Brexit- will it ever go away?
Yes folks it's still here and it won't go away. We've pleaded and begged for it to stop but it's rather like some infuriating song that you simply can't get out of your head. No amount of gentle coaxing or persuasion will make it go away and just leave you alone. Brexit has now got us exactly where it wants us. The blunt fact of the matter is that we're probably no further forward than we were two years ago.
Over and over again it is mentioned with such horrible persistence and stubborn insistence that some of us are just resigned to the fact that it may continue to dominate dinner party conversations for ever more. In every living room, kitchen, office, college and university the same nagging dilemmas will haunt and taunt us wherever we go.
So how on earth did we get to this point without reaching for the off button? For over two years the ears and eyes of the UK have been battered and assailed from every angle, bombarded with comments and indoctrinated by experts, government ministers with plenty to say and the kind of social commentators who will have us believe that if we don't listen to them then we may have to take our holidays in Brighton, Bournemouth, Blackpool and Great Yarmouth. At this rate we may never be allowed to set foot on Mediterranean sand again and that's final. This time the EU are serious and they've had enough.
The EU have now genuinely- or so it would seem- lost patience with the UK because the whole of Britain is just dragging its feet, taking far too long to make up its mind and if they don't hurry up and decide one way or the other then the long term consequences of their head scratching, indecisiveness and procrastination could be much more damaging than we might have imagined.
This week the House of Commons have made their feelings abundantly clear and the message does not make for easy reading to Prime Minister Theresa May. In fact she may be wondering what on earth she has to do to please the people she thought she could rely upon. But there is betrayal in the air and the cabinet who have hitherto stuck by her side are now sniggering under their breath, growling like irascible bears and threatening to send her packing out of Downing Street.
Two crucial votes have now been lost and lost quite embarrassingly. The feelings of helplessness that the Prime Minister may well be feeling are such that time is now rapidly running out for her quite literally and metaphorically. Does she kindly request for an extension to the time frame needed to complete Britain's withdrawal from Europe or does she sneak out of the back door in the hope that nobody notices her?
We've all heard about Article 50, the legal technicalities that have bogged everybody down, those hard and soft Irish borders and of course those pragmatic deals or no deals. This is beginning to sound like the type of business transaction that a certain Lord Alan Sugar would probably rub his hands together with glee over. But at some point most of us will be drastically compelled to take ourselves off to a palm tree fringed desert island, lie on a comfortable hammock and try to forget about British politicians.
The truth is that most of us are heartily sick and fed up with the same crazy rhetoric, those ludicrous comedy punchlines, the dull discourse and the maddeningly silly gobbledygook. Late into last night it would have been fascinating to be a fly on the wall of those stuffy and hallowed corridors of Westminster. But then you began to think that those poor old flies would have spent their time far more constructively had they given those Punch and Judy performers a miss.
Still this is what has happened whether we like it or not. The men and women who have been relentlessly prodding her in the back and provoking her now seem to be at a complete loss. This is not the gang warfare that eventually drove Margaret Thatcher out of power but a cruelly insidious attempt to make Theresa May look very small and inferior.
This now has the makings of what could turn into a major international crisis. The truth is that something that should have been resolved much sooner is now entering the realms of the intolerable. You're reminded of the American tennis player who once took a Wimbledon match to a tie break that lasted so long that some of us were already boiling a kettle for a late night mug of cocoa.
So where exactly does Britain and the UK go from here? Do we pretend that this was just one long eternal bad dream or is it some classic record album that we simply have to play indefinitely until the needle accidentally scratches it? Time was when we could actually talk about the more vitally important issues such as education, the homelessness epidemic, the National Health Service and hospital beds in corridors that are just an unsightly clutter. Even the economy, it seems, has been conveniently forgotten.
Some of us are convinced that Benjamin Disraeli was in 10 Downing Street the last time a British politician had anything interesting or worthwhile to say on any subject. Anyway, it is comforting to know that Britain has yet to lose its capacity to laugh at itself. We may be counting down the days to March 29 and the excitement is building. The final Brexit plot is thickening and if there's any justice, we may finally get the result we were looking for. It may be time to toss a coin if we don't.
Thursday, 14 March 2019
Tuesday, 12 March 2019
Happy Birthday World Wide Web- congratulations to the Internet.
Happy Birthday World Wide Web- congratulations to the Internet.
Happy 30th birthday to the World Wide Web. It hardly seems like yesterday since you were a mere child when most of us were convinced that the Internet was Milan's new centre forward and the World Wide Web was a homage to all ducks throughout the world. This is one momentous day and maybe the world will never know what it was like before our method of communication became so much easier than we'd ever thought possible.
In 1989 a British visionary by the name of Tim Berners Lee discovered one of the most revolutionary inventions of modern times. At first they scoffed most disrespectfully, poured scorn on something they believed quite confidently would never work, sniffed sceptically at a a burgeoning technology that would either blow up in our faces, fail to catch on with the public and never become the massively popular and cultural phenomena that it quite clearly is now.
In fact it's hard to imagine a world without e-mails, software, Microsoft XL, downloads, uploads, millions of wildly diverse websites, Google, Yahoo and a whole cyberspace of cryptic messages and, above all, Facebook followed in more recent years by Twitter. The world is now talking to each other through the medium of online chatting, exchanging likes and approval, forever remarking and criticising, judging, becoming outrageously opinionated, forthright, hot under the collar and then getting all upset for quite a while. But we would never have it any other way because that's today's fashion statement.
Before the arrival of the Internet we behaved in a way that seemed perfectly proper and normal at the time. We would make lengthy phone calls in the office, send neatly typed letters to each other in the office, send faxes by the thousand and then jump into the local red phone box because mobile phones had yet to become commercially marketable.
Then, if we didn't know anything, something or somebody we would leaf through heavy telephone directories, flicking endlessly through weighty reference books, giant encyclopaedias, travel brochures and bulky folders groaning with data on everything from names, addresses, people and places. It all seems a long time ago and none of us could possibly have dreamt that one day our lives would become so much simpler and less wearisome.
Now at the flick of a switch on your PC, a quick adjustment of your mouse and then a click of that mouse everything, everybody and anything has now become ingeniously accessible. There is a wondrous immediacy about the Internet that would have seemed unthinkable 40 or 50 years ago. Then we had pens and pencils, rulers and exercise books. We had rubbers and set squares, long hand writing defaced by words and sentences that would become farcically unreadable, smudged and smeared horribly or crossed out. But then it was all very acceptable because nobody had told us then that four decades forward we would never have to worry about all of those problematic chores in our working life and back at home. Because the Internet was here.
So it was that in 1989 our sources of information and the way in which we collated them and made sense of them seemed impossibly complicated. Why bother to go to all that trouble in looking up a company's essential details when the simple act of typing that company's name into an Internet search engine was no more than a click away on a computer? Why do we trawl through acres of print on the written page for celebrities life stories when we had at our disposal Wikipaedia? Then, in a blink of the eyelid, we cut out all of that unnecessary fact checking in chunky books the size of a town or city.
Soon, we would have those wondrous e-mails. In the old days we would, quite amusingly, hunt out sheafs of A4 paper just because we wanted write a letter to an old friend, member of the family or just someone who would appreciate the natural beauty of a carefully addressed, neatly written letter. The address would naturally gravitate to a specific corner of the said letter and then we would do our utmost to make the letter completely legible. The date would be placed strategically in the other corner of the piece of paper and then we would refer to them as Dear Sir or Miss or Mrs if you were applying for a job .
If on the other hand you were writing to friends or family you would be infinitely less formal because you knew they wouldn't mind. The memory takes me to the 1970s again. There was a trend back then for establishing friendships with people we knew but who may have lived on the other side of the world. Pen friends may have been passing ships in the night but some of us can still remember cramming a thousand words into one sheet of paper and then squeezing the last couple of words into a messy, incoherent scribble.
How though we must have longed for any kind of device that would just eliminate all of these hieroglyphics and incomprehensible crossings out. So it was that computers and word processors came to our rescue and no longer would we have to sweat anxiously in case our application forms had been incorrectly written. The Internet had wiped out the boring and laborious, replacing it instantly with an e-mail platform which would immediately remove complexity with a straightforward tapping on a computer keyboard. The whole process would take up no time at all.
In retrospect the birth of social media websites was inevitable, a logical progression in a world that had now become increasingly more sociable and gregarious. Facebook and Twitter, for a vast majority of us, is quite definitely the best thing that ever happened to the Internet. It's released what had perhaps been the quiet voice inside our heads into a living, breathing organism.
We now express our innermost feelings with unashamed eloquence. We can offload our guilt, our pride, our joys and triumphs, knowing for certain that somewhere on this great big planet of ours somebody will be reading and watching intently in case it may be too controversial for words. At times the Internet has been both dreadfully abused and exploited for dark and nefarious acts, a notice board for evil propaganda and shocking, libellous stories. We now live in a world of factually inaccurate remarks designed quite obviously to hurt and humiliate.
So it is that the World Wide Web blows out the candles on its 30th birthday, still thriving but wary of intruders and nasty impostors who would wish to destroy it. The hackers are on the warpath, the spoilers and the interfering busybodies are out to get the Internet and nothing seems to be stopping them. The scam artists are hovering from above like bats in the belfry, threatening and sneering, promising to disrupt and cause maximum inconvenience.
The Internet will though undoubtedly stand tall and stand its ground, ploughing gallantly through the heavy seas of good times and difficult times. We now have in our possession mobile phones by the thousand, Tablets in every conceivable corner of our homes, I-Pads scattered joyously around living rooms and kitchens before being plugged up to be re-charged on our coffee tables.
It doesn't seem that 30 years have passed since the beginning of a life changing event that would change our lives irrevocably. So put those pens and pencils down for ever more because Alexa is about to tell you that tomorrow in Bulgaria it will rain for approximately 25 minutes at 4.30 in the afternoon. How clever is that? It will also play your favourite trad jazz, funk or heavy metal music in a matter of seconds. Then your Amazon echo will perform a similar function by answering all of your questions pronto. Happy Birthday Internet. 30 years hey! It only seems like yesterday.
Happy 30th birthday to the World Wide Web. It hardly seems like yesterday since you were a mere child when most of us were convinced that the Internet was Milan's new centre forward and the World Wide Web was a homage to all ducks throughout the world. This is one momentous day and maybe the world will never know what it was like before our method of communication became so much easier than we'd ever thought possible.
In 1989 a British visionary by the name of Tim Berners Lee discovered one of the most revolutionary inventions of modern times. At first they scoffed most disrespectfully, poured scorn on something they believed quite confidently would never work, sniffed sceptically at a a burgeoning technology that would either blow up in our faces, fail to catch on with the public and never become the massively popular and cultural phenomena that it quite clearly is now.
In fact it's hard to imagine a world without e-mails, software, Microsoft XL, downloads, uploads, millions of wildly diverse websites, Google, Yahoo and a whole cyberspace of cryptic messages and, above all, Facebook followed in more recent years by Twitter. The world is now talking to each other through the medium of online chatting, exchanging likes and approval, forever remarking and criticising, judging, becoming outrageously opinionated, forthright, hot under the collar and then getting all upset for quite a while. But we would never have it any other way because that's today's fashion statement.
Before the arrival of the Internet we behaved in a way that seemed perfectly proper and normal at the time. We would make lengthy phone calls in the office, send neatly typed letters to each other in the office, send faxes by the thousand and then jump into the local red phone box because mobile phones had yet to become commercially marketable.
Then, if we didn't know anything, something or somebody we would leaf through heavy telephone directories, flicking endlessly through weighty reference books, giant encyclopaedias, travel brochures and bulky folders groaning with data on everything from names, addresses, people and places. It all seems a long time ago and none of us could possibly have dreamt that one day our lives would become so much simpler and less wearisome.
Now at the flick of a switch on your PC, a quick adjustment of your mouse and then a click of that mouse everything, everybody and anything has now become ingeniously accessible. There is a wondrous immediacy about the Internet that would have seemed unthinkable 40 or 50 years ago. Then we had pens and pencils, rulers and exercise books. We had rubbers and set squares, long hand writing defaced by words and sentences that would become farcically unreadable, smudged and smeared horribly or crossed out. But then it was all very acceptable because nobody had told us then that four decades forward we would never have to worry about all of those problematic chores in our working life and back at home. Because the Internet was here.
So it was that in 1989 our sources of information and the way in which we collated them and made sense of them seemed impossibly complicated. Why bother to go to all that trouble in looking up a company's essential details when the simple act of typing that company's name into an Internet search engine was no more than a click away on a computer? Why do we trawl through acres of print on the written page for celebrities life stories when we had at our disposal Wikipaedia? Then, in a blink of the eyelid, we cut out all of that unnecessary fact checking in chunky books the size of a town or city.
Soon, we would have those wondrous e-mails. In the old days we would, quite amusingly, hunt out sheafs of A4 paper just because we wanted write a letter to an old friend, member of the family or just someone who would appreciate the natural beauty of a carefully addressed, neatly written letter. The address would naturally gravitate to a specific corner of the said letter and then we would do our utmost to make the letter completely legible. The date would be placed strategically in the other corner of the piece of paper and then we would refer to them as Dear Sir or Miss or Mrs if you were applying for a job .
If on the other hand you were writing to friends or family you would be infinitely less formal because you knew they wouldn't mind. The memory takes me to the 1970s again. There was a trend back then for establishing friendships with people we knew but who may have lived on the other side of the world. Pen friends may have been passing ships in the night but some of us can still remember cramming a thousand words into one sheet of paper and then squeezing the last couple of words into a messy, incoherent scribble.
How though we must have longed for any kind of device that would just eliminate all of these hieroglyphics and incomprehensible crossings out. So it was that computers and word processors came to our rescue and no longer would we have to sweat anxiously in case our application forms had been incorrectly written. The Internet had wiped out the boring and laborious, replacing it instantly with an e-mail platform which would immediately remove complexity with a straightforward tapping on a computer keyboard. The whole process would take up no time at all.
In retrospect the birth of social media websites was inevitable, a logical progression in a world that had now become increasingly more sociable and gregarious. Facebook and Twitter, for a vast majority of us, is quite definitely the best thing that ever happened to the Internet. It's released what had perhaps been the quiet voice inside our heads into a living, breathing organism.
We now express our innermost feelings with unashamed eloquence. We can offload our guilt, our pride, our joys and triumphs, knowing for certain that somewhere on this great big planet of ours somebody will be reading and watching intently in case it may be too controversial for words. At times the Internet has been both dreadfully abused and exploited for dark and nefarious acts, a notice board for evil propaganda and shocking, libellous stories. We now live in a world of factually inaccurate remarks designed quite obviously to hurt and humiliate.
So it is that the World Wide Web blows out the candles on its 30th birthday, still thriving but wary of intruders and nasty impostors who would wish to destroy it. The hackers are on the warpath, the spoilers and the interfering busybodies are out to get the Internet and nothing seems to be stopping them. The scam artists are hovering from above like bats in the belfry, threatening and sneering, promising to disrupt and cause maximum inconvenience.
The Internet will though undoubtedly stand tall and stand its ground, ploughing gallantly through the heavy seas of good times and difficult times. We now have in our possession mobile phones by the thousand, Tablets in every conceivable corner of our homes, I-Pads scattered joyously around living rooms and kitchens before being plugged up to be re-charged on our coffee tables.
It doesn't seem that 30 years have passed since the beginning of a life changing event that would change our lives irrevocably. So put those pens and pencils down for ever more because Alexa is about to tell you that tomorrow in Bulgaria it will rain for approximately 25 minutes at 4.30 in the afternoon. How clever is that? It will also play your favourite trad jazz, funk or heavy metal music in a matter of seconds. Then your Amazon echo will perform a similar function by answering all of your questions pronto. Happy Birthday Internet. 30 years hey! It only seems like yesterday.
Saturday, 9 March 2019
It was 40 years ago - Arsenal and Manchester United meet again.
It was 40 years ago- Arsenal and Manchester United meet again.
Tomorrow those two footballing gladiators meet again at the North London amphitheatre that is the Emirates Stadium gleaming shields clashing and no love lost in their eyes. There will be, doubtlessly, bloodthirsty antagonism, a heartfelt desire to thrash the living daylights out of each other and an almost an insatiable hunger to lay claim to that crucial fourth place in the Premier League which will certainly ensure Champions League football at either the Emirates or Old Trafford.
For Arsenal and Manchester United this is the battle royale, the ultimate confrontation where pride and prestige collide head on with a kind of regional, tribal, parochial meeting of mind and matter, where London and Manchester battle it out for city supremacy. Of course there will be fire and brimstone, an intriguing combination of skill and aggression, sound and fury, brawn and belligerence while not forgetting a tasty helping of subtlety and finesse. There always has been and long may it continue.
This year of course is the 40th anniversary of that wonderfully engrossing, deliciously brilliant, nerve shredding and most transcendently glorious 1979 FA Cup Final between these two titans of the game. It was 40 years ago that British politics witnessed its most ground shaking and seminal moments when Margaret Thatcher became the first woman Prime Minister ever to step inside 10 Downing Street. At roughly the same time both Arsenal and Manchester United were marching out of the old Wembley Stadium to a typically rapturous reception from their huge hardcore of supporters.
Against this feverish backdrop punk rock would reach its highest zenith and people wearing safety pins in their noses and moody leather jackets would manufacture some of the loudest, most anarchic and noisiest music ever heard anywhere. It was a time of cynicism and depression, disenchantment and disillusion, of youthful rebellion and a refusal to accept the status quo. The Jam squared up to the Clash and the Sex Pistols were just rudely outraged, determined to make themselves heard and remembered.
But back at Wembley Stadium Arsenal, under the intelligent man management of Terry Neill and Don Howe as his assistant came face to face with a Manchester United side led by the quietly philosophical Dave Sexton. The year before Arsenal had been unexpectedly humbled by Roger Osborne's winning goal for Ipswich Town and were still probably licking their wounds from that FA Cup Final.
In 1979 over an hour of the Arsenal -Manchester United contest had been dominated by an Arsenal side who were simply swarming all over the red shirts like wasps in a bush. The back four of skipper Martin Buchan, Jimmy Nicholl, Arthur Albiston and the towering Gordon Mcqueen were so penned back into their own penalty area that at times it looked as though they'd been trapped at the bottom of a well. Sammy Mcilroy, a tough and tigerish Irishman, was accompanied by the equally as competitive and persistent Lou Macari but both men seemed to be gasping for breath on a warm afternoon at Wembley.
Early on Arsenal, sparked into life by the exotically cultured and irresistible midfield maestro Liam Brady, the classy sophistication of Graham Rix and the hard working David Price, were carving, tearing open and ripping to shreds a rapidly back pedalling United. When Brian Talbot gave Arsenal the lead in the opening stages, United were beginning to look each other in some confusion. With two minutes to go to half time Frank Stapleton increased Arsenal's lead and United looked like lost souls in the wilderness.
During the second half United spent most of the first twenty minutes of the half wandering, dawdling and dithering in the late spring sun, searching for any way back into a game that looked completely beyond them. Then, with a sudden surge of adrenaline that must have come as a shock to United's system they neatly worked the ball through a forest of Arsenal defenders and Sammy Mcilroy squeezed the ball past Arsenal keeper Pat Jennings, the ball trickling towards the corner of the net in freakish slow motion.
With the match now heading towards its tantalising closing stages United were now throwing men forward with reckless abandon. A last gasp free kick was floated into the Arsenal penalty area where the Scottish defensive rock of Gordon Mcqueen headed the ball firmly into the net for an equaliser that had seemed so highly unlikely given the extenuating circumstances.
And then straight from the kick off, rather like some dramatic Shakespearean climax, Arsenal, sensing their Macbeth moment, went straight to the heart of a now collapsing United defence. Brady, who'd enjoyed perhaps one of his finest 90 minutes in an Arsenal shirt, wriggled his way down the left flank with a devious shake of the hips, his low centre of gravity eating up the ground before eventually a low cross to the far post found the afro haired Alan Sunderland, who, with an ecstatic grin on his face, clipped the ball past United keeper Gary Bailey.
Now both Arsenal and United face each other again in a game that once again assumes an almost traditional significance. The recent memories of once fiery skipper Roy Keane exchanging heated verbal banter with Patrick Vieira in the old Highbury tunnel, Arsenal's Martin Keown taunting Ruud Van Nistelrooy after the Dutchman had missed a vital penalty for Manchester United, will continue to add much needed spice and piquancy to this most eagerly anticipated Premier League fixture.
The meeting of Unai Emery for Arsenal and Ole Gunnar Solskjaer for United has an unusual feel about it if only because both men are completely unfamiliar with the crackling atmosphere and high voltage ambience of the fixture. United will be buoyed by the most sensational of winning runs and Arsenal may be slightly bruised by their Europa League defeat by Rennes in France. Fasten your seat belt. There is another gripping epic in the air.
Tomorrow those two footballing gladiators meet again at the North London amphitheatre that is the Emirates Stadium gleaming shields clashing and no love lost in their eyes. There will be, doubtlessly, bloodthirsty antagonism, a heartfelt desire to thrash the living daylights out of each other and an almost an insatiable hunger to lay claim to that crucial fourth place in the Premier League which will certainly ensure Champions League football at either the Emirates or Old Trafford.
For Arsenal and Manchester United this is the battle royale, the ultimate confrontation where pride and prestige collide head on with a kind of regional, tribal, parochial meeting of mind and matter, where London and Manchester battle it out for city supremacy. Of course there will be fire and brimstone, an intriguing combination of skill and aggression, sound and fury, brawn and belligerence while not forgetting a tasty helping of subtlety and finesse. There always has been and long may it continue.
This year of course is the 40th anniversary of that wonderfully engrossing, deliciously brilliant, nerve shredding and most transcendently glorious 1979 FA Cup Final between these two titans of the game. It was 40 years ago that British politics witnessed its most ground shaking and seminal moments when Margaret Thatcher became the first woman Prime Minister ever to step inside 10 Downing Street. At roughly the same time both Arsenal and Manchester United were marching out of the old Wembley Stadium to a typically rapturous reception from their huge hardcore of supporters.
Against this feverish backdrop punk rock would reach its highest zenith and people wearing safety pins in their noses and moody leather jackets would manufacture some of the loudest, most anarchic and noisiest music ever heard anywhere. It was a time of cynicism and depression, disenchantment and disillusion, of youthful rebellion and a refusal to accept the status quo. The Jam squared up to the Clash and the Sex Pistols were just rudely outraged, determined to make themselves heard and remembered.
But back at Wembley Stadium Arsenal, under the intelligent man management of Terry Neill and Don Howe as his assistant came face to face with a Manchester United side led by the quietly philosophical Dave Sexton. The year before Arsenal had been unexpectedly humbled by Roger Osborne's winning goal for Ipswich Town and were still probably licking their wounds from that FA Cup Final.
In 1979 over an hour of the Arsenal -Manchester United contest had been dominated by an Arsenal side who were simply swarming all over the red shirts like wasps in a bush. The back four of skipper Martin Buchan, Jimmy Nicholl, Arthur Albiston and the towering Gordon Mcqueen were so penned back into their own penalty area that at times it looked as though they'd been trapped at the bottom of a well. Sammy Mcilroy, a tough and tigerish Irishman, was accompanied by the equally as competitive and persistent Lou Macari but both men seemed to be gasping for breath on a warm afternoon at Wembley.
Early on Arsenal, sparked into life by the exotically cultured and irresistible midfield maestro Liam Brady, the classy sophistication of Graham Rix and the hard working David Price, were carving, tearing open and ripping to shreds a rapidly back pedalling United. When Brian Talbot gave Arsenal the lead in the opening stages, United were beginning to look each other in some confusion. With two minutes to go to half time Frank Stapleton increased Arsenal's lead and United looked like lost souls in the wilderness.
During the second half United spent most of the first twenty minutes of the half wandering, dawdling and dithering in the late spring sun, searching for any way back into a game that looked completely beyond them. Then, with a sudden surge of adrenaline that must have come as a shock to United's system they neatly worked the ball through a forest of Arsenal defenders and Sammy Mcilroy squeezed the ball past Arsenal keeper Pat Jennings, the ball trickling towards the corner of the net in freakish slow motion.
With the match now heading towards its tantalising closing stages United were now throwing men forward with reckless abandon. A last gasp free kick was floated into the Arsenal penalty area where the Scottish defensive rock of Gordon Mcqueen headed the ball firmly into the net for an equaliser that had seemed so highly unlikely given the extenuating circumstances.
And then straight from the kick off, rather like some dramatic Shakespearean climax, Arsenal, sensing their Macbeth moment, went straight to the heart of a now collapsing United defence. Brady, who'd enjoyed perhaps one of his finest 90 minutes in an Arsenal shirt, wriggled his way down the left flank with a devious shake of the hips, his low centre of gravity eating up the ground before eventually a low cross to the far post found the afro haired Alan Sunderland, who, with an ecstatic grin on his face, clipped the ball past United keeper Gary Bailey.
Now both Arsenal and United face each other again in a game that once again assumes an almost traditional significance. The recent memories of once fiery skipper Roy Keane exchanging heated verbal banter with Patrick Vieira in the old Highbury tunnel, Arsenal's Martin Keown taunting Ruud Van Nistelrooy after the Dutchman had missed a vital penalty for Manchester United, will continue to add much needed spice and piquancy to this most eagerly anticipated Premier League fixture.
The meeting of Unai Emery for Arsenal and Ole Gunnar Solskjaer for United has an unusual feel about it if only because both men are completely unfamiliar with the crackling atmosphere and high voltage ambience of the fixture. United will be buoyed by the most sensational of winning runs and Arsenal may be slightly bruised by their Europa League defeat by Rennes in France. Fasten your seat belt. There is another gripping epic in the air.
Thursday, 7 March 2019
European Cup legends Real Madrid are flattened by Ajax.
European Cup legends Real Madrid are flattened by Ajax.
Last night Real Madrid, who seemed to have won the European Cup - or as it's now known - the Champions League so many times that some of us have run out of fingers on which to count them, were sent crashing out of this year's competition by another of those once European greats Ajax Amsterdam. It must have felt as one of football's giants had been slain by another of its once powerful forces.
At the Bernabeu stadium in the Spanish capital, a solemn silence fell darkly over a stunned Madrid crowd. This was the most unforgivable insult of all time, a once world beating team of such noble stature falling on its own sword, humiliated and offended by a team who, during the 1970s were rightly acclaimed as one of the best of their generation. Football can be such a notoriously cruel and fickle business that you simply can't predict with any certainty where it might be going.
In recent years both Barcelona, led by the incomparable Lionel Messi, Andre Iniesta, Javier Mascherano and company, became one of the most exciting and original teams the world had ever seen. But sadly that reign in Spain seems to have reached its natural conclusion and Barca, once a team of sweet impulses and sumptuous first time passing that seemed to have a mind of its own, are now silenced by one of the teams they thought they'd never find themselves in competition with again.
For the likes of Ajax, this could be the start of something new, a fresh page in a book that had begun to look tatty and woebegone, a team hiding in football's sometimes darker shadows with little to offer by way of consolation. We can all remember of course the Ajax of the 1970s, a magical, forward thinking, innovative team years ahead of the rest in both thought and deed, a team of immense charm and character with the kind of players who were always tuned into the same wavelength as each other.
During the 1970s the backbone of the Dutch national team, consisting of the immaculately gifted Johan Cruyff, surely a creative genius, the equally as impeccable ball playing maestro Rudi Krol, the equally as stylish, debonair and dashing Robbie Rensenbrink and the magisterial Johann Neeskens, did more to enhance the profile of Dutch football than at any other time in their history.
But then fate intervened. In both the 1974 and 1978 World Cup Finals, Holland were tragically deprived of the one trophy the quality of their football had so richly deserved. The era of 'Total Football', does seem to be making a welcome comeback in the short passing game so beautifully championed by both Ajax, Real Madrid and Barcelona.
Sadly, Holland were beaten quite easily by both West Germany in 1974 and Argentina in 1978 when, for brief periods during both games, Holland were by far the technically superior team on the day. And yet both Gerd Muller and Mario Kempes swiftly sucked the air out of the Dutch who, by the end of both games, looked so demoralised by the turn of events that, to this day, some of us are still wondering whether they'll ever be crowned as World football champions.
Still, Ajax, in those famously red and white broad stripes on their familiar shirts, are back on the glory, glory trail, a side with the right balance and temperament oozing with ambition. Such is the cyclical nature of football that maybe this is the right time for Ajax. Dutch football has now been seriously wounded, damaged seemingly irreparably by that disgraceful 2010 World Cup Final when Holland resorted to violent and underhand tactics in an unsuccessful attempt to beat Spain.
Ajax, though now find themselves in the Champions League which can only be a good thing for Dutch morale. Joining them will be Spurs, Manchester City and Manchester United who made the most marvellous recovery in their game against the ever present flair of Paris St Germain.
This year could be when the tulips of Amsterdam will bloom quite profusely. Ajax, one of the most glamorous, high profile and successful teams in European clubs, are quite possibly on the verge of something special. The Dutch masters are washing their brushes, adjusting their easels and picking out their vividly enlightening colours. It is hard to know what Vincent Van Gogh would have made of the current Ajax side but then Van Gogh never had the honour of meeting Johan Cruyff.
Last night Real Madrid, who seemed to have won the European Cup - or as it's now known - the Champions League so many times that some of us have run out of fingers on which to count them, were sent crashing out of this year's competition by another of those once European greats Ajax Amsterdam. It must have felt as one of football's giants had been slain by another of its once powerful forces.
At the Bernabeu stadium in the Spanish capital, a solemn silence fell darkly over a stunned Madrid crowd. This was the most unforgivable insult of all time, a once world beating team of such noble stature falling on its own sword, humiliated and offended by a team who, during the 1970s were rightly acclaimed as one of the best of their generation. Football can be such a notoriously cruel and fickle business that you simply can't predict with any certainty where it might be going.
In recent years both Barcelona, led by the incomparable Lionel Messi, Andre Iniesta, Javier Mascherano and company, became one of the most exciting and original teams the world had ever seen. But sadly that reign in Spain seems to have reached its natural conclusion and Barca, once a team of sweet impulses and sumptuous first time passing that seemed to have a mind of its own, are now silenced by one of the teams they thought they'd never find themselves in competition with again.
For the likes of Ajax, this could be the start of something new, a fresh page in a book that had begun to look tatty and woebegone, a team hiding in football's sometimes darker shadows with little to offer by way of consolation. We can all remember of course the Ajax of the 1970s, a magical, forward thinking, innovative team years ahead of the rest in both thought and deed, a team of immense charm and character with the kind of players who were always tuned into the same wavelength as each other.
During the 1970s the backbone of the Dutch national team, consisting of the immaculately gifted Johan Cruyff, surely a creative genius, the equally as impeccable ball playing maestro Rudi Krol, the equally as stylish, debonair and dashing Robbie Rensenbrink and the magisterial Johann Neeskens, did more to enhance the profile of Dutch football than at any other time in their history.
But then fate intervened. In both the 1974 and 1978 World Cup Finals, Holland were tragically deprived of the one trophy the quality of their football had so richly deserved. The era of 'Total Football', does seem to be making a welcome comeback in the short passing game so beautifully championed by both Ajax, Real Madrid and Barcelona.
Sadly, Holland were beaten quite easily by both West Germany in 1974 and Argentina in 1978 when, for brief periods during both games, Holland were by far the technically superior team on the day. And yet both Gerd Muller and Mario Kempes swiftly sucked the air out of the Dutch who, by the end of both games, looked so demoralised by the turn of events that, to this day, some of us are still wondering whether they'll ever be crowned as World football champions.
Still, Ajax, in those famously red and white broad stripes on their familiar shirts, are back on the glory, glory trail, a side with the right balance and temperament oozing with ambition. Such is the cyclical nature of football that maybe this is the right time for Ajax. Dutch football has now been seriously wounded, damaged seemingly irreparably by that disgraceful 2010 World Cup Final when Holland resorted to violent and underhand tactics in an unsuccessful attempt to beat Spain.
Ajax, though now find themselves in the Champions League which can only be a good thing for Dutch morale. Joining them will be Spurs, Manchester City and Manchester United who made the most marvellous recovery in their game against the ever present flair of Paris St Germain.
This year could be when the tulips of Amsterdam will bloom quite profusely. Ajax, one of the most glamorous, high profile and successful teams in European clubs, are quite possibly on the verge of something special. The Dutch masters are washing their brushes, adjusting their easels and picking out their vividly enlightening colours. It is hard to know what Vincent Van Gogh would have made of the current Ajax side but then Van Gogh never had the honour of meeting Johan Cruyff.
Monday, 4 March 2019
Lanzarote - a jewel in the European crown.
Lanzarote- a jewel in the European crown.
It is about this time in the year when most of us dust down our summer swimming trunks, cast a longing eye towards May, June and July and wonder what time the plane will arrive for one of those sun lit days in the Mediterranean. We dream optimistically of the day when we can finally throw away those winter inhibitions and rush out towards the golden sands of an idyllic beach where it always seems to be hot.
Back in the early 1970s British tourists were novices and learners, uninitiated in the ways and lifestyles of the Spanish siesta, bullfighters and those very exotic flamenco dancers. We were then serenaded at night by those pitch perfect chirruping crickets, our ears caressed tenderly by the distant sound of 'Y Viva Espana'. We came down to breakfast after a hard night of unrelenting sangria drinking only to be faced by that now traditional breakfast of bread rolls, trays of cheese, simply presented yoghurts, toasters that popped up toast when the mood took them and then an endless supply of coffee and tea should you have needed it.
Last night my wife and I arrived back from a short winter break on the stunning islands of Lanzarote, a huge, sprawling holiday resort that many British holiday makers have more or less taken for granted. Personally this was one holiday destination that both of us had completely overlooked over the years. Spain normally meant the Costa Del Sol, the Costa Brava, Benidorm and the Costa Blanca. But this seemed an excellent opportunity to discover one of the most genuinely eye opening islands that revealed so much more about Spain than we would have initially expected.
Lanzarote is the home of the volcano, a volcanic islands as far as the eyes as could see. Staying at the wonderfully named hotel called the Paradise, we awoke every morning to the sight of far away volcanoes, ancient volcanoes and a vast collection of conically shaped volcanoes that have stood on the same geological and geographical spot for as long as any of the locals can remember.
Inside our hotel we couldn't help but notice the very surreal looking patches of volcanic ash that looked as if they belonged in some very academic science laboratory. After a day spent finding our bearings and a lazy, leisurely chill by the poolside, we ventured out on a memorable tour of the islands under the admirable guidance of our tour guide who told us that he was writing a book about Lanzarote and then proceeded to wow us with his comprehensive knowledge of the island. In fact he seemed to have an almost encyclopaedic command of every fact, year, detail and statistic that has forever been associated with Lanzarote.
Picking us up outside our hotel in his impressive but small mini bus, our permanently cheerful friend took us on an expansive and gloriously informative trek around parts of the Iberian peninsula that very few of us would have ever known about. There were large swathes of land here that bore an uncanny resemblance to some very high budget Hollywood science fiction movie blockbuster.
At frequent intervals we stopped to admire some of the most breathtaking sea waves ever seen, crashing dramatically against the side of cliff walls, rocky outcrops and deeply isolated lagoons. We were shown salt mines that reminded you of the squares on a chessboard. There were lively, furiously turbulent foamy waters that boiled, simmered and then exploded against a craggy, weatherbeaten wall, a now totally blasted, darkened rock formation.
So here we were in complete isolation with nothing around us but groups of tourists gingerly treading their way towards the summit along winding pathways. This was the moment when most of us had one of those rare moments when you simply gasp with wonder and open your months in sheer admiration. We reached the top of one cliff side retreat, staring across at beautiful, turquoise coloured waters that glittered and shimmered romantically. We were truly lost for words.
Our superb guide then gave us chapter and detail on the white and green villas dotted liberally around the island. He told us about his childhood spent with his father gathering bumper crops of potatoes, tomatoes and abundant vegetables providing rich and fertile pickings for his family. He explained the minerals that were hidden away in the nooks and crannies and then much more.
Of course our day on the islands would never have been complete without a trip to a wine tasting session in a secluded hideaway. Here we sampled the very best in cactus jams of every flavour, the tastes and textures that were like nothing else you've ever tasted. And here was the thing. Lanzarote is surrounded by cactus and cacti, an almost lunar landscape of nothing but cacti. There was something in the way they were bunched together that looked remarkably like green speech bubbles although perhaps my mind had by this time transported me to another dimension altogether.
It was at this point that your eyes were spellbound by a sight that is somehow quintessentially Spanish and quite possibly Mediterranean. There were nothing but row upon row of palm trees, community after community, colony upon colony of palm trees. Some of the most remarkable looking palm trees with large, drooping leaves and the thickest trunks ever seen, were an almost prominent feature of Lanzarote. There were, quite literally, hundreds and thousands of palm trees that in some cases have lived in Lanzarote for thousands of years.
The weather was pleasant and hearteningly warm accompanied by intermittent breezes and stiff winds that did increase in volume from time to time. But we were here to take in the very essence of Lanzarote, the diverse character of this touristy but now very quiet Spanish island. The history of the islands is naturally fascinating and it does seem to have a distinctive character that makes it utterly unique.
Come May and June Lanzarote will undergo a radical transformation with the inevitable arrival of the British holidaymakers. We all know by now that throughout the years Britain has more or less completed a mass takeover of this quaint Spanish island. There are British families who have made Spain their second home and Lanzarote is no exception to the rule.
Whole back streets and roads are now the private property of Union Jack bedecked cafes, restaurants and cafes, serving up a constant diet of English food, wild karaoke nights featuring the very cheesiest of 1970s disco music and English beer by the barrel load. There are English singers, English magicians, English themed cabaret and nothing but the English vibe. It was as if you'd stepped back in time to those hazy, crazy days of the British holiday camp where escapism meets education.
Last night my wife and I returned from our short and relaxing break in the sun, recharged and ready to go. Predictably, as we bumped onto the run way at Gatwick airport we were greeted by pouring rain and a wet ground that we've now come to expect in Britain. Our memories will be solely ours, a Saturday night listening to the blissfully nostalgic sound of a Bee Gees tribute act and thinking back to those domineering and forbidding looking volcanoes with their tons of dormant molten lava. My wife and I now felt both culturally uplited and ready to face the first buds of springtime. Here we are on the verge of another seasonal time shift. It's time to look forward. Onwards and upwards we go.
It is about this time in the year when most of us dust down our summer swimming trunks, cast a longing eye towards May, June and July and wonder what time the plane will arrive for one of those sun lit days in the Mediterranean. We dream optimistically of the day when we can finally throw away those winter inhibitions and rush out towards the golden sands of an idyllic beach where it always seems to be hot.
Back in the early 1970s British tourists were novices and learners, uninitiated in the ways and lifestyles of the Spanish siesta, bullfighters and those very exotic flamenco dancers. We were then serenaded at night by those pitch perfect chirruping crickets, our ears caressed tenderly by the distant sound of 'Y Viva Espana'. We came down to breakfast after a hard night of unrelenting sangria drinking only to be faced by that now traditional breakfast of bread rolls, trays of cheese, simply presented yoghurts, toasters that popped up toast when the mood took them and then an endless supply of coffee and tea should you have needed it.
Last night my wife and I arrived back from a short winter break on the stunning islands of Lanzarote, a huge, sprawling holiday resort that many British holiday makers have more or less taken for granted. Personally this was one holiday destination that both of us had completely overlooked over the years. Spain normally meant the Costa Del Sol, the Costa Brava, Benidorm and the Costa Blanca. But this seemed an excellent opportunity to discover one of the most genuinely eye opening islands that revealed so much more about Spain than we would have initially expected.
Lanzarote is the home of the volcano, a volcanic islands as far as the eyes as could see. Staying at the wonderfully named hotel called the Paradise, we awoke every morning to the sight of far away volcanoes, ancient volcanoes and a vast collection of conically shaped volcanoes that have stood on the same geological and geographical spot for as long as any of the locals can remember.
Inside our hotel we couldn't help but notice the very surreal looking patches of volcanic ash that looked as if they belonged in some very academic science laboratory. After a day spent finding our bearings and a lazy, leisurely chill by the poolside, we ventured out on a memorable tour of the islands under the admirable guidance of our tour guide who told us that he was writing a book about Lanzarote and then proceeded to wow us with his comprehensive knowledge of the island. In fact he seemed to have an almost encyclopaedic command of every fact, year, detail and statistic that has forever been associated with Lanzarote.
Picking us up outside our hotel in his impressive but small mini bus, our permanently cheerful friend took us on an expansive and gloriously informative trek around parts of the Iberian peninsula that very few of us would have ever known about. There were large swathes of land here that bore an uncanny resemblance to some very high budget Hollywood science fiction movie blockbuster.
At frequent intervals we stopped to admire some of the most breathtaking sea waves ever seen, crashing dramatically against the side of cliff walls, rocky outcrops and deeply isolated lagoons. We were shown salt mines that reminded you of the squares on a chessboard. There were lively, furiously turbulent foamy waters that boiled, simmered and then exploded against a craggy, weatherbeaten wall, a now totally blasted, darkened rock formation.
So here we were in complete isolation with nothing around us but groups of tourists gingerly treading their way towards the summit along winding pathways. This was the moment when most of us had one of those rare moments when you simply gasp with wonder and open your months in sheer admiration. We reached the top of one cliff side retreat, staring across at beautiful, turquoise coloured waters that glittered and shimmered romantically. We were truly lost for words.
Our superb guide then gave us chapter and detail on the white and green villas dotted liberally around the island. He told us about his childhood spent with his father gathering bumper crops of potatoes, tomatoes and abundant vegetables providing rich and fertile pickings for his family. He explained the minerals that were hidden away in the nooks and crannies and then much more.
Of course our day on the islands would never have been complete without a trip to a wine tasting session in a secluded hideaway. Here we sampled the very best in cactus jams of every flavour, the tastes and textures that were like nothing else you've ever tasted. And here was the thing. Lanzarote is surrounded by cactus and cacti, an almost lunar landscape of nothing but cacti. There was something in the way they were bunched together that looked remarkably like green speech bubbles although perhaps my mind had by this time transported me to another dimension altogether.
It was at this point that your eyes were spellbound by a sight that is somehow quintessentially Spanish and quite possibly Mediterranean. There were nothing but row upon row of palm trees, community after community, colony upon colony of palm trees. Some of the most remarkable looking palm trees with large, drooping leaves and the thickest trunks ever seen, were an almost prominent feature of Lanzarote. There were, quite literally, hundreds and thousands of palm trees that in some cases have lived in Lanzarote for thousands of years.
The weather was pleasant and hearteningly warm accompanied by intermittent breezes and stiff winds that did increase in volume from time to time. But we were here to take in the very essence of Lanzarote, the diverse character of this touristy but now very quiet Spanish island. The history of the islands is naturally fascinating and it does seem to have a distinctive character that makes it utterly unique.
Come May and June Lanzarote will undergo a radical transformation with the inevitable arrival of the British holidaymakers. We all know by now that throughout the years Britain has more or less completed a mass takeover of this quaint Spanish island. There are British families who have made Spain their second home and Lanzarote is no exception to the rule.
Whole back streets and roads are now the private property of Union Jack bedecked cafes, restaurants and cafes, serving up a constant diet of English food, wild karaoke nights featuring the very cheesiest of 1970s disco music and English beer by the barrel load. There are English singers, English magicians, English themed cabaret and nothing but the English vibe. It was as if you'd stepped back in time to those hazy, crazy days of the British holiday camp where escapism meets education.
Last night my wife and I returned from our short and relaxing break in the sun, recharged and ready to go. Predictably, as we bumped onto the run way at Gatwick airport we were greeted by pouring rain and a wet ground that we've now come to expect in Britain. Our memories will be solely ours, a Saturday night listening to the blissfully nostalgic sound of a Bee Gees tribute act and thinking back to those domineering and forbidding looking volcanoes with their tons of dormant molten lava. My wife and I now felt both culturally uplited and ready to face the first buds of springtime. Here we are on the verge of another seasonal time shift. It's time to look forward. Onwards and upwards we go.
Monday, 25 February 2019
The Oscars.
The Oscars.
Deep in the heart of Los Angeles they were doing what they normally do at this time of the year. They were posing, posturing, preening themselves and grinning gleefully for the cameras. They pulled the inevitable faces, slapped each other's back in a blizzard of self congratulation, they pouted, blew kisses, wallowed in self aggrandisement and then just sat back to enjoy the evening.
Once again the Hollywood film industry took off its hat, bowed courteously to all its leading stars and star makers and indulged itself in another round of egotistical selfies, that modern trend where you hold a phone in front of your face, smile cosmetically with a group of fellow actors and actresses and pretend that you're the best thing since sliced bread. This was Tinsel Town at its very best, LA showing off outlandishly and garishly, Hollywood flaunting all of its glittering wealth and then boasting both its self image, its weird sense of hierarchy and its abiding air of overwhelming vanity.
For night of the year the cream of the show business fraternity gets all over excited about the one event of the year that brings them all together under one huge umbrella of glamour and glad handing. This is LA recognising the finest in cinematic achievement and an occasion like none other. Suddenly, the red carpet is given the full vacuum cleaner treatment and everybody goes wild in that lovey lovey world of thespian self indulgence where the applause never seems to fade.
Once again the Oscars were back again rather like some social gathering which always seems to get slightly out of control. For one night only the conceited and pretentious came face to face with the big, bold and the unforgettable. Actors and actresses rubbed shoulders with famous directors and producers, cameramen and camerawomen shook hands with lighting and sound technicians while those who were rather less well known may have decided to stand back from all of the fuss and palaver.
On the night itself the biggest surprise came with the Oscar for best film, once the preserve of the great, good and legendary where Clark Gable once shared the smartest of dinner suits with James Stewart and the drinks flowed like a never ending fountain. Last night Green Book shocked all of the experts and movie analysts. A film based at a time of disturbing racial segregation in America, it featured a promising black pianist and a white chauffeur with all of the unfortunate developments that rocked the USA to its foundations at the time.
But then there was one Olivia Colman, as British as steak and kidney pie and red post boxes, a lady easily amused, a glorious sense of humour and who was almost shell shocked at the adulation she seemed to be receiving from her contemporaries. Colman, oozing eccentricity and a very British air of modest understatement, reflected the sentiments of many of us when she claimed, quite accurately, that the whole night had been quite hilarious.
For her role in the very royal film the Favourite, Colman could hardly hold back her stunned disbelief and then thanked both her ever supportive family, friends, the cat and dog, the goldfish, the postman and the local pub landlord. Strange how good news spreads. A story about Queen Anne and her courtiers, Colman blew raspberries and then proceeded to behave like a young girl at her first end of year school prom. Good for you Olivia!
Then and quite deservedly there was an affectionate nod to one of the greatest rock bands of the 1970s and 1980s. Starring in the wonderful Bohemian Rhapsody, Rami Malek won the best actor Oscar for his glorious portrayal of the great Freddie Mercury. Bohemian Rhapsody although one of the most powerful and moving films of the year so far, hadn't quite the box office power to claim the big prize which did seem a crying shame but who are we to pass judgment?
Once again Green Book was the flavour of the night with Mahershala Ali taking the best actress gong while the ever controversial Spike Lee snatched the Oscar with a collaborative role for best adapted screenplay in the making of Green Book. Wherever you looked there were warm homages to both the Green Book, the Favourite and Bohemian Rhapsody, films of beautiful photography, class and immaculate execution.
Meanwhile behind the scenes, the stars certainly came out on the night in question. Lady Gaga looked suitably outrageous, shoulders and arms emblazoned with fashionable tattoos. Bradley Cooper, her co star in that now third incarnation of A Star is Born was bearded, white shirted and bow tied. Cooper, sadly, looked nothing like James Mason but did look respectable and sartorially elegant.
There was Helen Mirren who turned up for the Oscars in the full knowledge that she was never in contention for any Oscar of any description and merely came along for a good, old fashioned party. Film stars love to be the centre of attention and Mirren was perhaps living proof. Dressed all in red and just glad to be where all of the rest of the showbiz world was, the very British Mirren, clinked glasses of champagne and remembered when she was the Queen- the film that is.
And now we realised what the whole of the Oscars was all about and always will be. It's that one time of the year when Hollywood gets all soppy and sentimental, ludicrously appreciative and grateful for making and starring in movies, perhaps saying far too much in their acceptance speeches and then staring at a bottle of booze at three in the morning in a state of bleary eyed regret. We would never want it any other way because we think the Oscars should always be celebrated.
The stars and celebrities drifted slowly away from their late night parties, still punch drunk and deliriously happy but not quite sure what possessed them to behave in a way that might have seemed as perfectly acceptable at first. Los Angeles has now cleared up after another heavy night of Hollywood smiling and hand shaking but then your thoughts turned back to Olivia Colman who seemed convinced that it was her birthday when quite clearly it wasn't. If only Donald Trump had been invited to this lavish shindig. On second thoughts maybe not.
Deep in the heart of Los Angeles they were doing what they normally do at this time of the year. They were posing, posturing, preening themselves and grinning gleefully for the cameras. They pulled the inevitable faces, slapped each other's back in a blizzard of self congratulation, they pouted, blew kisses, wallowed in self aggrandisement and then just sat back to enjoy the evening.
Once again the Hollywood film industry took off its hat, bowed courteously to all its leading stars and star makers and indulged itself in another round of egotistical selfies, that modern trend where you hold a phone in front of your face, smile cosmetically with a group of fellow actors and actresses and pretend that you're the best thing since sliced bread. This was Tinsel Town at its very best, LA showing off outlandishly and garishly, Hollywood flaunting all of its glittering wealth and then boasting both its self image, its weird sense of hierarchy and its abiding air of overwhelming vanity.
For night of the year the cream of the show business fraternity gets all over excited about the one event of the year that brings them all together under one huge umbrella of glamour and glad handing. This is LA recognising the finest in cinematic achievement and an occasion like none other. Suddenly, the red carpet is given the full vacuum cleaner treatment and everybody goes wild in that lovey lovey world of thespian self indulgence where the applause never seems to fade.
Once again the Oscars were back again rather like some social gathering which always seems to get slightly out of control. For one night only the conceited and pretentious came face to face with the big, bold and the unforgettable. Actors and actresses rubbed shoulders with famous directors and producers, cameramen and camerawomen shook hands with lighting and sound technicians while those who were rather less well known may have decided to stand back from all of the fuss and palaver.
On the night itself the biggest surprise came with the Oscar for best film, once the preserve of the great, good and legendary where Clark Gable once shared the smartest of dinner suits with James Stewart and the drinks flowed like a never ending fountain. Last night Green Book shocked all of the experts and movie analysts. A film based at a time of disturbing racial segregation in America, it featured a promising black pianist and a white chauffeur with all of the unfortunate developments that rocked the USA to its foundations at the time.
But then there was one Olivia Colman, as British as steak and kidney pie and red post boxes, a lady easily amused, a glorious sense of humour and who was almost shell shocked at the adulation she seemed to be receiving from her contemporaries. Colman, oozing eccentricity and a very British air of modest understatement, reflected the sentiments of many of us when she claimed, quite accurately, that the whole night had been quite hilarious.
For her role in the very royal film the Favourite, Colman could hardly hold back her stunned disbelief and then thanked both her ever supportive family, friends, the cat and dog, the goldfish, the postman and the local pub landlord. Strange how good news spreads. A story about Queen Anne and her courtiers, Colman blew raspberries and then proceeded to behave like a young girl at her first end of year school prom. Good for you Olivia!
Then and quite deservedly there was an affectionate nod to one of the greatest rock bands of the 1970s and 1980s. Starring in the wonderful Bohemian Rhapsody, Rami Malek won the best actor Oscar for his glorious portrayal of the great Freddie Mercury. Bohemian Rhapsody although one of the most powerful and moving films of the year so far, hadn't quite the box office power to claim the big prize which did seem a crying shame but who are we to pass judgment?
Once again Green Book was the flavour of the night with Mahershala Ali taking the best actress gong while the ever controversial Spike Lee snatched the Oscar with a collaborative role for best adapted screenplay in the making of Green Book. Wherever you looked there were warm homages to both the Green Book, the Favourite and Bohemian Rhapsody, films of beautiful photography, class and immaculate execution.
Meanwhile behind the scenes, the stars certainly came out on the night in question. Lady Gaga looked suitably outrageous, shoulders and arms emblazoned with fashionable tattoos. Bradley Cooper, her co star in that now third incarnation of A Star is Born was bearded, white shirted and bow tied. Cooper, sadly, looked nothing like James Mason but did look respectable and sartorially elegant.
There was Helen Mirren who turned up for the Oscars in the full knowledge that she was never in contention for any Oscar of any description and merely came along for a good, old fashioned party. Film stars love to be the centre of attention and Mirren was perhaps living proof. Dressed all in red and just glad to be where all of the rest of the showbiz world was, the very British Mirren, clinked glasses of champagne and remembered when she was the Queen- the film that is.
And now we realised what the whole of the Oscars was all about and always will be. It's that one time of the year when Hollywood gets all soppy and sentimental, ludicrously appreciative and grateful for making and starring in movies, perhaps saying far too much in their acceptance speeches and then staring at a bottle of booze at three in the morning in a state of bleary eyed regret. We would never want it any other way because we think the Oscars should always be celebrated.
The stars and celebrities drifted slowly away from their late night parties, still punch drunk and deliriously happy but not quite sure what possessed them to behave in a way that might have seemed as perfectly acceptable at first. Los Angeles has now cleared up after another heavy night of Hollywood smiling and hand shaking but then your thoughts turned back to Olivia Colman who seemed convinced that it was her birthday when quite clearly it wasn't. If only Donald Trump had been invited to this lavish shindig. On second thoughts maybe not.
Saturday, 23 February 2019
The Welsh rugby dragons breathe fire and blow out England.
The Welsh rugby dragons breathe fire and blow out England.
It had to happen. You could sense something in the Welsh air. The wind of change was blowing a gale force of some ferocity and at long last Welsh rugby had something to go stir crazy about. For the older fans of the oval ball game Wales have only those lump in the throat moments of nostalgia to draw on during dark wintry nights.
Wales can still fondly recall Phil Bennett, Gareth Edwards and JPR Williams from those emotional 1970s Saturday afternoons when the Welsh skipped, hopped, side stepped and generally bewitched England because they'd been extremely well educated in the finer points of the game. England were frequently bamboozled, breathless, confused and not even within touching distance of a Welsh prop, fly half or dazzling centre. Wales were masters of the hand to hand game, swapping passes and flinging the ball across the old Cardiff Arms Park as if it were a Christmas present.
But over 40 years later in the 21st century Wales were very much a side of evolution and revolution, a side on a steep learning curve and not quite the magnificent foot soldiers of yesteryear. Still, they are getting there. And yet back in the handsome 1970s, Wales could boast one Mervyn 'The Swerve' Davies, dodging, dropping shoulders, weaving, ducking and diving, plunging into heavy breathing scrums with derring do daring and then coming back for more of the same.
Then their loyal colleagues would turn on the swaggering style. There was Phil Bennett, full of dashing individuality who would eagerly join forces with the hop scotching brilliance of Gareth Edwards who in turn promptly palmed the ball off for the onrushing doctor JPR Williams diving over for the most outrageously perfect of tries. It was a Welsh rugby team with an almost instinctive understanding of how the game should be played, telepathic thought processes and a lovely premonition of when exactly their next try would come. Wales were untouchable, immovable and above all unbeatable.
However, after a temporary lull, the present day side came out of the tunnel for this latest instalment of the Six Nations Championship, fired up, fully revitalised and ready to throw the kitchen sink at one of their fiercest rivals in one of the oldest confrontations that British rugby could offer. This was a proper game of rugby, a contest of two delightfully contrasting halves where Wales were convinced they could impose their free wheeling, running game only to find that the bully boys in white England shirts had alternative plans up their sleeves.
This was though one of those nerve shredding, pulsating and genuinely thrilling Six Nations matches that had most of us on the edge of our seats. It was a game that gave you heart thumping palpitations, an ebbing and flowing game full of raw physicality, simmering violence at times and no quarter given. Players crashed and smashed into each other, swarming over each other like red and white bees, tackling like tigers and dragging each to the ground with uncompromising force and menace before barging, grabbing, pulling and gouging.
England began brightly pinning the Welsh back with grinding and driving rugby designed to completely unsettle the Welsh. Still though there was the blood and thunder, the fearsome pushing and shoving grudge matches, the menacing eye balling at close quarters, the frightening, blood, curdling collisions and all the ingredients of a classic Wales- England Six Nations dust up.
With full back Elliot Daily covering and protecting his colleagues with the sharpest of eyes, Jack Nowell bobbing and scheming around the scrums and rucks, Johnny May enjoying one of his most outstanding of games on the wing and skipper Owen Farrell directing operations smoothly, England were using the ball constructively while never entirely at ease.
When Farrell broke the deadlock with a penalty after a collapsed scrum, England seemed to be rolling back the years. They were beginning to shift the ball quickly and effectively, winning back possession decisively after Wales dropped theirs in vital areas. A thick muscular wall of white locked arms with a red Welsh commando unit that didn't quite know to handle them.
For a while those huge, meaty England brick houses with shoulders the size of boulders and legs as thick as rubber tyres, steam rollered forward, off loading the ball with the sweetest skill and heartwarming dynamism. Large battalions of white shirts would launch their impressive kicking game all the while keeping their hosts at a respectful arms length.
Then the Cardiff multitudes, now in full song and harmony as you would expect from those rousing male voice choirs, erupted. Wales took full advantage of English sloppiness and |Gareth Anscombe kicked the Welsh level with a penalty. At that moment the open roof of the Principality Stadium simply exploded with joy. Wales were back in the game and threatening briefly to sweep England aside with the dragon's breath of fire. The timelessly passionate Welsh crowd were in full voice.
Suddenly, fortunes swung away from a temporarily vibrant Wales team and England muscled their way back into a now intriguing match. After a breathless spell of hand to hand passes, the ball was smartly moved through to the ever willing Tom Curry who carved open the Welsh defence, swooping down and touching down for an epic try. England thought they were in cruise control mode but were to spend the second half in a web of delusion. After Farrell had kicked over another penalty, Wales retreated into a nervous shell and must have thought the game had drifted away from them.
Little did they know that England came out for the second half like drunken sailors being thrown out of the pub quite unceremoniously. England had forgotten all of those fundamental ball winning techniques that had served them so well in the second half. They began to find themselves inextricably caught up in needle matches, slanging matches, loose, slovenly ball that fell out of their hands like bars of soap. The uptempo game plan and stirring intensity of England's first half withered on the Welsh breeze.
Gareth Anscombe stepped forward again. A moment of naive incompetence at the base of a scrum, ended with another Anscombe penalty which brought Wales one point away from England. Wales, sensing English weaknesses like a dog sniffing a bone, pounced back with wave after wave of attack, breaking vividly and powerfully towards the English try line. The Welsh were now winning the kind of the ball they were carelessly squandering during an even first half.
Then with ten minutes to go Wales lunged forward at English throats with the most reckless sense of adventure. There were gaping cracks and faultlines in an English side who thought they had the Welsh exactly where they wanted them. Now the superbly balanced George North, the marvellous Jonathan Davies, the brave and tireless Josh Adams, the ever skilful Rob Evans, Tomas Francis, the permanently enterprising and advancing Ross Moriarty and the irresistible Cory Hill were punching all kinds of destructive holes in the English defence.
With the game still in the melting pot though Wales had to find renewed reserves of courage and stamina. But it now came gloriously right for the red of Wales. A beautifully judged long kick towards a hungry Welsh attacker found the right spot. Cory Hill, snappy and spritely, must have thought his birthday had come very early when England fumbled the ball and Hill gleefully pouched the ball, slamming the oval ball down for the winning Welsh try.
And so it was that England could only console themselves with the memories and match heroes from decades before. What exactly must have going through the minds of Will Carling, once skipper supreme, Sir Bill Beaumont. also leader of the pack, David Duckham and Dusty Hare from the now far off 1970s, mud spattered and battle hardened warriors, the Greenwood brothers and, more recently, the World Cup drop kicking victor Jonny Wilkinson?
Essentially England have much to offer and could potentially win another World Cup. And yet today there were one or two loose screws, cogs and wheels that need to be oiled quite urgently. The aggression is still there and there is an overwhelming desire to snatch back the World Cup again.
Meanwhile back at Cardiff the lights were flashing, the valleys were almost certainly singing at the tops of their voices and the whole of Wales had found a perfectly valid reason to celebrate. You suspected that in the watering holes of Llanelli, Glamorgan, Swansea and Aberystwyth the lagers were flowing and the Men of Harlech were belting out their dulcet tones. It was a day to never ever forget for fathers, grandfathers, mothers and grandchildren, for today's generation of children to look back and think that this was indeed their day of days. Now for the Grand Slam. What a prospect.
It had to happen. You could sense something in the Welsh air. The wind of change was blowing a gale force of some ferocity and at long last Welsh rugby had something to go stir crazy about. For the older fans of the oval ball game Wales have only those lump in the throat moments of nostalgia to draw on during dark wintry nights.
Wales can still fondly recall Phil Bennett, Gareth Edwards and JPR Williams from those emotional 1970s Saturday afternoons when the Welsh skipped, hopped, side stepped and generally bewitched England because they'd been extremely well educated in the finer points of the game. England were frequently bamboozled, breathless, confused and not even within touching distance of a Welsh prop, fly half or dazzling centre. Wales were masters of the hand to hand game, swapping passes and flinging the ball across the old Cardiff Arms Park as if it were a Christmas present.
But over 40 years later in the 21st century Wales were very much a side of evolution and revolution, a side on a steep learning curve and not quite the magnificent foot soldiers of yesteryear. Still, they are getting there. And yet back in the handsome 1970s, Wales could boast one Mervyn 'The Swerve' Davies, dodging, dropping shoulders, weaving, ducking and diving, plunging into heavy breathing scrums with derring do daring and then coming back for more of the same.
Then their loyal colleagues would turn on the swaggering style. There was Phil Bennett, full of dashing individuality who would eagerly join forces with the hop scotching brilliance of Gareth Edwards who in turn promptly palmed the ball off for the onrushing doctor JPR Williams diving over for the most outrageously perfect of tries. It was a Welsh rugby team with an almost instinctive understanding of how the game should be played, telepathic thought processes and a lovely premonition of when exactly their next try would come. Wales were untouchable, immovable and above all unbeatable.
However, after a temporary lull, the present day side came out of the tunnel for this latest instalment of the Six Nations Championship, fired up, fully revitalised and ready to throw the kitchen sink at one of their fiercest rivals in one of the oldest confrontations that British rugby could offer. This was a proper game of rugby, a contest of two delightfully contrasting halves where Wales were convinced they could impose their free wheeling, running game only to find that the bully boys in white England shirts had alternative plans up their sleeves.
This was though one of those nerve shredding, pulsating and genuinely thrilling Six Nations matches that had most of us on the edge of our seats. It was a game that gave you heart thumping palpitations, an ebbing and flowing game full of raw physicality, simmering violence at times and no quarter given. Players crashed and smashed into each other, swarming over each other like red and white bees, tackling like tigers and dragging each to the ground with uncompromising force and menace before barging, grabbing, pulling and gouging.
England began brightly pinning the Welsh back with grinding and driving rugby designed to completely unsettle the Welsh. Still though there was the blood and thunder, the fearsome pushing and shoving grudge matches, the menacing eye balling at close quarters, the frightening, blood, curdling collisions and all the ingredients of a classic Wales- England Six Nations dust up.
With full back Elliot Daily covering and protecting his colleagues with the sharpest of eyes, Jack Nowell bobbing and scheming around the scrums and rucks, Johnny May enjoying one of his most outstanding of games on the wing and skipper Owen Farrell directing operations smoothly, England were using the ball constructively while never entirely at ease.
When Farrell broke the deadlock with a penalty after a collapsed scrum, England seemed to be rolling back the years. They were beginning to shift the ball quickly and effectively, winning back possession decisively after Wales dropped theirs in vital areas. A thick muscular wall of white locked arms with a red Welsh commando unit that didn't quite know to handle them.
For a while those huge, meaty England brick houses with shoulders the size of boulders and legs as thick as rubber tyres, steam rollered forward, off loading the ball with the sweetest skill and heartwarming dynamism. Large battalions of white shirts would launch their impressive kicking game all the while keeping their hosts at a respectful arms length.
Then the Cardiff multitudes, now in full song and harmony as you would expect from those rousing male voice choirs, erupted. Wales took full advantage of English sloppiness and |Gareth Anscombe kicked the Welsh level with a penalty. At that moment the open roof of the Principality Stadium simply exploded with joy. Wales were back in the game and threatening briefly to sweep England aside with the dragon's breath of fire. The timelessly passionate Welsh crowd were in full voice.
Suddenly, fortunes swung away from a temporarily vibrant Wales team and England muscled their way back into a now intriguing match. After a breathless spell of hand to hand passes, the ball was smartly moved through to the ever willing Tom Curry who carved open the Welsh defence, swooping down and touching down for an epic try. England thought they were in cruise control mode but were to spend the second half in a web of delusion. After Farrell had kicked over another penalty, Wales retreated into a nervous shell and must have thought the game had drifted away from them.
Little did they know that England came out for the second half like drunken sailors being thrown out of the pub quite unceremoniously. England had forgotten all of those fundamental ball winning techniques that had served them so well in the second half. They began to find themselves inextricably caught up in needle matches, slanging matches, loose, slovenly ball that fell out of their hands like bars of soap. The uptempo game plan and stirring intensity of England's first half withered on the Welsh breeze.
Gareth Anscombe stepped forward again. A moment of naive incompetence at the base of a scrum, ended with another Anscombe penalty which brought Wales one point away from England. Wales, sensing English weaknesses like a dog sniffing a bone, pounced back with wave after wave of attack, breaking vividly and powerfully towards the English try line. The Welsh were now winning the kind of the ball they were carelessly squandering during an even first half.
Then with ten minutes to go Wales lunged forward at English throats with the most reckless sense of adventure. There were gaping cracks and faultlines in an English side who thought they had the Welsh exactly where they wanted them. Now the superbly balanced George North, the marvellous Jonathan Davies, the brave and tireless Josh Adams, the ever skilful Rob Evans, Tomas Francis, the permanently enterprising and advancing Ross Moriarty and the irresistible Cory Hill were punching all kinds of destructive holes in the English defence.
With the game still in the melting pot though Wales had to find renewed reserves of courage and stamina. But it now came gloriously right for the red of Wales. A beautifully judged long kick towards a hungry Welsh attacker found the right spot. Cory Hill, snappy and spritely, must have thought his birthday had come very early when England fumbled the ball and Hill gleefully pouched the ball, slamming the oval ball down for the winning Welsh try.
And so it was that England could only console themselves with the memories and match heroes from decades before. What exactly must have going through the minds of Will Carling, once skipper supreme, Sir Bill Beaumont. also leader of the pack, David Duckham and Dusty Hare from the now far off 1970s, mud spattered and battle hardened warriors, the Greenwood brothers and, more recently, the World Cup drop kicking victor Jonny Wilkinson?
Essentially England have much to offer and could potentially win another World Cup. And yet today there were one or two loose screws, cogs and wheels that need to be oiled quite urgently. The aggression is still there and there is an overwhelming desire to snatch back the World Cup again.
Meanwhile back at Cardiff the lights were flashing, the valleys were almost certainly singing at the tops of their voices and the whole of Wales had found a perfectly valid reason to celebrate. You suspected that in the watering holes of Llanelli, Glamorgan, Swansea and Aberystwyth the lagers were flowing and the Men of Harlech were belting out their dulcet tones. It was a day to never ever forget for fathers, grandfathers, mothers and grandchildren, for today's generation of children to look back and think that this was indeed their day of days. Now for the Grand Slam. What a prospect.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)