Jacob Rees Mogg - please- don't ban those words.
He may have been Prime Minister for almost a week but already Boris Johnson has hurtled slap bang into his first controversy as we always thought he might. Just as things were going so well in his maiden speech as PM, the other man with a plum in his mouth has, so to speak, stirred up a hornet's nest. But hold on, you can't say that because that's a well worn cliche and we can't have one of those in the House of Commons.
Yes folks. It's come to our attention that the esteemed member of North East Somerset and now the Leader of the House of Commons Jacob Rees Mogg has got rather hot under the collar about grammar and language. You see Mr Mogg's basic contention is that commas should be correctly situated in everyday sentences, imperial weights and measurements should be turned into a major political issue and everyday words should be banned, wiped clean from the English dictionary and never spoken of in both speech or the written word. Perhaps he'd like to ban cider from Somerset pubs into the bargain.
It should be pointed out that at this point in the proceedings that the lines of reality have now become totally blurred and instead we are now confronted with the thoughts of a man who believes horse drawn carriages, the landau and the barouche should all be immediately restored to the streets of London. Mr Mogg, amusingly referred to as the member of Parliament for the 18th century, inhabits a world that for most of us is now so far distant in time that he may just as well be living in it.
The problem is that Mogg maintains his defiant and somewhat antediluvian stance. It would have been fine had he admitted to his crazy and peculiar beliefs but sadly Mogg is still stuck in some inexplicable time warp and he won't give an inch. Mogg lives in a world of faded grandeur, a world of palatial country houses where the aristocracy and the nobility met at the grandest parties, where champagne flowed until deep into the night.
Mogg belongs to that rarefied age when ladies danced with gentlemen wearing gloves and ladies flaunted glittering jewellery. Even the voice would suggest that the man has eaten too many hot potatoes. And this is where Mogg's withering contempt for everyday words begins to fall on stony ground. On the one hand there are the idiosyncratic, Hooray Henry utterances, the fawning support of his Cabinet colleague and Prime Minister Boris Johnson followed by some good, old fashioned poshness and sycophancy. So this is the face of British politics. Or is it?
We all know that Mr Mogg would rather be living in a world of politeness, elegance and snooty propriety but does he have to make it that obvious? Does he have to inflict us on the urgent necessity of putting full stops in the right place and never to use words such as 'very', 'got', 'disappointment', or 'unacceptable' and whatever other word he believes should be forbidden. In an age when not a great deal seems to make any sense Jacob Rees Mogg has just taken us back to the days when Horatio Nelson was a wee lad in shorts.
In his dark, very severe pin striped jacket and wearing those very distinctive pre-NHS glasses Mogg's demeanour remains unchanged. There is the rigid formality, the insistence on discipline at all levels of society and that stern conviction that all children should go to bed when their parents tell them to do so.
But oh please Mr Mogg where on earth did you find the time or energy to completely sanitise the English language, to make a heartless mockery of the language of Charles Dickens, Thomas Hardy and William Shakespeare? Should we now to proceed to talk and communicate in a way that only Mogg understands? Or have we now entered an era of studied uniformity where everything looks the same every day and the people in power have unchallengeable power? Or maybe Mr Mogg should set down his hard and fast rules now before the Thought Police arrive. Yes everybody it really does feel as if radical changes are just around the corner. Now leave that dictionary alone Jacob.
Monday, 29 July 2019
Saturday, 27 July 2019
Oh for the wonderful English climate.
Oh for the wonderful English climate.
If you thought last year in Britain was hot then you wouldn't be surprised to hear that this summer hasn't been that bad at all. Last Thursday the country exceeded all expectations once again with an entire day of almost 100 degrees of sweltering heat that none of us could quite believe. As July approaches its end there is a widespread feeling that, all things considered, it hasn't been a bad summer at all. It's had its moments of course but then you'd hardly expect anything else.
Way back in June it seemed as if the good, old fashioned English summer had reverted back to type or maybe that should be a stereotype. The rains came in their relentless torrents and most of us were digging out our mackintoshes, raincoats and umbrellas by the million. There were floods, inky black skies, gloomy mornings, languid afternoons and dreary evenings when it looked as though we'd have to resign ourselves to a traditional English summer of dullness and disappointment.
But then just as if by a sweet miracle the tennis at Wimbledon arrived in all its glory and splendour. Suddenly the heavens began to smile, skies noticeably clearing and the bright blue canvases of summer were here to stay. Somebody had obviously thought the time was right time to bring out those delicate oil paints and decorate our days with some of the most morale boosting light and shade. When all was said and done Wimbledon at least avoided those familiar rushes for cover as the rain fell from a weeping sky. So all was good and the coast was clear. You could now eat those strawberries and cream.
It's hard to know why the British attach so much importance to the weather's extremes and fluctuations. Maybe it's something we've grown up with and grown accustomed to since childhood? Perhaps our parents grew weary with summers that should have been warm but never were and then complained endlessly when the winters were unbearably cold. There had to be a happy medium but sadly this was never the case.
It's often said that years and years ago the summers were warmer and the winters were just frighteningly colder but then we were probably taught to believe in these rose tinted images. Still, here we are at the end of July and everything is as it should be. Outside, it's overcast and heavy with yet another band of rain, another brief spell of dramatic summer storms, weak and watery sunshine in intermittent spells and there is a splendid unpredictability about the British weather.
What cannot be denied however is that the British climate never fails to amaze us with its wildly differing moods and often humorous spells of indecision. The British weather is renowned for its infinite variations on a theme throughout its daily visit and versatility on a grand scale because no other country in the world could possibly change and disguise itself within the space of perhaps five minutes or so.
Frequently we are told that in any British road and neighbourhood that it can be raining quite persistently for the best part of a day while on the other side of your road a heatwave that will burnish the pavements and homes with the brightest coat of emulsion. And yet there is something very quirkily whimsical and lovable about the British weather that none of us would swap for the world.
At times some of us are convinced that the weather is teasing and flirting with us, challenging us, playing with our emotions, deliberately provoking us into some amusing comment. We wipe the sweat from our fevered brow in record breaking heat and then spend the next week or so complaining about it. This is followed by another session of blood vessel bursting exasperation when it pours down in Biblical abundance. Oh no, not another day of constant, demoralising rain, we cry. Not another day for the completion of jig saw puzzles with 5,000 pieces or the trusty Monopoly. How frustrating!
And yet some of us take consolation in the fact that at least Gene Kelly got soaked in Singing in the Rain while twirling his umbrella and clinging onto sodden street lights but you never saw him mope.. During the 1970s Morecambe and Wise, in quite the most unforgettable comedy sketch of all time, carried out the most wonderful impersonation of Kelly but then Eric and Ern never took life seriously at all and they certainly weren't going to let a lengthy shower or two to dampen their spirits.
So there you have it everybody. Boris Johnson is Britain's new Prime Minister, England are the new World cricket champions and the World Thumb Wrestling Championship is well under way. When it looked remarkably as if the England cricket team were about to be beaten by Ireland, the status quo was quickly restored and England still won quite conclusively. Who could ask for anything more? What a summer, what a climate!
If you thought last year in Britain was hot then you wouldn't be surprised to hear that this summer hasn't been that bad at all. Last Thursday the country exceeded all expectations once again with an entire day of almost 100 degrees of sweltering heat that none of us could quite believe. As July approaches its end there is a widespread feeling that, all things considered, it hasn't been a bad summer at all. It's had its moments of course but then you'd hardly expect anything else.
Way back in June it seemed as if the good, old fashioned English summer had reverted back to type or maybe that should be a stereotype. The rains came in their relentless torrents and most of us were digging out our mackintoshes, raincoats and umbrellas by the million. There were floods, inky black skies, gloomy mornings, languid afternoons and dreary evenings when it looked as though we'd have to resign ourselves to a traditional English summer of dullness and disappointment.
But then just as if by a sweet miracle the tennis at Wimbledon arrived in all its glory and splendour. Suddenly the heavens began to smile, skies noticeably clearing and the bright blue canvases of summer were here to stay. Somebody had obviously thought the time was right time to bring out those delicate oil paints and decorate our days with some of the most morale boosting light and shade. When all was said and done Wimbledon at least avoided those familiar rushes for cover as the rain fell from a weeping sky. So all was good and the coast was clear. You could now eat those strawberries and cream.
It's hard to know why the British attach so much importance to the weather's extremes and fluctuations. Maybe it's something we've grown up with and grown accustomed to since childhood? Perhaps our parents grew weary with summers that should have been warm but never were and then complained endlessly when the winters were unbearably cold. There had to be a happy medium but sadly this was never the case.
It's often said that years and years ago the summers were warmer and the winters were just frighteningly colder but then we were probably taught to believe in these rose tinted images. Still, here we are at the end of July and everything is as it should be. Outside, it's overcast and heavy with yet another band of rain, another brief spell of dramatic summer storms, weak and watery sunshine in intermittent spells and there is a splendid unpredictability about the British weather.
What cannot be denied however is that the British climate never fails to amaze us with its wildly differing moods and often humorous spells of indecision. The British weather is renowned for its infinite variations on a theme throughout its daily visit and versatility on a grand scale because no other country in the world could possibly change and disguise itself within the space of perhaps five minutes or so.
Frequently we are told that in any British road and neighbourhood that it can be raining quite persistently for the best part of a day while on the other side of your road a heatwave that will burnish the pavements and homes with the brightest coat of emulsion. And yet there is something very quirkily whimsical and lovable about the British weather that none of us would swap for the world.
At times some of us are convinced that the weather is teasing and flirting with us, challenging us, playing with our emotions, deliberately provoking us into some amusing comment. We wipe the sweat from our fevered brow in record breaking heat and then spend the next week or so complaining about it. This is followed by another session of blood vessel bursting exasperation when it pours down in Biblical abundance. Oh no, not another day of constant, demoralising rain, we cry. Not another day for the completion of jig saw puzzles with 5,000 pieces or the trusty Monopoly. How frustrating!
And yet some of us take consolation in the fact that at least Gene Kelly got soaked in Singing in the Rain while twirling his umbrella and clinging onto sodden street lights but you never saw him mope.. During the 1970s Morecambe and Wise, in quite the most unforgettable comedy sketch of all time, carried out the most wonderful impersonation of Kelly but then Eric and Ern never took life seriously at all and they certainly weren't going to let a lengthy shower or two to dampen their spirits.
So there you have it everybody. Boris Johnson is Britain's new Prime Minister, England are the new World cricket champions and the World Thumb Wrestling Championship is well under way. When it looked remarkably as if the England cricket team were about to be beaten by Ireland, the status quo was quickly restored and England still won quite conclusively. Who could ask for anything more? What a summer, what a climate!
No Joe Bloggs and Ollie and His Friends- my books.
No Joe Bloggs and Ollie and His Friends- my books.
Now if you're the kind of person who like their summertime reading to be easy on the eye, entertaining, funny, heartwarming, uplifting and thoroughly enjoyable then you may like to feast your eyes on two of my books. Of course this is brazen self promotion but hey there can be nothing wrong with telling the world about your literary endeavours.
My second book No Joe Bloggs is available at Amazon, Waterstones online, Foyles online and Barnes and Noble online. It's my warts and all life story, a moving, feelgood, nostalgic and lyrical account of where it all started for me growing up in Ilford, Essex, vividly affectionate descriptions of London, all singing, all dancing prose, my grandparents as Holocaust survivors, my parents, my late and wonderful dad's fictitious journey to Las Vegas with Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis Junior and the Rat Pack, his passionate love for his family and his fantasy trip to the gambling casinos of LA.
I also chronicle my favourite movies from the late 1960s and 1970s, my favourite music, bands and singers from the same period, amusing pen portraits of football teams from the 1970s such as Arsenal, Liverpool, Manchester United, Spurs, Chelsea, Wolves, Ipswich Town, Everton, Leeds United and Manchester City. There are very precious childhood memories, loads of pop culture from the 1960s and 70s, famous celebrities and TV programmes from that memorable era.
And now for my next spot of trumpet blowing. At the beginning of this year, my first children's book Ollie and His Friends was published and I can't begin to tell you how good that made me feel. Ollie and His Friends now available at Lulu.com. and Amazon. It tells the story of \Ollie the Oboe, Vince the Violin, Glenda the Guitar, Penny the Piano, Donald the Drum, Ricky the Recorder, Harry the Harp and all of Ollie's musical instruments on the adventure of a lifetime. Oh, and incidentally they love eating jam sandwiches.
So there you are folks, two must have books for the beach or swimming pool this summer and compulsive reading. You won't regret it. In fact I think you'll find both books fascinating reading for entirely different reasons. If you're a child you'll love Ollie and His Friends and if you're an adult who just wants a trip down memory lane then No Joe Bloggs has to be top of your reading list for long, balmy summer evenings when the birds are still tweeting and there's just another glass of Pimms to consume at your leisure.
Happy reading everybody.
Now if you're the kind of person who like their summertime reading to be easy on the eye, entertaining, funny, heartwarming, uplifting and thoroughly enjoyable then you may like to feast your eyes on two of my books. Of course this is brazen self promotion but hey there can be nothing wrong with telling the world about your literary endeavours.
My second book No Joe Bloggs is available at Amazon, Waterstones online, Foyles online and Barnes and Noble online. It's my warts and all life story, a moving, feelgood, nostalgic and lyrical account of where it all started for me growing up in Ilford, Essex, vividly affectionate descriptions of London, all singing, all dancing prose, my grandparents as Holocaust survivors, my parents, my late and wonderful dad's fictitious journey to Las Vegas with Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis Junior and the Rat Pack, his passionate love for his family and his fantasy trip to the gambling casinos of LA.
I also chronicle my favourite movies from the late 1960s and 1970s, my favourite music, bands and singers from the same period, amusing pen portraits of football teams from the 1970s such as Arsenal, Liverpool, Manchester United, Spurs, Chelsea, Wolves, Ipswich Town, Everton, Leeds United and Manchester City. There are very precious childhood memories, loads of pop culture from the 1960s and 70s, famous celebrities and TV programmes from that memorable era.
And now for my next spot of trumpet blowing. At the beginning of this year, my first children's book Ollie and His Friends was published and I can't begin to tell you how good that made me feel. Ollie and His Friends now available at Lulu.com. and Amazon. It tells the story of \Ollie the Oboe, Vince the Violin, Glenda the Guitar, Penny the Piano, Donald the Drum, Ricky the Recorder, Harry the Harp and all of Ollie's musical instruments on the adventure of a lifetime. Oh, and incidentally they love eating jam sandwiches.
So there you are folks, two must have books for the beach or swimming pool this summer and compulsive reading. You won't regret it. In fact I think you'll find both books fascinating reading for entirely different reasons. If you're a child you'll love Ollie and His Friends and if you're an adult who just wants a trip down memory lane then No Joe Bloggs has to be top of your reading list for long, balmy summer evenings when the birds are still tweeting and there's just another glass of Pimms to consume at your leisure.
Happy reading everybody.
Tuesday, 23 July 2019
Boris Johnson - the new Prime Minister - believe it or not.
Boris Johnson- the new Prime Minister - believe it or not.
Oh what a day! Oh what a momentous day! We can hardly believe it. Who would have thought it possible? Please wake us up. It isn't happening. And yet it has. The blond bombshell, Eton educated, foppish, scruffy, unkempt one is the new Prime Minister of England, the Home Counties and every point of the compass north of Hadrian's Wall. The man we were convinced would top the bill at either the London Palladium or the Comedy Club in the heart of London is the man entrusted with the onerous responsibility of taking charge of the country. Surely we're dreaming this. But we're not.
Boris Johnson, formerly mayor of London, then Foreign Secretary for a while, will wake up tomorrow and will probably think he's just stepped into a veritable Alice in Wonderland scenario. Only this time the Mad Hatter has probably sipped his tea, run as far as he can get and just vanished without trace. Boris Johnson is indeed the new Prime Minister.
The phrase has the most surreal and strange sound to it. Still, it could have been a whole lot worse. The Guinness drinking, cigar puffing and man of the people Nigel Farage comes immediately to mind. But then it has been a long, hot day and we must stop our minds from wandering. Facts and fiction are beginning to get in our way. The fact is that the man who once made a complete fool of himself on a London zip wire suspended high above London with nothing but a pair of Union Jacks for company will walk into 10 Downing Street wondering what on earth has hit him.
There will be the dawning realisation that utter tomfoolery, ridiculous buffoonery and complete absurdity have all taken up residence in a Britain that now finds itself accountable to a man who once referred to the noble game of table tennis as wiff waff. Here is a man who recently made the bizarre statement that if Britain doesn't leave the EU, the nation may have to get used to a diet of drinking water and Mars bars. Here is a man who once threw himself forcefully into rugby tackling a a poor youngster in a brazen publicity stunt.
So this is what it's all come down to. Like a child pestering his parents for a new train set or a pampered, privileged, upper class teenager who's just been promised a Lamborghini once he passes his driving test, Boris Johnson has finally got the job he's always wanted. He's been waiting patiently for this moment ever since the day when the now former Prime Minister Theresa May finally resigned because none of those stuffy, paternalistic men in Brussels would ever listen to her.
Yes, good old Boris, member of Uxbridge, has finally landed the job he'd been craving and hankering after for ages, scheming, conniving and schmoozing for as long as any of us can remember. He's turned breathing down the neck into an art form, cunning and subterfuge into a way of political life and that little known sport known as cheap opportunism into the funniest of side shows.
Ladies and Gentlemen you hardly need telling that Boris Johnson has carefully judged the mood of the nation, brilliantly pulled the wool over the nation's eyes and then just sniggered his way into 10 Downing Street rather like one of those mischievous sixth form rebels who insist on putting whoopee cushions under the headmaster's chair or letting off stink bombs while nobody is watching.
Tomorrow the whole of Britain may well wake up in a bewildered trance, heads spinning and pretending that it hasn't dropped onto the set of a new TV sitcom or some mad, wacky soap opera where pubs are set on fire and neighbours engage in salacious gossip. Boris Johnson will be leading from the front, safeguarding Britain's future, guaranteeing us more jobs than ever before, saving the NHS heroically from both oblivion and disintegration while all the time concentrating on those key social issues such as housing, education and last but not least Brexit on Halloween.
This is it folks. Our Boris will come to our rescue and how we've needed a firefighter like Boris Johnson. You see the problem is that our departure from the European Union has become such a tedious news story that some of us are beginning to wish that another former Prime Minister David Cameron had left the country for good. It's your fault Mr Cameron and you can't deny it. Still, we suspect that somewhere in the middle of the Caribbean or wherever he is these days, Cameron may well be pouring himself a neat brandy, privately congratulating his Eton peer and friend.
Anyway the truth is - and it may be a difficult truth to stomach for some of us- that Boris Johnson, the man who loves to entertain the nation with cheesy one liners, hilarious Latin jokes and a classic line on Churchillian pearls of wisdom, will brush back that forest of blond hair, stride out towards the flashing photographers and eager cameras, straightening the blue tie, smiling that smile of smug self satisfaction and then delivering his first speech as the new Prime Minister.
These are iconic, historic and critical moments in the history of British politics. If he gets it completely wrong and messes up big time then Boris Johnson is destined to end up on the political scrap heap. On the other hand if he does get it right and we are no longer associated with those Brussels mandarins then the country may well hail him as the greatest Prime Minister of all time.
What does become clear is that Boris Johnson is of course hugely intelligent, enormously eloquent and supremely confident. He may think he has the finger on the pulse of the nation but will he in the process press down too hard? With most of the people he thought he could count on now abandoning ship, Boris may have some difficulty in changing minds and winning hearts. This may be a long, uphill climb out of the ditch the Tories may have fallen into. So seize the day Boris because this may be the most challenging journey you've ever been on. Keep calm Mr Johnson because happy days may still lie ahead. There's only one Boris Johnson.
Oh what a day! Oh what a momentous day! We can hardly believe it. Who would have thought it possible? Please wake us up. It isn't happening. And yet it has. The blond bombshell, Eton educated, foppish, scruffy, unkempt one is the new Prime Minister of England, the Home Counties and every point of the compass north of Hadrian's Wall. The man we were convinced would top the bill at either the London Palladium or the Comedy Club in the heart of London is the man entrusted with the onerous responsibility of taking charge of the country. Surely we're dreaming this. But we're not.
Boris Johnson, formerly mayor of London, then Foreign Secretary for a while, will wake up tomorrow and will probably think he's just stepped into a veritable Alice in Wonderland scenario. Only this time the Mad Hatter has probably sipped his tea, run as far as he can get and just vanished without trace. Boris Johnson is indeed the new Prime Minister.
The phrase has the most surreal and strange sound to it. Still, it could have been a whole lot worse. The Guinness drinking, cigar puffing and man of the people Nigel Farage comes immediately to mind. But then it has been a long, hot day and we must stop our minds from wandering. Facts and fiction are beginning to get in our way. The fact is that the man who once made a complete fool of himself on a London zip wire suspended high above London with nothing but a pair of Union Jacks for company will walk into 10 Downing Street wondering what on earth has hit him.
There will be the dawning realisation that utter tomfoolery, ridiculous buffoonery and complete absurdity have all taken up residence in a Britain that now finds itself accountable to a man who once referred to the noble game of table tennis as wiff waff. Here is a man who recently made the bizarre statement that if Britain doesn't leave the EU, the nation may have to get used to a diet of drinking water and Mars bars. Here is a man who once threw himself forcefully into rugby tackling a a poor youngster in a brazen publicity stunt.
So this is what it's all come down to. Like a child pestering his parents for a new train set or a pampered, privileged, upper class teenager who's just been promised a Lamborghini once he passes his driving test, Boris Johnson has finally got the job he's always wanted. He's been waiting patiently for this moment ever since the day when the now former Prime Minister Theresa May finally resigned because none of those stuffy, paternalistic men in Brussels would ever listen to her.
Yes, good old Boris, member of Uxbridge, has finally landed the job he'd been craving and hankering after for ages, scheming, conniving and schmoozing for as long as any of us can remember. He's turned breathing down the neck into an art form, cunning and subterfuge into a way of political life and that little known sport known as cheap opportunism into the funniest of side shows.
Ladies and Gentlemen you hardly need telling that Boris Johnson has carefully judged the mood of the nation, brilliantly pulled the wool over the nation's eyes and then just sniggered his way into 10 Downing Street rather like one of those mischievous sixth form rebels who insist on putting whoopee cushions under the headmaster's chair or letting off stink bombs while nobody is watching.
Tomorrow the whole of Britain may well wake up in a bewildered trance, heads spinning and pretending that it hasn't dropped onto the set of a new TV sitcom or some mad, wacky soap opera where pubs are set on fire and neighbours engage in salacious gossip. Boris Johnson will be leading from the front, safeguarding Britain's future, guaranteeing us more jobs than ever before, saving the NHS heroically from both oblivion and disintegration while all the time concentrating on those key social issues such as housing, education and last but not least Brexit on Halloween.
This is it folks. Our Boris will come to our rescue and how we've needed a firefighter like Boris Johnson. You see the problem is that our departure from the European Union has become such a tedious news story that some of us are beginning to wish that another former Prime Minister David Cameron had left the country for good. It's your fault Mr Cameron and you can't deny it. Still, we suspect that somewhere in the middle of the Caribbean or wherever he is these days, Cameron may well be pouring himself a neat brandy, privately congratulating his Eton peer and friend.
Anyway the truth is - and it may be a difficult truth to stomach for some of us- that Boris Johnson, the man who loves to entertain the nation with cheesy one liners, hilarious Latin jokes and a classic line on Churchillian pearls of wisdom, will brush back that forest of blond hair, stride out towards the flashing photographers and eager cameras, straightening the blue tie, smiling that smile of smug self satisfaction and then delivering his first speech as the new Prime Minister.
These are iconic, historic and critical moments in the history of British politics. If he gets it completely wrong and messes up big time then Boris Johnson is destined to end up on the political scrap heap. On the other hand if he does get it right and we are no longer associated with those Brussels mandarins then the country may well hail him as the greatest Prime Minister of all time.
What does become clear is that Boris Johnson is of course hugely intelligent, enormously eloquent and supremely confident. He may think he has the finger on the pulse of the nation but will he in the process press down too hard? With most of the people he thought he could count on now abandoning ship, Boris may have some difficulty in changing minds and winning hearts. This may be a long, uphill climb out of the ditch the Tories may have fallen into. So seize the day Boris because this may be the most challenging journey you've ever been on. Keep calm Mr Johnson because happy days may still lie ahead. There's only one Boris Johnson.
Saturday, 20 July 2019
Golf- a good walk spoiled, surely not.
Golf- a good walk spoiled, surely not.
When somebody proposed that the venue for the 2019 golf Open would be Royal Portrush in Northern Ireland the wise commentators sighed for a minute, gazed out of their living room windows and wondered if life could get any better. For the first time since 1951, the green emerald isle of Royal Portrush has opened up its clubhouse to the wealthy elite who ply their trade on the driving ranges, fairways, bunkers and putting greens of the world.
If there is any romantic symmetry in this famous golf tournament then either Rory Mcilroy or Darren Clarke, who both hail from Northern Ireland, will walk down the 18th hole fairway, their ears pounded by the tumultuous applause of hundreds and thousands of fans cheering themselves hoarse because that's what usually happens to British golfers when they win the British Open.
It was almost 50 years ago of course that a man dressed in a black polo pullover named Tony Jacklin swung powerfully at a St Andrews ball and sent the ball soaring into the air not thinking for a minute that the said ball would go so far that by some wondrous twist of fate, it would plop into the hole for a hole in one. Since then the British exponents of this surprisingly and fiercely competitive sport have come and gone.
There was Peter Ooseterhuis, single minded, purposeful and dedicated to the cause. There was Nick Faldo, ferociously ambitious, driven at times and determined to sweep all comers aside in a flurry of birdies, superbly measured under par cards that had the whole of Britain gripped. Then we had Sandy Lyle, undoubtedly one of the most polished golfers Britain has ever unearthed. Lyle had the most beautiful of swings, an insatiable hunger for victory and the devil may care willingness to take on the very best and win.
More recently there was Colin Montgomery, the ultimate perfectionist and, by his own admission, irritable, bad tempered, petulant, grumpy and downright cantankerous. But Montgomery always knew how to play the big occasion, a man with the winning mentality, a man who could play some of the most skilful and electrifying golf ever seen. Montgomery sneered at convention, did things his way and didn't care who knew it. He played to the gallery and took the flattering plaudits in his stride.
Now of course there's Rory Mcilroy, Darren Clarke, Justin Rose, a teenage prodigy, Lee Westwood who seems to have been around for years now and many a thrusting newcomer ready and waiting in the wings to dethrone the new generation. Mcilroy is a towering genius capable of playing some of the most sublime golf you're ever likely to see, Clarke is powerful, consistent, shrewd and always up with the leader board. Rose was,- and still is- that brilliant, young whipper snapper who started winning major tournaments at a ridiculously young age.
But for those who remember the BBC's coverage of the Open with nothing but warm affection golf seems to have been unforgivably marginalised by those who have yet to invest in Sky TV and BT Sport. No longer can the nation settle down to watch and listen to the whisperingly melodious tones of Henry Longhurst and the immensely knowledgeable Peter Alliss, a former Ryder Cup player of some note.
Today the immaculately sweatered professionals stroll up and down the world's most well appointed and designed golf courses with lethal irons that send the ball formidable distances. Eventually they land on a green of billiard table quality while around them the crowds swarm in idolatrous delight. It is golf at its most ritualistic, the British at their most appreciative and discerning and a game showcased in its most natural setting.
Tomorrow evening those same crowds will stride onto the fringes of the Royal Portrush fairway, gentle or blustery summery winds tugging stubbornly at the hole flag posts. The final two contenders will take out their very striking putters that begin to look increasingly like broom sweepers. They will both look admiringly at their golfing public and hold the ball as if it were some precious ornament. The winner of the British Open will bend over to pick up the ball, display it like a gold nugget and then milk up more applause. Mark Twain may well have been one of the finest of American writers but what did he know about golf? Besides, what did Twain know about the finer points of the tournament where the lucky recipient gets a Claret Jug? Very little one suspects.
Wednesday, 17 July 2019
It was 40 years ago.
It was 40 years ago.
Some of us have entirely contrasting memories of our school years. Others choose to conveniently forget that very early brush with academia. It is easy to preserve our fondest recollections of our school life because those were the ones that normally gave us the most pleasure. Those were our favourite subjects, our favourite teachers and of course the friends who meant so much to us.
Last week I met up with some of my favourite secondary school friends in the most definitive school re-union. I can't begin to tell you how good it was to see the guys I hadn't seen for exactly 40 years. There was the most emotional lump in my throat as the people I'd once known as teenagers were now married with children and one or two who although single, were still greeted with the broadest of smiles. I was just thrilled and delighted to see most of my old class mates, content in the knowledge that we still had so much to talk about, sharing all those lovely old reminiscences all over again. It was a privilege to see you all again.
There was Barry, Ajit, Simon, Gerald, Ricky, Rajesh, Rob, Keith, Perry, Garry, Atul, Greg, Andy and a whole host of the great and good. For one afternoon we rekindled those unique bonds of friendship that I thought had been lost in the mists of time. We drank jubilantly, ate our lunches with enthusiastic relish and couldn't believe that after a huge chasm of time we could still laugh, joke, smile and shake hands amicably before wandering joyfully down that nostalgic memory lane where only the good times rolled. And all of us must have worn those 1970s flared trousers and platform shoes.
I first met my good friend Barry in the place where my formative childhood years were planted. All of my wonderful friends went to a secondary school in Ilford, Essex which no longer exists and sadly closed down in my last year at school. But then we were all transferred to another school and personally the move represented much more than a traumatic upheaval. I'd always hated change but I can only tell you that I always felt as though I'd been deprived of a decent education so by the time I left the school gates at Chadwell Heath High, I felt nothing but a horrible sense of emptiness, inadequacy and utter failure, total desolation.
So let's turn the clock back to 1979, the year I beat a hasty retreat from Chadwell Heath High after a lengthy sentence and confinement at nearby Gearies secondary school. Many of us gathered at the Eagle pub in Snaresbrook, Essex came fully equipped with their very personal memories and experiences. All had wondrous stories to tell, vastly different lifestyles to relate and the kind of humour that can only be summoned when good friends get together to find common ground once again.
Frustratingly, there didn't seem to be enough hours of the day in which to find out much more about us. I apologise to any of my school friends for failing to remember exactly what they were doing now. I do know that my friend Keith, a very sprightly athlete, still looked athletic and spoke with the most delightful American accent, a New Jersey accent to be precise. Keith announced his engagement which only added to the day's theme of rejoicing and celebration.
Ajit was just a bundle of fun, full of lively banter, incessant belly laughter and full of the joys of summer. Ajit seemed to have the kind of passionate love of life that we should all have even when things look dreadfully bleak and hopeless. Simon and Gerald, in my eyes, were instantly recognisable and 40 years later, looked much the same. Perry, now a successful businessman, looked very streetwise, savvy and very easy going. Rob used to be tall and commanding policeman but was now happily retired. Greg you'll have to forgive me, although we were engaged in animated conversation, I didn't quite catch what you did for a living. I can only apologise once again to Andy but although we were sitting on the same table as each other I didn't find out what you were doing now. Sorry gentlemen.
But above all what I will always cherish was the goodwill, the genuine camaraderie, the amiable eloquence of the whole day. I have to admit here and now that I'd almost given up on getting back together with my old secondary school friends. There was a sense that I'd been trying too hard to re-discover old school mates who had so obviously moved on in their lives. But now we were all back together for one jolly good laugh, one more chance to share our feelings, our hopes and dreams for the future, the simple joy of back slapping congratulation.
As we all went our separate ways, albeit temporarily, the thought occurred to me that 40 years ago Britain was heralding the arrival of the first female Prime Minister - one Margaret Thatcher. Mrs. Thatcher would take us on a long and meandering journey along the path of initial triumphalism before veering off to chronic unemployment where the number out of work reached a staggeringly disturbing three million. Then Mrs Thatcher had the most enormous row with the trade union movement, sharply divided the whole country, quarrelled endlessly with the miners and then reluctantly left 10 Downing Street, tears furiously running down her face.
We may think of Mrs Thatcher as the only Prime Minister who brought festering discord and dissent although she may have promised nothing but full time economic prosperity. But on reflection it does seem an irony that although we either loved or loathed dear Margaret she was undoubtedly statesmanlike and I feel sure that my school friends would endorse such sentiments. They may chuckle very quietly at the possible coronation of another Tory politician with designs on greatness and immortality. For Margaret Thatcher read Boris Johnson. You really couldn't make it up.
Some of us have entirely contrasting memories of our school years. Others choose to conveniently forget that very early brush with academia. It is easy to preserve our fondest recollections of our school life because those were the ones that normally gave us the most pleasure. Those were our favourite subjects, our favourite teachers and of course the friends who meant so much to us.
Last week I met up with some of my favourite secondary school friends in the most definitive school re-union. I can't begin to tell you how good it was to see the guys I hadn't seen for exactly 40 years. There was the most emotional lump in my throat as the people I'd once known as teenagers were now married with children and one or two who although single, were still greeted with the broadest of smiles. I was just thrilled and delighted to see most of my old class mates, content in the knowledge that we still had so much to talk about, sharing all those lovely old reminiscences all over again. It was a privilege to see you all again.
There was Barry, Ajit, Simon, Gerald, Ricky, Rajesh, Rob, Keith, Perry, Garry, Atul, Greg, Andy and a whole host of the great and good. For one afternoon we rekindled those unique bonds of friendship that I thought had been lost in the mists of time. We drank jubilantly, ate our lunches with enthusiastic relish and couldn't believe that after a huge chasm of time we could still laugh, joke, smile and shake hands amicably before wandering joyfully down that nostalgic memory lane where only the good times rolled. And all of us must have worn those 1970s flared trousers and platform shoes.
I first met my good friend Barry in the place where my formative childhood years were planted. All of my wonderful friends went to a secondary school in Ilford, Essex which no longer exists and sadly closed down in my last year at school. But then we were all transferred to another school and personally the move represented much more than a traumatic upheaval. I'd always hated change but I can only tell you that I always felt as though I'd been deprived of a decent education so by the time I left the school gates at Chadwell Heath High, I felt nothing but a horrible sense of emptiness, inadequacy and utter failure, total desolation.
So let's turn the clock back to 1979, the year I beat a hasty retreat from Chadwell Heath High after a lengthy sentence and confinement at nearby Gearies secondary school. Many of us gathered at the Eagle pub in Snaresbrook, Essex came fully equipped with their very personal memories and experiences. All had wondrous stories to tell, vastly different lifestyles to relate and the kind of humour that can only be summoned when good friends get together to find common ground once again.
Frustratingly, there didn't seem to be enough hours of the day in which to find out much more about us. I apologise to any of my school friends for failing to remember exactly what they were doing now. I do know that my friend Keith, a very sprightly athlete, still looked athletic and spoke with the most delightful American accent, a New Jersey accent to be precise. Keith announced his engagement which only added to the day's theme of rejoicing and celebration.
Ajit was just a bundle of fun, full of lively banter, incessant belly laughter and full of the joys of summer. Ajit seemed to have the kind of passionate love of life that we should all have even when things look dreadfully bleak and hopeless. Simon and Gerald, in my eyes, were instantly recognisable and 40 years later, looked much the same. Perry, now a successful businessman, looked very streetwise, savvy and very easy going. Rob used to be tall and commanding policeman but was now happily retired. Greg you'll have to forgive me, although we were engaged in animated conversation, I didn't quite catch what you did for a living. I can only apologise once again to Andy but although we were sitting on the same table as each other I didn't find out what you were doing now. Sorry gentlemen.
But above all what I will always cherish was the goodwill, the genuine camaraderie, the amiable eloquence of the whole day. I have to admit here and now that I'd almost given up on getting back together with my old secondary school friends. There was a sense that I'd been trying too hard to re-discover old school mates who had so obviously moved on in their lives. But now we were all back together for one jolly good laugh, one more chance to share our feelings, our hopes and dreams for the future, the simple joy of back slapping congratulation.
As we all went our separate ways, albeit temporarily, the thought occurred to me that 40 years ago Britain was heralding the arrival of the first female Prime Minister - one Margaret Thatcher. Mrs. Thatcher would take us on a long and meandering journey along the path of initial triumphalism before veering off to chronic unemployment where the number out of work reached a staggeringly disturbing three million. Then Mrs Thatcher had the most enormous row with the trade union movement, sharply divided the whole country, quarrelled endlessly with the miners and then reluctantly left 10 Downing Street, tears furiously running down her face.
We may think of Mrs Thatcher as the only Prime Minister who brought festering discord and dissent although she may have promised nothing but full time economic prosperity. But on reflection it does seem an irony that although we either loved or loathed dear Margaret she was undoubtedly statesmanlike and I feel sure that my school friends would endorse such sentiments. They may chuckle very quietly at the possible coronation of another Tory politician with designs on greatness and immortality. For Margaret Thatcher read Boris Johnson. You really couldn't make it up.
Monday, 15 July 2019
England - cricket world champions.
England - cricket world champions.
Ben Stokes wiped the sweat from his drained face, brushed off the green stains of grass on his shirt and the rest of England could hardly hold back the elation any longer. In fact some of us are still rubbing our eyes in astonishment. Surely this was never going to happen at any time of our lives. We must have been hallucinating because nobody thought an English sporting combination would ever become cricket World Champions. And yet England did and how good that must be feeling at the moment.
Yesterday evening at a sun dappled Lord's, the official home of English cricket, England finally threw off the restraints and constraints of decades of hurt. True, Sir Clive Woodward, Jonny Wilkinson and Martin Johnson were collectively responsible for English rugby's finest hour with their World Cup victory in 2003 but now English cricket, the symbolic and precious sport of an English summer, presented us with its most historic moment of all time.
True, there were no red shirts skipping and jigging around Wembley Stadium and there were none of those after match celebrations at the Royal Garden Hotel in Kensington. For a few brief moments it did feel briefly as if the spirit of 1966 had once again revisited English cricket. Besides, if we'd waited another couple of weeks or so the coincidence would have been too uncanny for words. But if English football's World Champions can still hear the triumphant echoes of that iconic day then surely English cricket's World Champions are more than entitled to their day of global fame.
When the players of England had finally completed their last circuit of their gentle wandering around Lord's some of us were beginning to check both our blood pressure and our pulse. This was not an occasion for the faint hearted or those who can barely tolerate great sporting occasions when nerves are frayed and fingers are being bitten to the quick. Why do our sporting heroes insist on putting us through this agony, this insufferable purgatory, the tension, the drama, the whole emotional spectrum?
Finally though our patience had been rewarded, our unwavering loyalty to the cause finally given a proper reason to get very excited, jumping for joy rather than enduring that almost hard wired frustration. It's the moment when we think we've won something only to find that we weren't quite good enough to cross the line. Sometimes you'd be forgiven for thinking that England sporting teams do this on purpose just to test our reflexes.
After seeing off Australia in the World Cup semi finals most of England must have assumed, quite rightly it has to be said, that their Antipodean neighbours New Zealand were just skittles ready to be knocked down on a bowling alley. And yet how wrong could they be. This was not only a World Cup Final, it was carnival day at Lord's, a match that initially struggled to capture anybody's imagination but then blossomed like the brightest of summer flowers into a game that will be raved about, praised, rhapsodised about, discussed, analysed from ever angle and then declared as one of the great classics of all time.
For this was sport at its most sensational, spectacular and barely understood because some of the events that were unfolding before us simply defied rational explanation. In fact towards the end of England's now breathtaking run chase for victory none of us seriously thought we'd ever see anything better than this. The black shirted, black trousered, black caps of New Zealand were straining every sinew, using limbs they must have thought they'd never use again and just driving England back to the pavilion with every ball bowled.
The evening shadows were lengthening over St Johns Wood, the English batsmen visibly wilting in the summer warmth. Ben Stokes was beginning to run out of partners, wickets were falling disturbingly and for those in the crowd this must have felt like Chinese water torture. What on earth would Middlesex giant Denis Compton have thought of this in his celestial cricketing home? We can only imagine the thought processes of former England and Middlesex skipper Mike Brearley among the many former and captivated players in the Lord's crowd.
But with one ball remaining of the new fangled super over about to be bowled by Jofra Archer, even the most neutral of fans must have privately convinced themselves that England had blown it. Archer gingerly ran towards the crease, neatly delivered the ball and New Zealand ran hell for leather. They ran one, knew they had to come back for the second to win the World Cup and then that slow motion moment when time stands still. The ball was slung back from third man like a catapult and New Zealand's last, flailing batsman threw himself forward in a vain effort to complete the second. Jos Buttler, a delightful batting hero for England, sent the bails flying and England were World Champions.
New Zealand though, electing to bat first did start their innings with a promising spring in their step only for the opening partnership of Martin Guptill and Henry Nicholls to be abruptly broken. It was now 29-1. After a breezy flurry of confident straight driving, meaty fours and sixes one of the Black Cats most pivotal and influential figures Kane Williamson was out bowled by a ball that nipped back sharply by Liam Plunkett. It was 103-2. Then Henry Nicholls was smartly bowled out playing on with an inside edge. 118-3.
Now the morale of the New Zealand attack began to crumble like a decaying wall. Batsmen began to slash rashly at the good length English ball. An air of wild recklessness began to descend over the Black Cats. Soon the likes of Tom Latham, Ross Taylor were walking back to that grandly august Lord's Long Room where the chandeliered splendour of its portrait filled walls must have been gazing down on New Zealand with a gleeful grin. After a disastrous tumble of wickets New Zealand thought they'd got away with a perfectly respectable total of 240-8.
Soon though they'd be regretting their judgments. England came bursting out of the blocks like Olympian sprinters. Jason Roy and Jonny Bairstow laid the strongest foundation for a run chase that seemed attainable but firstly Roy was bowled decisively by Tom Latham followed by the dashing, cavalier Jonny Bairstow who looked set fair for a big innings only to be bowled out fairly cheaply for 36.
There ensued a rickety collapse for England as Joe Root, brave, courageous and red blooded played back awkwardly onto his pads and lost his wicket for seven. A period of settled steadiness fell over the English batting before captain Eoin Morgan bounded onto the Lords wicket. Morgan, full of natural leadership qualities didn't really assert himself and was bowled by Jimmy Neesham for nine.
Somehow though this was an occasion tailor made for Ben Stokes and when Stokes flourishes his bat you can bet your bottom dollar that he means to stay at the betting crease until the formalities are complete and the transaction sealed. Stokes swung his bat so impressively and meaningfully that you sensed that here was an Ian Botham moment for the core of this England team.
From the moment Stokes settled his bat and shouldered arms, English cricket knew that something very significant and game changing was about to happen. And indeed it was. Stokes revealed the whole panoply of his power hitting game. There were the imperious lofted drives that seemed to be destined for St Johns Wood tube station, the monumental clips and immaculate pulls through the covers and point that went hurtling towards the boundary for a whole succession of fours. We mustn't forget those impish scoops for four, models of improvisation that took everybody by surprise.
Stokes was carefree, majestic, wonderfully adventurous and totally fearless. He slashed and cut the ball through gully and mid wicket with almost heartless relish. The runs flowed from Stokes bat like a tinkling stream in the Lake District. The bat became his most loyal friend, sprinkling singles when he had to and then launching a series of powerful shots that either ended in the Lords tavern or ended up high in the terraces where nobody could find it. Eventually Stokes couldn't be budged and was not out for a match winning 89.
Then Jos Buttler compiled a gutsy and tenacious, valiant 59 but Liam Ferguson bowled him out when he also appeared immovable. The lower order English batsmen were rapidly tumbled out as Chris Woakes went for two, Liam Plunkett was clean bowled for 10, Adil Rashid crazily run out, Jofra Archer went back to the pavilion for a duck and Mark Wood suffered a similar fate right at the end.
The turning points of the game were crucially decisive. There was the Ben Stokes six that became a terrible accident for New Zealand, Dominic Boult's unfortunate dropped catch that was then adjudicated as a six. The sight of Boult, stumbling back on his feet to prevent a six, must have been utterly demoralising for New Zealand. It was the six they'd privately dreaded and New Zealand were psychologically burnt out.
So it was that England slowly built up their head of steam for those final and conclusive overs of the game. Painstakingly but with a deep gulp of relief England levelled the Black Caps well crafted 240 and the game finished all square.
We had now the super over, a mysterious brain child of somebody who obviously felt there was no other satisfactory way of deciding the game. Jofra Archer running in almost nervously or so it seemed conceded a wide then the New Zealand batsmen fought like lions to match their English opponents as if their lives quite literally depended on it.
With just a two runs to win the World Cup, the ball was thrashed wildly towards the boundary but Mark Wood, on whom lay the biggest responsibility , ran furiously for two in what would have been a dramatic victory for New Zealand. Lunging for the line he narrowly missed out and Jos Buttler sent the bails flying into the air. England are the new cricket World Champions. What a game, what a day, what uncertainty, how finely balanced until the last ball.
Cue the whole of the England team sprinting off ecstatically into different directions, chests bumping each other, arms waving, leaping up and down as if somebody had just informed them that they'd just won several National Lotteries. They smiled, laughed and joked uproariously into the night and probably deep into early this morning. The champagne kept pouring, the World Cup proudly flaunted and still Ben Stokes couldn't find the right words which was perfectly understandable. England had finally won the cricket World Cup. Now some of us could quite happily get used to that sentence.
Ben Stokes wiped the sweat from his drained face, brushed off the green stains of grass on his shirt and the rest of England could hardly hold back the elation any longer. In fact some of us are still rubbing our eyes in astonishment. Surely this was never going to happen at any time of our lives. We must have been hallucinating because nobody thought an English sporting combination would ever become cricket World Champions. And yet England did and how good that must be feeling at the moment.
Yesterday evening at a sun dappled Lord's, the official home of English cricket, England finally threw off the restraints and constraints of decades of hurt. True, Sir Clive Woodward, Jonny Wilkinson and Martin Johnson were collectively responsible for English rugby's finest hour with their World Cup victory in 2003 but now English cricket, the symbolic and precious sport of an English summer, presented us with its most historic moment of all time.
True, there were no red shirts skipping and jigging around Wembley Stadium and there were none of those after match celebrations at the Royal Garden Hotel in Kensington. For a few brief moments it did feel briefly as if the spirit of 1966 had once again revisited English cricket. Besides, if we'd waited another couple of weeks or so the coincidence would have been too uncanny for words. But if English football's World Champions can still hear the triumphant echoes of that iconic day then surely English cricket's World Champions are more than entitled to their day of global fame.
When the players of England had finally completed their last circuit of their gentle wandering around Lord's some of us were beginning to check both our blood pressure and our pulse. This was not an occasion for the faint hearted or those who can barely tolerate great sporting occasions when nerves are frayed and fingers are being bitten to the quick. Why do our sporting heroes insist on putting us through this agony, this insufferable purgatory, the tension, the drama, the whole emotional spectrum?
Finally though our patience had been rewarded, our unwavering loyalty to the cause finally given a proper reason to get very excited, jumping for joy rather than enduring that almost hard wired frustration. It's the moment when we think we've won something only to find that we weren't quite good enough to cross the line. Sometimes you'd be forgiven for thinking that England sporting teams do this on purpose just to test our reflexes.
After seeing off Australia in the World Cup semi finals most of England must have assumed, quite rightly it has to be said, that their Antipodean neighbours New Zealand were just skittles ready to be knocked down on a bowling alley. And yet how wrong could they be. This was not only a World Cup Final, it was carnival day at Lord's, a match that initially struggled to capture anybody's imagination but then blossomed like the brightest of summer flowers into a game that will be raved about, praised, rhapsodised about, discussed, analysed from ever angle and then declared as one of the great classics of all time.
For this was sport at its most sensational, spectacular and barely understood because some of the events that were unfolding before us simply defied rational explanation. In fact towards the end of England's now breathtaking run chase for victory none of us seriously thought we'd ever see anything better than this. The black shirted, black trousered, black caps of New Zealand were straining every sinew, using limbs they must have thought they'd never use again and just driving England back to the pavilion with every ball bowled.
The evening shadows were lengthening over St Johns Wood, the English batsmen visibly wilting in the summer warmth. Ben Stokes was beginning to run out of partners, wickets were falling disturbingly and for those in the crowd this must have felt like Chinese water torture. What on earth would Middlesex giant Denis Compton have thought of this in his celestial cricketing home? We can only imagine the thought processes of former England and Middlesex skipper Mike Brearley among the many former and captivated players in the Lord's crowd.
But with one ball remaining of the new fangled super over about to be bowled by Jofra Archer, even the most neutral of fans must have privately convinced themselves that England had blown it. Archer gingerly ran towards the crease, neatly delivered the ball and New Zealand ran hell for leather. They ran one, knew they had to come back for the second to win the World Cup and then that slow motion moment when time stands still. The ball was slung back from third man like a catapult and New Zealand's last, flailing batsman threw himself forward in a vain effort to complete the second. Jos Buttler, a delightful batting hero for England, sent the bails flying and England were World Champions.
New Zealand though, electing to bat first did start their innings with a promising spring in their step only for the opening partnership of Martin Guptill and Henry Nicholls to be abruptly broken. It was now 29-1. After a breezy flurry of confident straight driving, meaty fours and sixes one of the Black Cats most pivotal and influential figures Kane Williamson was out bowled by a ball that nipped back sharply by Liam Plunkett. It was 103-2. Then Henry Nicholls was smartly bowled out playing on with an inside edge. 118-3.
Now the morale of the New Zealand attack began to crumble like a decaying wall. Batsmen began to slash rashly at the good length English ball. An air of wild recklessness began to descend over the Black Cats. Soon the likes of Tom Latham, Ross Taylor were walking back to that grandly august Lord's Long Room where the chandeliered splendour of its portrait filled walls must have been gazing down on New Zealand with a gleeful grin. After a disastrous tumble of wickets New Zealand thought they'd got away with a perfectly respectable total of 240-8.
Soon though they'd be regretting their judgments. England came bursting out of the blocks like Olympian sprinters. Jason Roy and Jonny Bairstow laid the strongest foundation for a run chase that seemed attainable but firstly Roy was bowled decisively by Tom Latham followed by the dashing, cavalier Jonny Bairstow who looked set fair for a big innings only to be bowled out fairly cheaply for 36.
There ensued a rickety collapse for England as Joe Root, brave, courageous and red blooded played back awkwardly onto his pads and lost his wicket for seven. A period of settled steadiness fell over the English batting before captain Eoin Morgan bounded onto the Lords wicket. Morgan, full of natural leadership qualities didn't really assert himself and was bowled by Jimmy Neesham for nine.
Somehow though this was an occasion tailor made for Ben Stokes and when Stokes flourishes his bat you can bet your bottom dollar that he means to stay at the betting crease until the formalities are complete and the transaction sealed. Stokes swung his bat so impressively and meaningfully that you sensed that here was an Ian Botham moment for the core of this England team.
From the moment Stokes settled his bat and shouldered arms, English cricket knew that something very significant and game changing was about to happen. And indeed it was. Stokes revealed the whole panoply of his power hitting game. There were the imperious lofted drives that seemed to be destined for St Johns Wood tube station, the monumental clips and immaculate pulls through the covers and point that went hurtling towards the boundary for a whole succession of fours. We mustn't forget those impish scoops for four, models of improvisation that took everybody by surprise.
Stokes was carefree, majestic, wonderfully adventurous and totally fearless. He slashed and cut the ball through gully and mid wicket with almost heartless relish. The runs flowed from Stokes bat like a tinkling stream in the Lake District. The bat became his most loyal friend, sprinkling singles when he had to and then launching a series of powerful shots that either ended in the Lords tavern or ended up high in the terraces where nobody could find it. Eventually Stokes couldn't be budged and was not out for a match winning 89.
Then Jos Buttler compiled a gutsy and tenacious, valiant 59 but Liam Ferguson bowled him out when he also appeared immovable. The lower order English batsmen were rapidly tumbled out as Chris Woakes went for two, Liam Plunkett was clean bowled for 10, Adil Rashid crazily run out, Jofra Archer went back to the pavilion for a duck and Mark Wood suffered a similar fate right at the end.
The turning points of the game were crucially decisive. There was the Ben Stokes six that became a terrible accident for New Zealand, Dominic Boult's unfortunate dropped catch that was then adjudicated as a six. The sight of Boult, stumbling back on his feet to prevent a six, must have been utterly demoralising for New Zealand. It was the six they'd privately dreaded and New Zealand were psychologically burnt out.
So it was that England slowly built up their head of steam for those final and conclusive overs of the game. Painstakingly but with a deep gulp of relief England levelled the Black Caps well crafted 240 and the game finished all square.
We had now the super over, a mysterious brain child of somebody who obviously felt there was no other satisfactory way of deciding the game. Jofra Archer running in almost nervously or so it seemed conceded a wide then the New Zealand batsmen fought like lions to match their English opponents as if their lives quite literally depended on it.
With just a two runs to win the World Cup, the ball was thrashed wildly towards the boundary but Mark Wood, on whom lay the biggest responsibility , ran furiously for two in what would have been a dramatic victory for New Zealand. Lunging for the line he narrowly missed out and Jos Buttler sent the bails flying into the air. England are the new cricket World Champions. What a game, what a day, what uncertainty, how finely balanced until the last ball.
Cue the whole of the England team sprinting off ecstatically into different directions, chests bumping each other, arms waving, leaping up and down as if somebody had just informed them that they'd just won several National Lotteries. They smiled, laughed and joked uproariously into the night and probably deep into early this morning. The champagne kept pouring, the World Cup proudly flaunted and still Ben Stokes couldn't find the right words which was perfectly understandable. England had finally won the cricket World Cup. Now some of us could quite happily get used to that sentence.
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