The David Cameron and Boris Johnson show.
When will it ever end? Day after day the ears of Britain are being bled profusely by that constant drivel, that incessant gobbledygook, this mindless rhetoric. The nation, you feel sure, has lost patience and if they're not careful we may be tempted to turn off our collective TVs, radios and just stop reading our newspapers. It is soul destroying and horribly grotesque. Maybe we'll be given a welcome reprieve or respite from this abominable mess, this nightmarish confusion, the endless prattle. Perhaps Brexit will finally disappear from our view never to come back at any time. We must hope that it will one day.
So who are we to blame for this awful fiasco, this barrage of grammatical distortion, these unbearable sound bites? What on earth have we done to deserve three years of poppycock, repetitive platitudes, the same old thing over and over again? The earnest statements have flooded out of Cabinet ministers mouths like the most torrential waterfall, raging and turbulent, a painful sounding back track to our lives. But how much longer can we take of this all? Our tolerance threshold can only take so much.
Meanwhile, back at 10 Downing Street the chief protagonists of this whole charade are gnashing their teeth, desperate for the 31st October to arrive and wishing that none of this had ever happened. Some of us are privately wishing that a coven of Halloween witches would whisk them off to some far off land on their broomsticks. This is beginning to feel like Chinese water torture. Two men though may have a lot to answer for.
The truth is that the fault may not lie with Boris Johnson, our current Prime Minister but a certain David Cameron. This morning Cameron is facing the music, being made to pay for his mistakes, called to account and blasted by critics who believe that he was single handedly responsible for this classic blunder in the first place.
When David Cameron left 10 Downing Street, the world and its family must have thought that the immediate fall out from the withdrawal from the EU would be rather less damaging than we thought it would. Cameron seriously misjudged the mood of the nation, humiliated on his own doorstep and left to pick up the trail of broken promises. Oh if only he hadn't made that announcement. Things would have been so much simpler and we'd have all been allowed to get back to the every day business of everyday life; the urgent issues of a long suffering NHS; the vital education system; dilapidated council estates; the housing crisis; the distressing knife crime rate in inner city London and the dwindling number of policemen and women on the streets of Britain.
But oh no. Brexit is the dominant topic for the rest of our lives. It has to be because there's nothing else to talk about. David Cameron was the one who called for this wretched referendum, Cameron was the one who created this bizarre double speak, this totally incoherent language, those buzz words and phrases that would appear to have no relevance to anything and anybody at all.
And yet the impression you get is that Cameron has had the last laugh. Thank goodness control is now firmly out of his hands. He doesn't care anymore and besides he didn't particularly want a referendum in the first place. He'd have been more than content with a gentle retirement in the sun, pina colada by the pool, feet up and nothing to worry about anymore.
You can almost picture the scene now. That other Eton educated Prime Minister David Cameron, now completely forgotten about by the great British public, has suddenly come out of hiding and put his head firmly on the parapet again. David Cameron is in apologetic mood and sorry for misleading the great British public. Of course he was convinced that Britain would have cold feet about coming out of the EU. Of course he had the finger on the pulse of the nation and of course he could read their minds. On the day he got it wrong though there was a sheepish admission of guilt. It was then the great British public turned on Cameron viciously.
For the following days, months and years the subject of Brexit has now turned into the British version of War and Peace, an epic and absorbing period drama that keeps going on and on without coming up for air. There have been bloody battles, feuding armies on the march followed by retreat and seething arguments about seemingly nothing in particular. There have been roaring voices, combustible tempers and TV audiences who would quite happily have stormed the barricades about something they know very little about and would like to be given chapter and verse on. The public have been appallingly misinformed and that's just unacceptable.
This is the point when David Cameron came back in and Boris Johnson finds himself in the thankless position of clearing up the debris Cameron has left behind. Believe it or not Cameron has written a book about his hardships and tearful privations. Yes folks, a former Prime Minister has come out with full details of why he went to the country about the future of Britain's involvement in the European Union. He had to get it off his chest because if he doesn't then all that bottled up tension would simply explode and we couldn't allow that to happen
Sadly though, Britain still finds itself at another critical point, a genuine game of Poker or Pontoon. Do they stick or twist? It has now been reported that the former students who once indulged their former alumni Boris Johnson have allegedly got their own back on Johnson. They are boiling with anger, livid and red faced with unbridled fury. They've ripped off Johnson's portraits from the wall, quite possibly smeared graffiti all over those academic corridors at Eton and then spilled out whole hearted disgust at the man's absolute incompetence.
These are immensely troubling times in Westminster's fiery bear pit. There are more and more no deals and deals, insufferable delays, long evenings that turn quite naturally into long nights, Tory politicians stomping vehemently through the House of Commons tea bars and terraces, secretive committee rooms where much paper is shuffled and sighs of impatience which can be heard as far afield as Dublin. Then there is the puffing of cheeks as the realisation dawns that this could all be a waste of time.
Finally, there are those lovely backstops and none of us could have got through another day without being given further information on what exactly a backstop is. Of course it's the insurance policy which has been clearly explained to us. It's that protection clause needed by the good people of Ireland if Brexit becomes a failed and useless piece of documentation. Are we any the wiser? Perhaps not.
So there it is folks. The British parliament has closed down for business yet again, Denis Skinner is walking around Westminster like a bear with a sore head, the Speaker of the House John Bercow has quite literally left the building and many of us are still in the dark. It's time for some proroguing and going back into a huddle. What about a General Election just to complicate matters or perhaps we should give Jeremy Corbyn a mop, bucket and broom. That's it. Let's make him a caretaker Prime Minister. Now that's a great idea. The silly season may well be over but at this rate Brexit could challenge Coronation Street for longevity. We could be here for quite a while.
Saturday, 14 September 2019
Wednesday, 11 September 2019
England beat Kosovo but only after shock to their system.
England beat Kosovo but only after shock to the system.
Now that was a game of football. Rarely has international football offered us something quite like this. It had to be the craziest, zaniest, most unfathomable game in the recent history of the England football team. By the end of it all, England must have been so shell shocked by the unfolding events around them that to any student of the game, it was a game that defied logical explanation. At specific points during England's 5-3 Euro 2020 qualifier victory against Kosovo you could have been forgiven for thinking that you were watching a game that bore an uncanny resemblance to basketball.
By the end of a truly astonishing first half, England probably didn't know whether to laugh or cry. For the huge contingent of noisy, but good natured Kosovo supporters at Southampton's St Mary's this must have come as something of a major shock. Little did these newcomers to international football know that they were indeed in for a big surprise. After 33 seconds Kosovo were a goal up against last year's World Cup semi finalists England and some of us were just rubbing our eyes, convinced that this was an illusion rather than reality.
But the truth is that Kosovo were leading and England must have thought they'd stepped onto the wrong film set. This was not supposed to happen, a mirage perhaps or a trick of the eye. The fact is though that after England's soporific stroll against Bulgaria on Saturday evening, Kosovo were very much the ultimate challenge, a neat and technically brilliant team with the ability to keep England on their toes and then frighten the life out of them with their well embroidered build up play and excellent attacking football.
The tragedy of Kosovo's war ravaged history and the countless lives lost in that dreadfully dark period in the country's brief existence, all served to highlight Kosovo's admirable strength of character and wonderful capacity for recovery. This though was not quite how they'd planned in their wildest dreams. They may have liked to begin as they did against England but could never have legislated for what happened from the kick off.
After a horrendous defensive mix up between Ross Barkley and Michael Kane, Valon Berisha nicked the ball off both men gratefully, ghosting through to slide home a goal that Kosovo could only have imagined. Now England were almost shaken rudely out of their stunned stupor. If international football has taught England anything it is that you should never take any team for granted. For several moments in last night's eight goal thriller England were stumbling around St Mary's like men frantically looking for the light switch in an attic.
In no time though, England were back level and the goal came somehow inevitably from a player rapidly developing lethal goal scoring instincts. A corner was swung menacingly into the Kosovo six yard box, Michael Keane rose like the proverbial salmon to head on and Raheem Sterling, the Manchester City predator, jumped the highest to nod home England's equaliser from close range.
Then Harry Kane reciprocated the compliment for his England colleague Sterling when the Manchester City flier gracefully waltzed through a static Kosovo defence. Spotting Kane scurrying past him, Sterling laid on the perfectly weighted pass inside Kane and the Spurs striker just drove the ball firmly wide of the Kosovo keeper and into the net for England's second.
Now after another disastrous piece of comical defending, Kosovo were the instigators of their own downfall. Carelessly giving away possession in the most open area of their defence, Harry Kane eventually wriggled his way stealthily to the by line and his low cut back forced Kosovo's Mergin Vojvoda into tapping the ball into his own goal. 3-1 and the game now seemed irreparably out of the visitors reach.
By now Kosovo were completely star struck. When Harry Kane and company broke away powerfully up the pitch like a marauding platoon of well drilled soldiers, the visitors could only look in horror. Kane and Sterling were once again the central figures in the piece, laying the ball precisely into the path of Jadon Sancho who, floating into space, slotted the ball comfortably into the net for England's fourth. It was breakaway football at its finest and purest.
Shortly before half time Kosovo looked down and out, well beaten and ready to surrender. In another masterful display of counter punching, Kosovo's defence was smashed open, blown apart and made to look very feeble. Eventually Sancho latched onto another simple pass from Sterling and the Borussia Dortmund youngster just couldn't miss, drilling the ball home for England's fifth.
When the party looked to be all over for our friends from Kosovo, the second half brought them,much to their own surprise, a second wind and sustenance, almost another lifeline. They sprang to life when for all the world it seemed there was no conceivable way back into the game for them. When Berisha found the net again for Kosovo, beautifully trapping and controlling a long, high diagonal pass and steering the ball past England keeper Jordan Pickford, England were startled once again. Within minutes Kosovo had pulled another goal back when Vedat Morishi clipped home a confident penalty after Harry Maguire had so recklessly brought down a red Kosovan man.
From this point onwards England retreated into their shell and for a while found themselves on the receiving end of some elegantly constructed football from Kosovo. They were beginning to shift the ball cunningly in and out of the English defence with laser like accuracy. Briefly an air of panic gripped England, their football becoming both shoddy and tattered looking.
Thankfully the last 25 minutes saw England re- fuelling and gathering together their forces as if nothing untoward had happened. For what felt like an interminable period of time, England started flicking passes between themselves as if privately fearing that their opponents would once again break open the English defensive safe. Remarkably, England held Kosovo at bay and the home team had survived but only just.
And so it was that England now find themselves within touching distance of a place at next year's European Championships. Judged solely on the evidence of last night's performance Gareth Southgate's men may have to go back to the drawing board. Admittedly victory was achieved but not without one or two fluttering hearts and nerve racking palpitations. If the likes of Germany, Spain or more importantly world champions France get their hands on England it could make for deeply unpleasant watching.
As the relieved England fans went home happy deep into the Southampton night you were tempted to think that England are still no saints. Still if Gareth Southgate finds the right set of waistcoats and Sterling cashes in on the right kind of service then we'll all be able to sleep easy next summer. Harry Kane, although missing a penalty, is still the exemplary citizen. Oh, for this land that is forever England.
Now that was a game of football. Rarely has international football offered us something quite like this. It had to be the craziest, zaniest, most unfathomable game in the recent history of the England football team. By the end of it all, England must have been so shell shocked by the unfolding events around them that to any student of the game, it was a game that defied logical explanation. At specific points during England's 5-3 Euro 2020 qualifier victory against Kosovo you could have been forgiven for thinking that you were watching a game that bore an uncanny resemblance to basketball.
By the end of a truly astonishing first half, England probably didn't know whether to laugh or cry. For the huge contingent of noisy, but good natured Kosovo supporters at Southampton's St Mary's this must have come as something of a major shock. Little did these newcomers to international football know that they were indeed in for a big surprise. After 33 seconds Kosovo were a goal up against last year's World Cup semi finalists England and some of us were just rubbing our eyes, convinced that this was an illusion rather than reality.
But the truth is that Kosovo were leading and England must have thought they'd stepped onto the wrong film set. This was not supposed to happen, a mirage perhaps or a trick of the eye. The fact is though that after England's soporific stroll against Bulgaria on Saturday evening, Kosovo were very much the ultimate challenge, a neat and technically brilliant team with the ability to keep England on their toes and then frighten the life out of them with their well embroidered build up play and excellent attacking football.
The tragedy of Kosovo's war ravaged history and the countless lives lost in that dreadfully dark period in the country's brief existence, all served to highlight Kosovo's admirable strength of character and wonderful capacity for recovery. This though was not quite how they'd planned in their wildest dreams. They may have liked to begin as they did against England but could never have legislated for what happened from the kick off.
After a horrendous defensive mix up between Ross Barkley and Michael Kane, Valon Berisha nicked the ball off both men gratefully, ghosting through to slide home a goal that Kosovo could only have imagined. Now England were almost shaken rudely out of their stunned stupor. If international football has taught England anything it is that you should never take any team for granted. For several moments in last night's eight goal thriller England were stumbling around St Mary's like men frantically looking for the light switch in an attic.
In no time though, England were back level and the goal came somehow inevitably from a player rapidly developing lethal goal scoring instincts. A corner was swung menacingly into the Kosovo six yard box, Michael Keane rose like the proverbial salmon to head on and Raheem Sterling, the Manchester City predator, jumped the highest to nod home England's equaliser from close range.
Then Harry Kane reciprocated the compliment for his England colleague Sterling when the Manchester City flier gracefully waltzed through a static Kosovo defence. Spotting Kane scurrying past him, Sterling laid on the perfectly weighted pass inside Kane and the Spurs striker just drove the ball firmly wide of the Kosovo keeper and into the net for England's second.
Now after another disastrous piece of comical defending, Kosovo were the instigators of their own downfall. Carelessly giving away possession in the most open area of their defence, Harry Kane eventually wriggled his way stealthily to the by line and his low cut back forced Kosovo's Mergin Vojvoda into tapping the ball into his own goal. 3-1 and the game now seemed irreparably out of the visitors reach.
By now Kosovo were completely star struck. When Harry Kane and company broke away powerfully up the pitch like a marauding platoon of well drilled soldiers, the visitors could only look in horror. Kane and Sterling were once again the central figures in the piece, laying the ball precisely into the path of Jadon Sancho who, floating into space, slotted the ball comfortably into the net for England's fourth. It was breakaway football at its finest and purest.
Shortly before half time Kosovo looked down and out, well beaten and ready to surrender. In another masterful display of counter punching, Kosovo's defence was smashed open, blown apart and made to look very feeble. Eventually Sancho latched onto another simple pass from Sterling and the Borussia Dortmund youngster just couldn't miss, drilling the ball home for England's fifth.
When the party looked to be all over for our friends from Kosovo, the second half brought them,much to their own surprise, a second wind and sustenance, almost another lifeline. They sprang to life when for all the world it seemed there was no conceivable way back into the game for them. When Berisha found the net again for Kosovo, beautifully trapping and controlling a long, high diagonal pass and steering the ball past England keeper Jordan Pickford, England were startled once again. Within minutes Kosovo had pulled another goal back when Vedat Morishi clipped home a confident penalty after Harry Maguire had so recklessly brought down a red Kosovan man.
From this point onwards England retreated into their shell and for a while found themselves on the receiving end of some elegantly constructed football from Kosovo. They were beginning to shift the ball cunningly in and out of the English defence with laser like accuracy. Briefly an air of panic gripped England, their football becoming both shoddy and tattered looking.
Thankfully the last 25 minutes saw England re- fuelling and gathering together their forces as if nothing untoward had happened. For what felt like an interminable period of time, England started flicking passes between themselves as if privately fearing that their opponents would once again break open the English defensive safe. Remarkably, England held Kosovo at bay and the home team had survived but only just.
And so it was that England now find themselves within touching distance of a place at next year's European Championships. Judged solely on the evidence of last night's performance Gareth Southgate's men may have to go back to the drawing board. Admittedly victory was achieved but not without one or two fluttering hearts and nerve racking palpitations. If the likes of Germany, Spain or more importantly world champions France get their hands on England it could make for deeply unpleasant watching.
As the relieved England fans went home happy deep into the Southampton night you were tempted to think that England are still no saints. Still if Gareth Southgate finds the right set of waistcoats and Sterling cashes in on the right kind of service then we'll all be able to sleep easy next summer. Harry Kane, although missing a penalty, is still the exemplary citizen. Oh, for this land that is forever England.
Monday, 9 September 2019
England strengthen their Euro 2020 qualifying position.
England strengthen their Euro 2020 position.
After the agony and ecstasy of last year's World Cup in Russia, England resumed their quest for a place in next year's European Championships. In the light of recent events in political circles this may not be the time to cast aspersions on our European neighbours. Besides, Boris Johnson and his colleagues have got enough on their plate without worrying about the fortunes of our much cherished national football team.
Still, here we were picking up from where we left off last year when nobody told us anything about the UEFA Nations League and now, quite frankly, it all looks like Euro 2020 plain sailing from here onwards. It's time to drop anchor, splice the main brace and swallow a tot of rum. Can we hold back the excitement? This looks like the same script England teams have always read from in their qualifying quest.
After 5-1 thrashings of Montenegro and the Czech Republic it looks as if England can be afforded the luxury of a cigar, a glass of brandy and a gentle slumber in an armchair. England are not quite there yet but they can't be that far away from mission accomplished. In a sense they're dotting the 'i's' and crossing the 't's', a classic case of finishing the doors and windows before plonking on the roof.
Once again we are left with the feeling that the England team haven't really been tested properly before a major tournament. The suspicion is that England will always be fobbed off with sub standard and desperately poor European international teams that are so easily rolled over in these games that maybe England should be given a bye into immediate qualification. Poor Bulgaria are very much the whipping boys of world football and, although well disciplined defensively, have no idea how to handle infinitely more savvy opposition such as England.
On Saturday England, although bright, brisk and fully engaged in the opening stages of this game against Bulgaria, could have been accused of just a hint of arrogance. Under Gareth Southgate, England have been reinvented, reinvigorated and ready to give full expression to a much more open and expansive brand of football. For the opening exchanges, England were a joy to behold, weaving, braiding their passes together, building from the back patiently and generously sharing possession whenever they could.
But for most of those opening 20 minutes England were just playing that familiar game of Pass the Parcel, the ball rapidly zipping around the Wembley pitch like a seaside pin ball machine without the desired impact. It may have been a pleasure to watch as a neutral but this was an exhibition rather than a game of football and we all know that though constant ball retention can be deeply impressive it is nothing without a glut of goals and thrilling entertainment for the Wembley crowd.
Of course there was a measured restraint about England that has to be advisable when your opponents are becoming insufferably negative. England picked their way through a stubborn red Bulgarian wall but without realising that Communism was a thing of the past. There was a dull helplessness about the Bulgarians that reminded you very much of those bad, old days of the Iron Curtain. Bulgaria were pitifully weak, completely lacking in any kind of ambition and seemed to be longing for either Heathrow or Stansted airport.
At times they resembled the lumpen proletarian, toiling conscientiously with all their heart and soul, sweating profusely for all they were the worth. At times they looked like those Victorian miners digging and chopping away in the pits, faces blackened with the soot and grime of hard working drudgery. Occasionally the Bulgarians would break threateningly and then discovered that they had the wrong tools for the job so simply gave up and just waved the white flag of surrender.
Most accidentally though England were almost gifted the lead half way through the first half. A shockingly shoddy piece of Bulgarian defending allowed England to steal the ball off them. Raheem Sterling, with delightful speed off the mark and a wonderful sense of alertness, nipped in between fumbling Bulgarian feet, surging aggressively towards the by line and then clipping the ball back low to the oncoming captain Harry Kane who will never score an easier goal for England.
And so it was that England had taken full advantage of sloppy Bulgarian defensive ineptitude. This would become the template for much of a mild and still warm Wembley evening. Many a shadow has fallen over the England national team over the years but this felt different. England were coasting, cruising and gliding over the hallowed Wembley acres. At times there was a waltz, even a tango at times and at times the Bulgarians might have had a sharp stiletto in their repertoire.
Much to the relief of everybody Bulgaria simply retreated back into their shell. With Declan Rice of West Ham holding his own admirably at the back with some outstanding tackling and swift interventions. Kieran Trippier shoring up with his unique combination of adventure and a quick eye for a marauding, overlapping run and Harry Maguire of Manchester United still in complete command of the English penalty area this was never going to be a night for Bulgarian wine and roses.
All the while Danny Rose of Spurs began to grow into the game with his strength and defensive flexibility, venturing forward at every opportunity as the Bulgarians frequently back pedalled like cyclists going in the wrong direction. There was a soundness and efficiency about England's football which, while never likely to win any medals for technical merit, still managed to impress.
In England's midfield engine room, the stokers and the men in the heat of the furnace, were delivering the goods. Jordan Henderson continues to stamp his majesty and authority all over the English midfield. His passing continues to be of the silkiest kind, all delicate fabrics and rich, plush furnishings, while the Liverpool play maker maintains his positional sense with glorious intelligence and common sense of the highest order.
And then there is Ross Barkley, an immensely gifted midfield player who has yet to fulfill the potential that his critics may have thought he's always had. Barkley is confident, assured and handsomely comfortable. While at Everton Barkley seemed to be a square peg in a round hole, not exactly out of place but struggling for recognition in an Everton side who didn't really know how to handle him.
At Chelsea Barkley is finally developing into the kind of player we hoped he would be. He swaggers and shimmies, darts and dashes as if the game just came naturally to him. He wiggles and wriggles through defences with that electrifying turn of pace and impish impudence that once characterised a certain Paul Gascoigne. The years of wild revelry may be completely behind Gazza but Barkley will always be quite happy to be known as the nightingale who sings in the square.
So it was that England extended their lead. After the explosive Marcus Rashford had once again created havoc with his direct running at defenders, Bulgaria were once again on the back foot and looking back at their wing mirror. Rashford sprinted past his defender as if they were not there, blasting a path into the Bulgarian penalty area where he wrong footed his man and then turned back on him. It was the ultimate act of deception and his defender had no alternative but to bring Rashford down. Harry Kane planted the ball firmly into the net from the penalty spot like somebody shelling peas.
Bulgaria were now utterly demoralised and wishing that the referee would blow the whistle for full time before they did it themselves. They were a ragged, threadbare team that had been both effortlessly exposed and frequently exploited for who they were- a limp and lifeless international football team with nothing to offer the paying customers at Wembley and even less to talk about after the game.
When Harry Kane had burst into the area after once again ransacking possession from the Bulgarians, the game was well and truly up for the opposition. Kane, nicking the ball away from an incompetent defender, completed his interception with another mazy and penetrative run that took him to the inevitable by line. This time he cut back the ball sharply to the onrushing Raheem Sterling who just bundled the ball into the Bulgarian net for England's third goal.
Finally England underlined their embarrassing superiority on the night with a fourth goal. Kane was once again instrumental, tip toeing his way into the area where another Bulgarian defender seemed to forget where he was and what he was supposed to be doing. Kane was naively tripped again and promptly tucked the ball almost wisely into the net. Bulgaria gave their very convincing impersonation of a team who wished they hadn't bothered to turn up on the night.
At the end of the evening the smoothly tailored Gareth Southgate, always the sensible optimist rather than the misguidedly over ambitious, beamed and smiled from ear to ear. There were none of those memorable fist pumps and extravagant waving of the arms to the crowd. England though are on the verge of clinching their place at Euro 2020 and only the foolishly cynical would say that even if England do qualify the chances are that they'll still do what they normally do and fail miserably. There is a real confidence about Southgate's eleven that does promise so much more. It's time for a genuine display of patriotism. Be prepared for another wardrobe of Southgate's famous waistcoats.
After the agony and ecstasy of last year's World Cup in Russia, England resumed their quest for a place in next year's European Championships. In the light of recent events in political circles this may not be the time to cast aspersions on our European neighbours. Besides, Boris Johnson and his colleagues have got enough on their plate without worrying about the fortunes of our much cherished national football team.
Still, here we were picking up from where we left off last year when nobody told us anything about the UEFA Nations League and now, quite frankly, it all looks like Euro 2020 plain sailing from here onwards. It's time to drop anchor, splice the main brace and swallow a tot of rum. Can we hold back the excitement? This looks like the same script England teams have always read from in their qualifying quest.
After 5-1 thrashings of Montenegro and the Czech Republic it looks as if England can be afforded the luxury of a cigar, a glass of brandy and a gentle slumber in an armchair. England are not quite there yet but they can't be that far away from mission accomplished. In a sense they're dotting the 'i's' and crossing the 't's', a classic case of finishing the doors and windows before plonking on the roof.
Once again we are left with the feeling that the England team haven't really been tested properly before a major tournament. The suspicion is that England will always be fobbed off with sub standard and desperately poor European international teams that are so easily rolled over in these games that maybe England should be given a bye into immediate qualification. Poor Bulgaria are very much the whipping boys of world football and, although well disciplined defensively, have no idea how to handle infinitely more savvy opposition such as England.
On Saturday England, although bright, brisk and fully engaged in the opening stages of this game against Bulgaria, could have been accused of just a hint of arrogance. Under Gareth Southgate, England have been reinvented, reinvigorated and ready to give full expression to a much more open and expansive brand of football. For the opening exchanges, England were a joy to behold, weaving, braiding their passes together, building from the back patiently and generously sharing possession whenever they could.
But for most of those opening 20 minutes England were just playing that familiar game of Pass the Parcel, the ball rapidly zipping around the Wembley pitch like a seaside pin ball machine without the desired impact. It may have been a pleasure to watch as a neutral but this was an exhibition rather than a game of football and we all know that though constant ball retention can be deeply impressive it is nothing without a glut of goals and thrilling entertainment for the Wembley crowd.
Of course there was a measured restraint about England that has to be advisable when your opponents are becoming insufferably negative. England picked their way through a stubborn red Bulgarian wall but without realising that Communism was a thing of the past. There was a dull helplessness about the Bulgarians that reminded you very much of those bad, old days of the Iron Curtain. Bulgaria were pitifully weak, completely lacking in any kind of ambition and seemed to be longing for either Heathrow or Stansted airport.
At times they resembled the lumpen proletarian, toiling conscientiously with all their heart and soul, sweating profusely for all they were the worth. At times they looked like those Victorian miners digging and chopping away in the pits, faces blackened with the soot and grime of hard working drudgery. Occasionally the Bulgarians would break threateningly and then discovered that they had the wrong tools for the job so simply gave up and just waved the white flag of surrender.
Most accidentally though England were almost gifted the lead half way through the first half. A shockingly shoddy piece of Bulgarian defending allowed England to steal the ball off them. Raheem Sterling, with delightful speed off the mark and a wonderful sense of alertness, nipped in between fumbling Bulgarian feet, surging aggressively towards the by line and then clipping the ball back low to the oncoming captain Harry Kane who will never score an easier goal for England.
And so it was that England had taken full advantage of sloppy Bulgarian defensive ineptitude. This would become the template for much of a mild and still warm Wembley evening. Many a shadow has fallen over the England national team over the years but this felt different. England were coasting, cruising and gliding over the hallowed Wembley acres. At times there was a waltz, even a tango at times and at times the Bulgarians might have had a sharp stiletto in their repertoire.
Much to the relief of everybody Bulgaria simply retreated back into their shell. With Declan Rice of West Ham holding his own admirably at the back with some outstanding tackling and swift interventions. Kieran Trippier shoring up with his unique combination of adventure and a quick eye for a marauding, overlapping run and Harry Maguire of Manchester United still in complete command of the English penalty area this was never going to be a night for Bulgarian wine and roses.
All the while Danny Rose of Spurs began to grow into the game with his strength and defensive flexibility, venturing forward at every opportunity as the Bulgarians frequently back pedalled like cyclists going in the wrong direction. There was a soundness and efficiency about England's football which, while never likely to win any medals for technical merit, still managed to impress.
In England's midfield engine room, the stokers and the men in the heat of the furnace, were delivering the goods. Jordan Henderson continues to stamp his majesty and authority all over the English midfield. His passing continues to be of the silkiest kind, all delicate fabrics and rich, plush furnishings, while the Liverpool play maker maintains his positional sense with glorious intelligence and common sense of the highest order.
And then there is Ross Barkley, an immensely gifted midfield player who has yet to fulfill the potential that his critics may have thought he's always had. Barkley is confident, assured and handsomely comfortable. While at Everton Barkley seemed to be a square peg in a round hole, not exactly out of place but struggling for recognition in an Everton side who didn't really know how to handle him.
At Chelsea Barkley is finally developing into the kind of player we hoped he would be. He swaggers and shimmies, darts and dashes as if the game just came naturally to him. He wiggles and wriggles through defences with that electrifying turn of pace and impish impudence that once characterised a certain Paul Gascoigne. The years of wild revelry may be completely behind Gazza but Barkley will always be quite happy to be known as the nightingale who sings in the square.
So it was that England extended their lead. After the explosive Marcus Rashford had once again created havoc with his direct running at defenders, Bulgaria were once again on the back foot and looking back at their wing mirror. Rashford sprinted past his defender as if they were not there, blasting a path into the Bulgarian penalty area where he wrong footed his man and then turned back on him. It was the ultimate act of deception and his defender had no alternative but to bring Rashford down. Harry Kane planted the ball firmly into the net from the penalty spot like somebody shelling peas.
Bulgaria were now utterly demoralised and wishing that the referee would blow the whistle for full time before they did it themselves. They were a ragged, threadbare team that had been both effortlessly exposed and frequently exploited for who they were- a limp and lifeless international football team with nothing to offer the paying customers at Wembley and even less to talk about after the game.
When Harry Kane had burst into the area after once again ransacking possession from the Bulgarians, the game was well and truly up for the opposition. Kane, nicking the ball away from an incompetent defender, completed his interception with another mazy and penetrative run that took him to the inevitable by line. This time he cut back the ball sharply to the onrushing Raheem Sterling who just bundled the ball into the Bulgarian net for England's third goal.
Finally England underlined their embarrassing superiority on the night with a fourth goal. Kane was once again instrumental, tip toeing his way into the area where another Bulgarian defender seemed to forget where he was and what he was supposed to be doing. Kane was naively tripped again and promptly tucked the ball almost wisely into the net. Bulgaria gave their very convincing impersonation of a team who wished they hadn't bothered to turn up on the night.
At the end of the evening the smoothly tailored Gareth Southgate, always the sensible optimist rather than the misguidedly over ambitious, beamed and smiled from ear to ear. There were none of those memorable fist pumps and extravagant waving of the arms to the crowd. England though are on the verge of clinching their place at Euro 2020 and only the foolishly cynical would say that even if England do qualify the chances are that they'll still do what they normally do and fail miserably. There is a real confidence about Southgate's eleven that does promise so much more. It's time for a genuine display of patriotism. Be prepared for another wardrobe of Southgate's famous waistcoats.
Saturday, 7 September 2019
September- more than just a musical month.
September- more than just a musical month.
It is the month when summer bids a fond farewell. It is the month Neil Diamond and Earth, Wind and Fire celebrated fulsomely in song and, above all, the month when the global Jewish community sing the praises of a healthy, happy and peaceful New Year. The prayers and chants will be abundant, the Shofar blown triumphantly and British politicians are about to descend on their respective party political conferences in their hundreds and thousands.
At the moment the hilariously confusing soap opera that is Brexit is growing more wearisome by the day. But hold on folks it's September and we've now entered that strange period when nothing of any note happens as such and the only certainty is that the leaves on the trees will all eventually fall to the ground, school conkers will be readied for a good, old fashioned helping of vinegar and parents across the land will be leaping for joy as their beloved offspring walk and slouch their way through primary and secondary school gates for the first time. We love September.
Meanwhile out in the suburban shopping centres of North London all is well and in the rudest health. Here in Wood Green a gentleman indulges in a spot of tap dancing. He glances at his admiring audience then looks up and smiles quite happily at a job well done. He knows he's left a favourable impression because the style and manner of his impromptu act leave some of us purring with admiration. The man has considerable rhythm, a lovely tempo and the most positive attitude to life.
Just a couple of a yards away from our supremely talented hoofer, a group of eco warriors are expressing themselves quite vocally, appealing to the sympathies of those who believe that Extinction Rebellion is just a passing phase. They dress up rather garishly for the morning in the hope that somebody will come up to them, hear out their very well intentioned case and, quite possibly, leave a couple of quid in their caps on the ground. Wood Green is hustling and bustling with some vigour.
Away from our environmentally friendly campaigners, a group of ultra religious enthusiasts do their utmost to attract as much attention as they can. It may be Saturday morning but for a multitude of Christians it may just as well be Sunday morning. Around this small huddle of deeply devout church parishioners, the shoppers of Wood Green mind their business, window shopping quite casually before striding decisively into the shops with mouth watering bargains on their mind.
We pass the most colourful market stall, gleaming green apples that look as though they've been polished repeatedly, oranges, pears, punnets of strawberries that seem too good to eat and huge bunches of bananas that are neatly gathered together like a set of shirts in a menswear shop. All commerce is here, rushing and hurrying at times but mostly well mannered and courteous.
For now this whole scene is a gratifyingly familiar one. True, the shops of today can no longer display one of those awnings which once hung languidly over the window itself. The shopkeepers of England no longer stand outside their personal empire wearing a white coat or a natty bowler on their head. But the fact is that the tills will keep ringing, vast sums of money will be spent and the world will never stop spinning.
Back at the rapidly filling bus stops, more people are racing after their Route Master buses, more families wrestling with more and more pushchairs, women are confiding in each other and the men may well be discussing England rugby union's 37- 0 demolition of Italy in a World Cup warm up match. Besides, England could be World Champions again in another sport and that really could make us all sit up and take notice.
Still, here we are in England on an early Saturday morning in September. The country is still wrestling with the complexities of Brexit and Boris Johnson, our shiny new Prime Minister has now taken to angry finger pointing at his Labour opponent Jeremy Corbyn. By the end of October we could be wallowing in the same mess as the one we seemed to have been stuck in for the last three years. Does anybody know what's going on or is this some kind of children's game designed to test our patience? Will we ever leave the European Union or will poor Edward Heath be haunted by his decision to take Britain into the Common Market in 1975?
For now we must pore over our newspapers and magazines, take the dog for a walk, sit on a park bench, look out at this most attractive patchwork quilt of a country, sigh thoughtfully and wonder again why exactly Britain keeps dithering, hesitating and procrastinating. Why do they keep putting things off all the time? Come on Britain you've got to make up your mind sooner rather than later. Earth, Wind and Fire and Neil Diamond would love to know. Decisions, decisions, decisions.
It is the month when summer bids a fond farewell. It is the month Neil Diamond and Earth, Wind and Fire celebrated fulsomely in song and, above all, the month when the global Jewish community sing the praises of a healthy, happy and peaceful New Year. The prayers and chants will be abundant, the Shofar blown triumphantly and British politicians are about to descend on their respective party political conferences in their hundreds and thousands.
At the moment the hilariously confusing soap opera that is Brexit is growing more wearisome by the day. But hold on folks it's September and we've now entered that strange period when nothing of any note happens as such and the only certainty is that the leaves on the trees will all eventually fall to the ground, school conkers will be readied for a good, old fashioned helping of vinegar and parents across the land will be leaping for joy as their beloved offspring walk and slouch their way through primary and secondary school gates for the first time. We love September.
Meanwhile out in the suburban shopping centres of North London all is well and in the rudest health. Here in Wood Green a gentleman indulges in a spot of tap dancing. He glances at his admiring audience then looks up and smiles quite happily at a job well done. He knows he's left a favourable impression because the style and manner of his impromptu act leave some of us purring with admiration. The man has considerable rhythm, a lovely tempo and the most positive attitude to life.
Just a couple of a yards away from our supremely talented hoofer, a group of eco warriors are expressing themselves quite vocally, appealing to the sympathies of those who believe that Extinction Rebellion is just a passing phase. They dress up rather garishly for the morning in the hope that somebody will come up to them, hear out their very well intentioned case and, quite possibly, leave a couple of quid in their caps on the ground. Wood Green is hustling and bustling with some vigour.
Away from our environmentally friendly campaigners, a group of ultra religious enthusiasts do their utmost to attract as much attention as they can. It may be Saturday morning but for a multitude of Christians it may just as well be Sunday morning. Around this small huddle of deeply devout church parishioners, the shoppers of Wood Green mind their business, window shopping quite casually before striding decisively into the shops with mouth watering bargains on their mind.
We pass the most colourful market stall, gleaming green apples that look as though they've been polished repeatedly, oranges, pears, punnets of strawberries that seem too good to eat and huge bunches of bananas that are neatly gathered together like a set of shirts in a menswear shop. All commerce is here, rushing and hurrying at times but mostly well mannered and courteous.
For now this whole scene is a gratifyingly familiar one. True, the shops of today can no longer display one of those awnings which once hung languidly over the window itself. The shopkeepers of England no longer stand outside their personal empire wearing a white coat or a natty bowler on their head. But the fact is that the tills will keep ringing, vast sums of money will be spent and the world will never stop spinning.
Back at the rapidly filling bus stops, more people are racing after their Route Master buses, more families wrestling with more and more pushchairs, women are confiding in each other and the men may well be discussing England rugby union's 37- 0 demolition of Italy in a World Cup warm up match. Besides, England could be World Champions again in another sport and that really could make us all sit up and take notice.
Still, here we are in England on an early Saturday morning in September. The country is still wrestling with the complexities of Brexit and Boris Johnson, our shiny new Prime Minister has now taken to angry finger pointing at his Labour opponent Jeremy Corbyn. By the end of October we could be wallowing in the same mess as the one we seemed to have been stuck in for the last three years. Does anybody know what's going on or is this some kind of children's game designed to test our patience? Will we ever leave the European Union or will poor Edward Heath be haunted by his decision to take Britain into the Common Market in 1975?
For now we must pore over our newspapers and magazines, take the dog for a walk, sit on a park bench, look out at this most attractive patchwork quilt of a country, sigh thoughtfully and wonder again why exactly Britain keeps dithering, hesitating and procrastinating. Why do they keep putting things off all the time? Come on Britain you've got to make up your mind sooner rather than later. Earth, Wind and Fire and Neil Diamond would love to know. Decisions, decisions, decisions.
Tuesday, 3 September 2019
It was 80 years ago. The outbreak of the Second World War.
It was 80 years ago today. Even now with the passage of time the memories are still raw, vivid and for some unbearably painful. The outbreak of the Second World War on this day 80 years ago evokes the kind of images, sights and sounds that may never ever be forgotten nor erased from our consciousness..80 years later and some of us can only watch those harrowing TV documentaries with thick lumps in our throat. For some of us those we once loved and will always love in our hearts the greatest tragedy is that they'll never be able to tell the story again.
There remains bitterness, a sense of enduring grief that may never go away, the needless suffering, the millions of lives lost, blown up, savagely murdered, sent to the gas chambers, tortured and humiliated, families crushed and buried under the ground in the most barbaric display of man's inhumanity to man and everybody Hitler decided wasn't good enough to draw breath.
When Neville Chamberlain waved those papers at a Munich airport declaring Peace in Our Time most of the world must have misguidedly assumed that all was well with both Germany and most of the planet. Tragically, a year later on September 3rd 1939 he regretted to inform us that this was not to be the case and subsequently that Britain was at war with Germany.
As the wailing air raid sirens blared out across London and the people of the world braced themselves for a prolonged period of conflict and battle, the popular opinion was that after what seemed like a brief sequence of skirmishes, it would all be over by Christmas 1939. But then things took a fatalistic turn for the worse. The horror would be unrelenting and deeply abhorrent.
After wiping out Poland and then rolling his tanks into both Western and Eastern Europe Hitler turned his thoughts to the rest of the world. Soon, the Luftwaffe and the Wehrmacht turned their deadly gunfire and heavy ammunition on those they believed were just getting in their way. The theme of world domination would come to define the sick ideologies of the Nazis.
For the next six years Hitler, with the assistance of his henchmen Goebbels, Himmler and Eichmann, battered and smashed their way through the far distant lands of the world, blasting and exploding, killing and maiming, looting and plundering, strangling the life blood from humanity as if it were something they were born to do.
So innocent men bravely signed up for the Royal Air Force, the British Army, the Royal Navy and all of the military installations that would become their home. Dressed up in the smart grey uniform of the time they would arm to themselves with rifles and bullets before committing themselves to the bloodiest six years of their lives. They would leave behind weeping girlfriends and wives who were naturally loathe to let their husbands and boyfriends go to war with the ever present threat that they would never ever come back again.
And yet amid all the destruction and death, the violent mayhem and pandemonium, there was a sense that none would live to see the day when peace and harmony would reign. We've all seen those burning buildings in the heart of Central London, tons of bricks and mortar tumbling to the ground and vast gashes in the once formidable masonry that had once held those houses and shops together so impregnably.
Of course it should never ever have happened. Of course it was unavoidable and we can only pray that history will never ever be repeated. For the Holocaust survivors this would also be the turning point in their lives. From that point onwards their lives would change dramatically, now the victims of oppressive dictatorships, mad men with wild tempers and even wilder moustaches. It was all so gruesomely unnecessary, this never ending torment, this constant state of uncertainty, persecution, a time of families torn apart, mothers never knowing when or if their husbands would ever survive and then there was the realisation that that sense of unfortunate estrangement and hurt would never heal.
But they survived those tyrannical tin pot dictators, they muddled through the hell and the very lowest points of depression because they just had to. They endured Hitler, Mussolini, Stalin, Franco, the Sudetenland, Kristallnacht, the terrifying death camps of Auschwitz, Treblinka and Bergen Belsem, the cold, calculating manslaughter and, dare one say it, bestiality.
On a monumental scale the Second World War will still be heard, felt and sensed perhaps for ever more. For those who weren't born at the time, the stories are still re-told over and over again if only to re-emphasise their huge importance. We who are now grandsons can only shake our heads because we're not quite sure what to do or say. 80 years on and the political landscape is even harder to fathom. War may have been over but the men and women who sacrificed everything for us can never be thanked enough. We will always be eternally grateful since that's an obvious emotion. But we will never know why and it may be that even the greatest historians can no longer take this one any further.
There remains bitterness, a sense of enduring grief that may never go away, the needless suffering, the millions of lives lost, blown up, savagely murdered, sent to the gas chambers, tortured and humiliated, families crushed and buried under the ground in the most barbaric display of man's inhumanity to man and everybody Hitler decided wasn't good enough to draw breath.
When Neville Chamberlain waved those papers at a Munich airport declaring Peace in Our Time most of the world must have misguidedly assumed that all was well with both Germany and most of the planet. Tragically, a year later on September 3rd 1939 he regretted to inform us that this was not to be the case and subsequently that Britain was at war with Germany.
As the wailing air raid sirens blared out across London and the people of the world braced themselves for a prolonged period of conflict and battle, the popular opinion was that after what seemed like a brief sequence of skirmishes, it would all be over by Christmas 1939. But then things took a fatalistic turn for the worse. The horror would be unrelenting and deeply abhorrent.
After wiping out Poland and then rolling his tanks into both Western and Eastern Europe Hitler turned his thoughts to the rest of the world. Soon, the Luftwaffe and the Wehrmacht turned their deadly gunfire and heavy ammunition on those they believed were just getting in their way. The theme of world domination would come to define the sick ideologies of the Nazis.
For the next six years Hitler, with the assistance of his henchmen Goebbels, Himmler and Eichmann, battered and smashed their way through the far distant lands of the world, blasting and exploding, killing and maiming, looting and plundering, strangling the life blood from humanity as if it were something they were born to do.
So innocent men bravely signed up for the Royal Air Force, the British Army, the Royal Navy and all of the military installations that would become their home. Dressed up in the smart grey uniform of the time they would arm to themselves with rifles and bullets before committing themselves to the bloodiest six years of their lives. They would leave behind weeping girlfriends and wives who were naturally loathe to let their husbands and boyfriends go to war with the ever present threat that they would never ever come back again.
And yet amid all the destruction and death, the violent mayhem and pandemonium, there was a sense that none would live to see the day when peace and harmony would reign. We've all seen those burning buildings in the heart of Central London, tons of bricks and mortar tumbling to the ground and vast gashes in the once formidable masonry that had once held those houses and shops together so impregnably.
Of course it should never ever have happened. Of course it was unavoidable and we can only pray that history will never ever be repeated. For the Holocaust survivors this would also be the turning point in their lives. From that point onwards their lives would change dramatically, now the victims of oppressive dictatorships, mad men with wild tempers and even wilder moustaches. It was all so gruesomely unnecessary, this never ending torment, this constant state of uncertainty, persecution, a time of families torn apart, mothers never knowing when or if their husbands would ever survive and then there was the realisation that that sense of unfortunate estrangement and hurt would never heal.
But they survived those tyrannical tin pot dictators, they muddled through the hell and the very lowest points of depression because they just had to. They endured Hitler, Mussolini, Stalin, Franco, the Sudetenland, Kristallnacht, the terrifying death camps of Auschwitz, Treblinka and Bergen Belsem, the cold, calculating manslaughter and, dare one say it, bestiality.
On a monumental scale the Second World War will still be heard, felt and sensed perhaps for ever more. For those who weren't born at the time, the stories are still re-told over and over again if only to re-emphasise their huge importance. We who are now grandsons can only shake our heads because we're not quite sure what to do or say. 80 years on and the political landscape is even harder to fathom. War may have been over but the men and women who sacrificed everything for us can never be thanked enough. We will always be eternally grateful since that's an obvious emotion. But we will never know why and it may be that even the greatest historians can no longer take this one any further.
Saturday, 31 August 2019
Farewell Bury- but why and how?
Farewell Bury - but why and how?
So how did it all come down to this? Bury's disappearance from the Football League, their demotion to non League football is another stark reminder of football's harsh realities, its brittle financial backbone, its air of vulnerability at times and that familiar tale of corruption, appalling mismanagement and in the case of owner Steve Dale, a man with no interest in football whatsoever. And therein the lies the problem. Not for the first time football finds itself at the heart of a shameful scandal.
The chances are that the loyal and hardcore fans of Bury who have been following their football team for the best part of several decades will now have to be content with a leisurely stroll through the local shopping centre, grieving openly, sobbing their hearts out and wondering if justice will ever be seen to be done. The likelihood is that they will also be flooding the phone lines of their local radio station, angry, disgusted and totally betrayed by not only Dale and his chums but by all the people who they believe have sold them down the river.
In fact you may be sure that every single Bury supporter who has stuck faithfully by their troubled team will take to the streets and roads this afternoon and voice their opinions in no uncertain terms. A furious revolt will be heard the length and breadth of Gigg Lane, banners will be unfurled and proud football fans will question football's integrity. Of course football has been here before but the crime has been committed, rules bent and a humble little football club, one of the League's oldest, can only be left to cower in the corner sadly, their sense of rejection and isolation perfectly understandable.
This afternoon Bury, once twice winners of the FA Cup, will be surplus to requirements, no longer wanted by the Football League and told to sling their hook. Gigg Lane will become an industrial wasteland, the pavements echoing to the sound of aching souls and the lingering smell of defeat and despair in the air. They will trudge down cobbled lanes, looking down at the ground miserably and tearfully, mindful all the while that no longer will be they allowed to rattle through those precious turnstiles, no longer given the opportunity to wave their scarves on those sturdy terraces.
The fact is of course those self same terraces will now be empty, soulless, pitifully heartbroken and, more importantly, left to rot during cold winters of desolation and dereliction. a broken football club with a couple of thousand supporters who will continue to support them through thick and thin but without any League status anymore. Gigg Lane will become a sombre monument to football's greed, its flagrant disregard of the very football supporters who keep the game alive. Football will now take stock of itself, examine its conscience, weigh up exactly where things might have gone so disastrously wrong and then presumably wash its hands of the whole filthy business. Oh woe the Football League!
Of course this is not the first team that one of the Football League's lower division's basement boys has gone bust, condemned to bankruptcy and never likely to re-surface as a viable League club at any point in the future. The examples are, quite distressingly, common and poor old Bury may never be able to take any consolation in the fact that this has happened before.
In the winter of 1962 Bury's neighbours Accrington Stanley discovered that the club were up to their neck in debt, the team simply fading away and the winding up receivers had to be called in. Players hadn't been paid for ages, the whole infrastructure of the club had become a long standing joke, a complete embarrassment and the club had to be wound up whether Stanley wanted it to or not. Accrington Stanley went out of the Football League, another busted flush, gone to the wall, penniless and now trapped in the non League.
But there is a happy ending to this story. Several years ago Accrington Stanley came back to life as a League club with a sharp injection of money from a compassionate backer of the club. Now Stanley are back in the Football League and if Bury can cling onto any straw of hope then they may have to look no further than Accrington Stanley.
Towards the end of the 1960s you remembered Workington and Barrow, two more Lancashire hotpots who simply couldn't pay their way anymore and were kicked out of the Football League. So they shut their gates, locked the front door and said farewell. Presumably, Workington and Barrow are still attracting the proverbial cat, dog and a couple of sympathetic passers by on their way to the Saturday market.
The blunt truth is football may have to stand up in a court of law to account for its criminal negligence, its cruelty and its inexplicable indifference to football clubs with a heart. Bury may not be the first team to leave the Football League and nor will they be the last. Bolton Wanderers of course have survived by the skin of their teeth. But Bury are now yesterday's men, a team whose supporters will now cry into their beer tonight and hope that somebody will care and somebody will once again believe in them. It can't be too much to ask for little Bury.
So how did it all come down to this? Bury's disappearance from the Football League, their demotion to non League football is another stark reminder of football's harsh realities, its brittle financial backbone, its air of vulnerability at times and that familiar tale of corruption, appalling mismanagement and in the case of owner Steve Dale, a man with no interest in football whatsoever. And therein the lies the problem. Not for the first time football finds itself at the heart of a shameful scandal.
The chances are that the loyal and hardcore fans of Bury who have been following their football team for the best part of several decades will now have to be content with a leisurely stroll through the local shopping centre, grieving openly, sobbing their hearts out and wondering if justice will ever be seen to be done. The likelihood is that they will also be flooding the phone lines of their local radio station, angry, disgusted and totally betrayed by not only Dale and his chums but by all the people who they believe have sold them down the river.
In fact you may be sure that every single Bury supporter who has stuck faithfully by their troubled team will take to the streets and roads this afternoon and voice their opinions in no uncertain terms. A furious revolt will be heard the length and breadth of Gigg Lane, banners will be unfurled and proud football fans will question football's integrity. Of course football has been here before but the crime has been committed, rules bent and a humble little football club, one of the League's oldest, can only be left to cower in the corner sadly, their sense of rejection and isolation perfectly understandable.
This afternoon Bury, once twice winners of the FA Cup, will be surplus to requirements, no longer wanted by the Football League and told to sling their hook. Gigg Lane will become an industrial wasteland, the pavements echoing to the sound of aching souls and the lingering smell of defeat and despair in the air. They will trudge down cobbled lanes, looking down at the ground miserably and tearfully, mindful all the while that no longer will be they allowed to rattle through those precious turnstiles, no longer given the opportunity to wave their scarves on those sturdy terraces.
The fact is of course those self same terraces will now be empty, soulless, pitifully heartbroken and, more importantly, left to rot during cold winters of desolation and dereliction. a broken football club with a couple of thousand supporters who will continue to support them through thick and thin but without any League status anymore. Gigg Lane will become a sombre monument to football's greed, its flagrant disregard of the very football supporters who keep the game alive. Football will now take stock of itself, examine its conscience, weigh up exactly where things might have gone so disastrously wrong and then presumably wash its hands of the whole filthy business. Oh woe the Football League!
Of course this is not the first team that one of the Football League's lower division's basement boys has gone bust, condemned to bankruptcy and never likely to re-surface as a viable League club at any point in the future. The examples are, quite distressingly, common and poor old Bury may never be able to take any consolation in the fact that this has happened before.
In the winter of 1962 Bury's neighbours Accrington Stanley discovered that the club were up to their neck in debt, the team simply fading away and the winding up receivers had to be called in. Players hadn't been paid for ages, the whole infrastructure of the club had become a long standing joke, a complete embarrassment and the club had to be wound up whether Stanley wanted it to or not. Accrington Stanley went out of the Football League, another busted flush, gone to the wall, penniless and now trapped in the non League.
But there is a happy ending to this story. Several years ago Accrington Stanley came back to life as a League club with a sharp injection of money from a compassionate backer of the club. Now Stanley are back in the Football League and if Bury can cling onto any straw of hope then they may have to look no further than Accrington Stanley.
Towards the end of the 1960s you remembered Workington and Barrow, two more Lancashire hotpots who simply couldn't pay their way anymore and were kicked out of the Football League. So they shut their gates, locked the front door and said farewell. Presumably, Workington and Barrow are still attracting the proverbial cat, dog and a couple of sympathetic passers by on their way to the Saturday market.
The blunt truth is football may have to stand up in a court of law to account for its criminal negligence, its cruelty and its inexplicable indifference to football clubs with a heart. Bury may not be the first team to leave the Football League and nor will they be the last. Bolton Wanderers of course have survived by the skin of their teeth. But Bury are now yesterday's men, a team whose supporters will now cry into their beer tonight and hope that somebody will care and somebody will once again believe in them. It can't be too much to ask for little Bury.
Wednesday, 28 August 2019
Manor House- still a work in progress.
Manor House - still a work in progress.
At some point this century they'll finish what they started some time ago. By my reckoning it should be some time before another Labour government is elected or perhaps some time in the distant future when none of us will be around to see its completion. The nagging suspicion is that the Woodberry Down estate in Manor House is still very much a work in progress. In fact this whole housing development just seems to go on and on but we can live in the hope that finally one day it'll be declared as well and truly done, the finished article.
Meanwhile the show goes on and what a show this is. Throughout the day we are constantly subjected to noises, clanking noises, metallic noises, grating noises that are designed to annoy us, getting on our nerves, trying our patience, outraging us and possibly tempting us to complain to the council for what seems the umpteenth time.
What we have here is a sometimes deafening cacophony, a resounding orchestra of drills, hammers, instruments of demolition and major upheaval for all concerned. The fact is that some of us have reached the end of our tether and we've had enough. There is an incessant chorus of cracking, smashing, clattering, industrial machinery that looks as if it's been lent to the workers at Woodbury Down Estate by some very kind and generous BBC film crew working on some very ambitious sci- fi series.
Realistically, the local residents around here may be resigned to their fate. There's isn't a great deal they can do about this, at times, insufferable racket apart from perhaps fold their arms, become hardened to circumstances that are completely beyond their control and just watch with anger in the hope that one day tools are downed and we can all go back to living the quiet life.
In the general scheme of things most of us would just have been extremely tolerant in the face of this relentless assault on our senses, that audio system that keeps blaring away with seemingly not a single thought or consideration for any of those families with babies or the elderly who must be up in arms.
To the fascinated onlooker this dramatic disfigurement of our landscape is not quite the sight you'd be too keen to wake up to in the morning. Finally though, the whole look and appearance of this area does look slightly more aesthetically pleasing than it might have done a couple of years ago. Those huge and thick supporting blocks of concrete have been firmly driven into the ground and the gentlemen in lime green hi viz jackets seem to be enjoying themselves.
All day long the engineers, labourers, plasterers, painters and decorators spend most of their day outside in the late summer heat and rain, either wandering, treading gently or bending down to pick up their knives, saws, tape measures, theodolites and mallets as if it were second nature. They keep wandering, hovering, stopping, assessing the ground they happen to be working on and then shouting, yelling, singing and laughing. It's rather like listening to some awful music you wish you could switch off immediately.
Outside us are massive fleets of lorries who seem to be giving birth to yet more lorries. In fact there are times when our buildings remind you of one giant sized car park. Around the back from where we live, the Berkeley company responsible for this housing renaissance are clocking on and off for work. Men in yellow hard hats and high viz jackets keep coming and going as if determined to get the work finished as soon as possible.
For a number of years now this has been what it's like to witness the regrowth of a North London suburb that, although perfectly habitable, certainly looked as if it needed some tender loving care. What we didn't know though at the time of course is that some of the ageing flats were beginning to look past their sell by date. In fact the whole lot had to be flattened to make way for another generation, another age group and an entirely new set of families.
Still, it might be as well to just let them continue since this is the way of the world. We are definitely heading in the right direction and it's full steam ahead as they say in sea-going, nautical terms. It just feels as though this remarkable re-construction project is taking for ever. In 50 years time some of us may or may not be here to watch the fruits of their labours and that could be a major source of frustration.
Shortly after the Second World War a brand new housing revolution in Britain saw the rise of prefabs and soaring council flat towers that were built to last. Some perished because of their age and others were blown up by men who were given permission to do so, crumbling to the ground like a set of dominoes. How often have you seen those imposing tower blocks detonated with what seem like bomb disposal experts? A black puff of smoke billows into the air, as they tumble to the ground almost helplessly.
Anyway across the road they're still ploughing on with the Travel Lodge hotel. Yes folks we are now surrounded by hotels. Please do come to sunny Manor House on Sea although we may be hundreds of miles from any signs of sea. Apparently you can now book for Christmas should you wish to do so and the views from your hotel balcony are truly out of this world. For instance there are the eye catching red Route Master buses on their way to Wood Green, the picture postcard lorries rumbling by every second and then the cars with their sleek looking bonnets and purring engines. It's just perfect.
So there you have it folks. Just a very revealing insight into the current housing arrangements in Manor House. Why wouldn't you want to contemplate a relaxing break next to bullish bulldozers and vast winches hanging in the air before swinging effortlessly towards Finsbury Park? Ah, London suburbia at its most efficient and effective. Oh for the thoughts of that eminent architect and designer Sir Norman Foster.
At some point this century they'll finish what they started some time ago. By my reckoning it should be some time before another Labour government is elected or perhaps some time in the distant future when none of us will be around to see its completion. The nagging suspicion is that the Woodberry Down estate in Manor House is still very much a work in progress. In fact this whole housing development just seems to go on and on but we can live in the hope that finally one day it'll be declared as well and truly done, the finished article.
Meanwhile the show goes on and what a show this is. Throughout the day we are constantly subjected to noises, clanking noises, metallic noises, grating noises that are designed to annoy us, getting on our nerves, trying our patience, outraging us and possibly tempting us to complain to the council for what seems the umpteenth time.
What we have here is a sometimes deafening cacophony, a resounding orchestra of drills, hammers, instruments of demolition and major upheaval for all concerned. The fact is that some of us have reached the end of our tether and we've had enough. There is an incessant chorus of cracking, smashing, clattering, industrial machinery that looks as if it's been lent to the workers at Woodbury Down Estate by some very kind and generous BBC film crew working on some very ambitious sci- fi series.
Realistically, the local residents around here may be resigned to their fate. There's isn't a great deal they can do about this, at times, insufferable racket apart from perhaps fold their arms, become hardened to circumstances that are completely beyond their control and just watch with anger in the hope that one day tools are downed and we can all go back to living the quiet life.
In the general scheme of things most of us would just have been extremely tolerant in the face of this relentless assault on our senses, that audio system that keeps blaring away with seemingly not a single thought or consideration for any of those families with babies or the elderly who must be up in arms.
To the fascinated onlooker this dramatic disfigurement of our landscape is not quite the sight you'd be too keen to wake up to in the morning. Finally though, the whole look and appearance of this area does look slightly more aesthetically pleasing than it might have done a couple of years ago. Those huge and thick supporting blocks of concrete have been firmly driven into the ground and the gentlemen in lime green hi viz jackets seem to be enjoying themselves.
All day long the engineers, labourers, plasterers, painters and decorators spend most of their day outside in the late summer heat and rain, either wandering, treading gently or bending down to pick up their knives, saws, tape measures, theodolites and mallets as if it were second nature. They keep wandering, hovering, stopping, assessing the ground they happen to be working on and then shouting, yelling, singing and laughing. It's rather like listening to some awful music you wish you could switch off immediately.
Outside us are massive fleets of lorries who seem to be giving birth to yet more lorries. In fact there are times when our buildings remind you of one giant sized car park. Around the back from where we live, the Berkeley company responsible for this housing renaissance are clocking on and off for work. Men in yellow hard hats and high viz jackets keep coming and going as if determined to get the work finished as soon as possible.
For a number of years now this has been what it's like to witness the regrowth of a North London suburb that, although perfectly habitable, certainly looked as if it needed some tender loving care. What we didn't know though at the time of course is that some of the ageing flats were beginning to look past their sell by date. In fact the whole lot had to be flattened to make way for another generation, another age group and an entirely new set of families.
Still, it might be as well to just let them continue since this is the way of the world. We are definitely heading in the right direction and it's full steam ahead as they say in sea-going, nautical terms. It just feels as though this remarkable re-construction project is taking for ever. In 50 years time some of us may or may not be here to watch the fruits of their labours and that could be a major source of frustration.
Shortly after the Second World War a brand new housing revolution in Britain saw the rise of prefabs and soaring council flat towers that were built to last. Some perished because of their age and others were blown up by men who were given permission to do so, crumbling to the ground like a set of dominoes. How often have you seen those imposing tower blocks detonated with what seem like bomb disposal experts? A black puff of smoke billows into the air, as they tumble to the ground almost helplessly.
Anyway across the road they're still ploughing on with the Travel Lodge hotel. Yes folks we are now surrounded by hotels. Please do come to sunny Manor House on Sea although we may be hundreds of miles from any signs of sea. Apparently you can now book for Christmas should you wish to do so and the views from your hotel balcony are truly out of this world. For instance there are the eye catching red Route Master buses on their way to Wood Green, the picture postcard lorries rumbling by every second and then the cars with their sleek looking bonnets and purring engines. It's just perfect.
So there you have it folks. Just a very revealing insight into the current housing arrangements in Manor House. Why wouldn't you want to contemplate a relaxing break next to bullish bulldozers and vast winches hanging in the air before swinging effortlessly towards Finsbury Park? Ah, London suburbia at its most efficient and effective. Oh for the thoughts of that eminent architect and designer Sir Norman Foster.
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