Coronavirus confusion.
It is hard to know what to make of this all. Our senses have been seemingly suspended, our mindsets gripped with fear, anxiety, terror, cynicism, total confusion and utter bewilderment. We have never experienced anything on such a monumental scale and we really don't know which way to go or to whom we should communicate with because reports from all sides suggest that the end of the world is nigh. But oh definitely not and we can exercise both rational thinking, commonsense and calm reasoning. There is a logic here, a proper medical and scientific explanation for coronavirus.
And yet coronavirus is here, a terrifying reality and something that may be with us for some time. For well over a month the TV and radio news bulletins have announced a series of stringent measures reminding everybody regardless of age, class and background that coronavirus is here to stay and has to be cured sooner rather than later. The unsettling circumstances are such that all of us have been left in a state of high voltage dread, trembling trepidation and a sense that control has been completely taken away from us.
Around the world panic buying in vast supermarkets has spread throughout the globe in a way that none of us could have possibly predicted. How though do we categorise coronavirus because if we are to believe some this could turn into a national catastrophe? But then a small, still voice at the back of our minds keeps pleading us not to over react, not to empty shelves of commerce, food, drink, clothes, basic necessities and the kind of products that could be considered as essential to everyday existence.
At the moment though quite literally everything seems to have ground to a standstill, the pavements are more or less deserted, the trains and buses winding down and slowly disappearing, people wandering the streets on egg shells, nervously looking behind them in case they may be in too close proximity to each other.
For this the way it has to be. Suddenly a horrendous outbreak of surgical looking masks have appeared on the faces of Britain. If they're not covered up against deeply apprehensive eyes, necks or cheeks then at all times there has to be some subconscious assurance that the mask will simply fend off any airborne diseases with the potential to lead to some far more serious condition. We are far from reaching the point of chronic paranoia but the truth is that there are some of us who would be entitled to feel extremely scared.
On a Piccadilly Line London tube train, you spotted a number of people with faces that had been totally submerged by either hoodie coats or balaclava hats. The bobble hat is very much the fashion statement of the moment. Throughout all the carriages there must have been an atmosphere the like of which would have seemed impossible to comprehend at the beginning of the year. You could, quite literally, count the number of people in any of the carriages and an eerie emptiness rapidly filled the train. The morning rush hour had subsided and so had the train itself on a horribly distressing scale.
There is a very real sense of dumbfounded bemusement, a genuine feeling that none of us have a clue what to do next, an aching desire to know much more than has been told to us so far. The critics have led us to believe that there has been a complete lack of leadership from the government, very little in the way of a comprehensive report on the subject of coronavirus and at this rate the whole country may to have to be shut down indefinitely.
Back in the supermarkets of the world, supplies of toilet paper, eggs, pasta, bread and milk while not quite disturbingly slow are still sufficiently worrying for a wider public who are still baffled. Groaning shopping trolleys are full to the brim with masses of tinned, frozen or everyday products that were once thought to be plentiful. The shelves are of course are a wasteland, a hollow wilderness where everything was once filled to capacity but are now just sadly bare, barren and frighteningly out of stock for who knows how long.
For sports fans around the world, stadiums and grounds are now nothing more than desert lands, audience participation at some of the most welcoming and accessible events now reduced to just a muted whisper. In Britain, football, tennis, the Grand National, the Boat Race and the London Marathon have been postponed, cancelled and sidelined by a disease that has somehow defied any description if only because very few of us know anything about it.
It is at times like this that we begin to wonder whether normal service will ever be resumed. How long will the tribalism and communal belonging that have come to define football ever be seen again this season? Football fans love to be in the same company as each other, love to cheer and swear cathartically perhaps because there is a vital need to let out all their pent up frustrations. Call it the herd or the pack mentality but the game has now become sanitised, purged off its fun, excitement and tension.
Everything has been stopped, paused, left hanging by a thread and the world has been condemned to a dark room, a place where the sound and fury of modern society has now been silenced, subdued and deprived of its natural stage. At the moment there is no environment, no recreational space for play, the wholesome joys of exercise or sport. We have been advised not to socialise, emotionally or physically interact with each other until the strictures have been lifted. We have been ordered to wash our hands thoroughly, to go through the whole process over and over again.
Above all, human interaction, once regarded as a given and a perfectly normal activity, has now assumed a different position in our everyday business with each other. We can still talk to each other and be in the same room as each other but the sense of keeping a distance and apartness is now much more acceptable and the preferred choice.
We are, certainly for the time being, no longer the architects of our destiny since the things we used to take for granted are no longer part of our traditional routine. How often should we clean our hands? When are we going to be given the green light to go back to enjoying the things that came naturally to us and are now wary of with a truly ingrained suspicion?
It is at times like this when we fall back on our coping mechanisms because the life that had hitherto been so settled and smooth running has now been severely disrupted and disturbed. We are now understandably jumpy, sensitive, restless, prepared for whatever the immediate future may hold but the vulnerable side of our personalities may be affected because the plans we might have made are now in tatters- at least temporarily.
Of course this may be the time to re-schedule the timetable of our lives in a way that somehow feels appropriate for us. This is not for the time for the apocalypse, nor are we heading for a global calamity. There has to be a part of us that recognises the severity of the situation we find ourselves in but would like to feel that life will return to its conventional rhythms and themes as soon as possible.So it's onwards and upwards for the global population. Coronavirus will be beaten and the good folk of the world will once again find its everyday footing. So let's keep calm and remain positive. It's the only way to be.
Wednesday, 18 March 2020
Monday, 16 March 2020
Roy Hudd- a gentleman and showbiz entertainer par excellence.
Roy Hudd- a gentleman and showbiz entertainer par excellence.
Roy Hudd, who today died at the age of 83, was the quiet man of showbusiness, a man with no airs or graces, no skeletons in any cupboard and no hidden agenda. For well over 60 years Hudd trod the boards of some of Britain's grandest and oldest music halls and theatres with his very unique and distinctive style.
He was, by turns, extremely funny, charming, sharply observant, irreverent at times, full of occasional end of pier seaside innuendo, witty asides and overflowing with tales of fellow professionals, capturing the absurdities of the era with wonderfully measured gags about politics and politicians. There was a salty flavour about Hudd's sense of humour which never really deserted him and by the time the 1950s had become the second decade of the 21st century, Hudd was still biting, acerbic and garrulously gossipy.
Above all though Hudd will always be remembered for the long running BBC Radio 2 Sunday lunchtime programme the News Huddlines, a perfect vehicle for a man of Hudd's rich seam of many talents. Accompanied by the always enchanting June Whitfield, Roy Hudd was never short of a humorous remark about everything and anything, his finger on the pulse of all the latest news developments and the giddy 1960s pop culture that surrounded him almost constantly./
But it was his encyclopaedic knowledge of the music hall, old comedians and comediennes that set him apart from his peers. He would think nothing of holding court on the likes of the great, old time comics such as Will Hay, Max Miller, the inimitable Flanagan and Allen with their unforgettable Underneath the Arches and most of the more modern contemporaries who had done so much tickle his funny bone as well.
During the 1970s Hudd was a frequent guest on the BBC's glorious The Good Old Days, a variety show that wallowed in Victorian nostalgia, insisting that the whole audience to join in with jaunty versions of music hall songs in the costume of that period. Hudd's infectious smile and jolly hockey sticks routine endeared him fully to his vast network of admirers. Hudd had a natural rapport with his fans that spanned four decades before age rapidly mellowed him.
There was a gentle and inoffensive naughtiness about Hudd's comedy that could be considered as quite definitely politically incorrect in the modern era. Hudd was mischievous, impudent, cutting at times but never outrageous. Frequently taking the role of wartime comedian Bud Flanagan, Hudd loved to stroll across the stage with the Flanagan coat and hat as if it were something he was destined to do on stage.
Naturally Hudd fondly indulged himself in frequent trips down memory lane, wartime reminiscences that seemed to flood from his act like a warm tap of beer that spills over a pub pint. Hudd would often talk about his parents, grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles with all the affection that he could muster. There were references to the Blitz, the pounding that London had taken by Hitler and the Luftwaffe and the Anderson shelter that his family would always retreat to when the guns were at their loudest and bombs were raining down from the war scarred skies.
Hudd, Croydon born, continued to entertain Britain through bleakness and triumph, jubilation and disaster. Throughout the News Huddlines, Hudd would never take life seriously and always see the lighter side of life even when it all looked as if the darker shades would drag everybody into the ground.
With the passing of Roy Hudd, Britain has not only lost one of its upright gentlemen but a man for all seasons. Hudd was never seen stumbling out of seedy nightclubs, a man of courtesy and dignity, a showman who deeply respected the manners of the day and believed quite fervently that the audience who had come along to see him should never ever be disappointed. The world of showbusiness story tellers has lost one of its more cherished friends.
Roy Hudd, who today died at the age of 83, was the quiet man of showbusiness, a man with no airs or graces, no skeletons in any cupboard and no hidden agenda. For well over 60 years Hudd trod the boards of some of Britain's grandest and oldest music halls and theatres with his very unique and distinctive style.
He was, by turns, extremely funny, charming, sharply observant, irreverent at times, full of occasional end of pier seaside innuendo, witty asides and overflowing with tales of fellow professionals, capturing the absurdities of the era with wonderfully measured gags about politics and politicians. There was a salty flavour about Hudd's sense of humour which never really deserted him and by the time the 1950s had become the second decade of the 21st century, Hudd was still biting, acerbic and garrulously gossipy.
Above all though Hudd will always be remembered for the long running BBC Radio 2 Sunday lunchtime programme the News Huddlines, a perfect vehicle for a man of Hudd's rich seam of many talents. Accompanied by the always enchanting June Whitfield, Roy Hudd was never short of a humorous remark about everything and anything, his finger on the pulse of all the latest news developments and the giddy 1960s pop culture that surrounded him almost constantly./
But it was his encyclopaedic knowledge of the music hall, old comedians and comediennes that set him apart from his peers. He would think nothing of holding court on the likes of the great, old time comics such as Will Hay, Max Miller, the inimitable Flanagan and Allen with their unforgettable Underneath the Arches and most of the more modern contemporaries who had done so much tickle his funny bone as well.
During the 1970s Hudd was a frequent guest on the BBC's glorious The Good Old Days, a variety show that wallowed in Victorian nostalgia, insisting that the whole audience to join in with jaunty versions of music hall songs in the costume of that period. Hudd's infectious smile and jolly hockey sticks routine endeared him fully to his vast network of admirers. Hudd had a natural rapport with his fans that spanned four decades before age rapidly mellowed him.
There was a gentle and inoffensive naughtiness about Hudd's comedy that could be considered as quite definitely politically incorrect in the modern era. Hudd was mischievous, impudent, cutting at times but never outrageous. Frequently taking the role of wartime comedian Bud Flanagan, Hudd loved to stroll across the stage with the Flanagan coat and hat as if it were something he was destined to do on stage.
Naturally Hudd fondly indulged himself in frequent trips down memory lane, wartime reminiscences that seemed to flood from his act like a warm tap of beer that spills over a pub pint. Hudd would often talk about his parents, grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles with all the affection that he could muster. There were references to the Blitz, the pounding that London had taken by Hitler and the Luftwaffe and the Anderson shelter that his family would always retreat to when the guns were at their loudest and bombs were raining down from the war scarred skies.
Hudd, Croydon born, continued to entertain Britain through bleakness and triumph, jubilation and disaster. Throughout the News Huddlines, Hudd would never take life seriously and always see the lighter side of life even when it all looked as if the darker shades would drag everybody into the ground.
With the passing of Roy Hudd, Britain has not only lost one of its upright gentlemen but a man for all seasons. Hudd was never seen stumbling out of seedy nightclubs, a man of courtesy and dignity, a showman who deeply respected the manners of the day and believed quite fervently that the audience who had come along to see him should never ever be disappointed. The world of showbusiness story tellers has lost one of its more cherished friends.
Friday, 13 March 2020
Spectator sports, the football Premier League season postponed until further notice.
Spectator sports, the football Premier League postponed until further notice.
It hardly seems possible but it's true. All public gatherings and sporting spectacles will now be postponed until further notice. The shocking news was announced to gasps of disbelief and stunned amazement. The Premier League, Championship, Leagues One and Two and Scottish Premier League will now be hidden away from view because the epidemic and now pandemic coronavirus has struck its biggest blow into the heart of not only football but all manner of events where sport attracts its biggest audiences.
Even now it is hard to believe that for roughly three weeks - or perhaps longer- all of those highly anticipated sporting perennials will have to go on hold at least until such time as vaccines are to be found for what is slowly turning into the most frightening setback to both the remainder of the Premier League season and of course a whole variety of sports where huge droves of people gather.
Next month of course the London Marathon was once again scheduled to take place on the friendly streets of London, a force for good and the most unifying of influences where some of the finest long distance athletes pit their wits against a whole host of diligent club runners. Then there are the inevitable procession of colourful costumes and frivolous souls who just love to dress up for the day.
But for football in Britain and across the world, the lack of any football may leave some of us with more than just a case of pining for a lost friend. This is one of those unprecedented developments within the game that none of us could have legislated for under any circumstances. Football is sometimes a matter of routine and habit for most football supporters and when that continuity is suddenly halted by a major health issue it is hard to find any of the appropriate words to soothe the fevered brow.
It should be pointed out that this is not the end of the world for football nor should this ever be considered as such. But the facts are simple. Liverpool are literally hours away from wrapping up their first Premier League title and their first League title of any description since 1990. But quite incredibly, fate may come to rob them of their most triumphant moment at Anfield for a number of generations.
Even now Liverpool's personable boss Jurgen Klopp must be hoping and wishing desperately that the corona virus will just leave these shores as quickly as possible. The intervention of a devastating global pandemic is the last thing football needs at a time during the season when critical relegation and promotion battles are resolved. We are now into the final stages of a ridiculously one sided Premier League season where the red of Liverpool have followed in the identical footsteps of their sky blue North West neighbours Manchester City in clinching the Premier League title before the first cuckoos of spring.
Usually football seasons are normally interrupted by the weather. In the 1962- 63 season the old First Division was trapped by the deepest of wintry freezes. From just before Christmas to early springtime football was frozen out by incessant snow, thick piles of snow which signified a complete lockdown of the game for weeks and months. By the time Manchester United beat Leicester City in the 1963 FA Cup Final the first daffodils had just appeared in parks and gardens across Britain.
But this time a health pandemic has rendered the game motionless, helpless in the face of something the FA or the rest of us can have no control over. The questions have to be asked and then answered. Is there any point in resuming the Premier League season at the beginning of April when quite clearly it has to be recognised that the season will have to be drawn out until at least the end of May or maybe early June?
How will the FA set out a plan of action where both players and managers will have to be both mentally and emotionally prepared for those make or break, end of season tussles? When will the FA Cup Final be pencilled in for now? What about those vital, money spinning promotion play offs, the glut of friendlies before England's European Championship campaign which could be postponed until next year now. It all begins to look impossibly crowded and complicated. In a hidden corner of Soho Square you suspect that some of the most influential FA movers and shakers are trembling with panic and fear.
There remains the distinct possibility of course that even if the Premier League does come out of its current crisis it may have to play its matches behind closed doors. Now the prospect of watching the final nail biting games of the season against a backdrop of no fans and empty terraces just doesn't seem imaginable. It is rather like asking enthusiastic theatre goers to stay at home rather than watch a memorable West End musical in their hundreds and thousands every week of the night.
Here we are though at the start of a three week footballing hiatus, a haunting, chilly silence will descend and the predominant emotion is incredulity. For almost a month now the learned commentators, the thought provoking pundits, the TV talking heads, the radio phone in callers from far and wide, will be passing on their considered and at times irrational remarks on why, how and if the game can ever be the same again. Of course they're frustrated, of course they're biting their tongues because they are the ones who spend enormous amounts of hard earned money to travel around the country with their team and then deliver complaints over and over again when it all goes wrong again.
This could prove to be a fascinating study in football fans body language and behaviour. Do they just sit at home and quite possibly think what might have been or do they occupy their Saturday afternoon in the pub reflecting on halcyon days past when everything in football had an air of certainty and finality about it? Maybe they'll retire to the bookmakers and just stare at the TV screens as the horsey racecourses of Britain try to salvage the broken wreckage of a day without football. Or perhaps they'll accompany their girlfriends and wives on that long awaited expedition to the shops and department stores of Britain?
And what treats will lie in stores for our handsomely paid footballers. Will they pass the day communicating with their social media acquaintances, fixing shelves or perhaps painting the walls in all manner of garish colours. There is a great deal of time to be usefully taken up with whatever their choice of activity is. Some with time on their hands may resort to the papers or magazines for the latest kiss and tell stories about their fellow colleagues. Perhaps they may decide to scribble derogatory tales about their fellow professionals night time habits.
For the BBC though legions of Match of the Day followers may have to forego their weekly diet of short snippet highlights because tomorrow will reveal nothing but a barren wasteland, a yawning gap in the schedules, no pretty passing movements, no clever team stratagems, no opinionated managers and coaches, no controversial VAR decisions and nothing on that hallowed green pitch. Sadly, football will now have to take what we hope will become a temporary break although three weeks could come to feel like a lifetime for those devoted masses of fans. It's often said that a week in politics does have a similar effect on most of us. We can only hope that normal service is resumed as soon as possible.
It hardly seems possible but it's true. All public gatherings and sporting spectacles will now be postponed until further notice. The shocking news was announced to gasps of disbelief and stunned amazement. The Premier League, Championship, Leagues One and Two and Scottish Premier League will now be hidden away from view because the epidemic and now pandemic coronavirus has struck its biggest blow into the heart of not only football but all manner of events where sport attracts its biggest audiences.
Even now it is hard to believe that for roughly three weeks - or perhaps longer- all of those highly anticipated sporting perennials will have to go on hold at least until such time as vaccines are to be found for what is slowly turning into the most frightening setback to both the remainder of the Premier League season and of course a whole variety of sports where huge droves of people gather.
Next month of course the London Marathon was once again scheduled to take place on the friendly streets of London, a force for good and the most unifying of influences where some of the finest long distance athletes pit their wits against a whole host of diligent club runners. Then there are the inevitable procession of colourful costumes and frivolous souls who just love to dress up for the day.
But for football in Britain and across the world, the lack of any football may leave some of us with more than just a case of pining for a lost friend. This is one of those unprecedented developments within the game that none of us could have legislated for under any circumstances. Football is sometimes a matter of routine and habit for most football supporters and when that continuity is suddenly halted by a major health issue it is hard to find any of the appropriate words to soothe the fevered brow.
It should be pointed out that this is not the end of the world for football nor should this ever be considered as such. But the facts are simple. Liverpool are literally hours away from wrapping up their first Premier League title and their first League title of any description since 1990. But quite incredibly, fate may come to rob them of their most triumphant moment at Anfield for a number of generations.
Even now Liverpool's personable boss Jurgen Klopp must be hoping and wishing desperately that the corona virus will just leave these shores as quickly as possible. The intervention of a devastating global pandemic is the last thing football needs at a time during the season when critical relegation and promotion battles are resolved. We are now into the final stages of a ridiculously one sided Premier League season where the red of Liverpool have followed in the identical footsteps of their sky blue North West neighbours Manchester City in clinching the Premier League title before the first cuckoos of spring.
Usually football seasons are normally interrupted by the weather. In the 1962- 63 season the old First Division was trapped by the deepest of wintry freezes. From just before Christmas to early springtime football was frozen out by incessant snow, thick piles of snow which signified a complete lockdown of the game for weeks and months. By the time Manchester United beat Leicester City in the 1963 FA Cup Final the first daffodils had just appeared in parks and gardens across Britain.
But this time a health pandemic has rendered the game motionless, helpless in the face of something the FA or the rest of us can have no control over. The questions have to be asked and then answered. Is there any point in resuming the Premier League season at the beginning of April when quite clearly it has to be recognised that the season will have to be drawn out until at least the end of May or maybe early June?
How will the FA set out a plan of action where both players and managers will have to be both mentally and emotionally prepared for those make or break, end of season tussles? When will the FA Cup Final be pencilled in for now? What about those vital, money spinning promotion play offs, the glut of friendlies before England's European Championship campaign which could be postponed until next year now. It all begins to look impossibly crowded and complicated. In a hidden corner of Soho Square you suspect that some of the most influential FA movers and shakers are trembling with panic and fear.
There remains the distinct possibility of course that even if the Premier League does come out of its current crisis it may have to play its matches behind closed doors. Now the prospect of watching the final nail biting games of the season against a backdrop of no fans and empty terraces just doesn't seem imaginable. It is rather like asking enthusiastic theatre goers to stay at home rather than watch a memorable West End musical in their hundreds and thousands every week of the night.
Here we are though at the start of a three week footballing hiatus, a haunting, chilly silence will descend and the predominant emotion is incredulity. For almost a month now the learned commentators, the thought provoking pundits, the TV talking heads, the radio phone in callers from far and wide, will be passing on their considered and at times irrational remarks on why, how and if the game can ever be the same again. Of course they're frustrated, of course they're biting their tongues because they are the ones who spend enormous amounts of hard earned money to travel around the country with their team and then deliver complaints over and over again when it all goes wrong again.
This could prove to be a fascinating study in football fans body language and behaviour. Do they just sit at home and quite possibly think what might have been or do they occupy their Saturday afternoon in the pub reflecting on halcyon days past when everything in football had an air of certainty and finality about it? Maybe they'll retire to the bookmakers and just stare at the TV screens as the horsey racecourses of Britain try to salvage the broken wreckage of a day without football. Or perhaps they'll accompany their girlfriends and wives on that long awaited expedition to the shops and department stores of Britain?
And what treats will lie in stores for our handsomely paid footballers. Will they pass the day communicating with their social media acquaintances, fixing shelves or perhaps painting the walls in all manner of garish colours. There is a great deal of time to be usefully taken up with whatever their choice of activity is. Some with time on their hands may resort to the papers or magazines for the latest kiss and tell stories about their fellow colleagues. Perhaps they may decide to scribble derogatory tales about their fellow professionals night time habits.
For the BBC though legions of Match of the Day followers may have to forego their weekly diet of short snippet highlights because tomorrow will reveal nothing but a barren wasteland, a yawning gap in the schedules, no pretty passing movements, no clever team stratagems, no opinionated managers and coaches, no controversial VAR decisions and nothing on that hallowed green pitch. Sadly, football will now have to take what we hope will become a temporary break although three weeks could come to feel like a lifetime for those devoted masses of fans. It's often said that a week in politics does have a similar effect on most of us. We can only hope that normal service is resumed as soon as possible.
Wednesday, 11 March 2020
The Budget.
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.
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.
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.
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