To be or not to be. It's St George's Day or is it?
To be or not to be that is the question is why and indeed that is the question why? Here we are on St George's Day on the anniversary of William Shakespeare's birthday and all of the candles have rudely been snuffed out, a dramatic performance is out of the question and the only comedy you're likely to get is when the coronavirus has finally taken its leave right off stage and into the wings. Only then will the Merchant of Venice, Macbeth. Twelfth Night, Othello and A Midnight Summer's Dream be considered suitable for human delectation. Then we'll show our appreciation of the finest playwright England has ever produced.
But on what should have been another glorious commemoration of everything English and Englishness the whole of the world has been stalled, traumatised and psychologically heartbroken, disillusioned by everything and anything and totally flummoxed. Today should have been when the whole of Britain should have flung open its curtains and blinds, stretched its arms, embraced the day, run through cornfields, perhaps hugged perfect strangers and drunk itself into some delirious stupor.
Today should have been a day of stunning celebration, boisterous patriotism, endless knees ups outside snoring village pubs, the Union Jack rightfully unfurled to all and sundry, Morris dancing around the Maypole should the mood have taken us and publicans doing the Hokey Cokey around the twisting lanes of Middle England. And yet nobody will do anything today because to all outward appearances 2020 looks as if it's been cancelled and somebody has thrown away the key.
Today we should have been acknowledging the one figure from history who brought gushing waterfalls of rich poetry to both Britain and the world. We should have been dancing on the streets of the world, doing the conga, cavorting and carousing, line dancing around red post boxes, swigging vast quantities of Somerset cider, jumping from the Trafalgar Square fountains with boundless glee and then patting the back of your neighbour just for the fun of it.
Instead we are bowing our heads, barely able to comprehend the immensity of this disaster, the sheer magnitude of what has just taken place around us. We must feel almost anaesthetised to recent events, numbed into quiet submission and wondering what on earth William Shakespeare would have made of all this. Perhaps he'd have fallen into a moody depression, refused to pick up a quill and just moped around his home while Anne Hathaway, his loving wife, made a desperate attempt to boost his spirits.
Would Shakespeare have found alcoholic consolation in a frothing pint of mead, gnawing angrily on a thousand pieces of chicken and then abandoning himself to one continuous recital of his plays in private? Would he have listened to more and more renditions of classical music from dulcimer, harpsichord and piano or would he have just taken himself off to bed and insist on having an early night?
What we do know that across the colourful eiderdown of England's most beautiful lands there is gravity, millions of bleeding hearts, tears of loss and desolation, an abrupt halt to everyday proceedings and speechless taciturnity. With every passing day, the meadows and valleys, the otherwise fertile farmlands, combine harvesters, stone walls, bridges, restaurants, cafes, otherwise bustling markets and joyous street life, are no longer the life and soul of any party.
Across the streets and roads, the terraced and semi terraced homes, the neat procession of bungalows and maisonettes have been swallowed up by one of the most destructive diseases of perhaps any age. Comparisons have been made to the Black Death but are probably quite invalid. However, on today of all days any stirring choruses of Jerusalem or Land of Hope and Glory should simply be reserved for another day. Still, we have to keep smiling and we must heed the call of Morecambe and Wise's sunshine.
But we shall march on until the end of the road, chests puffed up with pride in the face of setbacks, drawbacks, torment and difficulty, trials and tribulations that none of us could have foreseen. So let's just dwell on the literary greatness of one William Shakespeare. Maybe he would have seen the brighter side of this period of our lives because hundreds of years after his death, the Bard's masterworks are still being performed not only in Stratford Upon Avon but across all global theatres.
So let's just spare for a thought for all those hardened Union Jack patriots who are probably feeling very aggrieved because St George's Day has once again been painfully overlooked. The common misconception of course is that nobody really takes a great deal of notice of April 23rd. We never raise a glass of best bitter, never fly the flag and never sing the National Anthem unless the occasion warrants it. But come on, it was Thursday evening and we did launch into a tumultuous ovation for the NHS and we clapped because we wanted to recognise the timelessly remarkable efforts of our key workers, the heart of gold carers and the people who think nothing of going that extra mile on our behalf. Britain, here's a massive thumbs up. You deserve it.
Thursday, 23 April 2020
Tuesday, 21 April 2020
Day by day.
Day by day.
It all seems as if our lives are slowly turning into one endless loop of TV repeats, the weeks and months now a yawning chasm and here we are desperately clinging onto the same treadmill with no apparent end in sight fighting an invisible disease that shows little sign of relenting. Initially we all thought Covid 19 would simply be some temporary medical alarm, rather like one of those annoying colds that you simply couldn't shake off. But now 2020 is gradually descending into the realms of the scary horror movie that make you want to just jump out of your seat and send your popcorn flying.
We are now conditioned to the present day and we know what's going on. What we probably don't need at the moment are those nauseating reminders of coronavirus because quite clearly the heart rending statistics tell their own story. Since the beginning of this very modern Greek tragedy, both TV, radio, newspapers and every conceivable media outlet haven't been backwards in coming forward with yet more statements of the obvious. Suddenly Ground Hog Day is gradually morphing into some very realistic drama where the fatalities and casualties are increasing almost exponentially alongside those poor people who have just been diagnosed with Covid 19 or may have thankfully recovered.
This is real life out there. The recurring narrative is almost too much to bear and the ever present atmosphere is one of fear and emotional meltdown but you probably know that anyway. The nation feels as if this paralysis, this turmoil, this sickening helplessness may never go away. It is hard to accuse anybody of being totally neurotic because everybody, quite literally everybody, is afraid to go anywhere, do anything or feel anything because we don't really know why or how this came to pass.
Last week on one of many walks in Finsbury Park you were subjected to the kind of sound that you might have associated with 'The Land that Time Forgot'. You walked around one circuit of the park and found yourself followed by a truck with a loud tannoy warning that you were only allowed to go out and exercise and that if you didn't follow the strident order you had to go home. For a while this was distinctly unsettling until you realised the damaging implications of your refusal to comply. Perhaps you'd be severely fined on the spot by some by passing park ranger or even the police. Surely not though.
Even the laying of a new pavement outside the parade of shops next to us has failed to arouse any excitement at all. You'd have thought the local mayor or mayoress would have been invited to come along and cut the tape just to lift the mood ever so slightly. Even the hairdressers has put the shutters up since the very thought of having your hair cut may not seem quite so appealing. The dry cleaners is similarly shut for the duration and the opticians can't seem to decide whether to open or not.
We are now at the critical stage whereby even the chemist isn't sure whether to keep its doors open, stagger the number of people allowed inside the chemist or just give up the ghost and just close permanently which wouldn't really benefit anybody. The local sweet shops and greengrocers are still doing an excellent trade which, to all intents and purposes, is the right way to go. How else would we able to cope without our eggs, bread, milk and - yes, you've guessed it- toilet rolls? It seems certain that the world will not come to an end and nothing unsavoury will ever happen but you'd probably think it already had.
Outside, the spring weather is at its loveliest and if you didn't know what exactly is going on around us you'd swear that everything is indeed good in the world and things are just fine. But the local streets and roads are still disturbingly quiet and eerie, almost sinister in their silence. Every so often a trickle of cars and completely unpopulated buses struggle their way around the highways and byways of life. But you can, it is true, hear a pin drop. The cyclists meander their way around the streets before everything just vanishes rather like a cheesy magic trick.
The official line is that the industrious construction workers next to us should have downed their tools because the social distancing law would render any kind of activity completely out of the question. Occasionally you hear the beeping of some massively complex piece of machinery but how to make the distinction between necessity or the deeply offensive. Even the Travelodge hotel, which is still in the process of being built, looks as though it could open in the 22nd century.
Wherever you look there are huge white sheets enveloping the framework of half built structures, cranes towering over North London with an arrogant and commanding air. None of us are really demoralised because the sun is still shining brightly and the birds are still tripping the light fantastic on telegraph poles that stretch for a good mile or so. Nothing will ever stop their daily routine and wherever you look most of the bird population will enact the same balletic movement where whole communities of birds sway across the sky with all the grace of Torvill and Dean at the very peak of their powers.
Sadly though the daily bulletins from 10 Downing Street make for nothing but grim reading. The fatalities are slowly decreasing but then we're told in the same breath that the figures don't include the number of elderly people who have died in care or nursing homes. The language though has now become frighteningly morbid and extremely garbled. This is not to suggest that we haven't a clue what our wonderful medical officers and scientists are talking about but every so often the sentences and grammar keep going around in our heads without really changing their context.
At varying times we are assured that it won't be long now before the children can finally go back to school as soon as it's safe to do so. It could be in the second week of May and then a cynical voice might suggest that that's just wishful thinking. Far too premature for the re-opening of schools. And yet we must hope that it could be imminent because both parents and their kids are at the end of their tether.
Perhaps the reel to reel tape recorder will finally make some kind of sense eventually. For the truth is that the announcements and pronouncements, the constant analysis, the scientific discourses. We have been bogged down in rousing rhetoric and would prefer a little more clarity. We hear about the ongoing arrival of patients at the newly opened Nightingale Hospital in East London and wonder whether the hard facts will ever emerge. A vast majority of people have now been sent home but has Covid19 finally disappeared over the horizon?
Today Her Majesty the Queen is celebrating her 94th birthday which would have been accompanied by that traditionally loud burst of cannon fire. But quite rightly this would be totally inappropriate and besides we can always abandon ourselves to jubilant street parties when Covid19 has finally gone. So do please stay at home and protect the NHS. It's not rocket science or is it? Keep well everybody and ensure absolute safety.
It all seems as if our lives are slowly turning into one endless loop of TV repeats, the weeks and months now a yawning chasm and here we are desperately clinging onto the same treadmill with no apparent end in sight fighting an invisible disease that shows little sign of relenting. Initially we all thought Covid 19 would simply be some temporary medical alarm, rather like one of those annoying colds that you simply couldn't shake off. But now 2020 is gradually descending into the realms of the scary horror movie that make you want to just jump out of your seat and send your popcorn flying.
We are now conditioned to the present day and we know what's going on. What we probably don't need at the moment are those nauseating reminders of coronavirus because quite clearly the heart rending statistics tell their own story. Since the beginning of this very modern Greek tragedy, both TV, radio, newspapers and every conceivable media outlet haven't been backwards in coming forward with yet more statements of the obvious. Suddenly Ground Hog Day is gradually morphing into some very realistic drama where the fatalities and casualties are increasing almost exponentially alongside those poor people who have just been diagnosed with Covid 19 or may have thankfully recovered.
This is real life out there. The recurring narrative is almost too much to bear and the ever present atmosphere is one of fear and emotional meltdown but you probably know that anyway. The nation feels as if this paralysis, this turmoil, this sickening helplessness may never go away. It is hard to accuse anybody of being totally neurotic because everybody, quite literally everybody, is afraid to go anywhere, do anything or feel anything because we don't really know why or how this came to pass.
Last week on one of many walks in Finsbury Park you were subjected to the kind of sound that you might have associated with 'The Land that Time Forgot'. You walked around one circuit of the park and found yourself followed by a truck with a loud tannoy warning that you were only allowed to go out and exercise and that if you didn't follow the strident order you had to go home. For a while this was distinctly unsettling until you realised the damaging implications of your refusal to comply. Perhaps you'd be severely fined on the spot by some by passing park ranger or even the police. Surely not though.
Even the laying of a new pavement outside the parade of shops next to us has failed to arouse any excitement at all. You'd have thought the local mayor or mayoress would have been invited to come along and cut the tape just to lift the mood ever so slightly. Even the hairdressers has put the shutters up since the very thought of having your hair cut may not seem quite so appealing. The dry cleaners is similarly shut for the duration and the opticians can't seem to decide whether to open or not.
We are now at the critical stage whereby even the chemist isn't sure whether to keep its doors open, stagger the number of people allowed inside the chemist or just give up the ghost and just close permanently which wouldn't really benefit anybody. The local sweet shops and greengrocers are still doing an excellent trade which, to all intents and purposes, is the right way to go. How else would we able to cope without our eggs, bread, milk and - yes, you've guessed it- toilet rolls? It seems certain that the world will not come to an end and nothing unsavoury will ever happen but you'd probably think it already had.
Outside, the spring weather is at its loveliest and if you didn't know what exactly is going on around us you'd swear that everything is indeed good in the world and things are just fine. But the local streets and roads are still disturbingly quiet and eerie, almost sinister in their silence. Every so often a trickle of cars and completely unpopulated buses struggle their way around the highways and byways of life. But you can, it is true, hear a pin drop. The cyclists meander their way around the streets before everything just vanishes rather like a cheesy magic trick.
The official line is that the industrious construction workers next to us should have downed their tools because the social distancing law would render any kind of activity completely out of the question. Occasionally you hear the beeping of some massively complex piece of machinery but how to make the distinction between necessity or the deeply offensive. Even the Travelodge hotel, which is still in the process of being built, looks as though it could open in the 22nd century.
Wherever you look there are huge white sheets enveloping the framework of half built structures, cranes towering over North London with an arrogant and commanding air. None of us are really demoralised because the sun is still shining brightly and the birds are still tripping the light fantastic on telegraph poles that stretch for a good mile or so. Nothing will ever stop their daily routine and wherever you look most of the bird population will enact the same balletic movement where whole communities of birds sway across the sky with all the grace of Torvill and Dean at the very peak of their powers.
Sadly though the daily bulletins from 10 Downing Street make for nothing but grim reading. The fatalities are slowly decreasing but then we're told in the same breath that the figures don't include the number of elderly people who have died in care or nursing homes. The language though has now become frighteningly morbid and extremely garbled. This is not to suggest that we haven't a clue what our wonderful medical officers and scientists are talking about but every so often the sentences and grammar keep going around in our heads without really changing their context.
At varying times we are assured that it won't be long now before the children can finally go back to school as soon as it's safe to do so. It could be in the second week of May and then a cynical voice might suggest that that's just wishful thinking. Far too premature for the re-opening of schools. And yet we must hope that it could be imminent because both parents and their kids are at the end of their tether.
Perhaps the reel to reel tape recorder will finally make some kind of sense eventually. For the truth is that the announcements and pronouncements, the constant analysis, the scientific discourses. We have been bogged down in rousing rhetoric and would prefer a little more clarity. We hear about the ongoing arrival of patients at the newly opened Nightingale Hospital in East London and wonder whether the hard facts will ever emerge. A vast majority of people have now been sent home but has Covid19 finally disappeared over the horizon?
Today Her Majesty the Queen is celebrating her 94th birthday which would have been accompanied by that traditionally loud burst of cannon fire. But quite rightly this would be totally inappropriate and besides we can always abandon ourselves to jubilant street parties when Covid19 has finally gone. So do please stay at home and protect the NHS. It's not rocket science or is it? Keep well everybody and ensure absolute safety.
Sunday, 19 April 2020
Norman Hunter bites yer legs for the last time.
Norman Hunter bites yer legs for the last time.
It always seemed slightly unfair that Norman Hunter, who died a couple of days ago at the age of 76, should be always remembered for all the wrong reasons. Besides, Hunter, although as hard as nails if not harder, was quite possibly as soft as a kitten in his private life and always gave as good as he got on the football pitch. Very few of his contemporaries during the 1970s will ever be allowed to forget Hunter because he did leave his indelible legacy on more or less every bone in their bodies.
We all know that Hunter was one of those passionate, ruthless, no-nonsense defenders who sometimes allowed his aggressive approach on the pitch to get the better of him. This is not to imply that he was some bloodthirsty, bullish barbarian on a football pitch who kicked every player up into the air whenever he felt like it. Rather he was one of those old fashioned central defenders who quite literally took no prisoners and probably did eat red meat for breakfast.
Although he was born in the Geordie heartland of Gateshead, Hunter chose to join Leeds United as a youngster and never really looked back. Soon, Hunter had integrated himself into Don Revie's team of miracle workers, charmers and, some would say, scallywags. Leeds, initially, were regarded as the pantomime villains, a genuinely talented team but rather prone to violent outbursts and impetuous tantrums.
But when Hunter paired up with the now legendary likes of Jack Charlton, Paul Reaney and Paul Madeley, Leeds attracted more favourable reviews and responses from those whose scepticism had probably set in at a very early stage in Hunter's career. All the critics could see this was hulking, maybe cumbersome looking defender who only knew to hurt, kick, punch, maim and ultimately injure anybody who dared to cross him.
When Hunter was picked for Sir Alf Ramsey's original squad in the 1966 World Cup, he became no more than an on looker, a peripheral figure just there to soak up the historic atmosphere of the time. Hunter was simply a fringe member of Sir Alf''s golden boys. The Leeds centre half was surrounded by the illustrious likes of Bobby Moore, Geoff Hurst, Martin Peters, Alan Ball, Nobby Stiles and Roger Hunt but was never daunted by more high profile figures determined to create their own history.
Four years later in Mexico during the 1970 World Cup Hunter did play a more prominent role throughout the tournament but was once again rarely used. But he did use Mexico as a sturdy stepping stone for greater club moments with his club Leeds United. It surely must have been something Alan Mullery must have said to him but Hunter returned to England with the knowledge that with Don Revie around he simply couldn't go wrong.
Now firmly ensconced at the heart of the Leeds United defence, Hunter became the arch destroyer, a notorious hard man who would shove and barge players out of the way, tackling tigerishly and of course illegally which may have done nothing to enhance his profile at the time but did endear himself to fans who just loved his devil may care, dastardly approach. Hunter was Leeds shield and crest of arms, a battering ram of a player whose often good natured nastiness and bullish belligerence aroused laughter and contempt in the same breath.
It was commonly assumed that most of those old First Division defenders must have been absolutely terrified, nay less petrified of Hunter since all they really wanted at heart was the quiet life. Hunter, it must have been felt, was just a playground bully who just wanted to end a player's career with the most brutal injury. But Hunter was never a psychopath, a hardened convict determined to make all of his opponents feel as if they were wasting their time by simply sharing the same pitch as him.
But for Hunter there were two incidents which seemed to tarnish an otherwise steadfast club career with Leeds. In retrospect they may seem to have overshadowed a career that did see Leeds win two old First Division championship trophies and an FA Cup winners medal with Leeds against Arsenal in 1972. Hunter was an admirable reader of the game and although his attitude did leave a good deal to be desired, his interceptions on the ground and a natural ability to carry the ball out of his defence with some ease and aplomb were redeeming features amid all the argy bargy.
Of course the central defender of 1970s vintage were invariably encouraged to thump the ball out of the defence as quickly and with as much alacrity as possible. But there was none of the grotesquerie about Hunter's football because Leeds could be exceptionally good and attractive on the ball when the mood suited them. The famous daisy chain passing movement which must have amounted to at least 35 passes, if not more, remains one of Leeds most unforgettable footballing moments. It is hard to know how many times Hunter was involved but when Leeds finally emerged with a 7-0 victory against Southampton, most of us were simply giddy with joy and no little euphoria.
And then there was the night when it all went calamitously wrong for the England football team. Unfortunately Norman Hunter would become a tortured figure and for a full house Wembley crowd just baying for blood against Poland in a crucial World Cup qualifying game in 1973, it was not a night to recall with any fondness. For the best part of 90 minutes England threw the kitchen sink, the washing machine, the dishwasher, several canteens of cutlery while not forgetting the oven and cooker at a Polish side who must have thought all their birthdays had come at once. Admittedly there were no dishwashers around at the time to throw but you do see the point.
For love nor money Sir Alf Ramsey's England couldn't break down a rugged Polish defence. Of course they were totally committed, totally fired up and fully motivated, attacking and attacking the Polish goal with a relentless and merciless insistence and persistence. They tried everything from catapults to the cannonball to batter down a Polish goal that must have had several lucky charms attached to it. But now we were about to witness the most horrendous of all downfalls and unbearable blunders.
With the game still finely poised and not really going according to plan, the second half seemed to be ebbing away from England. Then it happened. A loose ball on the half way line lured Norman Hunter into a half baked, feeble tackle and the rest is one of those miserable footnotes in England's chequered football history. Hunter, stumbling and lunging almost embarrassingly at thin air, lost the tackle and Poland sprinted for goal with very little in the way of English resistance. Poland took the lead and although Hunter's Leeds team mate Alan Clarke tucked home an equalising penalty for England, the game was up. Sir Alf Ramsey trudged away inconsolably into obscurity, sacked almost immediately and England would not be attending the following summer's World Cup in West Germany.
But Hunter was no cowardly quitter and would continue to provide both Leeds and all football fans with his distinctively whole hearted, red blooded and abrasive style. The tackles could be heard in a number of English towns and villages, crunching and thudding their way into ankles, stomachs, necks and shoulders with some ferocity. Hunter was though hugely respected by not only his colleagues but managers and chairmen who recognised the sheer strength and presence of the man.
Sadly though there was one game where Norman Hunter quite obviously forgot where he was and what he was supposed to be doing. It almost seemed like a dress rehearsal for an act he'd worked on for ages, the culmination of all those years of pent up anger. Maybe it was a kind of microcosm of Hunter's playing career in one mad five minute moment.
Derby County, still in their marvellously free wheeling attacking pomp and Francis Lee at his very best, must have seen Hunter coming. It was an old First Division game at the old Baseball Ground between Derby and Leeds, Lee against Hunter, a recipe for a fight behind the proverbial bike sheds. What followed was the most farcical punch up and even now on reflection it was no more than handbags at five paces. Suddenly the fists were flying, Lee aimlessly flinging punches that never looked like connecting. Hunter, never averse to a childish dust up or a petty altercation with his opponents, delivered his very own rabbit punches.
As both Lee and Hunter seemed to have settled their differences, it all seemed to flare up again. Out of the corner of the referee's eyes, both men were launching both barrels, eyes and noses flaring, hands lashing wildly at each other in some soap opera free for all. Shortly, commonsense did resume full service but the personal grudge and vendetta had yet to subside. It's safe to say that both were not on each other's Christmas list and oh to be a fly on the wall of a Dave Mackay who once grabbed hold of Billy Bremner's shirt and was in no mood for pleasantries.
Oh for the memories that Norman Hunter has now left. The tragedy of course was that Hunter died as a result of Covid 19, the now rampant global coronavirus disease. There will of course never be another Norman Hunter, never a player who would try desperately to bite anybody's legs because that of course is a physical impossibility. Or maybe Hunter would have thought it amusingly probable. After a brief spell at Bristol City and a bold attempt at management with Rotherham the after dinner circuit beckoned for Hunter. We shall never forget you Norman Hunter and nor will the collective defenders who thought they had the measure of him. Thanks Norman.
It always seemed slightly unfair that Norman Hunter, who died a couple of days ago at the age of 76, should be always remembered for all the wrong reasons. Besides, Hunter, although as hard as nails if not harder, was quite possibly as soft as a kitten in his private life and always gave as good as he got on the football pitch. Very few of his contemporaries during the 1970s will ever be allowed to forget Hunter because he did leave his indelible legacy on more or less every bone in their bodies.
We all know that Hunter was one of those passionate, ruthless, no-nonsense defenders who sometimes allowed his aggressive approach on the pitch to get the better of him. This is not to imply that he was some bloodthirsty, bullish barbarian on a football pitch who kicked every player up into the air whenever he felt like it. Rather he was one of those old fashioned central defenders who quite literally took no prisoners and probably did eat red meat for breakfast.
Although he was born in the Geordie heartland of Gateshead, Hunter chose to join Leeds United as a youngster and never really looked back. Soon, Hunter had integrated himself into Don Revie's team of miracle workers, charmers and, some would say, scallywags. Leeds, initially, were regarded as the pantomime villains, a genuinely talented team but rather prone to violent outbursts and impetuous tantrums.
But when Hunter paired up with the now legendary likes of Jack Charlton, Paul Reaney and Paul Madeley, Leeds attracted more favourable reviews and responses from those whose scepticism had probably set in at a very early stage in Hunter's career. All the critics could see this was hulking, maybe cumbersome looking defender who only knew to hurt, kick, punch, maim and ultimately injure anybody who dared to cross him.
When Hunter was picked for Sir Alf Ramsey's original squad in the 1966 World Cup, he became no more than an on looker, a peripheral figure just there to soak up the historic atmosphere of the time. Hunter was simply a fringe member of Sir Alf''s golden boys. The Leeds centre half was surrounded by the illustrious likes of Bobby Moore, Geoff Hurst, Martin Peters, Alan Ball, Nobby Stiles and Roger Hunt but was never daunted by more high profile figures determined to create their own history.
Four years later in Mexico during the 1970 World Cup Hunter did play a more prominent role throughout the tournament but was once again rarely used. But he did use Mexico as a sturdy stepping stone for greater club moments with his club Leeds United. It surely must have been something Alan Mullery must have said to him but Hunter returned to England with the knowledge that with Don Revie around he simply couldn't go wrong.
Now firmly ensconced at the heart of the Leeds United defence, Hunter became the arch destroyer, a notorious hard man who would shove and barge players out of the way, tackling tigerishly and of course illegally which may have done nothing to enhance his profile at the time but did endear himself to fans who just loved his devil may care, dastardly approach. Hunter was Leeds shield and crest of arms, a battering ram of a player whose often good natured nastiness and bullish belligerence aroused laughter and contempt in the same breath.
It was commonly assumed that most of those old First Division defenders must have been absolutely terrified, nay less petrified of Hunter since all they really wanted at heart was the quiet life. Hunter, it must have been felt, was just a playground bully who just wanted to end a player's career with the most brutal injury. But Hunter was never a psychopath, a hardened convict determined to make all of his opponents feel as if they were wasting their time by simply sharing the same pitch as him.
But for Hunter there were two incidents which seemed to tarnish an otherwise steadfast club career with Leeds. In retrospect they may seem to have overshadowed a career that did see Leeds win two old First Division championship trophies and an FA Cup winners medal with Leeds against Arsenal in 1972. Hunter was an admirable reader of the game and although his attitude did leave a good deal to be desired, his interceptions on the ground and a natural ability to carry the ball out of his defence with some ease and aplomb were redeeming features amid all the argy bargy.
Of course the central defender of 1970s vintage were invariably encouraged to thump the ball out of the defence as quickly and with as much alacrity as possible. But there was none of the grotesquerie about Hunter's football because Leeds could be exceptionally good and attractive on the ball when the mood suited them. The famous daisy chain passing movement which must have amounted to at least 35 passes, if not more, remains one of Leeds most unforgettable footballing moments. It is hard to know how many times Hunter was involved but when Leeds finally emerged with a 7-0 victory against Southampton, most of us were simply giddy with joy and no little euphoria.
And then there was the night when it all went calamitously wrong for the England football team. Unfortunately Norman Hunter would become a tortured figure and for a full house Wembley crowd just baying for blood against Poland in a crucial World Cup qualifying game in 1973, it was not a night to recall with any fondness. For the best part of 90 minutes England threw the kitchen sink, the washing machine, the dishwasher, several canteens of cutlery while not forgetting the oven and cooker at a Polish side who must have thought all their birthdays had come at once. Admittedly there were no dishwashers around at the time to throw but you do see the point.
For love nor money Sir Alf Ramsey's England couldn't break down a rugged Polish defence. Of course they were totally committed, totally fired up and fully motivated, attacking and attacking the Polish goal with a relentless and merciless insistence and persistence. They tried everything from catapults to the cannonball to batter down a Polish goal that must have had several lucky charms attached to it. But now we were about to witness the most horrendous of all downfalls and unbearable blunders.
With the game still finely poised and not really going according to plan, the second half seemed to be ebbing away from England. Then it happened. A loose ball on the half way line lured Norman Hunter into a half baked, feeble tackle and the rest is one of those miserable footnotes in England's chequered football history. Hunter, stumbling and lunging almost embarrassingly at thin air, lost the tackle and Poland sprinted for goal with very little in the way of English resistance. Poland took the lead and although Hunter's Leeds team mate Alan Clarke tucked home an equalising penalty for England, the game was up. Sir Alf Ramsey trudged away inconsolably into obscurity, sacked almost immediately and England would not be attending the following summer's World Cup in West Germany.
But Hunter was no cowardly quitter and would continue to provide both Leeds and all football fans with his distinctively whole hearted, red blooded and abrasive style. The tackles could be heard in a number of English towns and villages, crunching and thudding their way into ankles, stomachs, necks and shoulders with some ferocity. Hunter was though hugely respected by not only his colleagues but managers and chairmen who recognised the sheer strength and presence of the man.
Sadly though there was one game where Norman Hunter quite obviously forgot where he was and what he was supposed to be doing. It almost seemed like a dress rehearsal for an act he'd worked on for ages, the culmination of all those years of pent up anger. Maybe it was a kind of microcosm of Hunter's playing career in one mad five minute moment.
Derby County, still in their marvellously free wheeling attacking pomp and Francis Lee at his very best, must have seen Hunter coming. It was an old First Division game at the old Baseball Ground between Derby and Leeds, Lee against Hunter, a recipe for a fight behind the proverbial bike sheds. What followed was the most farcical punch up and even now on reflection it was no more than handbags at five paces. Suddenly the fists were flying, Lee aimlessly flinging punches that never looked like connecting. Hunter, never averse to a childish dust up or a petty altercation with his opponents, delivered his very own rabbit punches.
As both Lee and Hunter seemed to have settled their differences, it all seemed to flare up again. Out of the corner of the referee's eyes, both men were launching both barrels, eyes and noses flaring, hands lashing wildly at each other in some soap opera free for all. Shortly, commonsense did resume full service but the personal grudge and vendetta had yet to subside. It's safe to say that both were not on each other's Christmas list and oh to be a fly on the wall of a Dave Mackay who once grabbed hold of Billy Bremner's shirt and was in no mood for pleasantries.
Oh for the memories that Norman Hunter has now left. The tragedy of course was that Hunter died as a result of Covid 19, the now rampant global coronavirus disease. There will of course never be another Norman Hunter, never a player who would try desperately to bite anybody's legs because that of course is a physical impossibility. Or maybe Hunter would have thought it amusingly probable. After a brief spell at Bristol City and a bold attempt at management with Rotherham the after dinner circuit beckoned for Hunter. We shall never forget you Norman Hunter and nor will the collective defenders who thought they had the measure of him. Thanks Norman.
Friday, 17 April 2020
Our hero - Captain Tom Moore.
Our hero- Captain Tom Moore.
There can be no other name on our lips at the moment. He is a gentleman in a class of his own. Amid yet another day of pain, suffering and anguish one gentleman stepped up to the plate, finishing with flying colours, an all conquering hero of quite epic proportions. If he'd been an Olympian, we'd have been singing his praises for the next 50 years. But Captain Tom Moore, 100 in a couple of weeks time, will no doubt be modestly downplaying any acclaim, adulation or deeply moving publicity. He'd have shrugged off the global compliments, taken the bouquets with a warm smile and just insisted that he is just an ordinary human being carrying out the most charitable of deeds.
Now let's stop for a minute. Captain Tom Moore fought heroically and bravely during the Second World War and made the kind of sacrifices that have to be acknowledged. Yesterday Captain Moore completed 100 laps of his garden patio with an unstinting dedication to duty in a truly noble cause. He did it without asking. He did it without any prompting. He did it because he felt an obligation to do so. He walked up and down his garden and raised millions for a charity at a time when the whole world can only turn around, applaud raucously this most magnificent achievement because he knows how we feel and he knew what it was like over 75 years ago.
In an age where religious hatred, cultural divisions and materialistic greed threaten the very backbone of our society, Captain Tom Moore looked around at the horror and appalling death and thought he'd do something that was just a simple way of giving back something to society without any fanfares or trumpets. For the truth is that Captain Moore has a heart of gold, a humble and unassuming man who merely wanted to show how easy it was to take out your walker before slowly but surely strolling up and down his Garden of England and showing his personal appreciation for everything that the NHS represents.
For what seems like ages, we've been crying out for somebody to do something that would restore our faith in human nature. Last night the whole of Britain once again clapped for its carers, its nurses, surgeons, doctors, professors, laboratory research scientists, the people who make us tick quite literally and then clapped even harder when we began to realise that although we seem to be at breaking point the people at the front line are working tirelessly and uncomplainingly in an effort to bring this dreadful lockdown to an end.
It is at times like this that you become acutely aware of the fragility of human nature, the ever present frailty of the human condition, the realisation that we are all helpless, totally dependent on science and that our vulnerabilities have never been more well documented. The figures and statistics tell their own nightmarish story, the facts and details now nothing more than the most tragic chamber music. Over 13,000 have now lost their life and the number of cases that have just been revealed send the most gruesome shiver down your spine.
Of course tragedy and disaster are almost inseparable and everything from 9/11 to the London Underground terrorist outrages in 2005 once again heighten our awareness of human fallibility, human violence and shocking aggression. There is a sense here that we are now trapped in some ever increasing circle of crime, disease, war and a political hell hole. Every time a New Year comes around we hope that just for a while that things will improve and get better. But then there comes that rude awakening when a darkness falls over the day and things simply go downhill very quickly.
Still, let us return to Captain Tom Moore, a titan among men, a colossus, the best piece of news we've had for ages and surely that has to be a good thing. At the moment our 99 year old superman from Yorkshire is still clocking up the miles and millions of pounds for charity. We can only look on with both wonder and incredulity. There is something miraculous and wholesomely uplifting about men such as Captain Moore. Of course the clamours for his knighthood are getting louder by the day and some of us would give him that ultimate accolade for Captain Moore immediately. We raise a toast to you, salute you sir and long may you live. Thank you. We can never thank you enough. Three cheers and then yet another.
There can be no other name on our lips at the moment. He is a gentleman in a class of his own. Amid yet another day of pain, suffering and anguish one gentleman stepped up to the plate, finishing with flying colours, an all conquering hero of quite epic proportions. If he'd been an Olympian, we'd have been singing his praises for the next 50 years. But Captain Tom Moore, 100 in a couple of weeks time, will no doubt be modestly downplaying any acclaim, adulation or deeply moving publicity. He'd have shrugged off the global compliments, taken the bouquets with a warm smile and just insisted that he is just an ordinary human being carrying out the most charitable of deeds.
Now let's stop for a minute. Captain Tom Moore fought heroically and bravely during the Second World War and made the kind of sacrifices that have to be acknowledged. Yesterday Captain Moore completed 100 laps of his garden patio with an unstinting dedication to duty in a truly noble cause. He did it without asking. He did it without any prompting. He did it because he felt an obligation to do so. He walked up and down his garden and raised millions for a charity at a time when the whole world can only turn around, applaud raucously this most magnificent achievement because he knows how we feel and he knew what it was like over 75 years ago.
In an age where religious hatred, cultural divisions and materialistic greed threaten the very backbone of our society, Captain Tom Moore looked around at the horror and appalling death and thought he'd do something that was just a simple way of giving back something to society without any fanfares or trumpets. For the truth is that Captain Moore has a heart of gold, a humble and unassuming man who merely wanted to show how easy it was to take out your walker before slowly but surely strolling up and down his Garden of England and showing his personal appreciation for everything that the NHS represents.
For what seems like ages, we've been crying out for somebody to do something that would restore our faith in human nature. Last night the whole of Britain once again clapped for its carers, its nurses, surgeons, doctors, professors, laboratory research scientists, the people who make us tick quite literally and then clapped even harder when we began to realise that although we seem to be at breaking point the people at the front line are working tirelessly and uncomplainingly in an effort to bring this dreadful lockdown to an end.
It is at times like this that you become acutely aware of the fragility of human nature, the ever present frailty of the human condition, the realisation that we are all helpless, totally dependent on science and that our vulnerabilities have never been more well documented. The figures and statistics tell their own nightmarish story, the facts and details now nothing more than the most tragic chamber music. Over 13,000 have now lost their life and the number of cases that have just been revealed send the most gruesome shiver down your spine.
Of course tragedy and disaster are almost inseparable and everything from 9/11 to the London Underground terrorist outrages in 2005 once again heighten our awareness of human fallibility, human violence and shocking aggression. There is a sense here that we are now trapped in some ever increasing circle of crime, disease, war and a political hell hole. Every time a New Year comes around we hope that just for a while that things will improve and get better. But then there comes that rude awakening when a darkness falls over the day and things simply go downhill very quickly.
Still, let us return to Captain Tom Moore, a titan among men, a colossus, the best piece of news we've had for ages and surely that has to be a good thing. At the moment our 99 year old superman from Yorkshire is still clocking up the miles and millions of pounds for charity. We can only look on with both wonder and incredulity. There is something miraculous and wholesomely uplifting about men such as Captain Moore. Of course the clamours for his knighthood are getting louder by the day and some of us would give him that ultimate accolade for Captain Moore immediately. We raise a toast to you, salute you sir and long may you live. Thank you. We can never thank you enough. Three cheers and then yet another.
Wednesday, 15 April 2020
Today would have been National Rubber Eraser day.
Today would have been National Rubber Eraser Day.
It would have been National Rubber Eraser Day but who knows what happened to that one? Are we really in the mood for some small concession to happiness or celebration? Can we really force a smile out of something so bizarre and ludicrous, maybe a touch bonkers? A dark, grey cloud of dejection has hung over the world for what now seems like forever and it can only be a matter of time before somebody declares an extension to the coronavirus lockdown. The world has been gripped by disease, death and dread. But hold on it's National Rubber Eraser Day or is it? Don't tell me that's been postponed. Surely not.
There has to come a point when you have to believe that there should be a light at the end of the tunnel because if not, we'd have nothing to look forward at any point in the immediate or foreseeable future. And this is the whole crux of the issue. When exactly will we all lose track of the time or will that present sense of disorientation just drag and drag? The days are turning into weeks, time is taking its own personal holiday and the months are bumping along and accidentally crashing into the passing seasons.
But it is National Rubber Eraser Day so let's go for it. Hands up those who can still fondly think back to those halcyon school days when the good, old fashioned blackboard rubber was much more than some threatening, offensive weapon.We all remember when our teachers were almost driven to throw the said object at the snivelling, giggling kids at the back of the class who just refused to listen to their times tables.
Rubbers though should never be wiped or obliterated from our memory because they were rather like a metaphor for everything children were not supposed to do during a class lesson. A stubborn disobedience and a sense of reckless boisterousness were suitably punished with a swift throw of the board rubber right into the left shoulder blade of the mischievous miscreant. It was the most appropriate punishment for the kids who could never quite understand why any kind of deplorable misbehaviour or incessant talking throughout the lesson would not be acceptable. End of story.
But it may be the abiding memory of the blackboard rubber sitting snugly next to all those colourful chalks that leave you sighing with amusement. Every so often our class teacher would pick up his dusty chalks, scribble anything that came to their mind and before you knew it playtime had arrived fashionably late.
After a series of furiously scribbled dates, wobbly lines and a crazy collision of letters and words, the teacher would promptly launch into a massive session of rubbing out, smudging, wiping, dusting of the same board and then seemingly cleaning the blackboard in the same breath. Rubbers were curious looking school objects, there for painful chastisement when necessary and always on hand to just remove anything that might have unintentionally been written in some clandestine childish prank.
And yet rubbers were great were they not? How difficult would our school lives have turned out to be had the rubber not been there. We'd have spent aimless, confusing hours trying to make head or tail of hundreds of words, letters and numbers that hadn't been scrubbed from the board. Then suddenly the kids would let out the most terrific noise and rubbers disguised as missiles would be sent flying into orbit before the missiles turned into a barrage and a mini conflict would ensue.
Now though the conscientious students in the class would drop their heads into a serious pose of study, pencils and pens in hand, exercise books open at exactly the right page before embarking on the alphabet, grammar, maths, multiplication tables, division tables and cute little coloured pencil drawings to illustrate the point they were trying to make.
There was though one important item. It was that other tiny kind of rubber, perhaps the junior version of the blackboard rubber. This was some very small and probably insignificant rubber, normally grey or white which would be required when we'd accidentally used the wrong letter or word, and perish the thought, written sentences in English that were just a tad too long. The rubber was gainfully employed when you knew that your only last resort when all else failed was the rubber. You'd make that crucial mistake and rather than defacing your exercise books with innumerable crossings out and illegible ink marks, the rubber instantly solved your problem and bingo, your teacher would know exactly where you'd made the error.
The bell would signify break time and we would all frantically tuck away our rubbers, pencils, pens, protractors. compasses and slightly threadbare exercise books. Satchels and bags would act as some idyllic sanctuary for our rubbers.
Personal recollections of those spectacular primary school days would also include the famous desks and the rows of desks. Desks were our launching pad, the foundation stone for our education. Here was the one piece of furniture which would always be exposed to as much damage as the kids could possibly inflict. With thick ink blotter poised almost perfectly on the corner of the desk some of the kids would make no secret of the fact that this was the time when the desk would be converted into some Banksy like wall of graffiti.
Before we knew it blotting paper would be ruthlessly squeezed into a dark navy river of more ink and then the graffiti artists would get to work on a classroom of tables and desks. Suddenly opportunity had given way to party time. With what can only be assumed to be the back of pens or pencils the kids would painstakingly scratch love hearts on the lids of our desks, names of their favourite football teams and some vile abuse that some of us couldn't possibly comment upon.
These were the days of adolescent rebellion, exploding hormones, teenage terror and naughty insubordination. No, we would not be told what to do because we knew best. We were the hip and mainstream kids on the block and nothing would ever stand in our way. We were fonts of all knowledge, pillars of wisdom and rubbers were utterly essential, indispensable, readily available in case our hitherto imaginative minds had deserted us and left us high and dry. Oh for the humble Rubber Eraser. School life would never have been complete without it.
It would have been National Rubber Eraser Day but who knows what happened to that one? Are we really in the mood for some small concession to happiness or celebration? Can we really force a smile out of something so bizarre and ludicrous, maybe a touch bonkers? A dark, grey cloud of dejection has hung over the world for what now seems like forever and it can only be a matter of time before somebody declares an extension to the coronavirus lockdown. The world has been gripped by disease, death and dread. But hold on it's National Rubber Eraser Day or is it? Don't tell me that's been postponed. Surely not.
There has to come a point when you have to believe that there should be a light at the end of the tunnel because if not, we'd have nothing to look forward at any point in the immediate or foreseeable future. And this is the whole crux of the issue. When exactly will we all lose track of the time or will that present sense of disorientation just drag and drag? The days are turning into weeks, time is taking its own personal holiday and the months are bumping along and accidentally crashing into the passing seasons.
But it is National Rubber Eraser Day so let's go for it. Hands up those who can still fondly think back to those halcyon school days when the good, old fashioned blackboard rubber was much more than some threatening, offensive weapon.We all remember when our teachers were almost driven to throw the said object at the snivelling, giggling kids at the back of the class who just refused to listen to their times tables.
Rubbers though should never be wiped or obliterated from our memory because they were rather like a metaphor for everything children were not supposed to do during a class lesson. A stubborn disobedience and a sense of reckless boisterousness were suitably punished with a swift throw of the board rubber right into the left shoulder blade of the mischievous miscreant. It was the most appropriate punishment for the kids who could never quite understand why any kind of deplorable misbehaviour or incessant talking throughout the lesson would not be acceptable. End of story.
But it may be the abiding memory of the blackboard rubber sitting snugly next to all those colourful chalks that leave you sighing with amusement. Every so often our class teacher would pick up his dusty chalks, scribble anything that came to their mind and before you knew it playtime had arrived fashionably late.
After a series of furiously scribbled dates, wobbly lines and a crazy collision of letters and words, the teacher would promptly launch into a massive session of rubbing out, smudging, wiping, dusting of the same board and then seemingly cleaning the blackboard in the same breath. Rubbers were curious looking school objects, there for painful chastisement when necessary and always on hand to just remove anything that might have unintentionally been written in some clandestine childish prank.
And yet rubbers were great were they not? How difficult would our school lives have turned out to be had the rubber not been there. We'd have spent aimless, confusing hours trying to make head or tail of hundreds of words, letters and numbers that hadn't been scrubbed from the board. Then suddenly the kids would let out the most terrific noise and rubbers disguised as missiles would be sent flying into orbit before the missiles turned into a barrage and a mini conflict would ensue.
Now though the conscientious students in the class would drop their heads into a serious pose of study, pencils and pens in hand, exercise books open at exactly the right page before embarking on the alphabet, grammar, maths, multiplication tables, division tables and cute little coloured pencil drawings to illustrate the point they were trying to make.
There was though one important item. It was that other tiny kind of rubber, perhaps the junior version of the blackboard rubber. This was some very small and probably insignificant rubber, normally grey or white which would be required when we'd accidentally used the wrong letter or word, and perish the thought, written sentences in English that were just a tad too long. The rubber was gainfully employed when you knew that your only last resort when all else failed was the rubber. You'd make that crucial mistake and rather than defacing your exercise books with innumerable crossings out and illegible ink marks, the rubber instantly solved your problem and bingo, your teacher would know exactly where you'd made the error.
The bell would signify break time and we would all frantically tuck away our rubbers, pencils, pens, protractors. compasses and slightly threadbare exercise books. Satchels and bags would act as some idyllic sanctuary for our rubbers.
Personal recollections of those spectacular primary school days would also include the famous desks and the rows of desks. Desks were our launching pad, the foundation stone for our education. Here was the one piece of furniture which would always be exposed to as much damage as the kids could possibly inflict. With thick ink blotter poised almost perfectly on the corner of the desk some of the kids would make no secret of the fact that this was the time when the desk would be converted into some Banksy like wall of graffiti.
Before we knew it blotting paper would be ruthlessly squeezed into a dark navy river of more ink and then the graffiti artists would get to work on a classroom of tables and desks. Suddenly opportunity had given way to party time. With what can only be assumed to be the back of pens or pencils the kids would painstakingly scratch love hearts on the lids of our desks, names of their favourite football teams and some vile abuse that some of us couldn't possibly comment upon.
These were the days of adolescent rebellion, exploding hormones, teenage terror and naughty insubordination. No, we would not be told what to do because we knew best. We were the hip and mainstream kids on the block and nothing would ever stand in our way. We were fonts of all knowledge, pillars of wisdom and rubbers were utterly essential, indispensable, readily available in case our hitherto imaginative minds had deserted us and left us high and dry. Oh for the humble Rubber Eraser. School life would never have been complete without it.
Monday, 13 April 2020
Sir Stirling Moss and Peter Bonetti die
Sir Stirling Moss and Peter Bonetti die.
Under ordinary circumstances this would have been like any other Easter Monday. But, sadly, unlike any other Easter Monday in our lifetimes, this is not going to be the same kind of bank holiday any of us are ever likely to witness. There is no one out there, the world is seemingly fast asleep and the kids will have to make do with their chocolate eggs without the rest of their families. Even Easter Parade isn't on the TV this year or at least so it would seem. Even the Easter bunny rabbits and bonnets are nowhere to be seen in any home around the globe.
Yesterday though even sport seemed to come out in sympathy with the current crisis. There is always an air of mourning and loss when sport loses its heroes or veteran pin up boys from another generation. But over the weekend Sir Sterling Moss from motor racing and Peter Bonetti from the world of football both died and some of us could barely take in the sadness of it all. We knew that both Moss and Bonetti had enjoyed richly garlanded careers with loads of praise, flattery and respect ringing in their ears but it still registers as the sharpest of shocks when you hear that the sportsmen you grew up with are no longer here anymore.
Personally the passing of Peter Bonetti, after a courageous battle against Alzheimer's disease, left you gasping for words and reactions since Bonetti represented football during the 1970s in a way that somehow will never be matched. Bonetti came from that outrageous era of flared trousers, platform shoes. silk scarves, The Osmonds, space hoppers, lengthy queues outside local lidos and the Chicken in a Basket feast in your local restaurant or trattoria.
Peter Bonetti was undoubtedly one of the finest Chelsea goalkeepers in the history of the club. Bonetti, nicknamed 'The Cat' owing to his uncanny resemblance to a feline's reflexes, will always be associated with Chelsea since here we had one man who was totally devoted to his club in a manner that would now seem unheard of.
Bonetti, as has always been the way for most players, experienced both the highs and lows, often uncomfortable fluctuations and dips in form that may have broken a lesser mortal. The contrasting moods of any footballer are almost inevitable but for Bonetti one moment was almost horrifically highlighted and years later it was lamented as if it were the one occasion during his career that he would never be forgiven for.
During the 1970 World Cup in Mexico, Gordon Banks, another much loved and now missed goalkeeper, went down with alleged food poisoning on the eve of England's crucial quarter final against West Germany. So Banks had to sit out, quite certainly, one of the most important matches of the tournament and Bonetti would be lumbered with the onerous responsibility of taking over from Banks between the sticks.
The fresh faced and angelic Bonetti, Chelsea through and through, took guard in goal in perfect innocence without knowing at all that disaster would befall him. Franz Beckenbauer, West Germany's magisterial centre half, drilled a powerful shot from just outside the England penalty area and the ball slipped under Bonetti with almost apologetic ease. England had lost their grip on the World Cup and were out of the competition. All hell broke loose at that point and suddenly Bonetti was public enemy one. Oh for a reliable, safe and dependable Gordon Banks.
But months earlier Bonetti had been on the winning side for Chelsea, a triumphant figure in the club's first piece of silverware for what must have seemed ages. On an allotment site that was the old Wembley Stadium, Bonetti played perhaps one of his greatest matches for the Blues. A week before the 1970 FA Cup Final at Wembley, the Horse of the Year Show had ensured that much of the green turf that had once been allowed to flourish was now no more than a thick, cloying mudbath with divots all over the pitch.
The first match between Chelsea and Leeds United was a stodgy and bad tempered game as might have been expected when the two main adversaries and hard men were Norman Hunter and Ron Harris. But Bonetti was magnificent in goal and showed all the commendable skills that perhaps Chelsea might have assumed he'd display.
In the replay at Old Trafford during the following week, Bonetti was even better and even more memorable. With an almost gymnastic agility and impeccable positioning, Bonetti was stupendously outstanding. He flung himself across goal to stop all kinds of shots from Peter Lorimer, Alan Clarke and Johnny Giles and took instant command of his penalty area with an almost charming air of self confidence.
Throughout his club and international career Bonetti would continue to act as an almost impassable barrier in goal, always fit, always athletic, always dedicated to his trade, never allowing for any imperfection to spoil his game and perhaps a perfectionist. He would roll the ball around his area, gloves in spotless condition, assessing the mood of a game and always searching to place the ball in the right spot for hungry forwards. His distribution of the ball had the accuracy of a laser beam and his defenders would never show any sign of anxiety when he had the ball. His catching of the ball from deep, probing crosses was faultless and there was a calming consistency about his performances.
The world of motor racing of course also had its heart broken with the death of Sir Stirling Moss. For those who have never really shown any real enthusiasm for this most hazardous of sports, Moss, though was the notable exception. Rather like the late James Hunt, Moss attracted a whole beauty pageant of female admirers and was never less than pleased to share their company whenever the opportunity arose.
But Moss belonged to an era when juke boxes in coffee bars in Soho were the fashion of the time, rock and roll had revolutionised the music of the 1950s and and cars reminded you of one of the many toy cars that your parents had once presented you with as a child. Moss was smooth, witty, charismatic, flirtatious, immensely popular with the ladies and a marketing dream. He didn't win a major World Championship but was fast on the track, supremely confident and would enjoy more than his fair share of successful victories.
So that was the Sunday that was. We are still fastened down into a state of lockdown, none of us are going anywhere and there is stagnation wherever you look. The coronavirus has left most of us trying to establish some kind of different routine to our days and Monday occasionally feels like Thursday. But how on earth are we going to cope without Judy Garland in Easter Parade? Keep well everybody, stay safe and keep drinking either tea or coffee which ever your preferred choice of drink is.
Under ordinary circumstances this would have been like any other Easter Monday. But, sadly, unlike any other Easter Monday in our lifetimes, this is not going to be the same kind of bank holiday any of us are ever likely to witness. There is no one out there, the world is seemingly fast asleep and the kids will have to make do with their chocolate eggs without the rest of their families. Even Easter Parade isn't on the TV this year or at least so it would seem. Even the Easter bunny rabbits and bonnets are nowhere to be seen in any home around the globe.
Yesterday though even sport seemed to come out in sympathy with the current crisis. There is always an air of mourning and loss when sport loses its heroes or veteran pin up boys from another generation. But over the weekend Sir Sterling Moss from motor racing and Peter Bonetti from the world of football both died and some of us could barely take in the sadness of it all. We knew that both Moss and Bonetti had enjoyed richly garlanded careers with loads of praise, flattery and respect ringing in their ears but it still registers as the sharpest of shocks when you hear that the sportsmen you grew up with are no longer here anymore.
Personally the passing of Peter Bonetti, after a courageous battle against Alzheimer's disease, left you gasping for words and reactions since Bonetti represented football during the 1970s in a way that somehow will never be matched. Bonetti came from that outrageous era of flared trousers, platform shoes. silk scarves, The Osmonds, space hoppers, lengthy queues outside local lidos and the Chicken in a Basket feast in your local restaurant or trattoria.
Peter Bonetti was undoubtedly one of the finest Chelsea goalkeepers in the history of the club. Bonetti, nicknamed 'The Cat' owing to his uncanny resemblance to a feline's reflexes, will always be associated with Chelsea since here we had one man who was totally devoted to his club in a manner that would now seem unheard of.
Bonetti, as has always been the way for most players, experienced both the highs and lows, often uncomfortable fluctuations and dips in form that may have broken a lesser mortal. The contrasting moods of any footballer are almost inevitable but for Bonetti one moment was almost horrifically highlighted and years later it was lamented as if it were the one occasion during his career that he would never be forgiven for.
During the 1970 World Cup in Mexico, Gordon Banks, another much loved and now missed goalkeeper, went down with alleged food poisoning on the eve of England's crucial quarter final against West Germany. So Banks had to sit out, quite certainly, one of the most important matches of the tournament and Bonetti would be lumbered with the onerous responsibility of taking over from Banks between the sticks.
The fresh faced and angelic Bonetti, Chelsea through and through, took guard in goal in perfect innocence without knowing at all that disaster would befall him. Franz Beckenbauer, West Germany's magisterial centre half, drilled a powerful shot from just outside the England penalty area and the ball slipped under Bonetti with almost apologetic ease. England had lost their grip on the World Cup and were out of the competition. All hell broke loose at that point and suddenly Bonetti was public enemy one. Oh for a reliable, safe and dependable Gordon Banks.
But months earlier Bonetti had been on the winning side for Chelsea, a triumphant figure in the club's first piece of silverware for what must have seemed ages. On an allotment site that was the old Wembley Stadium, Bonetti played perhaps one of his greatest matches for the Blues. A week before the 1970 FA Cup Final at Wembley, the Horse of the Year Show had ensured that much of the green turf that had once been allowed to flourish was now no more than a thick, cloying mudbath with divots all over the pitch.
The first match between Chelsea and Leeds United was a stodgy and bad tempered game as might have been expected when the two main adversaries and hard men were Norman Hunter and Ron Harris. But Bonetti was magnificent in goal and showed all the commendable skills that perhaps Chelsea might have assumed he'd display.
In the replay at Old Trafford during the following week, Bonetti was even better and even more memorable. With an almost gymnastic agility and impeccable positioning, Bonetti was stupendously outstanding. He flung himself across goal to stop all kinds of shots from Peter Lorimer, Alan Clarke and Johnny Giles and took instant command of his penalty area with an almost charming air of self confidence.
Throughout his club and international career Bonetti would continue to act as an almost impassable barrier in goal, always fit, always athletic, always dedicated to his trade, never allowing for any imperfection to spoil his game and perhaps a perfectionist. He would roll the ball around his area, gloves in spotless condition, assessing the mood of a game and always searching to place the ball in the right spot for hungry forwards. His distribution of the ball had the accuracy of a laser beam and his defenders would never show any sign of anxiety when he had the ball. His catching of the ball from deep, probing crosses was faultless and there was a calming consistency about his performances.
The world of motor racing of course also had its heart broken with the death of Sir Stirling Moss. For those who have never really shown any real enthusiasm for this most hazardous of sports, Moss, though was the notable exception. Rather like the late James Hunt, Moss attracted a whole beauty pageant of female admirers and was never less than pleased to share their company whenever the opportunity arose.
But Moss belonged to an era when juke boxes in coffee bars in Soho were the fashion of the time, rock and roll had revolutionised the music of the 1950s and and cars reminded you of one of the many toy cars that your parents had once presented you with as a child. Moss was smooth, witty, charismatic, flirtatious, immensely popular with the ladies and a marketing dream. He didn't win a major World Championship but was fast on the track, supremely confident and would enjoy more than his fair share of successful victories.
So that was the Sunday that was. We are still fastened down into a state of lockdown, none of us are going anywhere and there is stagnation wherever you look. The coronavirus has left most of us trying to establish some kind of different routine to our days and Monday occasionally feels like Thursday. But how on earth are we going to cope without Judy Garland in Easter Parade? Keep well everybody, stay safe and keep drinking either tea or coffee which ever your preferred choice of drink is.
Sunday, 12 April 2020
Baggy Trousers
Baggy Trousers
And now once again for something entirely wacky, something completely different and something designed to lift the blues in these troubled and worrying times. It'll make you laugh, chuckle, question my sanity quite frankly or just restore your faith in human nature. I hope it will. So here goes.
Nine years I completed my first and what I now realise was my first venture into the fiercely competitive world of publishing, writing books and literature. The book was called Victorian Madness Lyrics, a bonkers and totally incomprehensible homage to the brilliant British ska band from the 1970s and the 1980s. It is, quite certainly nonsensical but may I just add that this was a deliberate attempt to translate a huge part of Madness's back catalogue. No words were hurt in the act of producing this book. In fact Victorian Madness Lyrics is a festival of words, a grammatical carnival of posh metaphors and ridiculously quirky phrases that I hope will bring a smile to your faces.
If you like this brief snapshot and one of Madness's songs in an introductory way. Victorian Madness Lyrics is not a parody of the Victorian era as such. In fact this was never the intention in the first place. So sit back, enjoy your tea and biscuits and have a laugh. I hope you'll like it. Be prepared for a word fest the like of which you may never find in any other book.
Oh yes if you like the book Victorian Madness Lyrics it's available at either Foyles online, Waterstones online or Barnes and Noble online. Here goes for Baggy Trousers aka Ill Fitting Pantaloons.
Ill fitting pantaloons
Miscreant young males in malicious
groves of academia
Leading administrator of groves of
academia in violation of the
directives
Indulging in frivolity and
masquerading as poltroons
The entire set of tutors in the tavern
Discriminating the available eraser
Attempting to ponder when
The mid-day nourishment ringing
mechanism will resound on yet
another occasion
Goodness me what frivolity we
engaged in
But it did genuinely develop into a
complete fiasco
Everything I absorbed at the said
groves of academia
Was how to flex and not to violate
the directive
Goodness what frivolity we engaged in
But on the specific occasion it
appeared to be so malicious
Attempting diverse methods to
effect a revolution
The leading administrator of the
groves of academia had tolerated a
sufficient amount on this diurnal
period
The entire contingent of juveniles
have made their departure
Left the premises to engage in
skirmishes with the adjacent groves
of academia.
Striking Penny Farthings following
the nocturnal hours
Ill fitting pantaloons squalid
chemises
Tugging at the tonsure and
consuming squalid substances
Tutor arrives to achieve an
intervention
At the rear of the cranium with an
artificial container.
And so there ends a tantalising glimpse of Baggy Trousers - aka Ill Fitting Pantaloons. You'll also find the House of Fun- aka The Establishment of Amusement and Our House- One's Abode. If you're in the mood for a giggle, chortle or chuckle then Victorian Madness Lyrics is definitely the book for you. Thanks Suggs and the Madness lads.
And now once again for something entirely wacky, something completely different and something designed to lift the blues in these troubled and worrying times. It'll make you laugh, chuckle, question my sanity quite frankly or just restore your faith in human nature. I hope it will. So here goes.
Nine years I completed my first and what I now realise was my first venture into the fiercely competitive world of publishing, writing books and literature. The book was called Victorian Madness Lyrics, a bonkers and totally incomprehensible homage to the brilliant British ska band from the 1970s and the 1980s. It is, quite certainly nonsensical but may I just add that this was a deliberate attempt to translate a huge part of Madness's back catalogue. No words were hurt in the act of producing this book. In fact Victorian Madness Lyrics is a festival of words, a grammatical carnival of posh metaphors and ridiculously quirky phrases that I hope will bring a smile to your faces.
If you like this brief snapshot and one of Madness's songs in an introductory way. Victorian Madness Lyrics is not a parody of the Victorian era as such. In fact this was never the intention in the first place. So sit back, enjoy your tea and biscuits and have a laugh. I hope you'll like it. Be prepared for a word fest the like of which you may never find in any other book.
Oh yes if you like the book Victorian Madness Lyrics it's available at either Foyles online, Waterstones online or Barnes and Noble online. Here goes for Baggy Trousers aka Ill Fitting Pantaloons.
Ill fitting pantaloons
Miscreant young males in malicious
groves of academia
Leading administrator of groves of
academia in violation of the
directives
Indulging in frivolity and
masquerading as poltroons
The entire set of tutors in the tavern
Discriminating the available eraser
Attempting to ponder when
The mid-day nourishment ringing
mechanism will resound on yet
another occasion
Goodness me what frivolity we
engaged in
But it did genuinely develop into a
complete fiasco
Everything I absorbed at the said
groves of academia
Was how to flex and not to violate
the directive
Goodness what frivolity we engaged in
But on the specific occasion it
appeared to be so malicious
Attempting diverse methods to
effect a revolution
The leading administrator of the
groves of academia had tolerated a
sufficient amount on this diurnal
period
The entire contingent of juveniles
have made their departure
Left the premises to engage in
skirmishes with the adjacent groves
of academia.
Striking Penny Farthings following
the nocturnal hours
Ill fitting pantaloons squalid
chemises
Tugging at the tonsure and
consuming squalid substances
Tutor arrives to achieve an
intervention
At the rear of the cranium with an
artificial container.
And so there ends a tantalising glimpse of Baggy Trousers - aka Ill Fitting Pantaloons. You'll also find the House of Fun- aka The Establishment of Amusement and Our House- One's Abode. If you're in the mood for a giggle, chortle or chuckle then Victorian Madness Lyrics is definitely the book for you. Thanks Suggs and the Madness lads.
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