Ollie and His Friends - my first children's book.
Gather around everybody. To all mums, dads, uncles, aunties, cousins and grandparents, this is the best investment you'll make for your children and grandchildren. You've read David Walliams, JK Rowling, Enid Blyton, Julia Donaldson and thousands of books for children and about children.
You've joyfully flicked through those memorable childhood adventures, books about heroes, kings, queens, fairies, garden gnomes, tea pots that whistle incessantly, fantasy worlds of chocolate trees, flowers, golden tickets and all those swashbuckling knights in armour from long ago who swept fair maidens off their feet and where everybody lived happily after ever. You've seen Jungle Book and the right up to date Dumbo, all of those superb cartoons in which Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck and Pluto once so brightly illuminated our movie screens and Walt Disney was the creator of childhood magic.
Now ladies and gentlemen it's time to introduce you to my first children's book called Ollie and His Friends. Your children and grandchildren will love Ollie the Oboe and his musical instrument friends will be their friends for life. There's Harry the Harp, Vince the Violin, Glenda the Guitar, Penny the Piano, Beau the Banjo and so much more.
Ollie and His Friends is now available to buy at Amazon, Lulu.com. and Barnes and Noble online. It's designed for children who love to giggle, chuckle, laugh and guffaw, pointing delightedly at the kind of childhood characters who may have lit up their parents life. They'll be rolling around on the carpet with gushing laughter, happiness and ecstasy. They'll be pleading with you to read Ollie and His Friends over and over again because that's the kind of Oboe Ollie is. He's lovable and adorable, warm hearted, big hearted, kind and generous and never lets anybody down.
Now there may be a part of you who's heard of all this before. You've probably told the same kind of story to your children loads and loads of times. You know the one I'm talking about. It's the one where all the main characters go off on a great big, tremendous adventure where the sun always shines and everybody has fun. It's a simple format and it's old as time itself. Everybody smiles, whoops triumphantly, jumps into the air, somersaults athletically and- wait for it- eats jam sandwiches.
Ollie and His Friends is no ordinary children's story. It's an extraordinary story about musical instruments who just love life, sharing jokes, being inoffensively silly and generally enjoying life. Your children's eyes will sparkle, their belief suspended and their imaginations will go on a magical fairground ride.
So there you have it folks. This is my first children's book Ollie and His Friends and if you like your children's books that are funny, easy to read and easily identifiable then you've definitely come to the right place. So calling all parents, grandparents and the whole family. In fact this is for all children's story tellers who can't wait to tell their children about Ollie the Oboe and his friends. They're in for the biggest surprise because Ollie is one amazing musical instrument.
Wednesday, 3 April 2019
Monday, 1 April 2019
April Fools Day.
April Fools Day.
Come on admit it, you've been fooled, hoodwinked, caught out, misinformed, made to look foolish or maybe just glad to be a victim of the funniest day of the year. For as long as any of us can remember April Fools Day is the one day where the element of surprise and shock no longer seems to be quite the day it should be. Most, if not all of us, do check the calendar in the full knowledge that somebody has got a trick up their sleeves and is determined to leave us giggling on the floor.
It can only be assumed that April Fools Day was the one day when, long ago, the medieval court jesters would get up to all kinds of tomfoolery while Henry the Eighth and his motley mob greedily devoured giant sized portions of chicken, beef, lamb and whatever else was on the menu during the Middle Ages. But dear old Henry must have had a wicked sense of humour given his wild and debauched lifestyle. Still, it's probably safe to say that the old King must have shared just a few belly laughs with his delighted guests. Besides, there was no Master Chef in ye olden days and TV would have represented an irritating distraction to Henry.
In more recent years TV of course has done its utmost to give us more than its fair share of light hearted entertainment. TV remains one of those last bastions of silliness and frivolity where the people who make us laugh when we weren't expecting it are often the ones who can hardly believe the incredible impact they've had on our lives for that day alone.
It doesn't seem like it now but over 50 years ago one BBC programme deliberately took full advantage of their viewers April Fools susceptibilities. Panorama, that ever so serious current affairs programme with a flair for brilliantly probing investigations, dared to tread where no other TV programme had even thought of going. Sensing that April Fools Day was about to arrive it sent out its cameras to some remote Italian farming area. Nothing wrong with that or so it seemed at the time.
But the BBC viewers that night, knowing full well that something wasn't quite right, were rightly alarmed by the programme they were about to see. Richard Dimbleby, the authoritative voice of the BBC, had now convinced the British viewers that a yearly crop of spaghetti was once again ready to be picked from its trees. It remains one of the most bizarre and peculiar April Fools pranks any TV channel has ever pulled off with a straight face.
Today of course you'd be forgiven for thinking that after all that preposterously endless Brexit dithering somebody would come out and tell us that it had all been some stupid April Fools joke. The sad reality is that Brexit is far from being the April Fools it should be. Those Westminster gag professors are sweating profusely under the collar, threatening to hurl eggs and tomatoes at the first politician who so much as utters the different textures of soft and hard Irish borders. You really couldn't make this one up.
And yet every year we subject ourselves to the same humiliations and red faces. We do like to be tickled under the ribs, laugh heartily at the absurdities of every day life then go away and hide in a corner because there can be nowhere else to go when somebody tries to leave you speechless. All of us do like to have an innocent spot of fun and there can be no harm in just a brief spell of larking around mischievously. There are though few who would have known it when Panorama was having a laugh at our expense.
So there are you comedians, comediennes and mirth makers out there. This is your day to act out those ridiculous routines where everybody quite literally ends up with egg on their faces. Mind you, you have to wonder at times whether any of our esteemed members of Parliament have had the last laugh at us. This is the one April Fools Day where those sharp suited politicians who ply their trade in the House of Commons really do believe that the people who they so allegedly serve, are both foolhardy and gullible. One day, quite possibly Brexit will quite definitely mean Brexit. Or so we hope it will.
In the meantime it's time for those court jesters to ring their bells and the office comics to produce their yearly whoopie cushions on seats in the hope that nobody will be offended. Much hilarity and amusement will ensue all over the land, as April Fools provides a welcome diversion from the earnestness and wretched tedium of to Brexit or not Brexit. What on earth would William Shakespeare have made of it all? We can only wonder.
Come on admit it, you've been fooled, hoodwinked, caught out, misinformed, made to look foolish or maybe just glad to be a victim of the funniest day of the year. For as long as any of us can remember April Fools Day is the one day where the element of surprise and shock no longer seems to be quite the day it should be. Most, if not all of us, do check the calendar in the full knowledge that somebody has got a trick up their sleeves and is determined to leave us giggling on the floor.
It can only be assumed that April Fools Day was the one day when, long ago, the medieval court jesters would get up to all kinds of tomfoolery while Henry the Eighth and his motley mob greedily devoured giant sized portions of chicken, beef, lamb and whatever else was on the menu during the Middle Ages. But dear old Henry must have had a wicked sense of humour given his wild and debauched lifestyle. Still, it's probably safe to say that the old King must have shared just a few belly laughs with his delighted guests. Besides, there was no Master Chef in ye olden days and TV would have represented an irritating distraction to Henry.
In more recent years TV of course has done its utmost to give us more than its fair share of light hearted entertainment. TV remains one of those last bastions of silliness and frivolity where the people who make us laugh when we weren't expecting it are often the ones who can hardly believe the incredible impact they've had on our lives for that day alone.
It doesn't seem like it now but over 50 years ago one BBC programme deliberately took full advantage of their viewers April Fools susceptibilities. Panorama, that ever so serious current affairs programme with a flair for brilliantly probing investigations, dared to tread where no other TV programme had even thought of going. Sensing that April Fools Day was about to arrive it sent out its cameras to some remote Italian farming area. Nothing wrong with that or so it seemed at the time.
But the BBC viewers that night, knowing full well that something wasn't quite right, were rightly alarmed by the programme they were about to see. Richard Dimbleby, the authoritative voice of the BBC, had now convinced the British viewers that a yearly crop of spaghetti was once again ready to be picked from its trees. It remains one of the most bizarre and peculiar April Fools pranks any TV channel has ever pulled off with a straight face.
Today of course you'd be forgiven for thinking that after all that preposterously endless Brexit dithering somebody would come out and tell us that it had all been some stupid April Fools joke. The sad reality is that Brexit is far from being the April Fools it should be. Those Westminster gag professors are sweating profusely under the collar, threatening to hurl eggs and tomatoes at the first politician who so much as utters the different textures of soft and hard Irish borders. You really couldn't make this one up.
And yet every year we subject ourselves to the same humiliations and red faces. We do like to be tickled under the ribs, laugh heartily at the absurdities of every day life then go away and hide in a corner because there can be nowhere else to go when somebody tries to leave you speechless. All of us do like to have an innocent spot of fun and there can be no harm in just a brief spell of larking around mischievously. There are though few who would have known it when Panorama was having a laugh at our expense.
So there are you comedians, comediennes and mirth makers out there. This is your day to act out those ridiculous routines where everybody quite literally ends up with egg on their faces. Mind you, you have to wonder at times whether any of our esteemed members of Parliament have had the last laugh at us. This is the one April Fools Day where those sharp suited politicians who ply their trade in the House of Commons really do believe that the people who they so allegedly serve, are both foolhardy and gullible. One day, quite possibly Brexit will quite definitely mean Brexit. Or so we hope it will.
In the meantime it's time for those court jesters to ring their bells and the office comics to produce their yearly whoopie cushions on seats in the hope that nobody will be offended. Much hilarity and amusement will ensue all over the land, as April Fools provides a welcome diversion from the earnestness and wretched tedium of to Brexit or not Brexit. What on earth would William Shakespeare have made of it all? We can only wonder.
Saturday, 30 March 2019
Brexit reaches the point of no return- oh what a circus!
Brexit reaches the point of no return- oh what a circus!
Oh what a circus! What stuff and nonsense? Please tell us we're dreaming this or maybe we have woken up with a start and the fact of the matter is that we're in exactly the same place as we were two and almost three years ago. Oh what a dire predicament! How on earth did we get to this point?Somebody must have spiked our drinks with something deeply repellent. We surely deserve some kind of reprieve. This wasn't the way things were supposed to pan out for us and sooner or later we may have to hide away in a dark room where Brexit can no longer bleed our ears or verbally punish us any longer.
Yesterday was supposed to be the day when Britain officially left the European Union with no regrets, very little in the way of hesitation and few reservations. Instead, we were told to go back to the drawing board, think long and hard about what we were doing and start all over again. Nothing happened yesterday. We're still in the most embarrassing muddle Britain has ever found itself in and at this rate we should be back in the European fold in no time at all or maybe not. Oh such a calamity!
After almost three years of fierce argument, fiery confrontation and hellish uncertainty Britain finds itself back in exactly the same place as it did three years ago. It all looked so simple and practical, so black and white, easy as pie and the most painless of operations. Leave the EU and let those poor old mandarins and law makers in Brussels boil over with red faced resentment. What could be simpler and yet it wasn't as straightforward as we thought it might have been. There had to be layers of difficulty and complication. There had to be seemingly insurmountable obstacles, giant barriers of spite and recrimination, endless negotiations and discussions, a furnace of fury and fighting talk.
So here we are on the morning after the night before, the day after the decision that was supposed to have been utterly decisive and still we find ourselves in a dreadful mess. And we thought Coronation Street had been on our TV screens for ever. It was just one huge anti climax. We woke up yesterday and Britain was still in the tight grip of Brussels officialdom and still in Europe. The stifling laws and regulations that seemed to be strangling the country were showing few signs of letting go.
But the experts and social commentators knew what we were doing and knew where this one was going - or maybe not. Hindsight is a strange thing because had we known what the outcome would be, we may have had second thoughts. There was something of the self fulfilling prophecy about yesterday's events that perhaps we should have been warned about. After all David Cameron, the former Prime Minister, who was wholly responsible for triggering Brexit in the first place, has to be accountable for his actions and forced to stand up in a court of law and explain why. You can run Mr. Cameron but you can't hide.
Sadly though the ministers and mischief makers who thought Brexit was a good idea after Cameron had gone are now sipping tequilas by a sun kissed swimming pool in the Bahamas. They must have known something we were never likely to be privy to because the truth is none of us can make head nor tail of this farce, this cabaret, this sleazy burlesque. What a farrago Nigel Farage! Now there was a politician with his finger on the pulse and a firm hand on a glass of Guinness. Farage, who once led that disreputable rabble known as UKIP, is now telling us quite unashamedly, that he knew something like this would happen but nobody was prepared to listen to him. Told you so, he might have said.
Britain has now entered completely uncharted territory. For the last week or so meaningless as opposed to be meaningful votes have been cast and indicative votes which were supposed to give us some indication have now fallen on stony ground. If only somebody had made up their minds immediately then we wouldn't be walking around with solemn expressions on our faces. Or maybe we should have given Prime Minister Theresa May prior warning. The apologies have though come far too late.
The withdrawal agreement, which only now looks like the greasiest piece of fish and chip paper, has been torn up in a fit of childish pique, dummies have been spat out, passions are raging, tempers frayed and this could end up in an unnecessary bar room brawl. Glasses will be smashed, remarks made in the heat of the moment and it'll all leave a bitter taste in the mouth. Soon normal services will be resumed but you wouldn't like to put a date on it. This could be one long and agonising wait.
Suffice it to say that Brexit may be with us for quite a while whether we like it or not. On Monday Prime Minister May will spin the wheel again, pray for a miracle and wonder again if anybody will ever support her. There can only be so many votes on whatever they're supposed to be voting about and this is turning into some interminable soap opera where everybody ends up blaming each other.
It would be amusing, for a while quite possibly, to think about the one man who was utterly instrumental in all of these sorrowful differences of opinion. When Edward Heath signed up Britain for what was then referred to as the Common Market little could he have imagined that over 44 years later another Tory government would be dragging the country kicking and screaming out of it. Heath was a curious political man who naively believed that Britain's involvement in a vast European network of trading partners, could only bring with it endless financial benefits. Or so he thought.
Still here we are in 2019 as opposed to 1975 where the bureaucracies of another age can only seen in a much harsher light today. What must have seemed very appealing to those who lived through Heath's government has now been condemned as a huge mistake. None of us knew then Britain would become tied inextricably to a tangled knot of political red tape. They were just were interfering busybodies who kept wagging a finger of reprimand every time Britain did something wrong.
So it is that across the terraced houses, flats, council estates, roads, streets, valleys and dales of the countryside, Britain sighs its inevitable annoyance and feverish exasperation. A vast majority of the population will be gnashing its teeth and holding back its frustrations because nothing has been resolved and nor is it likely to be in the foreseeable future.
Outside the House of Commons, the Union Jack flags were being brandished with visible pride and the dissenting voices were getting louder and louder. By last night those same passionate protestors were still creating a raucous racket turning up the volume to full blast. Things turned nasty and the wildly vocal masses were storming the barricades. There were unseemly scuffles, fists raised and the first signs of mass revolt. The revolution may not be quite here yet but you could sense that things may get considerably worse before they get any better.
Where does our Prime Minister go from here? Does she keep bashing her head against the proverbial brick wall or does she tell her adversaries where exactly to go in a most ladylike fashion? Glutton for punishment she may be but for Theresa May the battle must be allowed to continue because if she does give into continuous pressure from the troublemakers then the exit door may be opened at the wrong time and place. The grin on Boris Johnson's face as he got on his bike yesterday was extremely telling. Be wary of a man with a blonde crop of hair, Theresa. He may be after your job.
Oh what a circus! What stuff and nonsense? Please tell us we're dreaming this or maybe we have woken up with a start and the fact of the matter is that we're in exactly the same place as we were two and almost three years ago. Oh what a dire predicament! How on earth did we get to this point?Somebody must have spiked our drinks with something deeply repellent. We surely deserve some kind of reprieve. This wasn't the way things were supposed to pan out for us and sooner or later we may have to hide away in a dark room where Brexit can no longer bleed our ears or verbally punish us any longer.
Yesterday was supposed to be the day when Britain officially left the European Union with no regrets, very little in the way of hesitation and few reservations. Instead, we were told to go back to the drawing board, think long and hard about what we were doing and start all over again. Nothing happened yesterday. We're still in the most embarrassing muddle Britain has ever found itself in and at this rate we should be back in the European fold in no time at all or maybe not. Oh such a calamity!
After almost three years of fierce argument, fiery confrontation and hellish uncertainty Britain finds itself back in exactly the same place as it did three years ago. It all looked so simple and practical, so black and white, easy as pie and the most painless of operations. Leave the EU and let those poor old mandarins and law makers in Brussels boil over with red faced resentment. What could be simpler and yet it wasn't as straightforward as we thought it might have been. There had to be layers of difficulty and complication. There had to be seemingly insurmountable obstacles, giant barriers of spite and recrimination, endless negotiations and discussions, a furnace of fury and fighting talk.
So here we are on the morning after the night before, the day after the decision that was supposed to have been utterly decisive and still we find ourselves in a dreadful mess. And we thought Coronation Street had been on our TV screens for ever. It was just one huge anti climax. We woke up yesterday and Britain was still in the tight grip of Brussels officialdom and still in Europe. The stifling laws and regulations that seemed to be strangling the country were showing few signs of letting go.
But the experts and social commentators knew what we were doing and knew where this one was going - or maybe not. Hindsight is a strange thing because had we known what the outcome would be, we may have had second thoughts. There was something of the self fulfilling prophecy about yesterday's events that perhaps we should have been warned about. After all David Cameron, the former Prime Minister, who was wholly responsible for triggering Brexit in the first place, has to be accountable for his actions and forced to stand up in a court of law and explain why. You can run Mr. Cameron but you can't hide.
Sadly though the ministers and mischief makers who thought Brexit was a good idea after Cameron had gone are now sipping tequilas by a sun kissed swimming pool in the Bahamas. They must have known something we were never likely to be privy to because the truth is none of us can make head nor tail of this farce, this cabaret, this sleazy burlesque. What a farrago Nigel Farage! Now there was a politician with his finger on the pulse and a firm hand on a glass of Guinness. Farage, who once led that disreputable rabble known as UKIP, is now telling us quite unashamedly, that he knew something like this would happen but nobody was prepared to listen to him. Told you so, he might have said.
Britain has now entered completely uncharted territory. For the last week or so meaningless as opposed to be meaningful votes have been cast and indicative votes which were supposed to give us some indication have now fallen on stony ground. If only somebody had made up their minds immediately then we wouldn't be walking around with solemn expressions on our faces. Or maybe we should have given Prime Minister Theresa May prior warning. The apologies have though come far too late.
The withdrawal agreement, which only now looks like the greasiest piece of fish and chip paper, has been torn up in a fit of childish pique, dummies have been spat out, passions are raging, tempers frayed and this could end up in an unnecessary bar room brawl. Glasses will be smashed, remarks made in the heat of the moment and it'll all leave a bitter taste in the mouth. Soon normal services will be resumed but you wouldn't like to put a date on it. This could be one long and agonising wait.
Suffice it to say that Brexit may be with us for quite a while whether we like it or not. On Monday Prime Minister May will spin the wheel again, pray for a miracle and wonder again if anybody will ever support her. There can only be so many votes on whatever they're supposed to be voting about and this is turning into some interminable soap opera where everybody ends up blaming each other.
It would be amusing, for a while quite possibly, to think about the one man who was utterly instrumental in all of these sorrowful differences of opinion. When Edward Heath signed up Britain for what was then referred to as the Common Market little could he have imagined that over 44 years later another Tory government would be dragging the country kicking and screaming out of it. Heath was a curious political man who naively believed that Britain's involvement in a vast European network of trading partners, could only bring with it endless financial benefits. Or so he thought.
Still here we are in 2019 as opposed to 1975 where the bureaucracies of another age can only seen in a much harsher light today. What must have seemed very appealing to those who lived through Heath's government has now been condemned as a huge mistake. None of us knew then Britain would become tied inextricably to a tangled knot of political red tape. They were just were interfering busybodies who kept wagging a finger of reprimand every time Britain did something wrong.
So it is that across the terraced houses, flats, council estates, roads, streets, valleys and dales of the countryside, Britain sighs its inevitable annoyance and feverish exasperation. A vast majority of the population will be gnashing its teeth and holding back its frustrations because nothing has been resolved and nor is it likely to be in the foreseeable future.
Outside the House of Commons, the Union Jack flags were being brandished with visible pride and the dissenting voices were getting louder and louder. By last night those same passionate protestors were still creating a raucous racket turning up the volume to full blast. Things turned nasty and the wildly vocal masses were storming the barricades. There were unseemly scuffles, fists raised and the first signs of mass revolt. The revolution may not be quite here yet but you could sense that things may get considerably worse before they get any better.
Where does our Prime Minister go from here? Does she keep bashing her head against the proverbial brick wall or does she tell her adversaries where exactly to go in a most ladylike fashion? Glutton for punishment she may be but for Theresa May the battle must be allowed to continue because if she does give into continuous pressure from the troublemakers then the exit door may be opened at the wrong time and place. The grin on Boris Johnson's face as he got on his bike yesterday was extremely telling. Be wary of a man with a blonde crop of hair, Theresa. He may be after your job.
Thursday, 28 March 2019
Raheem Sterling- a priceless asset.
Raheem Sterling- a priceless asset.
Last Monday evening Raheem Sterling restored our faith in human nature. After England's ultimately convincing 5-1 Euro 2020 qualifier win against Montenegro, Sterling did more than any of us could have expected of him. The disgraceful racist attacks on the superb Manchester City winger brought to the surface the kind of problems English football thought it had left in some dusty old 1970s archive where all that still remained were some ancient Space Hoppers, a filthy pair of flared trousers and some cracked mirrors that looked as though they had just fallen off a wall.
For England the immense satisfaction they must have taken from a 10 goal haul from both the Czech Republic at Wembley and the thrashing of a stunned Montenegro side, must have been ever so slightly tarnished by racist bile and poison. It seemed to pour from the repulsive lips of a small section of the home crowd and those who heard it can only be totally reviled by such uncouth behaviour.
When Sterling was interviewed after the game he sensibly articulated the feelings of many when he told us that racism in all its ugly forms should never be allowed to infiltrate and infect the English game at any time in the future. Sterling is a mature and civilised young man for whom the very presence of racism in a modern society must represent the most horrible throwback to another age.
Still, it may be advisable to reflect on the sizeable margin of England's ruthless demolition of Montenegro. Although briefly in the lead, the home side were then smashed open, pillaged, looted, embarrassed and overwhelmed by a still bubbling England team. The World Cup in Russia is probably just another a yellowing page in England's now very antiquated history book but once your team reach a World Cup semi final, you may begin to think that anything might be possible.
Fast forward to a year after the thrilling events in Russia to another place, another time and somewhat more hostile environment in the Balkans of Europe. This was no place for faint hearts and England manager Gareth Southgate might have been inclined to think that Montenegro at the beginning of spring is no place for pleasant introductions and polite formalities. There were no welcoming red carpets here and when Marko Vesovic gave Montenegro an unexpected lead, the home side were in no mood for lily livered leniency. Here was a team who meant business.
But in a ground that bore a remarkable resemblance to a municipal park, England probably felt as if the game itself should have been played on a recreation ground. Eventually England's second game in their Euro 2020 qualifying group reminded you of a gentle training ground exercise where the simple act of passing the ball looked so logical that at one point Gareth Southgate's men looked as though they were taking part in some very sedate game of croquet.
This was one hilariously one sided contest where England's more cultured players and their refined touch players spent almost the entire match flicking, tapping and moving the ball prettily and very daintily between themselves in neat circles and taunting triangles. Once the Montenegrin's had run out of puff, England helped themselves to a medieval banquet of goals. White England shirts were snapping open the hosts defence with the ease of a local mayor at a local summer fete, England sent in the attacking artillery with all the requisite firing power we have come to expect from England.
When Spurs Danny Rose and Manchester City's Kyle Walker began to charge forward from full backs with more and more ambition, England's minds must have been harking back to that special evening in the World Cup semi final against Croatia. Once again England were fearless, progressive and joyously confident. Rose and Walker, supported by the emerging Michael Keane and an immaculate display from the West Ham debutant Declan Rice, ensured that everything England did quite literally turned to gold.
So it was that the young England defender Michael Keane joined a jostling batch for an England free kick that was flighted impressively towards the Montenegro six yard box. Judging his run to perfection, Keane pulled away adroitly from his marker before heading the ball cleverly away from the goalkeeper, the ball nestling snugly in the bottom corner of the net. England were level and hungry for richer pickings.
Minutes later one of England's stardust sprinkled youngsters Callum Hudson Odoi, tricked his way deliciously through a static Montenegro defence. Hudson- Odoi seemed to be twisting and turning his opponents so persistently that had somebody given him a pair of carpet slippers he wouldn't have looked out of his depth.
Minutes after England's equaliser, the white shirts rolled forward relentlessly and menacingly. Hudson Odoi, now unstoppably rampant, cut in sharply from the wing, left his opponents completely hypnotised before cracking a fierce shot at goal. Then suddenly Ross Barkley, now almost the complete article for England, was in the right place and time to volley the ball home from close range. Barkley has every reason to believe that a permanent place in Gareth Southgate's first eleven has to be rubber stamped now without any second thoughts.
Throughout this game, Barkley was magnificent, a player of smooth intelligence, classical grace notes and a glorious touch on the ball. Barkley is England's prompter, thinker, playmaker, catalyst and inventor, gliding into spaces that very few players would have had the foresight to spot. English midfield players have to be cherished and wrapped in cotton wool but Barkley has to be a singing nightingale sooner rather than later.
For the rest of the game, England proceeded to use their most clinical anaesthetic and in a matter of seconds, put the home side out. Raheem Sterling, by now one of England's most artistic players on the night, wriggled his way past another set of defenders as if they were mannequins in a shop window clipping the ball perfectly into the path of Ross Barkley who sweetly stroked the ball into the net with the air of a man with a blindfold over his face.
Now it was that the vocal Montenegro fans, who could barely hold back their racist invective and foul mouthed language, were silenced by the sheer majesty of Gareth Southgate's side. When Sterling broke away from a now tiring defence, the hosts were now offering only token resistance. In fact there were times when the Montenegrins hardly ventured over their own half way line such was England's dominant command. Feeding the ball across to his delighted colleague, Sterling almost spoon fed Harry Kane, who must have thought it was his birthday. Goal four and game over.
In the closing stages Liverpool's Jordan Henderson, another of England's most educated of passers, chipped a gorgeous through ball which found Raheem Sterling. Sterling connected with the ball beautifully and slid the ball into the net for a now inevitable fifth goal. Oh what a wondrous sight England were to behold. We'll have more of the same please.
Last Monday evening Raheem Sterling restored our faith in human nature. After England's ultimately convincing 5-1 Euro 2020 qualifier win against Montenegro, Sterling did more than any of us could have expected of him. The disgraceful racist attacks on the superb Manchester City winger brought to the surface the kind of problems English football thought it had left in some dusty old 1970s archive where all that still remained were some ancient Space Hoppers, a filthy pair of flared trousers and some cracked mirrors that looked as though they had just fallen off a wall.
For England the immense satisfaction they must have taken from a 10 goal haul from both the Czech Republic at Wembley and the thrashing of a stunned Montenegro side, must have been ever so slightly tarnished by racist bile and poison. It seemed to pour from the repulsive lips of a small section of the home crowd and those who heard it can only be totally reviled by such uncouth behaviour.
When Sterling was interviewed after the game he sensibly articulated the feelings of many when he told us that racism in all its ugly forms should never be allowed to infiltrate and infect the English game at any time in the future. Sterling is a mature and civilised young man for whom the very presence of racism in a modern society must represent the most horrible throwback to another age.
Still, it may be advisable to reflect on the sizeable margin of England's ruthless demolition of Montenegro. Although briefly in the lead, the home side were then smashed open, pillaged, looted, embarrassed and overwhelmed by a still bubbling England team. The World Cup in Russia is probably just another a yellowing page in England's now very antiquated history book but once your team reach a World Cup semi final, you may begin to think that anything might be possible.
Fast forward to a year after the thrilling events in Russia to another place, another time and somewhat more hostile environment in the Balkans of Europe. This was no place for faint hearts and England manager Gareth Southgate might have been inclined to think that Montenegro at the beginning of spring is no place for pleasant introductions and polite formalities. There were no welcoming red carpets here and when Marko Vesovic gave Montenegro an unexpected lead, the home side were in no mood for lily livered leniency. Here was a team who meant business.
But in a ground that bore a remarkable resemblance to a municipal park, England probably felt as if the game itself should have been played on a recreation ground. Eventually England's second game in their Euro 2020 qualifying group reminded you of a gentle training ground exercise where the simple act of passing the ball looked so logical that at one point Gareth Southgate's men looked as though they were taking part in some very sedate game of croquet.
This was one hilariously one sided contest where England's more cultured players and their refined touch players spent almost the entire match flicking, tapping and moving the ball prettily and very daintily between themselves in neat circles and taunting triangles. Once the Montenegrin's had run out of puff, England helped themselves to a medieval banquet of goals. White England shirts were snapping open the hosts defence with the ease of a local mayor at a local summer fete, England sent in the attacking artillery with all the requisite firing power we have come to expect from England.
When Spurs Danny Rose and Manchester City's Kyle Walker began to charge forward from full backs with more and more ambition, England's minds must have been harking back to that special evening in the World Cup semi final against Croatia. Once again England were fearless, progressive and joyously confident. Rose and Walker, supported by the emerging Michael Keane and an immaculate display from the West Ham debutant Declan Rice, ensured that everything England did quite literally turned to gold.
So it was that the young England defender Michael Keane joined a jostling batch for an England free kick that was flighted impressively towards the Montenegro six yard box. Judging his run to perfection, Keane pulled away adroitly from his marker before heading the ball cleverly away from the goalkeeper, the ball nestling snugly in the bottom corner of the net. England were level and hungry for richer pickings.
Minutes later one of England's stardust sprinkled youngsters Callum Hudson Odoi, tricked his way deliciously through a static Montenegro defence. Hudson- Odoi seemed to be twisting and turning his opponents so persistently that had somebody given him a pair of carpet slippers he wouldn't have looked out of his depth.
Minutes after England's equaliser, the white shirts rolled forward relentlessly and menacingly. Hudson Odoi, now unstoppably rampant, cut in sharply from the wing, left his opponents completely hypnotised before cracking a fierce shot at goal. Then suddenly Ross Barkley, now almost the complete article for England, was in the right place and time to volley the ball home from close range. Barkley has every reason to believe that a permanent place in Gareth Southgate's first eleven has to be rubber stamped now without any second thoughts.
Throughout this game, Barkley was magnificent, a player of smooth intelligence, classical grace notes and a glorious touch on the ball. Barkley is England's prompter, thinker, playmaker, catalyst and inventor, gliding into spaces that very few players would have had the foresight to spot. English midfield players have to be cherished and wrapped in cotton wool but Barkley has to be a singing nightingale sooner rather than later.
For the rest of the game, England proceeded to use their most clinical anaesthetic and in a matter of seconds, put the home side out. Raheem Sterling, by now one of England's most artistic players on the night, wriggled his way past another set of defenders as if they were mannequins in a shop window clipping the ball perfectly into the path of Ross Barkley who sweetly stroked the ball into the net with the air of a man with a blindfold over his face.
Now it was that the vocal Montenegro fans, who could barely hold back their racist invective and foul mouthed language, were silenced by the sheer majesty of Gareth Southgate's side. When Sterling broke away from a now tiring defence, the hosts were now offering only token resistance. In fact there were times when the Montenegrins hardly ventured over their own half way line such was England's dominant command. Feeding the ball across to his delighted colleague, Sterling almost spoon fed Harry Kane, who must have thought it was his birthday. Goal four and game over.
In the closing stages Liverpool's Jordan Henderson, another of England's most educated of passers, chipped a gorgeous through ball which found Raheem Sterling. Sterling connected with the ball beautifully and slid the ball into the net for a now inevitable fifth goal. Oh what a wondrous sight England were to behold. We'll have more of the same please.
Monday, 25 March 2019
Spurs - White Hart Lane's new stadium.
When Archibald Leitch set his architectural stamp on football's early 20th century grounds there was probably a small part of him which felt that nothing could possibly match or surpass the modern day designs of 21st century football stadiums over 100 years later. But then nobody thought the likes of Fulham's Craven Cottage, Blackburn Rovers Ewood Park or Aston Villa's Villa Park would still remain as bastions of football's hard wired traditionalism and timeless engineering.
But with the advent Arsenal's old Highbury had to be demolished if only because the concept of marble halls and managers wearing stiff waistcoats, trilby hats and pocket watches had long passed its sell by date. Arsenal have now been installed at the Emirates Stadium for some time now but surely this has now been long overdue.
More recently West Ham flattened their old Upton Park in the relentless quest for modernity and a super slick looking and state of the art stadium at the Olympic London Stadium. Then there was, perhaps understandably, Bolton Wanderers move from their ancient and dilapidated Burnden Park, scene of one of one of the first of football's tragic crowd disasters.
Sunderland have now upped sticks from their admittedly crumbling edifice known as Roker Park with Hull City ditching Boothferry Park. Bolton's new home is The University of Bolton stadium, Sunderland play at The Stadium of Light, Hull's now historic Boothferry Park is now the modern, swanky KCOM stadium, Leicester City's King Power stadium has now, perhaps thankfully, taken the place of Filbert Street and Stoke City have now jettisoned the old Victoria Ground for their new home of the Bet 365 Stadium in the heart of the Potteries.
Yesterday in the heart of North London the dramatic pace of football's evolution took yet another step forward. After what seems like an eternity, Spurs have finally moved into their new stadium near the site which their now old White Hart Lane ground once so proudly occupied. On a sun lit early spring day Tottenham unveiled their brand new Tottenham Hotspur ground which, to those who were beginning to believe the ground would never open at all, must have come as a glorious relief to both the labourers, electricians, technical and engineering staff who have worked so tirelessly to bring this whole painstaking project to completion.
What the devoted Spurs fans and adoring faithful must have been hoping for was a vast and cavernous stadium which now becomes the second largest football ground in England seating well over 60,000. With leg room to stretch out and manoeuvre, plenty of time to eat and drink their half time refreshments, a new generation of Spurs football supporters can now appreciate the stunning spaciousness of their new ground. This they now have in abundance. The lager will be served from high tech taps and the burgers will be altogether more palatable than their stone cold and mouldy predecessors.
On careful reflection some of us may have to cause to wonder what the likes of legendary Spurs managers Bill Nicholson and Arthur Rowe would have thought of the luxurious surroundings of a new, posh looking stadium with all the mod cons, fixtures and fittings Nicholson and Rowe could only have dreamt about. In common with most of the new football grounds the new Tottenham Hotspur ground is one of football's oft spoken sporting cathedrals, a huge, sprawling fusion of steel and glass that looks as though it could quite easily hold several pop concerts, and then a number of American football matches on consecutive days without losing a single penny at the box office.
So there you have it. Spurs are the owners of their brand new, gleaming, glistening footballing palace, a home from home with everything that the estate agents promised all those years ago. The market price has now been settled, the walls and ceilings are in pristine condition and the whole infrastructure is sound and secure. Let nothing stand in the way of progress.
The test events we were witness to yesterday reminded you of a house warming party where all the guests celebrated the arrival of a new family with excited relish. It may be advisable to keep a low profile because all of their London neighbours could be watching with some interest. How good it is though, to see both Arsenal and Spurs in entirely new surroundings. If only Archibald Leitch had been around to see it all.
When Archibald Leitch set his architectural stamp on football's early 20th century grounds there was probably a small part of him which felt that nothing could possibly match or surpass the modern day designs of 21st century football stadiums over 100 years later. But then nobody thought the likes of Fulham's Craven Cottage, Blackburn Rovers Ewood Park or Aston Villa's Villa Park would still remain as bastions of football's hard wired traditionalism and timeless engineering.
But with the advent Arsenal's old Highbury had to be demolished if only because the concept of marble halls and managers wearing stiff waistcoats, trilby hats and pocket watches had long passed its sell by date. Arsenal have now been installed at the Emirates Stadium for some time now but surely this has now been long overdue.
More recently West Ham flattened their old Upton Park in the relentless quest for modernity and a super slick looking and state of the art stadium at the Olympic London Stadium. Then there was, perhaps understandably, Bolton Wanderers move from their ancient and dilapidated Burnden Park, scene of one of one of the first of football's tragic crowd disasters.
Sunderland have now upped sticks from their admittedly crumbling edifice known as Roker Park with Hull City ditching Boothferry Park. Bolton's new home is The University of Bolton stadium, Sunderland play at The Stadium of Light, Hull's now historic Boothferry Park is now the modern, swanky KCOM stadium, Leicester City's King Power stadium has now, perhaps thankfully, taken the place of Filbert Street and Stoke City have now jettisoned the old Victoria Ground for their new home of the Bet 365 Stadium in the heart of the Potteries.
Yesterday in the heart of North London the dramatic pace of football's evolution took yet another step forward. After what seems like an eternity, Spurs have finally moved into their new stadium near the site which their now old White Hart Lane ground once so proudly occupied. On a sun lit early spring day Tottenham unveiled their brand new Tottenham Hotspur ground which, to those who were beginning to believe the ground would never open at all, must have come as a glorious relief to both the labourers, electricians, technical and engineering staff who have worked so tirelessly to bring this whole painstaking project to completion.
What the devoted Spurs fans and adoring faithful must have been hoping for was a vast and cavernous stadium which now becomes the second largest football ground in England seating well over 60,000. With leg room to stretch out and manoeuvre, plenty of time to eat and drink their half time refreshments, a new generation of Spurs football supporters can now appreciate the stunning spaciousness of their new ground. This they now have in abundance. The lager will be served from high tech taps and the burgers will be altogether more palatable than their stone cold and mouldy predecessors.
On careful reflection some of us may have to cause to wonder what the likes of legendary Spurs managers Bill Nicholson and Arthur Rowe would have thought of the luxurious surroundings of a new, posh looking stadium with all the mod cons, fixtures and fittings Nicholson and Rowe could only have dreamt about. In common with most of the new football grounds the new Tottenham Hotspur ground is one of football's oft spoken sporting cathedrals, a huge, sprawling fusion of steel and glass that looks as though it could quite easily hold several pop concerts, and then a number of American football matches on consecutive days without losing a single penny at the box office.
So there you have it. Spurs are the owners of their brand new, gleaming, glistening footballing palace, a home from home with everything that the estate agents promised all those years ago. The market price has now been settled, the walls and ceilings are in pristine condition and the whole infrastructure is sound and secure. Let nothing stand in the way of progress.
The test events we were witness to yesterday reminded you of a house warming party where all the guests celebrated the arrival of a new family with excited relish. It may be advisable to keep a low profile because all of their London neighbours could be watching with some interest. How good it is though, to see both Arsenal and Spurs in entirely new surroundings. If only Archibald Leitch had been around to see it all.
Thursday, 21 March 2019
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.
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.
Sunday, 17 March 2019
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.
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.
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