Purim- a Jewish treat.

Purim - a Jewish treat.

The Jewish festival of Purim has always had its symbolism, its very distinctive characteristics and its positive messages to an outside world that may choose to ignore it. It remains though an overwhelming favourite to Jewish children who so readily embrace its joyous arrival. It is all about the rejoicing, the jubilation unconfined, a day given over exclusively to those who believe very clearly that nothing should ever get in the way of unbridled celebration.

For here on the borders of Stamford Hill, the good people of North London are gathering together for the yearly homage to hamantaschen, a deliciously sweet cake or quite possibly biscuit according to your definition of these things. Purim is that very open expression of its clear Jewish identity. There are the kids who dress up in all manner of glorious fancy dress outfits, smiles and laughs emblazoned richly across wide eyed faces of merriment and mirth.

Then as if timed to perfection a large float will steadily make its way along the bustling roads and streets of Stamford Hill with the practised air of a float that had been doing this for thousands of years. The long standing Lubavitch and predominantly hasidic families who have lived here for so many years will take to the streets and announce their presence quite categorically with rousing music, the crown of Queen Esther, and a day of dazzling, dancing revelry.

In these confusing and often inexplicable times when nothing seems to make any sense or add up, perhaps we should be grateful for Purim, the one Jewish festival where unity and harmony provide a blessed relief to the festering anxieties of a troubled world. Surely there is something heartening and uplifting about the only festival where Jewish kids can get away with looking like Spiderman, Batman and a member of the Mafia without being reduced to quivering laughter.

You may be sure that by late on in the evening the fine, upstanding citizens will still be doing the conga, still in the grip of those frenzied rhythms that make up quite the most extraordinarily upbeat party you're ever likely to see. Purim is Stamford Hill's very own street carnival, a delightful combination of everything that is life affirming, traditional and hugely enjoyable.

Leading rabbis, senior rabbis, noble patriarchs and matriarchs will assemble in their homes with joy pounding away excitedly in their hearts. These are the people who will lead the procession, learned men and women who have studied the Torah over and over again, who have fed and watered, nurtured and encouraged the next generation of children because they represent the future.

They will stroll past the mouth watering delicatessens, the fashion shops, the bookmakers, the newsagents, the butchers, the stationeries, the pizza restaurants and the banks that constitute everything that is commercially good about Stamford Hill. They will engage in lively Jewish banter, gossip good naturedly about the price of schmaltz herring, those wonderful cakes in Grodzinski and how chopped liver simply melts in the mouth.

But they will hear, listen and appreciate the music because that music is the most stirring of all music, a sound that will resonate and reverberate through their souls, that tingling sensation that lifts them to the highest plateau. They will pray and sing, raise their black coats in a way that Topol in Fiddler on the Roof would have heartily approved. It will be a scene of togetherness and solidarity, of kindred spirits, joie de vivre and esprit de corps, voices of peace and intelligence rather than fear and suspicion.

So it is that today Jews of the world including yours truly, will look upon the festive glad tidings of Purim and ask those who preach intolerance to stop and think for a moment or two. Purim is all about that age old subject of belonging and inclusivity, reaching out to our neighbours in the hope that the Hamans of this world will just disappear into the ether, sink into the ground and never show their faces ever again. This is certainly the right time to tuck into another tasty hamanstaschem.

Old gold Wolves reach FA Cup semi final at Wembley.

Old gold Wolves reach FA Cup semi final at Wembley.

This is turning into quite a season for Wolverhampton Wanderers. The bad old days are now long behind them and the near apocalypse of League 2(Division Four) football that almost swallowed up Wolves in the late 1980s and 1990s must now seem like some old horror film from yesteryear. But the basement of the Football League can safely be consigned to the dustbin of history.

Last night Wolves sent Manchester United toppling from the FA Cup and Molineux did its utmost to remind the whole of the footballing community that the old gold shirts are firmly back on the map, now fully established in the Premier League, enjoying perhaps one of their most satisfying seasons for many a decade and proving once again that where there's life there's hope.

 This is not to say that Wolves will once again be lifting that famous trophy but after an almost yawning 60 year gap since their last FA Cup victory maybe some of their hardiest supporters are beginning to  believe that this is long overdue. For those who love to wander down football's reminiscence lane, this could be the year that Wolves completely forget their outstanding 1960 Wembley victory against Blackburn Rovers and just concentrate on the brass tacks of winning the Cup again.

The fondly reflective and nostalgic must still ache for the blonde and always commanding Billy Wright, Johnny Hancocks and Jimmy Mullen shuffling, drifting, roaming, roving and plotting deceptively on both the flanks, Dennis Wilshaw and Bill Slater shifting their opponents from side to side of a pitch, while a curtain of golden old pulled the opposition first one way and then another.

Today the Wolves of the 21st century can proudly boast players from Spain, Mexico and Belgium, all countries from entirely different points of the global compass. During the Wolves heyday of the 1950s when Stan Cullis was fashioning one of the most impressive teams in the old First Division, it was widely assumed that Moulineux would never see its like again. But how wrong they were proved to be.

When the likes of John Richards and Derek Dougan were leading the line and Kenny Hibbitt was forever scurrying, running and plotting in midfield during the 1970s there were times when it looked like Wolves had got their act together. Wolves were hard to beat, well organised and frequently easy on the eye but once the ruthless Bill McGarry had left the club so too had the heartbeat and spirit of  Wolverhampton Wanderers.

The lowest point in the club's fortunes came in more recent years when Wolves almost fell headfirst out of the Football League, resigned to their fate in the old Fourth Division. Then Sir Jack Hayward came along, rescued Wolves from the scrap heap of obscurity, smartened up Molineux quite radically and dragged the club up to the glamorous heights of the Premier League.

After Wolves had recently knocked Liverpool out of the FA Cup there was a strong sixth sense about the club that a revival was about to brush off the cobwebs of the 1950s and 1970s. Some of the more worldly of old gold loyalists who thought they'd seen it all before, were now rolling their tobacco with much more conviction, wishing that rattles were still fashionable and contemplating something they could hardly have believed possible when their team was stuck in quicksand.

Before the game Wolves had once again excelled with their theatrical showpieces, a blaze of flashing lights followed by thunderous music and what looked like a flutter of gold embossed envelopes. What followed was the rich and seductive smell of FA Cup magic. With Conor Coady and Matt Doherty providing British beef at the heart of the Wolves team, Wolves discovered that the meaning of life was much more about defeating the odds when the critics have cause to doubt you.

Although Manchester United started the game like a team who were determined to keep the ball  for as long as they could, it was Wolves who, sensing United were about to hit a brick wall, felt their way quietly and modestly back into the game. For the first half an hour or so United were passing the ball among themselves as if it was theirs by divine right. They were jealously guarding the ball protectively and sensitively as if somebody had told them that had they lost it a severe fine would be slapped on them after the match.

But once Joao Moutinho, Willy Boly and the superbly imaginative Leander Dendocker, once wanted by West Ham, had found common ground in the middle of the park Manchester United were beginning to lose their early dominance and soon the leadership skills shown by the brilliant Paul Pogba were no longer the defining theme of the evening.

With the game now in the second half Wolves were beginning to break and counter attack with startling effectiveness. Now it was that the livewire and effervescent Reuben Neves who began to spring forward into attack, darting here and there, spurting into space, picking up loose ends and driving forward at United's defence like a sports car with the most sophisticated engine. And then there was the player of the night Diogo Jota.

Jota was here, there and everywhere, perpetual motion, stretching the United like the most flexible elastic band. Jota also had the immaculate Raul Jimenez, the most powerful spice of Mexican genius. When Jimenez twisted and turned in the most confined of spaces to give Wolves the lead, United looked as if they were about to unravel like the loosest of threads. Wolves were now blasting out their own hot flames.

The red of Manchester United including the otherwise steady and tidy Chris Smalling, the energetic Victor Lindoff, the spring heeled Jessie Lingard and the excellent Marcus Rashford, were now beginning to tire and their once very sentimental relationship with the FA Cup now seemed no more than a mere romantic dalliance. Of course United are prolific winners of the FA Cup but this would not be their year.

After Luke Shaw had fumbled the ball and clumsily lost possession for United on the half way line, Wolves went for United like lions on the savanna. Diogo Jota, now causing havoc with a threadbare United back four, sprinted away on his own, racing irrepressibly towards the United goal as if intent on rubber stamping Wolves authority. Jota took one look at the United goal and slammed the ball low under  Romero, the United keeper. It was a second goal that Wolves that would leave United now completely down, out and desolate.

And so it was that United, now led by the permanently upbeat and smiling Ole Gunnar Solskjaer, who would make their way out of the FA Cup's tradesman's entrance. United still have the Champions League within their sights but realistically United may have to content themselves with another season that could be considered as a work in progress. A top four place in the Premier League is the overriding objective but a Europa League spot looks far more achievable.

Wolves, for their part, can still look back at an astonishing season back in the Premier League. Wolves are currently seventh and sitting pretty. Their football has been exquisite and cut from the loveliest of cloth, short, sharp and staccato passes that unlocked the United defence with almost effortless ease. Their football is a world away from those dark alleyways where sinister howls and whistles would follow them everywhere. The days of bleak bankruptcy are now ancient history for Wolves.

As the final whistle went, Wolves heavily bearded and charming manager Nuno Espirito Santo punched the air with delight, hugged his players and presumably took his family out for a slap up meal in town. Santo has been one of the managers of the season - if not the manager of the season- and the footballing philosophies he has quite clearly left his imprint on look as if they may be bear fruition. If Wolves do reach the FA Cup Final they may care to think for a moment or two about a man called Sir Jack Hayward for it was he who changed everything. The old gold of Wolves are still prowling. 

Brexit - will it ever go away?

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.   

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.

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.   

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.

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.