Oh for the blissful cold and lovely Manor House.
So here we are on the final day of the first month of January and most of us are probably settling in for the January freeze. Yes folks, it's cold out there although perhaps not quite as cold as it was last year. Last year it was perishingly cold, excruciatingly cold, shiveringly cold and at times too much to bear by anybody's standards. Yours truly went down with the most horrendously violent, hacking cough that was so draining and debilitating at times that there were times when you were just tempted to go back to bed. You simply wanted to go to sleep for three or four months and not emerge from hibernation until the first cuckoos and crocuses of spring.
But winter is still with us and the weather forecast is distinctly ominous so much so that even the Manor House birds have gone all quiet. During the summer you normally see them in full and majestic flight, swaying and swooping together in balletic formation, rather like some ritualistic dance, sweeping across the houses, roofs and chimneys which act as some kind of theatrical set.
Now though the circumstances are markedly different. The temperature has dropped rapidly, the snow, or so they tell us, is on its way and around Britain, millions of us will be digging out our cheerily familiar coats, thick fur coats, a hundred layers of jumpers and pullovers, scarves tightly wrapped our necks and then we'll look forward to either excitement or worried, panicky trepidation in case we go flying head over heels on the snow and ice. It is a prospect some of us will either dread or just accept with a quiet resignation.
Last year it seemed to snow for ever, that long, awkwardly and seemingly indefinite period of torrential snow that just seemed to keep falling and falling out of the sky, dropping limply onto the ground before being replaced by yet another white carpet whose nerve shredding intensity did get to you after a while. There was no let up in Manor House last year from the end of January and by the beginning of March a sense of weary battle fatigue had set in. Some of us felt trapped and marooned, fearing that the snow would just continue for the rest of the year.
Thankfully though it did stop but not before the Beast from the East had announced itself with an unsettling ferocity. Here in Britain we are now used to the meteorological ups and downs of the weather. Even so the Beast from the East did catch us unawares. Bitter winds, sleet, snow and rain all conspired to demoralise us when we might have thought we'd seen the back of it all. Thankfully, it did pass and what followed in complete contrast was the most stunning, balmy and beautifully warm summer for many a year.
Still, here we are on the verge of February and such are the fluctuating uncertainties of the British climate that a vast majority of us haven't a clue what to expect. Do we just try to second guess the snow or do we hope against hope that the mild weather most of us have been experiencing recently will just return and stick around for the duration of the winter solstice?
Meanwhile, here in Manor House the builders and labourers are still hammering, chopping, drilling, tightening up and strengthening the foundations of vast blocks of new apartments, new commercial developments that simply take the breath away. This is the Woodberry Down regeneration, a radical housing transformation that could yet take several centuries to finish.
Everywhere you look there are impossibly tall cranes, huge mechanical monstrosities that look as if they belong on some futuristic science fiction movie set. They soar into the air and then just remain there for what seems like an eternity. Every so often you'll hear a grinding, creaking sound that leads you to believe that those poor old machines are in permanent pain. So you sympathise for a moment before realising that at times your patience may be at breaking point. Then you laugh at your own bemusement and just pretend that it isn't really happening.
Sooner or later though, you suspect that the snows, snow drifts, gritters and children chucking snowballs will follow in that sequence but it's hard to tell when. Rest assured though, those hardy labourers will just carry on regardless, whistling merrily, laughing at each other blithely with the rudest jokes and just getting on with the job in hand. It is one of the most incredible sights you're ever likely to see.
In the far distance you can still see the Wigwam, a children's playground structure that at first baffled me and then the Berkeley building partnership hoardings which stretch as far as the eye can see. The hoardings sing the praises of the lovely walking paths in the Woodberry Wetlands, the heavenly tranquillity of this now very rural setting, the abundant birdlife and the hordes of butterfly spotting parties who gather together regularly if the summer sunshine peeks its head out of the clouds.
Everything is changing and evolving with almost ridiculous speed and you find yourself wondering if they'll ever finish what they've already started. There is though, a widespread acceptance of the onward march of time, a sense that none of us should ever stand in the way of progress because this is the way it's going to be. Around us is a feeling of 21st century modernity, 21st century architecture, 21st century science and 21st century art. Everything and everywhere is moving forward rapidly and startlingly.
New families are moving into those blocks of flats and the landscape has undergone a dramatic sea change. Suddenly there is a realisation that we must embrace the new age because if we don't we may be left behind. The technology has arrived with a vengeance and the time has come to forget about England's once idyllic age when the Industrial Revolution was alive with belching chimneys, noisy factories and a thriving productivity.
In a sense those far off days of the past have never gone away because now Britain now founds itself on the brink of some global, financially lucrative, high tech breakthrough where Europe may become a thing of the past. Britain will tell us that we don't need our European neighbours for the one and simple reason that they just keep telling us what to do and that's the wrong kind of mood music. Europe, we may tell ourselves, is surplus to requirements and that's final.
Anyway, here we are poised for another Ice Age and the snow that was promised on Monday looks as if might materialise. Of course there is a natural beauty about the white stuff and besides the kids love it and always will. So it is that we'll all turn on the heating to full blast, huddle together for warmth, slap our arms together and wait for the right moment to go out when the snow either stops or starts depending on your point of view. Winter has taken up its familiar residence once again and it may be with us for who knows how long. Now where there's that 2,000 piece jigsaw piece puzzle? Anybody for Scrabble? It's probably at the back of the cupboard somewhere.
Thursday, 31 January 2019
Tuesday, 29 January 2019
Holocaust Day memorial service.
Holocaust Day memorial service.
Yesterday the good and upright citizens of Ilford, Essex turned out in their commendable numbers to mark the yearly commemorative tribute to the Holocaust, quite simply the most abhorrent and unforgivable criminal act of genocide the world has ever seen. It was the one most historical event that has now left now innumerable generations cold, aghast, stunned and totally devastated. The tears of heartache, private suffering and grief have been shed every single year since the end of the Second World War. But the pain may never subside, the mental rawness is still there and the lessons it has certainly taught us have been regrettably ignored.
But at Valentines Park yesterday we took our places in the warm marquee specially erected for the occasion, sat reflectively, collected our thoughts and tried to rationalise, understand the vast magnitude of it all, gazing around at the sombreness, the unspeakable tragedy that seemed to surround them. We looked at each other knowingly, barely able to grasp at any kind of emotion that would soften the bitter blow.
There were the officials and dignitaries, the local mayor and mayoress and above all the memory of the loved ones who were not only deprived of their voice and life in the years after the War but were horribly robbed of their dignity. This was not the way it was meant to be and yet that's how fate dictated the course of events. We bowed our heads, chanted our prayers, counted our blessings and gave enormous thanks for the richness of our own lives.
We questioned, analysed, wondered why and then came to the conclusion that those who scorn and mock the Holocaust should go away for a long time and just examine their consciences. For the Holocaust deniers seem to multiply by the day, the week, month and year. We simply cannot face those whose minds have been so pathologically twisted and bent out of shape by those who believed that the whole Holocaust was a tissue of lies, distortions and gross exaggerations that have been so shamefully peddled since the end of hostilities in 1945. But yesterday those naysayers were privately dismissed from our minds, as we hoped they would never darken our corridors again.
How on earth to explain the outrageous individuals who insist that the Holocaust was just a figment of the imagination, that it was something that never actually happened, that it was something they would rather not believe or discuss because there was no proper scientific evidence to prove this. Or that the most evil of all dictatorships could willingly sanction such bloodthirsty barbarism, the gas chambers, the killing fields which provided the ugly setting to those endless rows of concentration camps, the barbed wire of Auschwitz and sickening murder on a gigantic scale.
And yet over 70 years since the end of the Second World War the hollow echoes of gunfire, bombs, explosions and man's inhumanity to man still resonate powerfully throughout the ages. Still we are reminded of the historians who steadfastly refuse to believe that all of the subsequent TV documentaries were just a sham, a fake, totally blown out of proportion and were just made up facts and figures.
The blunt truth is of course entirely different. How dare they, in their ignorance, refuse to believe the piles of dead bodies, the huddled groups of men, women and children led achingly to their death, the crying and sobbing families pleading for help, the frail and gaunt figures who were pushed, shoved and jabbed in the back because Hitler despised them!
Oh for the humiliation, the utter degradation, the vile wickedness of it all. As a grandson of a Holocaust survivor words just fail me. There can be no legal recourse or recompense for the lives wiped out so distressingly and heartrendingly with such merciless intent. We are those whose grandparents witnessed it all, the grandchildren who will always be grateful and respectful, never allowing the sacrifices they made to be obliterated from our minds because we will always love them.
Still though the images continue to haunt us perhaps because they should and will always do so. How can we forget the labour camps, the now ghostly and haunting railway track that transported hundreds and thousands to the gas chambers for the last time? How we can possibly erase from our memories the deafening screams of agony from children and adults alike, the dehumanisation of the Jews, the relentless slaughter, the arrogant shouting and stern commands which emanated constantly from the Nazi stormtroopers, the hysterical rantings of Hitler and the mass loss of life?
Even so for just a morning Valentines Park in Ilford, Essex sat and then stood in silence, contemplating all the while the traumas, the psychological scars, the almost endless senselessness and futility of war. We remembered the ones who would never come back again. But we were there because we had to and we knew in our heart of hearts that they were still there in spirit. It was good to be there and quiet, to be deep in reminiscence, together and united by who we were and why we were there. Lest we ever forget the Holocaust. Never ever.
Sunday, 27 January 2019
Everton's Toffees come to a sticky end in FA Cup defeat against Millwall.
Everton's Toffees come to a sticky end in FA Cup defeat against Millwall.
The FA Cup just keeps getting you there. It has to catch you out when least expected, the element of surprise its most predominant feature. One day it will produce its most astonishing result and we'll all gasp with both relief and delight because that was never meant to happen. Six years ago little and unfairly unfashionable Wigan Athletic, guided by the jovial chairman Dave Whelan, produced one of the great shocks of modern times with a last minute winner against a Manchester City team who had yet to be introduced to Pep Guardiola and the mesmeric tika taka of Guardiola's joyous short passing game.
Last night though the location for another minor FA Cup shock could hardly have been further removed from the palatial glamour of the Nou Camp and Barcelona. Ladies and gentlemen let me give you the New Den, home of Millwall whose rather unfortunate reputation for thuggish hooliganism on the terraces of Cold Blow Lane, their old and now grimly dilapidated ground, did so much to drag English football through its most sleazy and disreputable past.
Still, the dreadful and shameful events that took place so frequently at Cold Blow Lane can still send a cold shiver down the spine. It was football's dark age where much of the 1970s was scarred and terribly disfigured by football fans with flick knives, threatening fists, notorious punch ups in the stands, hate, frightening pitch invasions, broken beer bottles, blood, stabbings and attempted murder.
If sociologists were to analyse the gratuitous violence and appalling behaviour which the Millwall bovver boys were so intent on perpetrating on more or less every Saturday afternoon then they'd have probably struggled desperately. It was football's forgettable age where the fans behaved so disgracefully that some of us never really thought it would ever end. But then along came the terrible tragedies of Hillsborough and Valley Parade. From that point onwards football took its collective heads out of the sand and realised that something had to be done and quickly.
For Millwall the change of ground to a modern and infinitely more comfortable stadium does seem to have done them the world of good. No longer are those freezing open stands at Cold Blow Lane exposing most of their supporters to lengthy bouts of flu and the chilly draughts coming no doubt from Bermondsey are just a thing of the past. We are now in the 21st century and the dawning of the new Den may not be quite as iniquitous as it might seem at first. There's much more room to manoeuvre and the standard of catering is more cappuccino than soggy meat pie.
The mind can still vaguely recall the exploits of the Millwall players who will now be fondly remembered during the 1970s. There was Barry Kitchener, a strong, bustling and lively player who often gave as good as he got. How could anyone forget the tireless Terry Hurlock and the vastly prolific striker Teddy Sheringham who began his career at Millwall? Then Millwall had Jimmy Carter, Derek Possee and a whole variety of tough, seasoned battlers and professionals who must revel in the memories of Millwall's halcyon days.
Sadly, last night's New Den looked more like Hackney Marshes after a good, old fashioned downpour, a muddy, boggy, rutted quagmire that made you wonder if football had briefly stepped back in time. What we had in consequence was a shapeless, scruffy and scrappy first half that just seemed to sink without trace. The mud became the ultimate hindrance and both teams were at a loss as to what exactly what they were supposed to do with the ball.
For Millwall, the likes of Mahlon Romeo, Shaun Hutchinson, Jake Cooper, Ryan Tunnicliffe , O' Brien and of course the winning goal scorer Murray Wallace strove purposefully to move the ball around the central midfield areas and the 18 yard boxes but at times you almost felt sorry for them. There were occasional flashes of skill and invention but these were few and far between.
Everton of course are having one of those typical seasons where glass is never half full. One day they resemble building site labourers while the next they dress in their smart pin stripe suits for a day of trading on the City floor. Michael Kane still looks fresh faced and adventurous, Idrissa Gheye scuttled and drove forward positively, Ademola Lookman was sharp and neat on the ball while Gylfi Sigurdsson is still a class act, perhaps the one player of any vision in the Everton side to see things that his colleagues had failed to pick up. But this was not the Everton of Harvey, Kendall and Ball although that might have been wishing for too much.
The game finally creaked open with Everton's first goal, a Richarlison low, drilled shot that gave Everton the advantage they had to work for. Immediately, Millwall struck back with some haste. A high, hanging free kick was nodded on for Lee Gregory whose nicely placed header floated over Everton and England goalkeeper Jordan Pickford who seemed to paw at thin air. Even stevens at half time and much more to come.
Half way through the second half and with Everton penning Millwall deeper and deeper into their defensive shell it looked as if the Premier League club's superior know how and more subtle approach would work in their favour. True to their plan Everton, for what had to be the hundredth time in the match, set Sigurdsson free, now commanding the midfield as if it was his sole property, craftily slipping the ball through the narrowest gap on the edge of the 18 yard box and Tosun then steered the ball sweetly into the net.
Once again Millwall hit back with a second equaliser. Jake Cooper, causing what turned into an international incident, seemed to nudge the ball into net with both shoulder and, most crucially, hand. Uproar followed and Everton were red with anger. Referee Taylor was surrounded by livid Everton players. Now an FA Cup tie, full of twists and turns, was beginning to ignore any conceivable script as Millwall, sensing Everton frailties at the back, pushed forward, pestered and inched their way into the Everton half as if their lives depended on it.
Then, with the last kick of the game and the 90 minute mark going beyond the call of duty, Millwall sent forward all of their big battalions, quite literally stretching every muscle in their body. With the referee's whistle for full time about to blow, another Millwall long distance free kick from deep found its head with almost uncanny accuracy and the ball fell almost too invitingly at the feet of Murray Wallace who, from a flicked on header, slammed the ball into the back of the net. The Millwall crowd were almost besides themselves with delight. Whole generations of supporters could hardly hold back their elation.
Now Everton had justifiable cause for complaint. They were still boiling over in high dudgeon over Millwall's second equaliser. It was guided in by hand and nothing would pacify them. Almost the entire Everton team charged over to referee Anthony Taylor who, for a moment, seemed to freeze on the spot. Mayhem and confusion ensued as Everton insisted the ball had hit an Everton hand on the way into the net. But the goal remained and Millwall had reached the fifth round of the FA Cup, an injustice it seemed had been seen to be done. Not for the first time Millwall had toppled a Premier League giant. This is becoming something of a regular occurrence for the Lions of Millwall.
And so the down to earth and full throated throng of Millwall fans sung their colourful songs deep into the South London evening air. Many decades ago the local dockers who toiled so industriously from morning through to early evening, seemed to thrive on their persecution complex. Nobody ever did like Millwall but then nobody seems to have a good word for Jeremy Corbyn. It is hard to see them reaching what would only be their second FA Cup Final after the 4-0 thrashing by Manchester United in 2004 but for Millwall stranger things have been known to happen. Watch this space.
The FA Cup just keeps getting you there. It has to catch you out when least expected, the element of surprise its most predominant feature. One day it will produce its most astonishing result and we'll all gasp with both relief and delight because that was never meant to happen. Six years ago little and unfairly unfashionable Wigan Athletic, guided by the jovial chairman Dave Whelan, produced one of the great shocks of modern times with a last minute winner against a Manchester City team who had yet to be introduced to Pep Guardiola and the mesmeric tika taka of Guardiola's joyous short passing game.
Last night though the location for another minor FA Cup shock could hardly have been further removed from the palatial glamour of the Nou Camp and Barcelona. Ladies and gentlemen let me give you the New Den, home of Millwall whose rather unfortunate reputation for thuggish hooliganism on the terraces of Cold Blow Lane, their old and now grimly dilapidated ground, did so much to drag English football through its most sleazy and disreputable past.
Still, the dreadful and shameful events that took place so frequently at Cold Blow Lane can still send a cold shiver down the spine. It was football's dark age where much of the 1970s was scarred and terribly disfigured by football fans with flick knives, threatening fists, notorious punch ups in the stands, hate, frightening pitch invasions, broken beer bottles, blood, stabbings and attempted murder.
If sociologists were to analyse the gratuitous violence and appalling behaviour which the Millwall bovver boys were so intent on perpetrating on more or less every Saturday afternoon then they'd have probably struggled desperately. It was football's forgettable age where the fans behaved so disgracefully that some of us never really thought it would ever end. But then along came the terrible tragedies of Hillsborough and Valley Parade. From that point onwards football took its collective heads out of the sand and realised that something had to be done and quickly.
For Millwall the change of ground to a modern and infinitely more comfortable stadium does seem to have done them the world of good. No longer are those freezing open stands at Cold Blow Lane exposing most of their supporters to lengthy bouts of flu and the chilly draughts coming no doubt from Bermondsey are just a thing of the past. We are now in the 21st century and the dawning of the new Den may not be quite as iniquitous as it might seem at first. There's much more room to manoeuvre and the standard of catering is more cappuccino than soggy meat pie.
The mind can still vaguely recall the exploits of the Millwall players who will now be fondly remembered during the 1970s. There was Barry Kitchener, a strong, bustling and lively player who often gave as good as he got. How could anyone forget the tireless Terry Hurlock and the vastly prolific striker Teddy Sheringham who began his career at Millwall? Then Millwall had Jimmy Carter, Derek Possee and a whole variety of tough, seasoned battlers and professionals who must revel in the memories of Millwall's halcyon days.
Sadly, last night's New Den looked more like Hackney Marshes after a good, old fashioned downpour, a muddy, boggy, rutted quagmire that made you wonder if football had briefly stepped back in time. What we had in consequence was a shapeless, scruffy and scrappy first half that just seemed to sink without trace. The mud became the ultimate hindrance and both teams were at a loss as to what exactly what they were supposed to do with the ball.
For Millwall, the likes of Mahlon Romeo, Shaun Hutchinson, Jake Cooper, Ryan Tunnicliffe , O' Brien and of course the winning goal scorer Murray Wallace strove purposefully to move the ball around the central midfield areas and the 18 yard boxes but at times you almost felt sorry for them. There were occasional flashes of skill and invention but these were few and far between.
Everton of course are having one of those typical seasons where glass is never half full. One day they resemble building site labourers while the next they dress in their smart pin stripe suits for a day of trading on the City floor. Michael Kane still looks fresh faced and adventurous, Idrissa Gheye scuttled and drove forward positively, Ademola Lookman was sharp and neat on the ball while Gylfi Sigurdsson is still a class act, perhaps the one player of any vision in the Everton side to see things that his colleagues had failed to pick up. But this was not the Everton of Harvey, Kendall and Ball although that might have been wishing for too much.
The game finally creaked open with Everton's first goal, a Richarlison low, drilled shot that gave Everton the advantage they had to work for. Immediately, Millwall struck back with some haste. A high, hanging free kick was nodded on for Lee Gregory whose nicely placed header floated over Everton and England goalkeeper Jordan Pickford who seemed to paw at thin air. Even stevens at half time and much more to come.
Half way through the second half and with Everton penning Millwall deeper and deeper into their defensive shell it looked as if the Premier League club's superior know how and more subtle approach would work in their favour. True to their plan Everton, for what had to be the hundredth time in the match, set Sigurdsson free, now commanding the midfield as if it was his sole property, craftily slipping the ball through the narrowest gap on the edge of the 18 yard box and Tosun then steered the ball sweetly into the net.
Once again Millwall hit back with a second equaliser. Jake Cooper, causing what turned into an international incident, seemed to nudge the ball into net with both shoulder and, most crucially, hand. Uproar followed and Everton were red with anger. Referee Taylor was surrounded by livid Everton players. Now an FA Cup tie, full of twists and turns, was beginning to ignore any conceivable script as Millwall, sensing Everton frailties at the back, pushed forward, pestered and inched their way into the Everton half as if their lives depended on it.
Then, with the last kick of the game and the 90 minute mark going beyond the call of duty, Millwall sent forward all of their big battalions, quite literally stretching every muscle in their body. With the referee's whistle for full time about to blow, another Millwall long distance free kick from deep found its head with almost uncanny accuracy and the ball fell almost too invitingly at the feet of Murray Wallace who, from a flicked on header, slammed the ball into the back of the net. The Millwall crowd were almost besides themselves with delight. Whole generations of supporters could hardly hold back their elation.
Now Everton had justifiable cause for complaint. They were still boiling over in high dudgeon over Millwall's second equaliser. It was guided in by hand and nothing would pacify them. Almost the entire Everton team charged over to referee Anthony Taylor who, for a moment, seemed to freeze on the spot. Mayhem and confusion ensued as Everton insisted the ball had hit an Everton hand on the way into the net. But the goal remained and Millwall had reached the fifth round of the FA Cup, an injustice it seemed had been seen to be done. Not for the first time Millwall had toppled a Premier League giant. This is becoming something of a regular occurrence for the Lions of Millwall.
And so the down to earth and full throated throng of Millwall fans sung their colourful songs deep into the South London evening air. Many decades ago the local dockers who toiled so industriously from morning through to early evening, seemed to thrive on their persecution complex. Nobody ever did like Millwall but then nobody seems to have a good word for Jeremy Corbyn. It is hard to see them reaching what would only be their second FA Cup Final after the 4-0 thrashing by Manchester United in 2004 but for Millwall stranger things have been known to happen. Watch this space.
Friday, 25 January 2019
Hugh Mcilvanney- a literary genius with a love of sport.
Hugh Mcilvanney - a literary genius with a love of sport.
Hugh Mcilvanney, who died today at the age of 84, was not only one of the finest and greatest of sports writers but he took sports journalism to a whole new dimension. For Mcilvanney, writing had to be measured and designed, carved and sculpted, illustrated and lovingly presented. He brought poetry to each and every sentence and paragraph, a heightened sense of drama to every line, while also bringing an almost Dickensian lyricism to every newspaper column. His was the richest Scottish voice in the sporting world.
Born in Kilmarnock, Scotland, Mcilvanney cut his early journalistic teeth on the Express newspapers before moving on to the Observer and in latter years with his equally as gifted colleague Brian Glanville who'd already made his name at the Sunday Times at the beginning of the 1960s. But for Mcilvanney the construction and execution of his art work on the written page was something to be meticulously refined and polished rather than unnecessarily rushed and hurried.
By the time he'd reached the Observer, Fleet Street, as it was then rightly called, had already prepared a special place for this wonderfully husky voiced Scotsman. Once the typewriter had been opened up to him, there flowed a unstoppable torrent of purple prose soaked thoroughly in the sweetest wine of description. The words came tumbling down the mountainside before becoming tablets of stone that would entertain and inform quite brilliantly. His readers couldn't get enough of him.
In a modern context it is hard to put the man from Kilmarnock into any one specific category because, quite simply, he defies any kind of classification. He described football matches, players, managers, grounds, international teams, World Cups, European Championships and football at all levels with a detached authority and extensive knowledge that may never be seen again.
Mcilvanney brought a rare craftsmanship and, some might say, a draughtsmanship to his profession that very few could come anywhere near to matching. He treated words like smooth pieces of wood in upholstery where any remnants of a rough surface would be rubbed down and then fashioned into a beautiful mahogany table.
The sentences may have been lengthy and elaborately detailed, words that waltzed gracefully off the page, delectable words that reminded you of long, winding country roads or cosy tea shops where everything was idyllic, a land of serene, sun lit uplands and gentle twilight brought a perfect conclusion to the day.
So it is that both race courses, boxing rings and football grounds will fall silent as they take an afternoon to reflect on the literary excellence of this wonderful sports writer. For Mcilvanney loved his horse racing, thrilled to the thunderclap hooves of a thousand horses, galloping together harmoniously to the finishing line at Aintree, Ascot, Epsom, Kempton Park, Sandown Park and Ayr which was somehow conveniently situated not a million miles from his birthplace.
Then there was the bloody brutality of the boxing ring where the man from Kilmarnock would crouch by the ringside, phone clamped faithfully to his ears before pouring impeccably delivered words to the copy desk at the Observer who must have been convinced they were listening to the first chapter of 'A Tale of Two Cities'.
In more recent years Mcilvanney turned his attentions to TV. Here he was responsible for some of the most entertaining football documentaries, shedding a fascinating light on the legends of the game. His trips down memory lane took us on a lovely journey where both Sir Matt Busby and Bill Shankly were, quite understandably, fondly recalled. It seemed at times that Mcilvanney was almost awe struck and completely entranced by his subjects, permanently grateful for their presence in the game.
But in one of those tumultuous periods for boxing during the giddy 1960s and the balmy 1970s, the boy from Kilmarnock found himself mixing it with the very elite of boxing company. A man known Muhammad Ali, who'd been running rings around those who ever doubted him, suddenly came head to head with one of the most eloquent wordsmiths Scottish sports writing had ever given us. In the middle of a jungle in what was then referred to as Zaire, Ali and Mcilvanney became lifelong friends.
Today marked the passing of a journalistic colossus, a giant of sports writing scribes, a man whose delicate management of the written word, whose carefully minted phrases and remarkable homages to the English language will keep a warm spot in our hearts by countless wintry log fires. There was a rightness and elegant precision about Hugh Mcilvanney that transcended the sport he so enriched. Kilmarnock will never forget him and nor will we.
Hugh Mcilvanney, who died today at the age of 84, was not only one of the finest and greatest of sports writers but he took sports journalism to a whole new dimension. For Mcilvanney, writing had to be measured and designed, carved and sculpted, illustrated and lovingly presented. He brought poetry to each and every sentence and paragraph, a heightened sense of drama to every line, while also bringing an almost Dickensian lyricism to every newspaper column. His was the richest Scottish voice in the sporting world.
Born in Kilmarnock, Scotland, Mcilvanney cut his early journalistic teeth on the Express newspapers before moving on to the Observer and in latter years with his equally as gifted colleague Brian Glanville who'd already made his name at the Sunday Times at the beginning of the 1960s. But for Mcilvanney the construction and execution of his art work on the written page was something to be meticulously refined and polished rather than unnecessarily rushed and hurried.
By the time he'd reached the Observer, Fleet Street, as it was then rightly called, had already prepared a special place for this wonderfully husky voiced Scotsman. Once the typewriter had been opened up to him, there flowed a unstoppable torrent of purple prose soaked thoroughly in the sweetest wine of description. The words came tumbling down the mountainside before becoming tablets of stone that would entertain and inform quite brilliantly. His readers couldn't get enough of him.
In a modern context it is hard to put the man from Kilmarnock into any one specific category because, quite simply, he defies any kind of classification. He described football matches, players, managers, grounds, international teams, World Cups, European Championships and football at all levels with a detached authority and extensive knowledge that may never be seen again.
Mcilvanney brought a rare craftsmanship and, some might say, a draughtsmanship to his profession that very few could come anywhere near to matching. He treated words like smooth pieces of wood in upholstery where any remnants of a rough surface would be rubbed down and then fashioned into a beautiful mahogany table.
The sentences may have been lengthy and elaborately detailed, words that waltzed gracefully off the page, delectable words that reminded you of long, winding country roads or cosy tea shops where everything was idyllic, a land of serene, sun lit uplands and gentle twilight brought a perfect conclusion to the day.
So it is that both race courses, boxing rings and football grounds will fall silent as they take an afternoon to reflect on the literary excellence of this wonderful sports writer. For Mcilvanney loved his horse racing, thrilled to the thunderclap hooves of a thousand horses, galloping together harmoniously to the finishing line at Aintree, Ascot, Epsom, Kempton Park, Sandown Park and Ayr which was somehow conveniently situated not a million miles from his birthplace.
Then there was the bloody brutality of the boxing ring where the man from Kilmarnock would crouch by the ringside, phone clamped faithfully to his ears before pouring impeccably delivered words to the copy desk at the Observer who must have been convinced they were listening to the first chapter of 'A Tale of Two Cities'.
In more recent years Mcilvanney turned his attentions to TV. Here he was responsible for some of the most entertaining football documentaries, shedding a fascinating light on the legends of the game. His trips down memory lane took us on a lovely journey where both Sir Matt Busby and Bill Shankly were, quite understandably, fondly recalled. It seemed at times that Mcilvanney was almost awe struck and completely entranced by his subjects, permanently grateful for their presence in the game.
But in one of those tumultuous periods for boxing during the giddy 1960s and the balmy 1970s, the boy from Kilmarnock found himself mixing it with the very elite of boxing company. A man known Muhammad Ali, who'd been running rings around those who ever doubted him, suddenly came head to head with one of the most eloquent wordsmiths Scottish sports writing had ever given us. In the middle of a jungle in what was then referred to as Zaire, Ali and Mcilvanney became lifelong friends.
Today marked the passing of a journalistic colossus, a giant of sports writing scribes, a man whose delicate management of the written word, whose carefully minted phrases and remarkable homages to the English language will keep a warm spot in our hearts by countless wintry log fires. There was a rightness and elegant precision about Hugh Mcilvanney that transcended the sport he so enriched. Kilmarnock will never forget him and nor will we.
Wednesday, 23 January 2019
England in the West Indies.
England in the West Indies.
The English cricket team has often found itself in paradise but once again they find themselves up against the one cricketing nation who always used to leave them trembling with fear. The West Indies, in the past tense, were, at one time, one of the most formidable cricketing sides in the world. Not any more or so it would seem. But who knows they may just decide to turn on the style once again in the hope of a resurgence that might be just around the corner.
For the time being the beaches of Barbados, Trinidad and Tobago, and Jamaica, St Kitts and a whole string of purple pearled islands may have to content themselves with a steady improvement and a gradual return to peerless greatness. But no longer are those islands singing happily to the sound of the sweet crack of willow on red ball.
The kids want to play football perhaps and cricket is of secondary importance although there has to be a small core of young, emerging West Indian cricketers who would just love to emulate the feats world class gentlemen who so proudly adorned the exotic Caribbean jersey. It almost seems as if the heartbeat of West Indies cricket is no longer throbbing quite so powerfully as it used to. It's as if somebody has deliberately ripped the plug out of the Windies electrical socket.
And yet the England team arrived in Barbados to be greeted with the rich smell of rum and coconut juice and a private conviction that maybe this time they can emerge triumphant. Amid those swaying palm trees and the stirringly melodious sounds of the steel drums in their ears, England will be doing their utmost to putting behind them the woes and troubles of yesteryear.
The fact is that during the 1970s the West Indies were simply unbeatable, a force of nature, a side of boldness, bravery, class and brazen flamboyance. The West Indies possessed some of the most lethal and destructive batsmen in the world of cricket would ever witness. They would hook the ball for innumerable sixes and fours that would invariably end up in local high streets or bouncing off cars and buses before ending up in a shop doorway far, far away. They would slog, punch, cover drive and sweep the ball off back and front and back foot with gleeful enjoyment and not a single moment's hesitation.
Those players were the remarkably gifted Viv Richards, a batsman with savagery and callousness in that bat, a bat that swung like a metronome and a man who timed the ball to perfection. Richards would hook delightfully and drive the ball to all four corners of a cricket ground as if determined to lose it. He would hunch those broad, muscular shoulders which reminded you of solid rock and then take up residence as, frequently, opening batsman before blasting and slogging the ball with merciless power.
Then there was captain Clive Lloyd, pantherine and with legs that seemed to go on for ever. Lloyd was a brilliant strategist and thoughtful captain who would lope across from gully or deep with the majesty of a leopard. There was Gordon Greenidge and Roy Fredericks, Alvin Kallicharran, the studious Rohan Kanhai, players with a definitive match winning temperament, cricketers of steel, nerves of steel, showboating, grandstanding brilliance. They would skip out of the pavilion on an early sun kissed morning at Trent Bridge, noble emperors, stunning practitioners of their craft and full of witty expressions at the crease.
Then there were the bowlers, the quickies, the catapult slingers, the men who delivered those ruthless missiles that flew past opposition batsmen as if they were propelled by some supernatural force. There was Andy Roberts. Malcolm Marshall, Michael Holding and Joel Garner who was so tall that he looked as if he would have been better employed as a weatherman. All four men were silent cricketing assassins. silent at first but then intense and explosive, as noisy and stentorian as a steam train hurtling into a railway station.
Now though the West Indies have Jason Holder as the West Indies skipper, Carlos Brathwaite, Fabian Allen, Samuel Badree, Darren Bravo, Devendra Bishoo and Sunil Ambris and Kraiss Brathwaite, the modern today generation, the new buds on the rosebush, wet behind their ears quite possibly and wondering if their predecessors would still swell with pride if only they could do half as well as they did in their heyday.
You see the problem is that the infrastructure of West Indian cricket is not nearly as sound as it used to be and there are those out there who doubt whether we'll ever see another Sir Garfield Sobers, another set of Worell, Weeks and Walcott, the classically built Learie Constantine or any of those magicians and conjurors who turned every cricketing match into a musical carnival.
The mind tenderly takes you go back to the wondrous Sobers and that famous Sunday John Player League six fest against Glamorgan during the late 1960s. It may have been just like any ordinary Sunday afternoon for Sobers but when he planted that final six of six sixes into some far distant corner of an English meadow the rest of cricket knew that it had almost certainly set eyes upon the greatest cricketer they'd ever seen.
But now the England of Joe Root, a natural leader of men, Ben Stokes and Stuart Broad, bowlers of strength and resourcefulness, powerful and admirable consistency, men who can so readily rise to the occasion whatever the day, month or week. They will stroll into a bright Caribbean winter sun, drink in the spice of a Test match atmosphere and just have the time of their lives.
With Johnny Bairstow always ready to be assertive and richly productive when the mood takes him, Jos Buttler, full of fluent and captivating strokes and the promising Jake Ball, primed and ready to go, this could be the winter to remember for English cricket. We feel sure that Jimmy Anderson will bowl with all the enthusiasm of the youngster in the playground who just loved to play cricket all day and deep into the evening. Will the roles though be completely reversed this time and for once will English cricket finally emerge from a West Indian field with a victory rather than that sinking feeling again? It remains to be seen and we can but hope.
The English cricket team has often found itself in paradise but once again they find themselves up against the one cricketing nation who always used to leave them trembling with fear. The West Indies, in the past tense, were, at one time, one of the most formidable cricketing sides in the world. Not any more or so it would seem. But who knows they may just decide to turn on the style once again in the hope of a resurgence that might be just around the corner.
For the time being the beaches of Barbados, Trinidad and Tobago, and Jamaica, St Kitts and a whole string of purple pearled islands may have to content themselves with a steady improvement and a gradual return to peerless greatness. But no longer are those islands singing happily to the sound of the sweet crack of willow on red ball.
The kids want to play football perhaps and cricket is of secondary importance although there has to be a small core of young, emerging West Indian cricketers who would just love to emulate the feats world class gentlemen who so proudly adorned the exotic Caribbean jersey. It almost seems as if the heartbeat of West Indies cricket is no longer throbbing quite so powerfully as it used to. It's as if somebody has deliberately ripped the plug out of the Windies electrical socket.
And yet the England team arrived in Barbados to be greeted with the rich smell of rum and coconut juice and a private conviction that maybe this time they can emerge triumphant. Amid those swaying palm trees and the stirringly melodious sounds of the steel drums in their ears, England will be doing their utmost to putting behind them the woes and troubles of yesteryear.
The fact is that during the 1970s the West Indies were simply unbeatable, a force of nature, a side of boldness, bravery, class and brazen flamboyance. The West Indies possessed some of the most lethal and destructive batsmen in the world of cricket would ever witness. They would hook the ball for innumerable sixes and fours that would invariably end up in local high streets or bouncing off cars and buses before ending up in a shop doorway far, far away. They would slog, punch, cover drive and sweep the ball off back and front and back foot with gleeful enjoyment and not a single moment's hesitation.
Those players were the remarkably gifted Viv Richards, a batsman with savagery and callousness in that bat, a bat that swung like a metronome and a man who timed the ball to perfection. Richards would hook delightfully and drive the ball to all four corners of a cricket ground as if determined to lose it. He would hunch those broad, muscular shoulders which reminded you of solid rock and then take up residence as, frequently, opening batsman before blasting and slogging the ball with merciless power.
Then there was captain Clive Lloyd, pantherine and with legs that seemed to go on for ever. Lloyd was a brilliant strategist and thoughtful captain who would lope across from gully or deep with the majesty of a leopard. There was Gordon Greenidge and Roy Fredericks, Alvin Kallicharran, the studious Rohan Kanhai, players with a definitive match winning temperament, cricketers of steel, nerves of steel, showboating, grandstanding brilliance. They would skip out of the pavilion on an early sun kissed morning at Trent Bridge, noble emperors, stunning practitioners of their craft and full of witty expressions at the crease.
Then there were the bowlers, the quickies, the catapult slingers, the men who delivered those ruthless missiles that flew past opposition batsmen as if they were propelled by some supernatural force. There was Andy Roberts. Malcolm Marshall, Michael Holding and Joel Garner who was so tall that he looked as if he would have been better employed as a weatherman. All four men were silent cricketing assassins. silent at first but then intense and explosive, as noisy and stentorian as a steam train hurtling into a railway station.
Now though the West Indies have Jason Holder as the West Indies skipper, Carlos Brathwaite, Fabian Allen, Samuel Badree, Darren Bravo, Devendra Bishoo and Sunil Ambris and Kraiss Brathwaite, the modern today generation, the new buds on the rosebush, wet behind their ears quite possibly and wondering if their predecessors would still swell with pride if only they could do half as well as they did in their heyday.
You see the problem is that the infrastructure of West Indian cricket is not nearly as sound as it used to be and there are those out there who doubt whether we'll ever see another Sir Garfield Sobers, another set of Worell, Weeks and Walcott, the classically built Learie Constantine or any of those magicians and conjurors who turned every cricketing match into a musical carnival.
The mind tenderly takes you go back to the wondrous Sobers and that famous Sunday John Player League six fest against Glamorgan during the late 1960s. It may have been just like any ordinary Sunday afternoon for Sobers but when he planted that final six of six sixes into some far distant corner of an English meadow the rest of cricket knew that it had almost certainly set eyes upon the greatest cricketer they'd ever seen.
But now the England of Joe Root, a natural leader of men, Ben Stokes and Stuart Broad, bowlers of strength and resourcefulness, powerful and admirable consistency, men who can so readily rise to the occasion whatever the day, month or week. They will stroll into a bright Caribbean winter sun, drink in the spice of a Test match atmosphere and just have the time of their lives.
With Johnny Bairstow always ready to be assertive and richly productive when the mood takes him, Jos Buttler, full of fluent and captivating strokes and the promising Jake Ball, primed and ready to go, this could be the winter to remember for English cricket. We feel sure that Jimmy Anderson will bowl with all the enthusiasm of the youngster in the playground who just loved to play cricket all day and deep into the evening. Will the roles though be completely reversed this time and for once will English cricket finally emerge from a West Indian field with a victory rather than that sinking feeling again? It remains to be seen and we can but hope.
Monday, 21 January 2019
National Squirrel Appreciation Day.
National Squirrel Appreciation Day.
It does seem like the daftest excuse for a National Appreciation Day but this is perfectly true. I've checked my sources and it is National Squirrel Appreciation Day, those sneaky and quick witted creatures who always look as if they're operating undercover with a hidden agenda. Squirrels are lightning fast on their feet and look as though they could probably give Usain Bolt a run for his money but that's never likely to happen since the now all time great sprinter Bolt has now retired. Still, it's a fond thought.
But now is the time to celebrate the lifestyle and existence of the grey or brown squirrel, whose everyday life seems to be wholly dependent on the accumulation and consumption of as many nuts they can gobble up as quickly as possible. You're never entirely sure what to make of a creature who spends most of its time permanently looking up at you as if slightly wary of the human race and suspicious of your every move. At times it looks as if they're terrified of an all out war on them where the only course of action is to either scamper for their life or just get out of the neighbourhood.
Squirrels are quite obviously mischievous, covert, cheeky and audacious. They leap across parklands with so much subtlety and cunning that it is nigh on impossible to track them or find out what it is they believe is so irresistible. They scurry up walls and over fences with the kind of dashing flair that only squirrels are capable of performing.
They jump out of communal bins with a sparkling agility that only they can muster. They hide in corners, forever shifty and scheming, foraging for more food quite naturally and then giving up the chase because night may be falling and you never know who might be around. They dart out of bushes and trees with extraordinary speed and must feel, in their heart of hearts, this may be the only place that might offer blissful sanctuary when all else fails.
Then there are the crafty breed of squirrels who just wait for the right moment to plot some ingenious way out of the undergrowth in the fervent hope of seeking out a warm bed for the night.Their eyes, as wide as saucers, are forever staring and peering just looking to see whether the coast is clear. You see a squirrel's intentions are always honourable and they're just looking for a decent night's supper at the Savoy. Now here they might encounter a problem because squirrels aren't welcome at swanky five star hotels.
But seriously, you never know what the average squirrel may be thinking. Presumably, there are extrovert and introvert squirrels, wise and all knowing squirrels, squirrels who are holding back the inner pain, emotional squirrels who just can't control their tears and just tireless squirrels who simply approach life with an infectious zest for living.
So there are you folks. It's time to take our hats off to our friendly squirrel always restless, bursting with energy, always pursuing some elusive goal, persistently flying up drain pipes at the rate of knots and climbing up trees with the very distinctive air of the hunter predator. Now it is that the squirrel finds time to weigh up its options. Do they make a decisive run for it, escape into the wilderness where nobody can possibly find them again or just lie low in case there are just a few hungry animals ready and waiting to pounce?
A squirrel's life it seems is very much the classic case of the survival of the fittest, where only the strongest flourish. Spare a thought indeed for your community minded squirrel who may just be going about their business always seeming to keep itself to itself but never deterred when their backs are against the wall. Of course they're nosy and inquisitive because that's what they probably do best, fiercely protective of their food and always on the lookout for something deeply appetising. This is our personal tribute to the squirrel since we may have taken you for granted.
It does seem like the daftest excuse for a National Appreciation Day but this is perfectly true. I've checked my sources and it is National Squirrel Appreciation Day, those sneaky and quick witted creatures who always look as if they're operating undercover with a hidden agenda. Squirrels are lightning fast on their feet and look as though they could probably give Usain Bolt a run for his money but that's never likely to happen since the now all time great sprinter Bolt has now retired. Still, it's a fond thought.
But now is the time to celebrate the lifestyle and existence of the grey or brown squirrel, whose everyday life seems to be wholly dependent on the accumulation and consumption of as many nuts they can gobble up as quickly as possible. You're never entirely sure what to make of a creature who spends most of its time permanently looking up at you as if slightly wary of the human race and suspicious of your every move. At times it looks as if they're terrified of an all out war on them where the only course of action is to either scamper for their life or just get out of the neighbourhood.
Squirrels are quite obviously mischievous, covert, cheeky and audacious. They leap across parklands with so much subtlety and cunning that it is nigh on impossible to track them or find out what it is they believe is so irresistible. They scurry up walls and over fences with the kind of dashing flair that only squirrels are capable of performing.
They jump out of communal bins with a sparkling agility that only they can muster. They hide in corners, forever shifty and scheming, foraging for more food quite naturally and then giving up the chase because night may be falling and you never know who might be around. They dart out of bushes and trees with extraordinary speed and must feel, in their heart of hearts, this may be the only place that might offer blissful sanctuary when all else fails.
Then there are the crafty breed of squirrels who just wait for the right moment to plot some ingenious way out of the undergrowth in the fervent hope of seeking out a warm bed for the night.Their eyes, as wide as saucers, are forever staring and peering just looking to see whether the coast is clear. You see a squirrel's intentions are always honourable and they're just looking for a decent night's supper at the Savoy. Now here they might encounter a problem because squirrels aren't welcome at swanky five star hotels.
But seriously, you never know what the average squirrel may be thinking. Presumably, there are extrovert and introvert squirrels, wise and all knowing squirrels, squirrels who are holding back the inner pain, emotional squirrels who just can't control their tears and just tireless squirrels who simply approach life with an infectious zest for living.
So there are you folks. It's time to take our hats off to our friendly squirrel always restless, bursting with energy, always pursuing some elusive goal, persistently flying up drain pipes at the rate of knots and climbing up trees with the very distinctive air of the hunter predator. Now it is that the squirrel finds time to weigh up its options. Do they make a decisive run for it, escape into the wilderness where nobody can possibly find them again or just lie low in case there are just a few hungry animals ready and waiting to pounce?
A squirrel's life it seems is very much the classic case of the survival of the fittest, where only the strongest flourish. Spare a thought indeed for your community minded squirrel who may just be going about their business always seeming to keep itself to itself but never deterred when their backs are against the wall. Of course they're nosy and inquisitive because that's what they probably do best, fiercely protective of their food and always on the lookout for something deeply appetising. This is our personal tribute to the squirrel since we may have taken you for granted.
Saturday, 19 January 2019
Marko Arnautovic- money grabber or just a classic piece of China.
Marko Arnautovic - money grabber or just a classic piece of China.
For those of us with claret and blue sensibilities this is normally the point when West Ham stumble and stagger painstakingly towards the finishing line of a Premier League season. It used to be the case that the East London club would always come down with the Christmas decorations, plummeting down the division with that customary flop on their faces that would somehow characterise the club's fortunes during the second half of the season.
This season though, with the notable exception of their first four games of this season when it all looked very bleak and humiliating for West Ham, new West Ham manager Manuel Pellegrini has finally established the club on a firm footing. The Chilean, a dour and businesslike man who looks at times as if he hasn't slept for ages, takes the Hammers to the south coast where Bournemouth, in the corresponding game at the Vitality Stadium last season, engaged in a remarkable 3-3 draw with West Ham over the Christmas holidays.
At the beginning of the season, when West Ham were still finding their bearings, Bournemouth beat West Ham 2-1 at a time when most of West Ham's most passionate fans were still sunbathing in the late summer heat and probably wishing they hadn't bothered to turn up in the first place.
But after a superb smash and grab 3-1 win at Everton, a hard fought goal-less draw at home to Chelsea and a classical 3-1 victory at home to Manchester United, West Ham have now fully recovered from their early season drowsy torpor and now find themselves at a much higher altitude, a ninth position which would have been regarded as barely possible back in September. It is the kind of territory where men in claret and blue fear to tread at their peril but still believe they can conquer.
Sadly though, the man who has single handedly become the club's new pin up boy and worshipped all over East London has now turned his back on the club quite abruptly and will never ever be welcomed back beyond the London Stadium's hallowed portals. In fact he may well be accused of treason, taken to the Tower of London and never spoken to again. He'll be forcefully driven out of Stratford and, quite possibly, be locked inside the Westfield shopping centre.
His name is Marko Arnautovic and this is the man who has consistently proved to be one of the best goal scorers for many a season. But now Arnautovic has decided that the grass on the other side of the fence is much greener and wants to leave for the club for the mystical Far East. In the last week or so we've been reliably informed that Arnautovic's brother has taken it upon himself to dangle a huge financial carrot in front of the Austrian international's face in an effort to persuade him that his immediate future lies in Chinese football. Lest we forget Arnautovic is desperate to win trophies in China which has to be the ultimate ambition of any player. You simply couldn't make it up.
Now there are those within the footballing fraternity who are convinced that Arnautovic has just lost the plot, that the man has lost his marbles and is utterly potty. The thought occurs to you that the man from Austria is just the latest in another disturbing list of money grabbing mercenaries who just want to retire with a mammoth amount of money in their bank account without the slightest consideration of the adoring fans he might have left behind.
A couple of seasons ago most West Ham fans must have thought their world had come to an end when French playmaker Dimitri Payet got all restless and agitated after a season and a half at the club. Payet insisted that it had nothing to do with the club more a case of settling his family down in London which never really worked out for him. So the Frenchman reluctantly returned to his homeland and all was forgotten.
Now though English football's recent and alarming tendency to allow its finest players to jump onto the Chinese and American gravy train is beginning to leave most football fans growling with discontent. With the likes of Wayne Rooney now feathering his pre- retirement nest with a fistful of dollars it's hardly surprising that the vast majority of hard core supporters are beginning to feel that nobody likes their club at all.
We all know of course that loyalty is almost a swear word, football's most ghastly of all profanities, something that went out of fashion with trams and trolleybuses, post war rationing and Johnny Haynes boots. The fact is that binding, five year footballing contracts have almost become yesterday's fish and chip paper, a farcical irrelevance that just looks very cheap and meaningless to the millions of fans who just want to see their team do fantastically well regardless of who's in their team.
But now in an age where beards and tattoos have become very much de rigueur and this year's fashion statement, today's generation of footballers will perhaps take a moment to think about what exactly it is that prompts them to leave a club where their inherent connection to their team counts for nothing. In the case of Arnautovic the kissing of the badge and the so called dedication to the cause can only be regarded as a futile gesture.
You're reminded of a certain Sir Trevor Brooking, whose lifelong relationship with West Ham has to be seen as a salutary example to the rest of the footballing world of just what it means to remain with your boyhood club through thick and thin. Brooking, who joined the club as a youngster and lived within cheering distance of Upton Park, can only hope that one day such warm hearted affinity to one club for their entire career can once again be richly demonstrated.
And yet Marko Arnautovic continues to bide his time on the sidelines, kicking his heels frustratingly hoping against hope that the good fairy can arrive in time to spirit the Austrian away to some remote corner of the Orient where all that glisters is the currency of the yuan. It is though one of the more baffling of footballing transfers- or seemingly inevitable transfers in recent seasons.
Here we have on the one hand one of the game's most natural goal scorers with a hunger for goals, a bite and aggression to his game that must be the envy of the Premier League and still he is attracted to the land of rice and chop suey. Still, it is important to wish the former Stoke City striker well in his genuine pursuit of League titles, Champions League glory and much adoration from the whole of Chinese football. Maybe he might stop to think of Sir Trevor Brooking just for a minute or two. It does seem highly unlikely.
For those of us with claret and blue sensibilities this is normally the point when West Ham stumble and stagger painstakingly towards the finishing line of a Premier League season. It used to be the case that the East London club would always come down with the Christmas decorations, plummeting down the division with that customary flop on their faces that would somehow characterise the club's fortunes during the second half of the season.
This season though, with the notable exception of their first four games of this season when it all looked very bleak and humiliating for West Ham, new West Ham manager Manuel Pellegrini has finally established the club on a firm footing. The Chilean, a dour and businesslike man who looks at times as if he hasn't slept for ages, takes the Hammers to the south coast where Bournemouth, in the corresponding game at the Vitality Stadium last season, engaged in a remarkable 3-3 draw with West Ham over the Christmas holidays.
At the beginning of the season, when West Ham were still finding their bearings, Bournemouth beat West Ham 2-1 at a time when most of West Ham's most passionate fans were still sunbathing in the late summer heat and probably wishing they hadn't bothered to turn up in the first place.
But after a superb smash and grab 3-1 win at Everton, a hard fought goal-less draw at home to Chelsea and a classical 3-1 victory at home to Manchester United, West Ham have now fully recovered from their early season drowsy torpor and now find themselves at a much higher altitude, a ninth position which would have been regarded as barely possible back in September. It is the kind of territory where men in claret and blue fear to tread at their peril but still believe they can conquer.
Sadly though, the man who has single handedly become the club's new pin up boy and worshipped all over East London has now turned his back on the club quite abruptly and will never ever be welcomed back beyond the London Stadium's hallowed portals. In fact he may well be accused of treason, taken to the Tower of London and never spoken to again. He'll be forcefully driven out of Stratford and, quite possibly, be locked inside the Westfield shopping centre.
His name is Marko Arnautovic and this is the man who has consistently proved to be one of the best goal scorers for many a season. But now Arnautovic has decided that the grass on the other side of the fence is much greener and wants to leave for the club for the mystical Far East. In the last week or so we've been reliably informed that Arnautovic's brother has taken it upon himself to dangle a huge financial carrot in front of the Austrian international's face in an effort to persuade him that his immediate future lies in Chinese football. Lest we forget Arnautovic is desperate to win trophies in China which has to be the ultimate ambition of any player. You simply couldn't make it up.
Now there are those within the footballing fraternity who are convinced that Arnautovic has just lost the plot, that the man has lost his marbles and is utterly potty. The thought occurs to you that the man from Austria is just the latest in another disturbing list of money grabbing mercenaries who just want to retire with a mammoth amount of money in their bank account without the slightest consideration of the adoring fans he might have left behind.
A couple of seasons ago most West Ham fans must have thought their world had come to an end when French playmaker Dimitri Payet got all restless and agitated after a season and a half at the club. Payet insisted that it had nothing to do with the club more a case of settling his family down in London which never really worked out for him. So the Frenchman reluctantly returned to his homeland and all was forgotten.
Now though English football's recent and alarming tendency to allow its finest players to jump onto the Chinese and American gravy train is beginning to leave most football fans growling with discontent. With the likes of Wayne Rooney now feathering his pre- retirement nest with a fistful of dollars it's hardly surprising that the vast majority of hard core supporters are beginning to feel that nobody likes their club at all.
We all know of course that loyalty is almost a swear word, football's most ghastly of all profanities, something that went out of fashion with trams and trolleybuses, post war rationing and Johnny Haynes boots. The fact is that binding, five year footballing contracts have almost become yesterday's fish and chip paper, a farcical irrelevance that just looks very cheap and meaningless to the millions of fans who just want to see their team do fantastically well regardless of who's in their team.
But now in an age where beards and tattoos have become very much de rigueur and this year's fashion statement, today's generation of footballers will perhaps take a moment to think about what exactly it is that prompts them to leave a club where their inherent connection to their team counts for nothing. In the case of Arnautovic the kissing of the badge and the so called dedication to the cause can only be regarded as a futile gesture.
You're reminded of a certain Sir Trevor Brooking, whose lifelong relationship with West Ham has to be seen as a salutary example to the rest of the footballing world of just what it means to remain with your boyhood club through thick and thin. Brooking, who joined the club as a youngster and lived within cheering distance of Upton Park, can only hope that one day such warm hearted affinity to one club for their entire career can once again be richly demonstrated.
And yet Marko Arnautovic continues to bide his time on the sidelines, kicking his heels frustratingly hoping against hope that the good fairy can arrive in time to spirit the Austrian away to some remote corner of the Orient where all that glisters is the currency of the yuan. It is though one of the more baffling of footballing transfers- or seemingly inevitable transfers in recent seasons.
Here we have on the one hand one of the game's most natural goal scorers with a hunger for goals, a bite and aggression to his game that must be the envy of the Premier League and still he is attracted to the land of rice and chop suey. Still, it is important to wish the former Stoke City striker well in his genuine pursuit of League titles, Champions League glory and much adoration from the whole of Chinese football. Maybe he might stop to think of Sir Trevor Brooking just for a minute or two. It does seem highly unlikely.
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