klopp, Liverpool's always jolly boss looked like a man who'd lost a treasure chest of money if perhaps consoled by the knowledge that the Premier League title would now become an overriding priority. It is now 29 years since the Anfield club last won the old First Division so maybe some of the Kop might be entitled to think that a sea change in fortune may be moving in their direction.
Some of us thought back to the mid 1970s when Liverpool met Wolves at Molineux on the last day of the League season. With the lethal strike force of Kevin Keegan and John Toshack leading the Wolves defence a merry dance, Liverpool beat Wolves with the three decisive goals that won the old First Division.
Now though the boot was firmly on the foot and the old gold of Wolves were howling with some authority and menace. It's been a long time since Wolves were even remotely close to the most famous old trophy and the long suffering supporters may be harbouring private ambitions about planting another FA Cup trophy in their cabinet. Sometimes it pays to be hopeful because you never know what you're going to get. The pre match flames may still be flickering.
There was a moment before last night's third round FA Cup tie against Premier League leaders Liverpool when Molineux, the historic ground of Wolves, must have felt like the Molineux of the 1950s. The white flames were shooting up into the night sky, the Wolves light show reminded you of a modern heavyweight boxing match and the dramatic, high voltage electricity of the occasion sent goose bumps down your spine, as darkness and light met head on and Wolves powered their way into the fourth round of the FA Cup.
For those whose memories go back to those pioneering nights at Wolves when the club became one of the first English clubs to play under floodlights, this was a moment when the whole subject of time travel had a certain tang and flavour about it. There were no doctors or tardises around but for much of the match you were taken back to those halcyon days when Wolves used to win things.
Sadly, the 1960 FA Cup victory against Blackburn Rovers is no more than a distant blur on Wolves footballing horizon. But on a night when Wolves legendary giant and gentlemen Bill Slater was remembered after Slater's passing recently, Wolves came out of the traps all guns blazing and Premier League leaders Liverpool were knocked out of the FA Cup, dumped on the ground unceremoniously and left to rue what might have been had they actually bothered to turn up on the night.
For make no mistake about it this was not the night when anybody expected to Liverpool to tread carefully and hope against hope that something would turn up eventually. This was a pale shadow of the Liverpool who have swept all before them in the Premier League season so far. When Manchester City finally brought Liverpool's unblemished unbeaten record to an end at the Etihad Stadium, some of us suspected that nerves and the jitters had caught up with them.
But this was a Liverpool side in drag, in caricature, the lonely actor in his dressing room who once they take off their make up, just become very maudlin and melancholy. For much of the first half of this tale of two halves, Wolves showed both tooth and claw to show streetwise savvy, a complete air of assurance on the ball and promised significantly more to offer in the final third of the pitch. Around the stadium the old gold wolves imagery dotted graphically around the ground reminded you of Guy Fawkes night.
Liverpool, for their part, were awkward, slovenly, slow, too cautious and, above all, clumsy in possession. They dawdled and dithered on the ball as if it were a hot potato and generally looked dreadfully out of sorts. The likes of James Milner, Dejan Lovren, Curtis Jones, even the very clever Fabinho seemed distracted by something indefinable, perhaps wrongly assuming that all they had to do on the night was just turn up on the evening and thrash the living daylights out of Wolves.
You felt sure that up in heaven Bill Slater, Denis Willshaw, Billy Wright, with Jimmy Mullen and Johnny Hancocks on their respective wings were all looking down approvingly on the proceedings. Wolves this season have been the loveliest surprise, a revelation, a refreshing discovery, the proverbial breath of fresh air and for the club who once found themselves trapped at the bottom of football's lowest tier this was a night for extraordinary derring do, get up and go and utter devil may care dynamism.
Finally, the side that chairman Jack Hayward so lovingly built when disaster loomed, have found stable bearings back in the Premier League. Under the wonderfully salt and pepper bearded Nuno Espirito Santo, the Premier League can hardly believe that they have in their possession one of the most agreeable and charming managers, a man who always practises what he preaches, a purist rather than spoiler. a man of art rather than pretension which may or may not be a good thing.
For long periods last night those of a 1950s mindset found themselves back on those early floodlit nights when Honved of Hungary and Dynamo Moscow graced the English game. The current day Wolves seemed to have re-captured the same attitudes and cultural habits of both Honved and Dynamo Moscow, full of neat, one and two touch spontaneity and gloriously spreading the ball around the pitch like the first seeds of spring.
In Reuben Neves Wolves had the player of the night constantly jinking, darting and threading passes long and short with the kind of knowhow and maturity of a man years ahead of himself, slipping in and out of the wide open pockets of space that Liverpool had given him. The wonderful thundercrack of a shot from way outside Liverpool's penalty area flew past a helpless Signolet, a Liverpool keeper who must have wondered what had happened to the rest of his team mates. The Neves winner and goal was a thing of beauty.
Regrettably, the first half itself belonged in some forgettable video out take that should never ever be shown again at any time. It was rather like watching two sets of crabs inching their way painstakingly towards the shore and then sinking into the sand. Both Liverpool and Wolves spent much of the first half jabbing at each other and shuffling around as if wary of the final outcome. Wolves were marginally more skilful, quicker on the ball but still found themselves in a rut when the ball became a bar of soap, a throwback to Peter Sellers fizzing bomb in the Pink Panther. Still, it was pleasant to watch even if it didn't really amount to much.
So it was that both teams lunged forward achingly towards the break with little to choose between the two. But just before half time a Liverpool attack broke down almost meekly, the red shirts carelessly losing the ball in the last place they would have wanted it to do. Wolves, sensing a wide open gap, surged over the half way line and Divock Origi burst forward on his own and, homing in on the Liverpool goal, the alert Mexican striker Raul Jimenez set himself coolly and brilliantly before stroking the ball softly and nonchalantly past Liverpool keeper Mignolet.
This was the blue touch paper for a brief Liverpool recovery. Jurgen Klopp, their warmly dressed manager with the German pop star glasses and fashionably thick beard for comfort, stared daggers at his team. You could almost see the fury rising up to his anguished face, as Liverpool huffed and puffed in that strangely lumpen and pedestrian style so totally out of character with everything that had gone before. It almost felt as if somebody had given them an ill fitting set of trousers and suits and then expected them to wear them on the night.
Still the visitors did enjoy a temporary purple period of good, clear thinking possession, carving out the kind of goal that has become so typical of who Liverpool are at the moment and Bill Shankly would have swooned over when he was boss. A sharp interchange of play on the edge of the Wolves penalty area led to Shaqiri tucking the ball into Milner who looked as though he'd lost it for the moment. Then Divock Origi shifted the ball smartly from one foot to the next in the blink of an eye lid before drilling the ball low and hard past the former Norwich keeper John Ruddy.
Wolves though were not to be disheartened and after another period of leaden footed Liverpool uncertainty, the home side climbed back onto the bandwagon and pushed Liverpool deeper and deeper back into the darkest of holes. From this point onward Liverpool cowered back into their defensive retreat as if not quiet realising just how outplayed they'd been on the night. Eventually, the old gold of Wolves strung together their sparkling set of passes and Liverpool finally crumbled sadly. It was rather like watching an impressive collection of old gold footballing pearls, resulting in a goal of utter purity.
A long diagonal pass over the heads of now terrified Liverpool defenders dropped perfectly at the feet at Reuben Neves who checked back inside his defender, cut inside beautifully and sent a magnificent dipping, swerving shot that seemed to nestle in the net before Signolet had had the chance to even move. Wolves were in complete command of the game and smothered everything Liverpool could offer.
When the final whistle went it was hard to believe that Liverpool had been so poor and submissive. Wolves were into the fourth round of the FA Cup and Liverpool were literally clutching at straws. For the time being the season seems to have taken its toll on Liverpool's well equipped resources. At no point had Liverpool looked as though the football they had embroidered the Premier League season with would ever be suitably replicated on an FA Cup stage.
Jurgen Klopp, Liverpool's always jolly boss looked like a man who'd lost a treasure chest of money if perhaps consoled by the knowledge that the Premier League title would now become an overriding priority. It is now 29 years since the Anfield club last won the old First Division so maybe some of the Kop might be entitled to think that a sea change in fortune may be moving in their direction.
Some of us thought back to the mid 1970s when Liverpool met Wolves at Molineux on the last day of the League season. With the lethal strike force of Kevin Keegan and John Toshack leading the Wolves defence a merry dance, Liverpool beat Wolves with the three decisive goals that won the old First Division.
Now though the boot was firmly on the foot and the old gold of Wolves were howling with some authority and menace. It's been a long time since Wolves were even remotely close to the most famous old trophy and the long suffering supporters may be harbouring private ambitions about planting another FA Cup trophy in their cabinet. Sometimes it pays to be hopeful because you never know what you're going to get. The pre match flames may still be flickering.
Sunday, 6 January 2019
Yet more murder on the streets of Britain.
Yet more murder on the streets of Britain.
The year is but six days old an already the dark evils of murder are terrorising the streets, roads, back alleyways and troubled inner city council estates of Britain. It hardly seems a year ago now since similarly deadly attacks stalked the country like a repulsive smell that refuses to go away. It almost feels like some horrible contamination that seems to be spreading across Britain like some rampant disease and yet none of us seem any closer to definitive, long term solutions in the foreseeable future.
The tragic death of a honest and law abiding father on a train in Surrey in front of his horror stricken 14 year old son can only serve to underline once again the social illnesses that still continue to eat away at the once rich fabric of a British society that used to be completely at ease during the 1960s- or so we thought.
But this is just one incident in a whole sequence of murders, stabbings and deeply abhorrent acts of violence and aggression that seem to usher in the beginning of every New Year. Sociologists and seemingly deeply academic social commentators have immediately condemned such wicked acts of despicable genocide as the by product of broken homes, neglectful parenting and a lack of love.
Quite what possessed a group of clearly bored youngsters to set out one morning with the intention of barbarically attacking and then stabbing an innocent father to death seems utterly beyond any comprehension. True, we have been here before on a painfully familiar basis with almost unreasonable regularity but still the forces of law and order seem helpless to stem this bloody tide.
And yet here we are again in the first couple of days of 2019 and most of us are mourning and grieving the loss of a gentle and loving father who adored his family and who simply asked for nothing more than a quiet and civilised beginning to the year in London with his son. How on earth now can a youngster apparently free from the cares of the world who just wanted to get on with his life be so cruelly robbed of a father who now unwittingly found himself at the centre of an unnecessary argument and then fall prey to a savage knife attack?
With an ever increasing fatality list of knife attacks now becoming an almost common occurrence it is hard to know where to go from here? We know the underlying causes of these brutally disgraceful assaults. these sick and criminally disturbed minds who continue to make their presence felt at any time of the year. It is easy to point accusing fingers and hold up to account such sick and revolting behaviour but how to root out once and for all these vicious outrages.
On New Year's Day another young life was taken in the early hours of a New Year's Eve party for something he could never have imagined would happen to him. Of course we are horrified, of course we shudder with fear when our civil liberties continue to be violated by man's senseless inhumanity to man. There are now though the almost standard reactions; the endless police investigations, the questioning of those who have now been arrested and the inevitable post mortems. How much longer are we prepared to tolerate this ugly blight that shows little sign of stopping or simply disappearing?
But how much closer are we to finding some deeper insight into the twisted minds of those whose only aim in life is to kill innocent people without any hint of remorse? Of course we will now be subjected to a deafening cacophony of voices from those who would insist that corporal punishment be meted out at once, that Death Row is the only place where these youngsters belong. Some would advocate the return of hanging or ultimately the electric chair and this can only be considered a perfectly valid punishment for these monstrous and random killings that will surely leave only lifelong scars on the poor affected families.
These are troubling times for Britain although if you were listen to some well meaning folk this is just yet another symptom of a deeply rooted and destructive malaise that is slowly eating away at all levels of society. They blame gang warfare on dimly lit street corners, the humorous exchange of drugs, the rap language now frequently employed on now dangerous streets. Then there are the foul obscenities, the careless disregard for the rules and regulations, the arrogance, the open threats and then yet another outbreak of disillusionment because there's nothing for them to do and nowhere to go.
It is easy to be judgmental under the circumstances since we all know what we'd like to do these with these wild children, these angry young men without conscience or shame. We would stick them in a rotten prison cell for the rest of their lives and hope that the key will be thrown away and that we can simply wash our hands of them for the duration of their lives. How some of us would like to line them up and then let them die at the hands of a firing squad. There could be no more fitting punishment.
Sadly. we are also told that the our prisons are still over populated, out of control and no longer capable of accommodating the kind of criminals who are no longer in charge of their mind or senses. The statements of the obvious are beginning to sound like the ramblings of a demented killer who quietly cowers away on a stand, ludicrously defending their innocence because they didn't mean to do it.
The fact remains though that a young 14 year old on just another train journey with his father is suffering and will continue to suffer the loss of a man who he must have idolised. He will be painfully traumatised, always be lavished with care and compassion. But nothing will bring back his doting father with a university degree and the warmest of hearts. We can never imagine what exactly will be going through his mind at the moment but we hope that his life will return to some semblance of normality.
This is not the way we would have like the New Year to follow its natural order but it has and this has to be the time when the nation comes together and tries to find a way out of its collective state of shock and numbness. In an ideal world justice will be seen to be done and the British courts will administer a life sentence that means life and not just a temporary five year slap on the wrists in a musty cell. Our thoughts will always be with this heartbroken young man. Of course he will be lonely and of course he'll be in severe pain but we must hope that time will almost certainly be the healer.
The year is but six days old an already the dark evils of murder are terrorising the streets, roads, back alleyways and troubled inner city council estates of Britain. It hardly seems a year ago now since similarly deadly attacks stalked the country like a repulsive smell that refuses to go away. It almost feels like some horrible contamination that seems to be spreading across Britain like some rampant disease and yet none of us seem any closer to definitive, long term solutions in the foreseeable future.
The tragic death of a honest and law abiding father on a train in Surrey in front of his horror stricken 14 year old son can only serve to underline once again the social illnesses that still continue to eat away at the once rich fabric of a British society that used to be completely at ease during the 1960s- or so we thought.
But this is just one incident in a whole sequence of murders, stabbings and deeply abhorrent acts of violence and aggression that seem to usher in the beginning of every New Year. Sociologists and seemingly deeply academic social commentators have immediately condemned such wicked acts of despicable genocide as the by product of broken homes, neglectful parenting and a lack of love.
Quite what possessed a group of clearly bored youngsters to set out one morning with the intention of barbarically attacking and then stabbing an innocent father to death seems utterly beyond any comprehension. True, we have been here before on a painfully familiar basis with almost unreasonable regularity but still the forces of law and order seem helpless to stem this bloody tide.
And yet here we are again in the first couple of days of 2019 and most of us are mourning and grieving the loss of a gentle and loving father who adored his family and who simply asked for nothing more than a quiet and civilised beginning to the year in London with his son. How on earth now can a youngster apparently free from the cares of the world who just wanted to get on with his life be so cruelly robbed of a father who now unwittingly found himself at the centre of an unnecessary argument and then fall prey to a savage knife attack?
With an ever increasing fatality list of knife attacks now becoming an almost common occurrence it is hard to know where to go from here? We know the underlying causes of these brutally disgraceful assaults. these sick and criminally disturbed minds who continue to make their presence felt at any time of the year. It is easy to point accusing fingers and hold up to account such sick and revolting behaviour but how to root out once and for all these vicious outrages.
On New Year's Day another young life was taken in the early hours of a New Year's Eve party for something he could never have imagined would happen to him. Of course we are horrified, of course we shudder with fear when our civil liberties continue to be violated by man's senseless inhumanity to man. There are now though the almost standard reactions; the endless police investigations, the questioning of those who have now been arrested and the inevitable post mortems. How much longer are we prepared to tolerate this ugly blight that shows little sign of stopping or simply disappearing?
But how much closer are we to finding some deeper insight into the twisted minds of those whose only aim in life is to kill innocent people without any hint of remorse? Of course we will now be subjected to a deafening cacophony of voices from those who would insist that corporal punishment be meted out at once, that Death Row is the only place where these youngsters belong. Some would advocate the return of hanging or ultimately the electric chair and this can only be considered a perfectly valid punishment for these monstrous and random killings that will surely leave only lifelong scars on the poor affected families.
These are troubling times for Britain although if you were listen to some well meaning folk this is just yet another symptom of a deeply rooted and destructive malaise that is slowly eating away at all levels of society. They blame gang warfare on dimly lit street corners, the humorous exchange of drugs, the rap language now frequently employed on now dangerous streets. Then there are the foul obscenities, the careless disregard for the rules and regulations, the arrogance, the open threats and then yet another outbreak of disillusionment because there's nothing for them to do and nowhere to go.
It is easy to be judgmental under the circumstances since we all know what we'd like to do these with these wild children, these angry young men without conscience or shame. We would stick them in a rotten prison cell for the rest of their lives and hope that the key will be thrown away and that we can simply wash our hands of them for the duration of their lives. How some of us would like to line them up and then let them die at the hands of a firing squad. There could be no more fitting punishment.
Sadly. we are also told that the our prisons are still over populated, out of control and no longer capable of accommodating the kind of criminals who are no longer in charge of their mind or senses. The statements of the obvious are beginning to sound like the ramblings of a demented killer who quietly cowers away on a stand, ludicrously defending their innocence because they didn't mean to do it.
The fact remains though that a young 14 year old on just another train journey with his father is suffering and will continue to suffer the loss of a man who he must have idolised. He will be painfully traumatised, always be lavished with care and compassion. But nothing will bring back his doting father with a university degree and the warmest of hearts. We can never imagine what exactly will be going through his mind at the moment but we hope that his life will return to some semblance of normality.
This is not the way we would have like the New Year to follow its natural order but it has and this has to be the time when the nation comes together and tries to find a way out of its collective state of shock and numbness. In an ideal world justice will be seen to be done and the British courts will administer a life sentence that means life and not just a temporary five year slap on the wrists in a musty cell. Our thoughts will always be with this heartbroken young man. Of course he will be lonely and of course he'll be in severe pain but we must hope that time will almost certainly be the healer.
Thursday, 3 January 2019
The world awaits the FA Cup third round.
The world awaits the FA Cup third round.
This weekend the footballing communities will gather in their hundreds and thousands - nay less millions- to dig out their trusty scarves, dust down their FA Cup memorabilia from yesteryear and pretend that Wembley Stadium will undoubtedly be their final destination in May. The local shops and markets will be alive with fondly held fantasies and just a few delusions. They'll pin their rosettes firmly to their coats, indulge themselves helplessly in just a moment or two of optimism and then wake up on Sunday morning with just a hint of a sore head.
The FA Cup third round is that gold plated moment in the footballing calendar where the upper class bourgeoisie come face to face with the working class proletariat on the most level of playing fields. Never are the class distinctions and snobberies more clearly highlighted than on this first January weekend of the football season. But then this has become more or less the accepted norm for a number of years.
Tonight though marks the end of the first cycle of Premier League matches with the monumental head to head meeting of the two table topping giants. Current Premier League champions Manchester City have been rocked back on their feet with a series of potentially soul destroying defeats that may have dealt a severe blow to their retention of the Premier League. In fact it must have felt as though somebody had punched them in the stomach and then unforgivingly left them flat out on the ground. Liverpool, their opponents, may be feeling like that bloodthirsty heavyweight who can't wait to tuck into the carcass.
But away from all the thrills and spills and the fun of the fair at the top of the Premier League you're left with the distinct impression that both City and Liverpool would give anything for a decent Cup run if only to leave them with a welcome distraction from the blood and thunder of the Premier League's bubbling cauldron where the temperature must be at boiling point.
And yet here we are on the verge of another FA Cup weekend of heartbreaking misses, pulsating cliff hangers between the little minnows and the giant sharks while not forgetting a healthy dose of action packed excitement. From the rural farming hinterlands of Norfolk and Suffolk, to the lush green pastures of Middle England, football will hold its breath once again. This is that time of the year when David and Goliath slug it out with another slice of fiercely competitive commitment from both sides.
Now the FA Cup presents us with that familiar gallery of warehousemen from Gateshead, milkmen and postmen from Blyth Spartans and a varied mixture of the small and tall, the great and those who are just glad to be involved in the most famous competition in the footballing calendar. It is not asking a lot for the occasional Cup shock or upset because this is after all the essence and raison d'etre of the FA Cup.
It's hard to believe that the FA Cup did have its starting point and here in the depths of a dark winter of January most of us may have conveniently overlooked the first qualifying rounds of the FA Cup on balmy, swelteringly hot afternoons back in early August. We may have forgotten those snooker top green pitches when the last of the heatwave tanned parklands began to look remarkably like rustic hayricks, tufts of straw slowly turning a pristine green.
Then again, the FA Cup was all about local pride, heroic gallantry, embracing the magic of the FA Cup fully even if they knew that in their heart of hearts that Wembley would only remain a North London suburb and their only realistic objective is a place in the fifth round of the Lancashire League Cup. But still there will come a moment this weekend when the men from the Vanarama and Evo Stick League will enjoy their Parisian dalliance with the FA Cup where the love struck non Leaguers will blow the briefest of kisses from the distant Champs Elysees.
Across the country football chairmen and women from every level of the game will be packing out their clubhouses with feverish football fans with raucous voices and many a clinking glass of beer. For these are the people who remain the throbbing heartbeat of the game, the ones who stand bravely on storm tossed terraces with corrugated iron roofs, who shiver stoically as the rains sweep across them and then bob up and down in the hope that something miraculous might happen.
Sadly though, the FA Cup may be lacking in its customary sentimentality because in recent years those famous non League stalwarts may have been conspicuous by their absence. Only Wigan Athletic, who beat the now the world beating Manchester City both surprisingly and shockingly in 2013 have been the Cup giant killers of note. Before then of course the FA Cups gave us the lovable Ipswich and Sunderland who wondrously toppled Arsenal and Leeds respectively in 1978 and 1973.
Even more unfortunately there are no more Bob Stokoes with their beige coats and hats, galloping onto the Wembley pitch like the youngest of ponies. There are, even more tragically, few who will even fall into the same category of Sir Bobby Robson who stopped the world when his vastly entertaining Ipswich Town beat the seemingly glamorous Arsenal.
When the final whistle went that day, Robson smiled widely, spun delightfully on the tips of his toes, rolled his shoulders from side to side and then danced immaculately. This was the FA Cup in a nutshell, a microcosm of what the FA Cup meant to Robson. This was the day that became Robson's wish fulfilment, the days when those school playground contests had to culminate in a boyhood FA Cup win, with Robson charging around the old Wembley Stadium with the Cup in his hand.
The image of a suited and booted Bobby Robson at an Ipswich town hall balcony beaming from ear to ear with the most infectious smile can never be erased. He emerged onto the balcony hardly able to comprehend the magnitude of his achievement. He thrust the FA Cup into the air with that thoroughly deserved air of triumphalism and then jigged for a while without caring for not a moment that millions were watching him.
And so we salute the men who week after week play their football for perhaps a pittance and then realise where they are and who they were playing. They play their game against a regular backdrop of tiny refreshment kiosks, eternally picturesque fields with waving trees and a full complement of cows and sheep dotting the richly incomparable landscape. This is the FA Cup with its lovely characters, its hardened professionals, its wonderful non League amateurs, its earthy authenticity, its giggling, chuckling understatement and its humorous belly laughing in the face of adversity.
We can only hope that by Monday morning somebody from the most unfashionable corner of England will be celebrating as if there were indeed no tomorrow. They will return to their day jobs of fitters and mechanics, welders and steeplejacks, engineers and dedicated factory workers. They will roll up their sleeves not because they have to but because at the end of the day football will become their one and only single preoccupation. The FA Cup will always be on their mind.
For them the FA Cup will represent the highest point of their careers, the day they made the headlines, the ones who were just determined to defy the odds when none thought the improbable would ever happen. They've struggled and toiled to come this far and they weren't ready to give up now. These are men of spirit, verve and joie de vivre, have a go determination. We will remember you all and rightly salute you. May the FA Cup always have its honourable heroes.
This weekend the footballing communities will gather in their hundreds and thousands - nay less millions- to dig out their trusty scarves, dust down their FA Cup memorabilia from yesteryear and pretend that Wembley Stadium will undoubtedly be their final destination in May. The local shops and markets will be alive with fondly held fantasies and just a few delusions. They'll pin their rosettes firmly to their coats, indulge themselves helplessly in just a moment or two of optimism and then wake up on Sunday morning with just a hint of a sore head.
The FA Cup third round is that gold plated moment in the footballing calendar where the upper class bourgeoisie come face to face with the working class proletariat on the most level of playing fields. Never are the class distinctions and snobberies more clearly highlighted than on this first January weekend of the football season. But then this has become more or less the accepted norm for a number of years.
Tonight though marks the end of the first cycle of Premier League matches with the monumental head to head meeting of the two table topping giants. Current Premier League champions Manchester City have been rocked back on their feet with a series of potentially soul destroying defeats that may have dealt a severe blow to their retention of the Premier League. In fact it must have felt as though somebody had punched them in the stomach and then unforgivingly left them flat out on the ground. Liverpool, their opponents, may be feeling like that bloodthirsty heavyweight who can't wait to tuck into the carcass.
But away from all the thrills and spills and the fun of the fair at the top of the Premier League you're left with the distinct impression that both City and Liverpool would give anything for a decent Cup run if only to leave them with a welcome distraction from the blood and thunder of the Premier League's bubbling cauldron where the temperature must be at boiling point.
And yet here we are on the verge of another FA Cup weekend of heartbreaking misses, pulsating cliff hangers between the little minnows and the giant sharks while not forgetting a healthy dose of action packed excitement. From the rural farming hinterlands of Norfolk and Suffolk, to the lush green pastures of Middle England, football will hold its breath once again. This is that time of the year when David and Goliath slug it out with another slice of fiercely competitive commitment from both sides.
Now the FA Cup presents us with that familiar gallery of warehousemen from Gateshead, milkmen and postmen from Blyth Spartans and a varied mixture of the small and tall, the great and those who are just glad to be involved in the most famous competition in the footballing calendar. It is not asking a lot for the occasional Cup shock or upset because this is after all the essence and raison d'etre of the FA Cup.
It's hard to believe that the FA Cup did have its starting point and here in the depths of a dark winter of January most of us may have conveniently overlooked the first qualifying rounds of the FA Cup on balmy, swelteringly hot afternoons back in early August. We may have forgotten those snooker top green pitches when the last of the heatwave tanned parklands began to look remarkably like rustic hayricks, tufts of straw slowly turning a pristine green.
Then again, the FA Cup was all about local pride, heroic gallantry, embracing the magic of the FA Cup fully even if they knew that in their heart of hearts that Wembley would only remain a North London suburb and their only realistic objective is a place in the fifth round of the Lancashire League Cup. But still there will come a moment this weekend when the men from the Vanarama and Evo Stick League will enjoy their Parisian dalliance with the FA Cup where the love struck non Leaguers will blow the briefest of kisses from the distant Champs Elysees.
Across the country football chairmen and women from every level of the game will be packing out their clubhouses with feverish football fans with raucous voices and many a clinking glass of beer. For these are the people who remain the throbbing heartbeat of the game, the ones who stand bravely on storm tossed terraces with corrugated iron roofs, who shiver stoically as the rains sweep across them and then bob up and down in the hope that something miraculous might happen.
Sadly though, the FA Cup may be lacking in its customary sentimentality because in recent years those famous non League stalwarts may have been conspicuous by their absence. Only Wigan Athletic, who beat the now the world beating Manchester City both surprisingly and shockingly in 2013 have been the Cup giant killers of note. Before then of course the FA Cups gave us the lovable Ipswich and Sunderland who wondrously toppled Arsenal and Leeds respectively in 1978 and 1973.
Even more unfortunately there are no more Bob Stokoes with their beige coats and hats, galloping onto the Wembley pitch like the youngest of ponies. There are, even more tragically, few who will even fall into the same category of Sir Bobby Robson who stopped the world when his vastly entertaining Ipswich Town beat the seemingly glamorous Arsenal.
When the final whistle went that day, Robson smiled widely, spun delightfully on the tips of his toes, rolled his shoulders from side to side and then danced immaculately. This was the FA Cup in a nutshell, a microcosm of what the FA Cup meant to Robson. This was the day that became Robson's wish fulfilment, the days when those school playground contests had to culminate in a boyhood FA Cup win, with Robson charging around the old Wembley Stadium with the Cup in his hand.
The image of a suited and booted Bobby Robson at an Ipswich town hall balcony beaming from ear to ear with the most infectious smile can never be erased. He emerged onto the balcony hardly able to comprehend the magnitude of his achievement. He thrust the FA Cup into the air with that thoroughly deserved air of triumphalism and then jigged for a while without caring for not a moment that millions were watching him.
And so we salute the men who week after week play their football for perhaps a pittance and then realise where they are and who they were playing. They play their game against a regular backdrop of tiny refreshment kiosks, eternally picturesque fields with waving trees and a full complement of cows and sheep dotting the richly incomparable landscape. This is the FA Cup with its lovely characters, its hardened professionals, its wonderful non League amateurs, its earthy authenticity, its giggling, chuckling understatement and its humorous belly laughing in the face of adversity.
We can only hope that by Monday morning somebody from the most unfashionable corner of England will be celebrating as if there were indeed no tomorrow. They will return to their day jobs of fitters and mechanics, welders and steeplejacks, engineers and dedicated factory workers. They will roll up their sleeves not because they have to but because at the end of the day football will become their one and only single preoccupation. The FA Cup will always be on their mind.
For them the FA Cup will represent the highest point of their careers, the day they made the headlines, the ones who were just determined to defy the odds when none thought the improbable would ever happen. They've struggled and toiled to come this far and they weren't ready to give up now. These are men of spirit, verve and joie de vivre, have a go determination. We will remember you all and rightly salute you. May the FA Cup always have its honourable heroes.
Tuesday, 1 January 2019
Happy New Year.
Happy New Year.
So it is that we fall headlong into another New Year. It only seems like yesterday since we were reflecting on the stunningly historic events of 2018 when everything seemed to be in a state of limbo although ironically there was a joyful jubilation when we discovered that we'd just set fire to almost the entire contents of every firework box in the land. Here beginneth the first page of 2019 everybody and happy new year to you all. You all thoroughly deserve it. Your behaviour has been exemplary. Go on, pour yourself another glass of something pleasing to the palate- perhaps a swift rum punch.
Last night though London did itself enormously proud with its yearly spectacular firework display beside the River Thames. It was time for a riot of colour, powerful patriotism and stylish pageantry that London seems to excel at on the big occasion. With every passing year we gather in our thousands by a shivering Embankment in the fond hope that something will leave us both astonished and breathless, that childish wonderment which always seems to lift our heart when things go wildly wrong.
What we were treated to once again was London doing things the way London always wanted as its given right. There were once again those massed crowds tightly packed into the most concentrated and confined area you could possibly cram into one space. Jammed solid together like the proverbial tin of sardines they stood there waiting shoulder to shoulder, breathlessly expectant but perhaps wishing that all that hanging around for hours may not have been the best idea.
And yet London felt like the centre of the universe, the headline act, launched into prominence as one of the chief movers and shakers of the world and all of its inhabitants. From now on Europe and the rest of the world will come to expect much more of Britain and London because of its brand new political and financial stance, a position that has now been thrown into the most dramatically stark relief by events it may or may not be prepared for.
For a while last night at least nothing seemed to matter that much- if only for a while. Everybody sang 'Auld Lang Syne' with that marvellous air of self congratulation that only Britain knows how to do. They counted down the minutes to the beginning of a New Year rather like that noble band of men and women on those famous Apollo space missions from way back when.
Then, at a heavily scaffolded Big Ben the midnight hour passed and that portentous bell rang almost sadly and regretfully perhaps pondering on what might have been if time had been kinder. A thick white sheet hangs loosely around the stomach of Big Ben, its body swathed in what look like convalescent bandages. But ring it did for the last time until the maintenance workers get cracking on a vast repair project that could take years.
Still though, the good people of London gazed across the Thames, the London Eye once again observing everything and everybody around it with a sternly critical but approving look. At midnight the spectacle began, a massive explosion of boisterous colours, an extraordinary art installation on quite the most unbelievable scale, twenty solid minutes of theatre, drama and immensely detailed brushwork.
Here we had the most remarkable complexity of shapes and patterns that the London Mayor Sadiq Khan could only have dreamt about many years ago. There were fireworks that reminded you of huge silver birch trees, sea waves crashing and clashing furiously into each other like cymbals in the traditional orchestra, overlapping, leaping over each other, fireworks that looked like the nearby London bridge, horizontal and vertical displays of light that swirled and spun ever increasingly and mesmerically without pausing for breath.
So it was that the BBC now delighted us all with that gifted ska band who called themselves Madness who this year celebrate their 40th year in the big time. There was the eternally magical House of Fun, the infinitely sing a long My Girl's Mad at Me, the hugely popular Embarrassment and a whole host of the band's now extensive repertoire.
Now seemed the right time to make those inexplicable New Year's Resolutions, to stop eating so much, to stop drinking too much, to spend the whole of the year in sweat stained gyms driving your body towards the point of collapse and then devoting the rest of the year to seemingly pointless diets. It all seems as if we've been through this same rigmarole since time began but if you're still recovering in some warm corner of your living room then you might be considering a repeat performance all over again this time at the end of this year. It makes sense if you think about it.
So it is that we fall headlong into another New Year. It only seems like yesterday since we were reflecting on the stunningly historic events of 2018 when everything seemed to be in a state of limbo although ironically there was a joyful jubilation when we discovered that we'd just set fire to almost the entire contents of every firework box in the land. Here beginneth the first page of 2019 everybody and happy new year to you all. You all thoroughly deserve it. Your behaviour has been exemplary. Go on, pour yourself another glass of something pleasing to the palate- perhaps a swift rum punch.
Last night though London did itself enormously proud with its yearly spectacular firework display beside the River Thames. It was time for a riot of colour, powerful patriotism and stylish pageantry that London seems to excel at on the big occasion. With every passing year we gather in our thousands by a shivering Embankment in the fond hope that something will leave us both astonished and breathless, that childish wonderment which always seems to lift our heart when things go wildly wrong.
What we were treated to once again was London doing things the way London always wanted as its given right. There were once again those massed crowds tightly packed into the most concentrated and confined area you could possibly cram into one space. Jammed solid together like the proverbial tin of sardines they stood there waiting shoulder to shoulder, breathlessly expectant but perhaps wishing that all that hanging around for hours may not have been the best idea.
And yet London felt like the centre of the universe, the headline act, launched into prominence as one of the chief movers and shakers of the world and all of its inhabitants. From now on Europe and the rest of the world will come to expect much more of Britain and London because of its brand new political and financial stance, a position that has now been thrown into the most dramatically stark relief by events it may or may not be prepared for.
For a while last night at least nothing seemed to matter that much- if only for a while. Everybody sang 'Auld Lang Syne' with that marvellous air of self congratulation that only Britain knows how to do. They counted down the minutes to the beginning of a New Year rather like that noble band of men and women on those famous Apollo space missions from way back when.
Then, at a heavily scaffolded Big Ben the midnight hour passed and that portentous bell rang almost sadly and regretfully perhaps pondering on what might have been if time had been kinder. A thick white sheet hangs loosely around the stomach of Big Ben, its body swathed in what look like convalescent bandages. But ring it did for the last time until the maintenance workers get cracking on a vast repair project that could take years.
Still though, the good people of London gazed across the Thames, the London Eye once again observing everything and everybody around it with a sternly critical but approving look. At midnight the spectacle began, a massive explosion of boisterous colours, an extraordinary art installation on quite the most unbelievable scale, twenty solid minutes of theatre, drama and immensely detailed brushwork.
Here we had the most remarkable complexity of shapes and patterns that the London Mayor Sadiq Khan could only have dreamt about many years ago. There were fireworks that reminded you of huge silver birch trees, sea waves crashing and clashing furiously into each other like cymbals in the traditional orchestra, overlapping, leaping over each other, fireworks that looked like the nearby London bridge, horizontal and vertical displays of light that swirled and spun ever increasingly and mesmerically without pausing for breath.
So it was that the BBC now delighted us all with that gifted ska band who called themselves Madness who this year celebrate their 40th year in the big time. There was the eternally magical House of Fun, the infinitely sing a long My Girl's Mad at Me, the hugely popular Embarrassment and a whole host of the band's now extensive repertoire.
Now seemed the right time to make those inexplicable New Year's Resolutions, to stop eating so much, to stop drinking too much, to spend the whole of the year in sweat stained gyms driving your body towards the point of collapse and then devoting the rest of the year to seemingly pointless diets. It all seems as if we've been through this same rigmarole since time began but if you're still recovering in some warm corner of your living room then you might be considering a repeat performance all over again this time at the end of this year. It makes sense if you think about it.
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