The Budget.
You've had plenty of time to digest the fall out from Brexit, dwelt thoughtfully on our relatively new Prime Minister Boris Johnson and you may never find out how long it'll take our vastly talented engineers and construction workers to finish the HS2 rail network. But you can be sure that by the end of today you'll certainly know how much a packet of cigarettes or a bottle of scotch and whisky might set you back on your intermittent visits to your local newsagents.
Today the new Chancellor of the Exchequer Rishi Sunak held up that familiar red box containing all of those vitally important documents and folders which provide Britain with its annual Budget. The Budget is one of those flagship events in the political calendar where politicians keep us in a state of almost unbearable intrigue about the economic future of the country. They assess the balance sheets, survey the long list of taxes, the endless numbers game and impossibly complicated mathematics that do their utmost to make ourselves feel as though we're much poorer than we thought we were.
In the light of recent floods which have severely disrupted the lives of millions of people across Britain and torn a gaping hole in the agricultural industry, the Government have promised to pump millions and billions into the coffers in an effort to repair the damage and now face the thankless task of breathing new life back into the villages, cities and towns who have suffered so painfully in recent months.
And then there is that eternally emotive issue of the NHS, undoubtedly one of the most precious treasures. The dreadful emergence of the coronavirus as one of the most debilitating diseases to hit the country in years, has thrown into sharp relief the severity of the condition which now threatens the immediate future of health care and the way in which the NHS has to be seen to respond in these difficult and emotionally challenging times.
We all know about the chronic waiting lists in hospitals across the country, the life and death emergency operations that have always seemingly bedevilled the NHS at every level. We are constantly being reminded and seen at first hand the stretchers in hospital corridors, the elderly who have been left to languish unforgivably in their beds in the same corridors. At times we can only look away in horror at the Victorian neglect, pain and suffering becoming more frequent as the months and years fly past.
But this is no impassioned party political rant on anybody's part just a recognition of the harsh reality of a society weighed down by criminal shortcomings in the infrastructure of a country. It is a criticism perhaps of a government that can barely cope under the pressure of its nerve racking drawbacks. We are always informed about crumbling schools, the heartbreaking disappearance of those wonderful old shops and department stores who can no longer break even or compete with its wealthier shopping mall counterparts. And then we become very despondent because we've no idea how things were allowed to deteriorate so dramatically.
Still, just for a while the comedians and the comediennes who have now presented Britain with its latest Budget, can sit back in their chaise longues and deep seated chesterfields luxuriously, slapping themselves on the back for another job well done. They will review their memorable one liners, the gallows humour gags and the hilarious sketches which have now left everybody rolling about in the aisles with uncontrollable laughter.
Our great and good Prime Minister Boris Johnson will probably brush back that dense foliage of blond hair from his forehead. He'll probably grin and grin, smirk and smirk and just look at perfect peace with himself. Johnson has finally got the job done and how satisfying must that be seen in any context. He's cracked Brexit, got everybody onside with him and the winds of prosperity are blowing through the shires, counties and cities with a most auspicious breeze.
Finally, the blond one who now lives in 10 Downing Street can finally kick off his shoes, plant his feet in his comfortable Hush Puppies slippers and just stare very proudly at his pregnant girlfriend. Do you know what. Let's break open a bottle of Chardonnay and just celebrate because things, to quote a former Prime Minister, are quite certainly getting better.
Then Johnson will walk down the stairs at 10 Downing Street and peer fondly at another Tory Prime Ministerial predecessor who maintained that the country had never had it so good. At this rate the balance of payments and the Gross Domestic Product that hold the nation's finances together may never have to be checked again at least in the foreseeable future. He'll take one look at Britain's thriving high tech industry, the glowing health of the white and blue collar industries and hardly believe how well things are going
Now Boris will point to the eternally productive output of Britain's manufacturing industry, congratulate himself on the far sighted initiatives taken by all communities across the country, the marvellous progress the country continues to make in the fields of both sport and art and then wonders why anybody would have the audacity to complain and criticise him quite unfairly. Factory orders are flooding in from far and wide, phenomenal profits are being made quite remarkably and who could possibly ask for more?
Back on the trading floors of the City of London, the numbers are stacking up very pleasingly, deals are being secured in both Hong Kong and Malaysia as we speak and before you can blink millions and billions are being poured into a once ailing British economy. We told you it would happen and it has. Brexit will now take us into golden dominions of power and influence previously thought unimaginable.
Today though the Chancellor, sipping quite contentedly on his tot of whisky next to him, pronounces himself as the hero of the hour. He also claimed that the job had been done parrotting the line quoted by his colleague and Prime Minister. For most of the nation the price of petrol in our cars could mean either the end of their driving years or just another small grievance about inflation. The Budget is the one day of the year when we take a very prudent look at our life savings and personal budgets and try to achieve some astonishing balancing act with our money.
For new chancellor Rishi Sunak this was a day of judgment, a time for laying the proverbial cards on the table and hoping that all the aces come up at the same time. You remember previous chancellors such as Ken Clarke who famously would down several whiskies, ease himself into his slippers and just look like a very capable hand at the tiller. The Budget has been announced. Dear old England. This is the way it is and this is the way it should always be. Smile, carry on and keep drinking coffee.
Wednesday, 11 March 2020
Sunday, 8 March 2020
Purim- the Jewish festival of the fancy dress season.
Purim- the Jewish festival of the fancy dress season.
Admit it. Your kids have been looking forward to this day for ages- or since the last major Jewish festival. They've been nagging you crazy to get the latest Batman or Superman costume since the beginning of the year and they won't leave you alone for a minute. This is a Jewish festival rich in symbolic promise, a festival laced decoratively in the tradition and history of Judaism. It is a festival that oozes joy, happiness, optimism and, essentially, fun.
Purim is that festival in question. On Tuesday the global multitudes who make up the worldwide Jewish population will dig out their fancy dress costumes, dancing, singing and smiling the day away without a care in that world. It is a day devoted to parody, masquerade, face pulling, childish exuberance and mildly effective alcohol because the whole idea of the exercise is to drink with moderately amusing quantities of alcohol. Or maybe that's only part of the experience.
For as long as any of us can remember Purim was always the festival where the kids threw off their inhibitions, hid the homework in the cupboard so that mum and dad could never find it then running up and down the streets and roads with that careless indifference to all the more critically important issues around their world. The masks will be revealed in all their gaudy ghastliness and for hours before the big day, parents will have their work cut out painting, sticking and sewing all kinds of paraphernalia onto their beloved offspring.
And then in the evening the Purim service will be concluded by a hearty expression of hatred, disapproval and opprobrium at one evil figure. The kids will all get together and launch into a noisy tirade of booing and hissing at Haman, that bloke who carried out all of those dastardly deeds during Biblical times. They'll be stamping and stomping their feet in a ritualistic display of their contempt of Haman, their unashamed distaste and dislike of everything that Haman stands for. Haman is really the nastiest piece of work, a detestable and execrable figure who did nothing but upset and antagonise the Jewish people.
It's time to shoot down Haman in flames, cut him down to size and make his life a complete misery because he's had ideas way above his station and has to be dealt with. So while the children and their parents bite into that first wonderful mouthful of sweet Hamantaschen the rest of us will pay homage to another of those Jewish festivals where all that matters is having a great time and revelling in celebration.
Last Purim our synagogue(shul) gave some of us our first tantalising glimpse of Extinction Rebellion which at the time left us in a state of complete puzzlement. A gentleman, wearing a sandwich man board with the said slogan, proudly displayed his message to all and sundry. It was only later on in the month that we finally discovered what on earth he was wearing. Our friend was a fervent advocate of the environment, a man committed to a cleaner world, an eco warrior simply spreading the word about the purity of the fresh air that we breathe and no more poisonous gases and chemicals.
And so it is that the huge Jewish communities of Stamford Hill, Golders Green, Edgware and Hendon in the London conurbations will join together with their like minded families and friends in the rest of the country. Come the evening they'll be gathering in their hundreds of thousands and millions to read the Megillah, that very thought provoking and frequently hilarious book of commentaries on the dreaded Haman.
Even now though thoughts will be turning to the next Jewish festival. We are now on the cusp of spring and for those who simply can't wait to munch into their first matzo, Pesach will be skipping and gambolling into our consciousness like the greenest field of lambs. For the time being we await Tuesday morning because we feel sure that here in Manor House it'll be time to make way for the fancy dress mardi gras, children pretending to be the very cartoon figures that have always been an integral part of their lives for quite some time. Purim has a considerable amount to commend it, a time of raucous revelry and, above all, a day for the families of the world to unite as they've always done. Happy Purim everybody.
Admit it. Your kids have been looking forward to this day for ages- or since the last major Jewish festival. They've been nagging you crazy to get the latest Batman or Superman costume since the beginning of the year and they won't leave you alone for a minute. This is a Jewish festival rich in symbolic promise, a festival laced decoratively in the tradition and history of Judaism. It is a festival that oozes joy, happiness, optimism and, essentially, fun.
Purim is that festival in question. On Tuesday the global multitudes who make up the worldwide Jewish population will dig out their fancy dress costumes, dancing, singing and smiling the day away without a care in that world. It is a day devoted to parody, masquerade, face pulling, childish exuberance and mildly effective alcohol because the whole idea of the exercise is to drink with moderately amusing quantities of alcohol. Or maybe that's only part of the experience.
For as long as any of us can remember Purim was always the festival where the kids threw off their inhibitions, hid the homework in the cupboard so that mum and dad could never find it then running up and down the streets and roads with that careless indifference to all the more critically important issues around their world. The masks will be revealed in all their gaudy ghastliness and for hours before the big day, parents will have their work cut out painting, sticking and sewing all kinds of paraphernalia onto their beloved offspring.
And then in the evening the Purim service will be concluded by a hearty expression of hatred, disapproval and opprobrium at one evil figure. The kids will all get together and launch into a noisy tirade of booing and hissing at Haman, that bloke who carried out all of those dastardly deeds during Biblical times. They'll be stamping and stomping their feet in a ritualistic display of their contempt of Haman, their unashamed distaste and dislike of everything that Haman stands for. Haman is really the nastiest piece of work, a detestable and execrable figure who did nothing but upset and antagonise the Jewish people.
It's time to shoot down Haman in flames, cut him down to size and make his life a complete misery because he's had ideas way above his station and has to be dealt with. So while the children and their parents bite into that first wonderful mouthful of sweet Hamantaschen the rest of us will pay homage to another of those Jewish festivals where all that matters is having a great time and revelling in celebration.
Last Purim our synagogue(shul) gave some of us our first tantalising glimpse of Extinction Rebellion which at the time left us in a state of complete puzzlement. A gentleman, wearing a sandwich man board with the said slogan, proudly displayed his message to all and sundry. It was only later on in the month that we finally discovered what on earth he was wearing. Our friend was a fervent advocate of the environment, a man committed to a cleaner world, an eco warrior simply spreading the word about the purity of the fresh air that we breathe and no more poisonous gases and chemicals.
And so it is that the huge Jewish communities of Stamford Hill, Golders Green, Edgware and Hendon in the London conurbations will join together with their like minded families and friends in the rest of the country. Come the evening they'll be gathering in their hundreds of thousands and millions to read the Megillah, that very thought provoking and frequently hilarious book of commentaries on the dreaded Haman.
Even now though thoughts will be turning to the next Jewish festival. We are now on the cusp of spring and for those who simply can't wait to munch into their first matzo, Pesach will be skipping and gambolling into our consciousness like the greenest field of lambs. For the time being we await Tuesday morning because we feel sure that here in Manor House it'll be time to make way for the fancy dress mardi gras, children pretending to be the very cartoon figures that have always been an integral part of their lives for quite some time. Purim has a considerable amount to commend it, a time of raucous revelry and, above all, a day for the families of the world to unite as they've always done. Happy Purim everybody.
Thursday, 5 March 2020
Chelsea reach FA Cup quarter finals.
Chelsea reach FA Cup quarter finals
For Chelsea this has been a season of rich discoveries and positive experimentation. While the rest of the Premier League clubs continue to entrust their immediate futures at the feet of foreign players, Chelsea have turned back to more domestic roots for their continued welfare and success. Of course the widespread influence of European, African and South American footballers will always be welcomed with open arms. But the fact remains that bright and vibrant homegrown British talent has to be regarded as a fundamental necessity.
On Monday night the Chelsea of Mason Mount, Tammy Abraham, Callum- Hudson Odoi and, above all, the remarkable 18 year old Billy Gilmour had given Frank Lampard's new fangled, predominantly English attacking squad a healthy and avantgarde look. It was a throwback to the days of Stamford Bridge's favourite son Ray Wilkins when the West London conveyor belt at Chelsea also furnished the team with those other 1970s boulevardiers such as Charlie Cooke, Peter Osgood, Alan Hudson, Mickey Droy, Ian Hutchinson and Peter Bonetti.
But in the fifth round of this year's FA Cup, Chelsea rudely dented Liverpool's all conquering Premier League season by shoving the now Premier League champions elect out of this year's FA Cup. It was one of those evenings when you just knew that something totally out of the ordinary would happen because that's what the FA Cup does when you least expect it. Sometimes the FA Cup creeps up on you when perhaps you weren't looking and just surprises you.
On Saturday Liverpool arrived at Vicarage Road and assumed quite unnecessarily that all they had to do was to turn up on the day and hand out a customary hammering of Watford. What they couldn't have foreseen was a resounding 3-0 defeat at the hands of the buzzing Hornets. One jolt to the nervous system later Liverpool gave their convincing impersonation of a team slightly shaken and leaden footed by a severe body blow.
Fully hooded up and wrapped in his grey track suit, the bearded and bespectacled Jurgen Klopp, Liverpool's very likeable German boss, must have been privately cursing, muffling obscenities under his breath, wishing it was May and the Premier League was theirs to hold and cherish. Shortly though that Premier League title will almost certainly be Liverpool's for the taking and it could be in their possession sooner rather than later.
And yet on Monday evening Klopp's free flowing, fluent and utterly sophisticated Liverpool were once again left to hang out to dry by a Chelsea side full of worldly passing sequences, precision engineering and startling breakaways when Liverpool occasionally threatened to stamp their control on the game. In the early opening exchanges of the season when the August and September sunshine burnished us with very late tanning bursts, Chelsea blew Wolves away at Molineux and then proceeded to lose three home games as the season progressed.
But this year Chelsea moved into the quarter finals of this season's FA Cup with a trip to Leicester City at the King Power Stadium. Now the jury is still out on Chelsea because at sporadic moments during their Premier League season they seemed to have quite obviously flattered to deceive. After putting on trial a variety of Italians and a seemingly egotistical managerial genius by the name of Jose Mourinho, this now was the right time to go back to one of their own. It looks as though Chelsea will now finish the season quite impressively with a top six place almost guaranteed.
When Frank Lampard was a player under Jose Mourinho he would spend most of the games in a deeply advanced midfield attacking role, always looking for the unstoppable shot from distance before breaking cleverly into the penalty area and then scoring a whole host of goals with a splendid sense of timing. As manager Lampard is still very much the sorcerer's apprentice, mixing and matching his responsive youngsters while all the time devising new schemes and formulas for achieving maximum consistency.
Not for the first time this season the defensive bedrock of Kurt Zouma, Antonio Rudiger and Marcos Alonso spread utter composure and steadiness around their defence, gently carrying the ball out of defence and spotting colleagues with sure footed class. It was in midfield though where one young man stood head and shoulders above the rest and another ensured absolute visibility when some might have forgotten all about him.
There was 18 year old Billy Gilmour, fresh faced, angelic, confidence personified, full of vim, verve and fizzing vitality. Gilmour was the perfect connecting link in Chelsea's midfield, poised in possession, switching the play swiftly and craftily from one side of the pitch to the other while acutely aware of where his colleagues were going and creating space for those around him to run into.
Then there was Ross Barkley, surely one of the most well balanced, thoughtful and perceptive midfield players England has produced in recent times. When he was introduced to the Everton faithful as a teenage prodigy some of us predicted great things of Barkley. Frustratingly for both England and now Chelsea Barkley has faded from view after niggling injuries which have completely disrupted his career.
And yet with both Barkley, Gilmour and the ever streetwise Pedro fuelling the Chelsea engine room, this FA Cup contest against Liverpool was a convenient opportunity for the home side to demonstrate the natural skills they've always possessed both on and off the ball. Chelsea shifted the ball around a red wall of Liverpool shirts with a smoothness and panache that we always knew they had. There was an easy going rotation about their passing that reminded you of some of Dave Sexton's attractive Chelsea sides during the 1970s.
After a dazzling number of diagonal crossfield passes which sliced open both teams defences with frequent threats on goal. it was Chelsea who signalled their first intent on the game. There was a good deal of artistic dabbing and prodding from the Chelsea attack with Marcos Alonso sprinting down the flank, mischievously hovering around the Liverpool goal on more than one occasion.
Then there were the winning goals for the home side. Half way through the first half the Brazilian Willian, after a speculative shot from distance that was well saved by Liverpool goalkeeper Adrian, set his sights on goal again. A short and sweet period of lightning quick passes eventually fell to Willian who sent a powerful shot goalwards and although Adrian got a hand to it, he couldn't keep out the Willian thunderbolt.
During the second half Liverpool did suggest something of the attacking majesty that had served them so well throughout the Premier League season would not to be denied. For a while Neco Williams, Joe Gomez and Andrew Robertson began to ruffle blue Chelsea feathers but then looked as though they hadn't put enough in the petrol tank. Fabinho and the always quick thinking Adam Lallana did look as though Chelsea would not be having their way after all.
With minutes to go Chelsea's attacking artillery would stoke up one more all out, sustained attack. The passes were gathering in force, blue outwitting red with eye catching movements. Then the man who could still provide England manager Gareth Southgate with a very persuasive case for European Championship inclusion in Euro 2020 this summer, scored one of the goals of the season so far.
Ross Barkley, picking the ball up on the half way line, hunched his shoulders, kept and held the ball with an almost propietorial air, shrugging off defenders insolently and then running with the ball at top speed towards the Liverpool goal. Barkley knew what he was going to do and so did the rest of us. He ran and ran before looking up briefly on the edge of the Liverpool penalty area and then firing a low, accurately struck shot that was in the back of the Liverpool net before Adrian, the Liverpool keeper had had time to adjust himself. Game over and Liverpool out of the FA Cup.
While never a mini season crisis, Liverpool have now received back to back defeats and it would seem that the team who once single handedly dominated English football with umpteen League titles, will have to content themselves with just one trophy. It's been exactly 30 years now and if Bill Shankly and Bob Paisley are watching this Liverpool from heavenly heights then maybe they would have regarded the FA Cup as a luxury anyway. Even Jurgen Klopp could be forgiven this minor blip.
For Chelsea this has been a season of rich discoveries and positive experimentation. While the rest of the Premier League clubs continue to entrust their immediate futures at the feet of foreign players, Chelsea have turned back to more domestic roots for their continued welfare and success. Of course the widespread influence of European, African and South American footballers will always be welcomed with open arms. But the fact remains that bright and vibrant homegrown British talent has to be regarded as a fundamental necessity.
On Monday night the Chelsea of Mason Mount, Tammy Abraham, Callum- Hudson Odoi and, above all, the remarkable 18 year old Billy Gilmour had given Frank Lampard's new fangled, predominantly English attacking squad a healthy and avantgarde look. It was a throwback to the days of Stamford Bridge's favourite son Ray Wilkins when the West London conveyor belt at Chelsea also furnished the team with those other 1970s boulevardiers such as Charlie Cooke, Peter Osgood, Alan Hudson, Mickey Droy, Ian Hutchinson and Peter Bonetti.
But in the fifth round of this year's FA Cup, Chelsea rudely dented Liverpool's all conquering Premier League season by shoving the now Premier League champions elect out of this year's FA Cup. It was one of those evenings when you just knew that something totally out of the ordinary would happen because that's what the FA Cup does when you least expect it. Sometimes the FA Cup creeps up on you when perhaps you weren't looking and just surprises you.
On Saturday Liverpool arrived at Vicarage Road and assumed quite unnecessarily that all they had to do was to turn up on the day and hand out a customary hammering of Watford. What they couldn't have foreseen was a resounding 3-0 defeat at the hands of the buzzing Hornets. One jolt to the nervous system later Liverpool gave their convincing impersonation of a team slightly shaken and leaden footed by a severe body blow.
Fully hooded up and wrapped in his grey track suit, the bearded and bespectacled Jurgen Klopp, Liverpool's very likeable German boss, must have been privately cursing, muffling obscenities under his breath, wishing it was May and the Premier League was theirs to hold and cherish. Shortly though that Premier League title will almost certainly be Liverpool's for the taking and it could be in their possession sooner rather than later.
And yet on Monday evening Klopp's free flowing, fluent and utterly sophisticated Liverpool were once again left to hang out to dry by a Chelsea side full of worldly passing sequences, precision engineering and startling breakaways when Liverpool occasionally threatened to stamp their control on the game. In the early opening exchanges of the season when the August and September sunshine burnished us with very late tanning bursts, Chelsea blew Wolves away at Molineux and then proceeded to lose three home games as the season progressed.
But this year Chelsea moved into the quarter finals of this season's FA Cup with a trip to Leicester City at the King Power Stadium. Now the jury is still out on Chelsea because at sporadic moments during their Premier League season they seemed to have quite obviously flattered to deceive. After putting on trial a variety of Italians and a seemingly egotistical managerial genius by the name of Jose Mourinho, this now was the right time to go back to one of their own. It looks as though Chelsea will now finish the season quite impressively with a top six place almost guaranteed.
When Frank Lampard was a player under Jose Mourinho he would spend most of the games in a deeply advanced midfield attacking role, always looking for the unstoppable shot from distance before breaking cleverly into the penalty area and then scoring a whole host of goals with a splendid sense of timing. As manager Lampard is still very much the sorcerer's apprentice, mixing and matching his responsive youngsters while all the time devising new schemes and formulas for achieving maximum consistency.
Not for the first time this season the defensive bedrock of Kurt Zouma, Antonio Rudiger and Marcos Alonso spread utter composure and steadiness around their defence, gently carrying the ball out of defence and spotting colleagues with sure footed class. It was in midfield though where one young man stood head and shoulders above the rest and another ensured absolute visibility when some might have forgotten all about him.
There was 18 year old Billy Gilmour, fresh faced, angelic, confidence personified, full of vim, verve and fizzing vitality. Gilmour was the perfect connecting link in Chelsea's midfield, poised in possession, switching the play swiftly and craftily from one side of the pitch to the other while acutely aware of where his colleagues were going and creating space for those around him to run into.
Then there was Ross Barkley, surely one of the most well balanced, thoughtful and perceptive midfield players England has produced in recent times. When he was introduced to the Everton faithful as a teenage prodigy some of us predicted great things of Barkley. Frustratingly for both England and now Chelsea Barkley has faded from view after niggling injuries which have completely disrupted his career.
And yet with both Barkley, Gilmour and the ever streetwise Pedro fuelling the Chelsea engine room, this FA Cup contest against Liverpool was a convenient opportunity for the home side to demonstrate the natural skills they've always possessed both on and off the ball. Chelsea shifted the ball around a red wall of Liverpool shirts with a smoothness and panache that we always knew they had. There was an easy going rotation about their passing that reminded you of some of Dave Sexton's attractive Chelsea sides during the 1970s.
After a dazzling number of diagonal crossfield passes which sliced open both teams defences with frequent threats on goal. it was Chelsea who signalled their first intent on the game. There was a good deal of artistic dabbing and prodding from the Chelsea attack with Marcos Alonso sprinting down the flank, mischievously hovering around the Liverpool goal on more than one occasion.
Then there were the winning goals for the home side. Half way through the first half the Brazilian Willian, after a speculative shot from distance that was well saved by Liverpool goalkeeper Adrian, set his sights on goal again. A short and sweet period of lightning quick passes eventually fell to Willian who sent a powerful shot goalwards and although Adrian got a hand to it, he couldn't keep out the Willian thunderbolt.
During the second half Liverpool did suggest something of the attacking majesty that had served them so well throughout the Premier League season would not to be denied. For a while Neco Williams, Joe Gomez and Andrew Robertson began to ruffle blue Chelsea feathers but then looked as though they hadn't put enough in the petrol tank. Fabinho and the always quick thinking Adam Lallana did look as though Chelsea would not be having their way after all.
With minutes to go Chelsea's attacking artillery would stoke up one more all out, sustained attack. The passes were gathering in force, blue outwitting red with eye catching movements. Then the man who could still provide England manager Gareth Southgate with a very persuasive case for European Championship inclusion in Euro 2020 this summer, scored one of the goals of the season so far.
Ross Barkley, picking the ball up on the half way line, hunched his shoulders, kept and held the ball with an almost propietorial air, shrugging off defenders insolently and then running with the ball at top speed towards the Liverpool goal. Barkley knew what he was going to do and so did the rest of us. He ran and ran before looking up briefly on the edge of the Liverpool penalty area and then firing a low, accurately struck shot that was in the back of the Liverpool net before Adrian, the Liverpool keeper had had time to adjust himself. Game over and Liverpool out of the FA Cup.
While never a mini season crisis, Liverpool have now received back to back defeats and it would seem that the team who once single handedly dominated English football with umpteen League titles, will have to content themselves with just one trophy. It's been exactly 30 years now and if Bill Shankly and Bob Paisley are watching this Liverpool from heavenly heights then maybe they would have regarded the FA Cup as a luxury anyway. Even Jurgen Klopp could be forgiven this minor blip.
Tuesday, 3 March 2020
It's the gym experience.
It's the gym experience.
You were always wary of the gym experience since the rest of Britain and the world think nothing of signing up for the gym at the beginning of the year and besides it had to be done. Every year those well intentioned members of the public who wake up on the first day of a New Year convince themselves that they're vastly overweight and that if they renew their yearly subscription for the gym then by the summer holiday season they'll have an impressively well defined six pack stomach, legs like Usain Bolt and generally feel fitter than they've ever felt before.
So it was that you suddenly became aware that your midriff was beginning to expand and protrude rather disturbingly for anybody's liking. You'd kept up a regular running routine and considered yourself to be reasonably self disciplined when it came to working out with your body. But recently you had become aware that an asthmatic cough had rendered such an activity more or less pointless. Your sensitive chest felt very vulnerable and there seemed little in the way of benefit to be gained by running around the local streets amid blustery winds and freezing cold.
In the middle of January you took yourself around the corner to a relatively new gym that looked very tempting and after careful consideration you knew that you had to have the courage of your convictions. After much resistance and a refusal to embrace the gym experience you gave in and found yourself a new member of the gym. There comes a point in a man's life when a man's got to do what a man's got to do. It was time to consign the running and jogging regimen to the cupboard of history- at least for a while.
Now this is how my local gym works. Issued with a specific code number you tap in your code and then enter what can only be described as a space age pod. The perspex doors open up and you step very promptly into the pod. The Doctor Who tardis analogy is perhaps very real since that's exactly what it feels like. Inside the tardis you patiently wait for the pod to close before the entrance hums very quietly before allowing you to walk inside the hallowed portals or should that be a pod.
This is the moment of revelation, an HG Wells scenario, an exercise factory, acres of electronic equipment, machinery as far as the eye can see. You'd heard rumours about the gym and it all looked like too much hard work. Why go to all of that trouble of puffing and panting, sweating and aching when it was much simpler to go for a run and you didn't have to spend a penny on that kind of exercise? It all looked very supernatural and ever so slightly daunting at first but then you recognised the health advantages to be had, the rush of adrenaline and that wonderful sense of satisfaction after that first rigorous work out. But then you felt obliged to slow down, to pace yourself and simply not overdo it.
You trotted over to a series of bikes wondering all the while whether it was all the worth the effort. Your mind went back to a family cruise holiday where you first discovered the simple joys of riding a gym bike. Surely it couldn't be as straightforward as that or could it? Easing your feet onto the challenging pedals nothing could be easier. And so it was that you started pedalling away frantically before establishing your own pace and rhythm. At first you experimented with a half an hour spurt of energy and then gradually increased the time spent on the bike. This would be a piece of the proverbial cake. Nothing to it.
And then you wandered over to the rest of the facilities where your eyes would behold all manner of of gym hardware, a mass of metallic clanking, crashing and clattering weights that thud down on the ground and echo around most of the gym for 24 hours every single day of the week. You glance at the stretching, the punishing purgatory of it all, the face pulling around you, young and old men and women alike striving after the body beautiful. You can only admire the stamina sapping, hugely energetic folk, pumping pulleys and levers, steel ropes yanked to the most torturous extreme and finally, quite joyously, you stumble across the rowing machine where now you find muscles encased in your shoulders that you'd completely forgotten about. Sir Steve Redgrave eat your heart out and Matthew Pinsent had better not rest on his laurels. If you don't have a dream as the song once suggested.
You were always wary of the gym experience since the rest of Britain and the world think nothing of signing up for the gym at the beginning of the year and besides it had to be done. Every year those well intentioned members of the public who wake up on the first day of a New Year convince themselves that they're vastly overweight and that if they renew their yearly subscription for the gym then by the summer holiday season they'll have an impressively well defined six pack stomach, legs like Usain Bolt and generally feel fitter than they've ever felt before.
So it was that you suddenly became aware that your midriff was beginning to expand and protrude rather disturbingly for anybody's liking. You'd kept up a regular running routine and considered yourself to be reasonably self disciplined when it came to working out with your body. But recently you had become aware that an asthmatic cough had rendered such an activity more or less pointless. Your sensitive chest felt very vulnerable and there seemed little in the way of benefit to be gained by running around the local streets amid blustery winds and freezing cold.
In the middle of January you took yourself around the corner to a relatively new gym that looked very tempting and after careful consideration you knew that you had to have the courage of your convictions. After much resistance and a refusal to embrace the gym experience you gave in and found yourself a new member of the gym. There comes a point in a man's life when a man's got to do what a man's got to do. It was time to consign the running and jogging regimen to the cupboard of history- at least for a while.
Now this is how my local gym works. Issued with a specific code number you tap in your code and then enter what can only be described as a space age pod. The perspex doors open up and you step very promptly into the pod. The Doctor Who tardis analogy is perhaps very real since that's exactly what it feels like. Inside the tardis you patiently wait for the pod to close before the entrance hums very quietly before allowing you to walk inside the hallowed portals or should that be a pod.
This is the moment of revelation, an HG Wells scenario, an exercise factory, acres of electronic equipment, machinery as far as the eye can see. You'd heard rumours about the gym and it all looked like too much hard work. Why go to all of that trouble of puffing and panting, sweating and aching when it was much simpler to go for a run and you didn't have to spend a penny on that kind of exercise? It all looked very supernatural and ever so slightly daunting at first but then you recognised the health advantages to be had, the rush of adrenaline and that wonderful sense of satisfaction after that first rigorous work out. But then you felt obliged to slow down, to pace yourself and simply not overdo it.
You trotted over to a series of bikes wondering all the while whether it was all the worth the effort. Your mind went back to a family cruise holiday where you first discovered the simple joys of riding a gym bike. Surely it couldn't be as straightforward as that or could it? Easing your feet onto the challenging pedals nothing could be easier. And so it was that you started pedalling away frantically before establishing your own pace and rhythm. At first you experimented with a half an hour spurt of energy and then gradually increased the time spent on the bike. This would be a piece of the proverbial cake. Nothing to it.
And then you wandered over to the rest of the facilities where your eyes would behold all manner of of gym hardware, a mass of metallic clanking, crashing and clattering weights that thud down on the ground and echo around most of the gym for 24 hours every single day of the week. You glance at the stretching, the punishing purgatory of it all, the face pulling around you, young and old men and women alike striving after the body beautiful. You can only admire the stamina sapping, hugely energetic folk, pumping pulleys and levers, steel ropes yanked to the most torturous extreme and finally, quite joyously, you stumble across the rowing machine where now you find muscles encased in your shoulders that you'd completely forgotten about. Sir Steve Redgrave eat your heart out and Matthew Pinsent had better not rest on his laurels. If you don't have a dream as the song once suggested.
Saturday, 29 February 2020
It's 29th February- a leap year.
It's 29th February- a leap year.
You may have taken a look at your calendar and wondered whether you were imagining things. You must have known that we were approaching the end of February but not sure what day it was. Then you might have blinked once and overlooked the fact that it was indeed the last day of the month. But hold on it isn't quite March yet so it's best to relax for another day and contemplate the month that ushers us quietly into the spring equinox. It'll be the season of cuckoos singing their first melodies and a new set of green clothes draping themselves around the branches of blossoming trees.
A stunning array of cherry blossom will make its presence felt and everybody will finally convince themselves that the chilly blasts of winter are now history. But there's still the little matter of the last day of February to attend before we march into March and stride purposefully towards April.
The daffodils have yet to grace us with their bright yellow complexion and the spring lawnmowers are yet to be dragged out of the garden shed. So where are we? It's the 29th February and that can only mean one thing. It's a leap year and that can only mean one thing. An extra day has been added onto the end of the month and for the superstitious this could mean anything. In the general scheme of things it just means that the shortest month of the year has been extended by another day. This could be an encouraging omen for some while others will be dreading today if only because they might have missed a birthday or several.
So what happens to those who celebrate their birthday on the 29th February? Do they complain to some high authority in no uncertain terms since leap years occur only once in every four years? Or do they wait another four years to be accepted into the fold of those who age another year? Maybe they mark their special day on the day before or after just for the sheer fun of it. Here is the dilemma. How do those people born on this day of this month actually fill the day because a birthday should indicate the day of your birth? This sounds like a case of being caught up in the middle of nowhere.
There are important decisions to be made since who can look forward to a birthday that doesn't really exist numerically? It is dreadfully confusing and perhaps you should be left to your own devices and just throw the party of a lifetime among family and friends. Whose idea was it to invent the Gregorian calendar when that calendar so spitefully deprives you of a birthday? Or maybe not. Sometimes you've just got to go with your gut instinct and hope nobody minds.
Outside, the last of the gender based storms are whistling their last tune hopefully and the first day of the March is literally hours away. Bravo. But then we realise that we've got to take a leap of faith right over the leap year. There has to be an acceptance that Easter may be earlier or later depending on your point of view and the Jewish festival of Pesach falls on a bizarrely early time of the month.
For those whose birthday coincides with Christmas Day or who simply forget what day or date it may be over the festive period, some of us will become ever so slightly disoriented. Time can often be immaterial and besides we can always glance back to our calendar in the hope that the week hasn't flown away.
The reality is of course that there are still those of us who genuinely forget what day it is during the Bank Holidays even though we should know. The weekend suddenly turns into the longest weekend and briefly the day leaves us in a state of temporary flux and absent mindedness. We awake on the Monday of the Bank Holiday ready to throw on our working clothes only to find that this is the one day when we should be relaxing, taking it easy and just indulging in a spot of decorating or gardening.
Even so today, lest we forget, is the 29th February and there may be some who may disregard the event without a single thought. So here we are on the final day of the month of this leap year and according to the calendar your birthday will have to be postponed for a more convenient day of the year. You may be questioning this unfortunate lapse in this astrological time frame but so what? It's only the one day of the month. You could pretend that it's March and besides it's stopped raining and there's a fleeting glimpse of spring sunshine. Yippee!
You may have taken a look at your calendar and wondered whether you were imagining things. You must have known that we were approaching the end of February but not sure what day it was. Then you might have blinked once and overlooked the fact that it was indeed the last day of the month. But hold on it isn't quite March yet so it's best to relax for another day and contemplate the month that ushers us quietly into the spring equinox. It'll be the season of cuckoos singing their first melodies and a new set of green clothes draping themselves around the branches of blossoming trees.
A stunning array of cherry blossom will make its presence felt and everybody will finally convince themselves that the chilly blasts of winter are now history. But there's still the little matter of the last day of February to attend before we march into March and stride purposefully towards April.
The daffodils have yet to grace us with their bright yellow complexion and the spring lawnmowers are yet to be dragged out of the garden shed. So where are we? It's the 29th February and that can only mean one thing. It's a leap year and that can only mean one thing. An extra day has been added onto the end of the month and for the superstitious this could mean anything. In the general scheme of things it just means that the shortest month of the year has been extended by another day. This could be an encouraging omen for some while others will be dreading today if only because they might have missed a birthday or several.
So what happens to those who celebrate their birthday on the 29th February? Do they complain to some high authority in no uncertain terms since leap years occur only once in every four years? Or do they wait another four years to be accepted into the fold of those who age another year? Maybe they mark their special day on the day before or after just for the sheer fun of it. Here is the dilemma. How do those people born on this day of this month actually fill the day because a birthday should indicate the day of your birth? This sounds like a case of being caught up in the middle of nowhere.
There are important decisions to be made since who can look forward to a birthday that doesn't really exist numerically? It is dreadfully confusing and perhaps you should be left to your own devices and just throw the party of a lifetime among family and friends. Whose idea was it to invent the Gregorian calendar when that calendar so spitefully deprives you of a birthday? Or maybe not. Sometimes you've just got to go with your gut instinct and hope nobody minds.
Outside, the last of the gender based storms are whistling their last tune hopefully and the first day of the March is literally hours away. Bravo. But then we realise that we've got to take a leap of faith right over the leap year. There has to be an acceptance that Easter may be earlier or later depending on your point of view and the Jewish festival of Pesach falls on a bizarrely early time of the month.
For those whose birthday coincides with Christmas Day or who simply forget what day or date it may be over the festive period, some of us will become ever so slightly disoriented. Time can often be immaterial and besides we can always glance back to our calendar in the hope that the week hasn't flown away.
The reality is of course that there are still those of us who genuinely forget what day it is during the Bank Holidays even though we should know. The weekend suddenly turns into the longest weekend and briefly the day leaves us in a state of temporary flux and absent mindedness. We awake on the Monday of the Bank Holiday ready to throw on our working clothes only to find that this is the one day when we should be relaxing, taking it easy and just indulging in a spot of decorating or gardening.
Even so today, lest we forget, is the 29th February and there may be some who may disregard the event without a single thought. So here we are on the final day of the month of this leap year and according to the calendar your birthday will have to be postponed for a more convenient day of the year. You may be questioning this unfortunate lapse in this astrological time frame but so what? It's only the one day of the month. You could pretend that it's March and besides it's stopped raining and there's a fleeting glimpse of spring sunshine. Yippee!
Wednesday, 26 February 2020
Snow and ice on the way or maybe not.
Snow and ice on the way or maybe not.
At some point during the winter we knew it would happen eventually. Or perhaps we were hoping that it wouldn't happen and all the rumours were totally untrue. Here in Britain very little in the way of preparations or contingency plans have been made. We've just got to hope that when the said event does take place it won't bring the whole country to a complete standstill.
Now according to those at the British weather centre tomorrow it'll snow all day or possibly rain at the same time which could cause inevitable chaos, disruption and no small amount of inconvenience to those who may have to catch the early bus or train to work, college, school or university. It is at times like this when you begin to wonder how we coped in the Victorian or Edwardian era when the sight of horse and cart or barouche would lift the spirits before ploughing through thick layers of snow, a time when life was much slower and there weren't as many leaves on any railway line.
Still, we'll all get up tomorrow morning, look out of our windows and sigh with varying degrees of pleasure or even anguish and pretend that all is well in the world. We'll marvel at the pretty picturesqueness of it all, turn over the duvet and blankets and think about going straight back to sleep. Surely not the snow again. It shouldn't really snow in Britain because the snow is far more synonymous with the Alps and countries such as Switzerland, France, Austria and Italy. But then we realise that of course it snows in Britain but only in isolated spells when most of us aren't ready for it.
Across the land the nation will pull on its traditional layers of thick pullovers, natty scarves, heartwarming coats and just get on with the business of everyday living. We'll scrape off the mini mountains of snow that have collected on our car windscreens, chop off lumps of the white stuff that may have accumulated on our bike handlebars and then trudge our way along the road for the day's workaday responsibilities.
And then it'll hit us with a shivering realisation. The complexities of the morning will unravel rather like the most idyllic picture we're ever likely to see. How long will it take us to get to work? Will the bosses be suitably sympathetic or how on earth are we going to get home and how long will that arduous journey take? Snow tends to bring with it all manner of logistical problems before we've even had time to brush our teeth in the morning.
The truth is of course that snow in Britain invariably catches us off our guard and most of us simply don't know what to do when it falls with a vengeance. This time we've been warned in advance although this always seems to be the case anyway. We'll stumble out of our homes, toast in hand and car keys in the other, hoping against hope that we've got this one under control. Then we'll tread very gingerly in case we slip over and then there are the roads and streets to think of.
Now this is the point when our day begins to resembles a military operation. Either by car or bus travelling becomes a major obstacle. Suddenly the morning turns into some very tiresome army exercise where all of us have to wait for hour upon hour in whatever your chosen method of transport. This is probably the moment when we either lose patience with the heavy traffic in front of us or we simply close our eyes and long for the nightmare to end. There's no other description for it. We're stuck.
By some ridiculously late hour we eventually turn up for work, school, college or university, seething and cursing, steam pouring from our collective ears when some smart alec comes out with what can only be described as the sarcastic remarks you must have heard a million times. Don't tell me. You're late because of the snow. What a telling observation on their part. Tell us something we didn't already know.
In recent winters Britain seems to have got off lightly with the snow so to speak. Last winter the country had to cope with unusual amounts of sleet and occasional bouts of snow which seemed to melt on the ground immediately after a night of heavy rain. There were no storms as such certainly not the kind with names of men or women to trouble us. But the cold snap did bite on more than one occasion which necessitated gloves at all times in case our fingers developed frost bite.
Regrettably though tonight could be one of the coldest this winter since the Ice Age. Seriously though you'll have to tell your children to get out the toboggans or tea trays because tomorrow kids you'll be sliding to school in tons of snow. Tomorrow folks it'll officially be considered as sleigh day. Then the thought may occur to us that your school may have to close tomorrow because the central heating isn't working, the pipes are blocked and the kids may have to cultivate new friendships on either Facebook or Twitter.
But then again we could always just stay at home, working from home, playing umpteen games of Monopoly or catching up on our extensive in boxes of e-mails from companies you've never heard of and never hope to hear of again. Outside though you could be forgiven for thinking that it was Christmas when quite clearly it isn't. The roads will become veritable carpets of snow, the pavements mini ice rinks and the milkman or woman simply indistinguishable. How often though have we been proven wrong?
And so tomorrow morning will arrive bright and early, the rooftops of houses quaintly decorated with wondrous ridges of white snow, gleeful children screaming with joy and then millions of young gloves proceeding to chuck snowballs at each other as has been the case for almost as long as some of us can remember. Then the predictable snowman with a carrot for a nose and sultanas for eyes will appear before our eyes and we'll all greet the snow with that wide eyed delight that we've always reserved for snow even though some of us may think otherwise. It may be winter outside but in my heart it's spring. Now that would make a great song.
At some point during the winter we knew it would happen eventually. Or perhaps we were hoping that it wouldn't happen and all the rumours were totally untrue. Here in Britain very little in the way of preparations or contingency plans have been made. We've just got to hope that when the said event does take place it won't bring the whole country to a complete standstill.
Now according to those at the British weather centre tomorrow it'll snow all day or possibly rain at the same time which could cause inevitable chaos, disruption and no small amount of inconvenience to those who may have to catch the early bus or train to work, college, school or university. It is at times like this when you begin to wonder how we coped in the Victorian or Edwardian era when the sight of horse and cart or barouche would lift the spirits before ploughing through thick layers of snow, a time when life was much slower and there weren't as many leaves on any railway line.
Still, we'll all get up tomorrow morning, look out of our windows and sigh with varying degrees of pleasure or even anguish and pretend that all is well in the world. We'll marvel at the pretty picturesqueness of it all, turn over the duvet and blankets and think about going straight back to sleep. Surely not the snow again. It shouldn't really snow in Britain because the snow is far more synonymous with the Alps and countries such as Switzerland, France, Austria and Italy. But then we realise that of course it snows in Britain but only in isolated spells when most of us aren't ready for it.
Across the land the nation will pull on its traditional layers of thick pullovers, natty scarves, heartwarming coats and just get on with the business of everyday living. We'll scrape off the mini mountains of snow that have collected on our car windscreens, chop off lumps of the white stuff that may have accumulated on our bike handlebars and then trudge our way along the road for the day's workaday responsibilities.
And then it'll hit us with a shivering realisation. The complexities of the morning will unravel rather like the most idyllic picture we're ever likely to see. How long will it take us to get to work? Will the bosses be suitably sympathetic or how on earth are we going to get home and how long will that arduous journey take? Snow tends to bring with it all manner of logistical problems before we've even had time to brush our teeth in the morning.
The truth is of course that snow in Britain invariably catches us off our guard and most of us simply don't know what to do when it falls with a vengeance. This time we've been warned in advance although this always seems to be the case anyway. We'll stumble out of our homes, toast in hand and car keys in the other, hoping against hope that we've got this one under control. Then we'll tread very gingerly in case we slip over and then there are the roads and streets to think of.
Now this is the point when our day begins to resembles a military operation. Either by car or bus travelling becomes a major obstacle. Suddenly the morning turns into some very tiresome army exercise where all of us have to wait for hour upon hour in whatever your chosen method of transport. This is probably the moment when we either lose patience with the heavy traffic in front of us or we simply close our eyes and long for the nightmare to end. There's no other description for it. We're stuck.
By some ridiculously late hour we eventually turn up for work, school, college or university, seething and cursing, steam pouring from our collective ears when some smart alec comes out with what can only be described as the sarcastic remarks you must have heard a million times. Don't tell me. You're late because of the snow. What a telling observation on their part. Tell us something we didn't already know.
In recent winters Britain seems to have got off lightly with the snow so to speak. Last winter the country had to cope with unusual amounts of sleet and occasional bouts of snow which seemed to melt on the ground immediately after a night of heavy rain. There were no storms as such certainly not the kind with names of men or women to trouble us. But the cold snap did bite on more than one occasion which necessitated gloves at all times in case our fingers developed frost bite.
Regrettably though tonight could be one of the coldest this winter since the Ice Age. Seriously though you'll have to tell your children to get out the toboggans or tea trays because tomorrow kids you'll be sliding to school in tons of snow. Tomorrow folks it'll officially be considered as sleigh day. Then the thought may occur to us that your school may have to close tomorrow because the central heating isn't working, the pipes are blocked and the kids may have to cultivate new friendships on either Facebook or Twitter.
But then again we could always just stay at home, working from home, playing umpteen games of Monopoly or catching up on our extensive in boxes of e-mails from companies you've never heard of and never hope to hear of again. Outside though you could be forgiven for thinking that it was Christmas when quite clearly it isn't. The roads will become veritable carpets of snow, the pavements mini ice rinks and the milkman or woman simply indistinguishable. How often though have we been proven wrong?
And so tomorrow morning will arrive bright and early, the rooftops of houses quaintly decorated with wondrous ridges of white snow, gleeful children screaming with joy and then millions of young gloves proceeding to chuck snowballs at each other as has been the case for almost as long as some of us can remember. Then the predictable snowman with a carrot for a nose and sultanas for eyes will appear before our eyes and we'll all greet the snow with that wide eyed delight that we've always reserved for snow even though some of us may think otherwise. It may be winter outside but in my heart it's spring. Now that would make a great song.
Sunday, 23 February 2020
The Gypsy King beats the Bronze Bomber- Tyson Fury knocks out Deontay Wilder in a heavyweight boxing thriller.
The Gypsy King beats the Bronze Bomber- Tyson Fury knocks out Deontay Wilder in a heavyweight boxing thriller.
Heavyweight boxing has often witnessed early mornings such as this one but rarely one that has been so brutal and bloodthirsty as this one. This was boxing at its most clinically decisive and utterly dramatic, one Englishman at the height of his powers while his American opponent was reeling and rocking like a pub drinker who refuses to listen to the landlord and simply finds himself thrown onto the pavement with only his pride hurt.
You were reminded of those halcyon days when Muhammad Ali would indulge in those hugely enjoyable displays of cabaret, tap dance and Hollywood vaudeville, when Ali teased, taunted and challenged his opponent to a game of psychological jiggery pokery. There was the relentless skipping, the light as a feather dancing on fleet feet, the cunning manoeuvring of his opponent to every corner and those graceful demolitions of George Foreman and Joe Frazier.
But last night in the fevered atmosphere of a Las Vegas boxing ring an Englishman by the name of Tyson Fury beat his American opponent Deontay Wilder in a wild blizzard of savage jabbing and a frightening fusillade of body shots that could almost be heard in Texas. Then there was a clumping, thudding barrage of body shots that invariably landed flush on Wilder's head before finally delivering that dramatic knockout blow in the seventh round. Tyson, complete with vivid green gloves, sent Wilder toppling into the ropes on a number of occasions and eventually Wilder, cut face now bleeding, was pulled away from this violent massacre as his corner thankfully threw in the towel.
From a brutally damaging first round when Fury charged into his American opponent like a caged tiger smelling red meat, this blood and thunder heavyweight contest looked as if it would only detain us briefly. Fury was fierce, ferocious, wildly swinging his punches to Wilder's head before then engaging in violent blows that seem to leave Wilder pleading for mercy. On more than one occasion Wilder was sent staggering to the canvas with bludgeoning, murderous jabs and powerful hooks that increased in both intensity and volume as the fight progressed.
In the second round Fury continued the onslaught this time weighing up his punches then raining down a torrent of jabs that connected beautifully and sending out the loudest of statements to Wilder's corner that this was no tea party. Fury meant business and when Wilder began to think that this would never be his night, Fury just launched another massacre. This would be boxing at its most patiently methodical for Fury where every punch seemed to drain the life force out of Wilder's resistance.
By round three Wilder was simply cowering and moving away swiftly away from the scene of the crime, a fighter whose carefully prepared mind games would just dissolve and melt away. Towards the end of the third round, a now besieged Wilder had now taken cover, holding up his gloves desperately and praying for the end of the fight. For the first time in the fight Wilder was knocked down, toppling over like a giant redwood tree that had been there for thousands of years.
In the fourth round, the measured authority of Fury's punching seemed to be dictating the inevitable outcome of this now very one sided heavyweight slugfest. Fury was now hammering home his supremacy, grappling and scuffling at times but always in perfect control. Fury had now got Wilder exactly where he wanted him, squirming in the corner like a child whose mother won't give them any pocket money or the right amount for sweets.
The fifth round almost had a primeval and fatal air about it as Fury's clubbing fists seemed to get stronger and harder. You were reminded of a factory worker clocking on for a day of businesslike toil and drudgery. Fury was now piling into his American opponent, smothering Wilder with beefy hits to the neck, head and the shoulders. It was boxing from the old days, the old fashioned fairground booths, giant, muscular prizefighters who showed a clean pair of fists before waving their arms about like Dutch windmills.
Round six was rather like the final curtain for Wilder, now crouching in the corner and almost pinned to the ropes as the Fury bombardment seemed to just build in momentum. Wilder's legs were now betraying him, as Fury pounded and battered the American almost senseless. It wasn't long before Wilder's corner were preparing their surrender. This would be Wilder's last hurrah, the coup de grace and now he was just living on borrowed time.
In what would be the final and seventh round for the American, Fury blasted away at Wilder, fists pumping away almost heartlessly, the Englishman bobbing, ducking and dodging the occasional bullet from Wilder. Now Fury drilled home a whole flurry of punches that left Wilder begging for the intervention of the referee. One final punch from Fury took Wilder's legs away from him and that was it for the bullish American.
So an Englishman called Tyson Fury reclaimed the heavyweight title away from Deontay Wilder who must have been longing for the refuge for the treatment room at the end of the fight. It should be interesting to see where such a major fight now takes us. Does Fury now rise to the ultimate challenge of what would be a memorably fascinating eye balling contest with Antony Joshua or will he now launch a sustained bout of boasting and bragging?
As the flashing search lights began to fade you reflected on a triumphant night for British sport. You thought of that heavily sponsored boxing ring, a riot of betting companies, Irish whisky and that celebrated TV channel that wasn't Sky but ESPN. Boxing loves a rousing punch up and most of the nation could celebrate its latest hero. Well done Tyson Fury.
Heavyweight boxing has often witnessed early mornings such as this one but rarely one that has been so brutal and bloodthirsty as this one. This was boxing at its most clinically decisive and utterly dramatic, one Englishman at the height of his powers while his American opponent was reeling and rocking like a pub drinker who refuses to listen to the landlord and simply finds himself thrown onto the pavement with only his pride hurt.
You were reminded of those halcyon days when Muhammad Ali would indulge in those hugely enjoyable displays of cabaret, tap dance and Hollywood vaudeville, when Ali teased, taunted and challenged his opponent to a game of psychological jiggery pokery. There was the relentless skipping, the light as a feather dancing on fleet feet, the cunning manoeuvring of his opponent to every corner and those graceful demolitions of George Foreman and Joe Frazier.
But last night in the fevered atmosphere of a Las Vegas boxing ring an Englishman by the name of Tyson Fury beat his American opponent Deontay Wilder in a wild blizzard of savage jabbing and a frightening fusillade of body shots that could almost be heard in Texas. Then there was a clumping, thudding barrage of body shots that invariably landed flush on Wilder's head before finally delivering that dramatic knockout blow in the seventh round. Tyson, complete with vivid green gloves, sent Wilder toppling into the ropes on a number of occasions and eventually Wilder, cut face now bleeding, was pulled away from this violent massacre as his corner thankfully threw in the towel.
From a brutally damaging first round when Fury charged into his American opponent like a caged tiger smelling red meat, this blood and thunder heavyweight contest looked as if it would only detain us briefly. Fury was fierce, ferocious, wildly swinging his punches to Wilder's head before then engaging in violent blows that seem to leave Wilder pleading for mercy. On more than one occasion Wilder was sent staggering to the canvas with bludgeoning, murderous jabs and powerful hooks that increased in both intensity and volume as the fight progressed.
In the second round Fury continued the onslaught this time weighing up his punches then raining down a torrent of jabs that connected beautifully and sending out the loudest of statements to Wilder's corner that this was no tea party. Fury meant business and when Wilder began to think that this would never be his night, Fury just launched another massacre. This would be boxing at its most patiently methodical for Fury where every punch seemed to drain the life force out of Wilder's resistance.
By round three Wilder was simply cowering and moving away swiftly away from the scene of the crime, a fighter whose carefully prepared mind games would just dissolve and melt away. Towards the end of the third round, a now besieged Wilder had now taken cover, holding up his gloves desperately and praying for the end of the fight. For the first time in the fight Wilder was knocked down, toppling over like a giant redwood tree that had been there for thousands of years.
In the fourth round, the measured authority of Fury's punching seemed to be dictating the inevitable outcome of this now very one sided heavyweight slugfest. Fury was now hammering home his supremacy, grappling and scuffling at times but always in perfect control. Fury had now got Wilder exactly where he wanted him, squirming in the corner like a child whose mother won't give them any pocket money or the right amount for sweets.
The fifth round almost had a primeval and fatal air about it as Fury's clubbing fists seemed to get stronger and harder. You were reminded of a factory worker clocking on for a day of businesslike toil and drudgery. Fury was now piling into his American opponent, smothering Wilder with beefy hits to the neck, head and the shoulders. It was boxing from the old days, the old fashioned fairground booths, giant, muscular prizefighters who showed a clean pair of fists before waving their arms about like Dutch windmills.
Round six was rather like the final curtain for Wilder, now crouching in the corner and almost pinned to the ropes as the Fury bombardment seemed to just build in momentum. Wilder's legs were now betraying him, as Fury pounded and battered the American almost senseless. It wasn't long before Wilder's corner were preparing their surrender. This would be Wilder's last hurrah, the coup de grace and now he was just living on borrowed time.
In what would be the final and seventh round for the American, Fury blasted away at Wilder, fists pumping away almost heartlessly, the Englishman bobbing, ducking and dodging the occasional bullet from Wilder. Now Fury drilled home a whole flurry of punches that left Wilder begging for the intervention of the referee. One final punch from Fury took Wilder's legs away from him and that was it for the bullish American.
So an Englishman called Tyson Fury reclaimed the heavyweight title away from Deontay Wilder who must have been longing for the refuge for the treatment room at the end of the fight. It should be interesting to see where such a major fight now takes us. Does Fury now rise to the ultimate challenge of what would be a memorably fascinating eye balling contest with Antony Joshua or will he now launch a sustained bout of boasting and bragging?
As the flashing search lights began to fade you reflected on a triumphant night for British sport. You thought of that heavily sponsored boxing ring, a riot of betting companies, Irish whisky and that celebrated TV channel that wasn't Sky but ESPN. Boxing loves a rousing punch up and most of the nation could celebrate its latest hero. Well done Tyson Fury.
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