Canaries tweet their last FA Cup tune. Norwich lose to Manchester United in Cup quarter final.
In an atmosphere that still reminded you of a school playground, Norwich City bowed out of this season's FA Cup with dignity intact but still there is the realisation that their residence in the Premier League may now be in grave jeopardy. After yoyoing back into this year's Premier League Norwich do seem to have taken a liking to their trampoline because the very thought of bouncing back to the top flight does seem to energise them.
It now looks inevitable though that the Canaries from Norfolk's greenest acres will be heading back from whence they came in the Championship but still it was good while it lasted. Norwich, perhaps now infamously, just can't settle in football's top flight and for what now seems an eternity have always flattered to deceive when altitude sickness seems to get the better of them.
The sight of top celebrity chef Delia Smith desperately imploring her Norwich team to victory at half time several seasons ago remains one of the game's more amusing moments. But for whatever reason Norwich remain incapable of remembering their lines and stage fright seems to follow them everywhere. Maybe they should see a footballing psychiatrist since the Carrow Road faithful must be heartily sick of all this instability.
When John Bond was their manager, Norwich were very fetching on the eye, their football spiced with all kinds of fragrant flavours. Norwich were entertaining and certainly one of the most attractive sides in the late 1970s. But since then their football has suffered an attack of the jitters, a side nervous, unsure of themselves always looking for re-assurance. Maybe they should have pretended that Liverpool, Manchester United, Spurs or Arsenal were just optical illusions.
In their FA Cup quarter final tie against a very polished Manchester United side, Norwich only briefly hinted at the kind of form that had completely outplayed their opponents neighbours City earlier on in the season. But this was not the Norwich who had once deeply impressed the neutrals when John Bond was boss roughly 40 years ago.
The truth is that Norwich now looked doomed and condemned to another season in the Championship and any distraction from the Premier League was no more than fleeting. This was never going to be an easy watch for the locals who, you suspect, would much rather have spent a lovely summer evening picking strawberries or potatoes in Norfolk's lush fields. But it was the FA Cup and we're now at the end of June with some incongruous event tacked onto the end of the season as an afterthought.
Still here we were in the FA Cup quarter finals when most of the players, you feel sure, would have much preferred an evening in a Greek taverna or tucking into Spanish paella washed down by a Chateaux Marks and Spencer. Footballers are of course creatures of habit and had you asked any of the players on view yesterday whether a place in a Wembley FA Cup semi final now or a rest and relaxation break in the Costa Brava would be much more to their liking the choice would surely have been predictable.
Football though has to deal with whatever is placed in front of us and although very odd and maybe a touch unsettling for many a traditional football fan this was the FA Cup without its fans and that in itself cast a strange and mystical light on yesterday's fare. Of course the FA Cup has retained something of its old fashioned glamour but for those who can remember the days of rosettes and banners at any FA Cup tie from long ago this was not quite the romantic spectacle of times gone by. Besides Norwich regrettably have been nowhere near a Final appearance and Canaries only sing in coalmines.
Yesterday evening with the summer shadows lengthening and Manchester United were in town. Normally this would have vaguely recalled a David and Goliath Cup tie but by the end of extra time, Norwich were out on their feet. Their rash and careless defender Timm Klose had been sent off for a needless foul on the edge of the Norwich penalty area and the home side were whistling in the wind. Manchester United immediately sensed their moment and went for the yellow and green jugular.
The match itself played out in much the way most of us had expected. Manchester United, with the always venturesome Luke Shaw at the back, Harry Maguire, quietly domineering at the heart of the United defence, Eric Bailly, all hustle and bustle in front of the United back four, United began to assert their customary imprint on the Cup tie. Their football, once so beautifully sculpted and chiselled under Alex Ferguson, still has all those silks and subtleties that continue to give so much pleasure to the football aficionado and the purist who insists on technical correctness.
Under Ole Gunnar Solksjaer United are still a work in progress and the moment of completion may be a number of seasons away but the signs are there and the players fit the bill perfectly. Scott Mctominay may not be another David Beckham in the making as of yet but he still exudes an obvious authority in midfield. With Juan Mata still as quick witted and creative as ever even at the age of 32 and Bruno Fernandes an outstanding player with so much to give United, this is a Manchester United side that could reach the stars without quite the smooth finesse of the Beckham, Giggs, Butt and Scholes era.
We must not overlook the sterling contribution of Jesse Lingard, a home grown Old Ttrafford product, an England international par excellence with a sweetness of touch and a desire to attack with the ball in dangerous areas that never fails to catch the eye. Lingard was forever probing, buzzing, prompting, scheming and searching, linking effectively and powerfully with his United colleagues, the busy bee that provided United with most of the honey.
United eventually made their attacking superiority count when it looked as if Norwich had possibly rumbled United's cunning plan. United took the lead early on after a dazzling passage of play where the ball seemed to be stuck in the green and yellow half like glue on paper. A neat procession of passes found Luke Shaw whose clipped cross low across the Norwich area ultimately found the feet of Odion Ighalo who, turning his defender sharply, shielded the ball carefully before flicking out a lethal foot, guiding the ball firmly past helpless keeper Tim Krul.
In the second half though Norwich surged forward and broke forward with a speed of thought that had quite clearly left United feeling hot and bothered. Their football had much greater clarity and purpose where before there had only been faint suggestions and blurred images. Jamas Lewis looked far more confident on the ball while the likes of Alexander Tettey, Emiliano Buendia and Lukas Ruff were badgering and beavering away, chipping away at United's resistance.
When the promising and forward thinking Todd Cantwell joined in with Norwich's hitherto misfiring attack, it looked as though the home side were emerging from their inhibited shell. Norwich were now seeking rather than retreating, enterprising rather than withering. With the game seemingly running away from them, Norwich were given their thoroughly deserved equaliser. After a spurt of close control and cohesive football on the touchline, Norwich worked the ball smartly across the pitch and Cantwell, latching onto the ball with great delight, cracked the ball with some finality high into the United net. It was, as they say in football parlance, a screamer.
With the game now into injury time all it took was one flash point to decide this moderately engaging Cup quarter final, Norwich, perhaps smelling blood, now saw red. The aforementioned Timm Klose grabbed hold of a United attacker in front of the referee and had to be given his marching orders. Norwich were now without a life raft and just disappeared from the game.
In the closing stages of extra time United now lay siege to a Norwich side with an extremely fragile chin. The attacks came thick and fast, United peppering the Norwich goal with a sustained assault that always looked as if it would result in a winner for United. It almost felt as though Norwich were clinging on to some metaphorical cliff and hoping that penalties would come to their rescue. It was not to be.
Now it was that Luke Shaw, still capable and competent in possession, who picked up the ball from another clever pass. Shaw, weighing up his options with both perception and shrewdness, floated a low, diagonal ball into the Norwich six yard box and after the ball had been laid off to him, Harry Maguire who had been influential in so many of Englnd's World Cup displays two years ago, nipped in front of his defender before clipping the ball past the keeper for United's winner.
And so it is that Manchester United march into another record breaking FA Cup semi final and probably another Cup Final to boot. Meanwhile most of us were still trying to imagine a Cup Final without any supporters from the two respective finalists. For those of us who have avidly followed and endured both the fortunes and misfortunes of our club side, this still feels like an insult to our intelligence rather like watching our favourite movie with the volume turned down or an art gallery without any tourists to cast admiring eyes on.
Still, football is undoubtedly living in some parallel universe, a galaxy far away from a well trodden Earth, a world that has clearly lost its bearings. We are being asked to watch football that has quite literally lost its identity, a sport undermined and humiliated by men with stupid looking blinkers over their eyes and no idea what to do with perhaps the most important influence on the game. These are not the thoughts of a bitter and resentful type more of a plea from the heart, a cry in the wilderness for some degree of sense. An FA Cup Final without its supporters still feels like another game entirely. Wembley, Wembley! Here we go. Here we go Here we go!
Sunday, 28 June 2020
Saturday, 27 June 2020
Time to book your holiday in the sun.
Time to book your holiday in the sun.
Set against an increasingly hostile backdrop of riots, demonstrations and irrationally aggressive behaviour it is now comforting to hear that at long last we can finally book that welcome holiday to the sun. Before that now dreadful lockdown in March most of us were optimistically waiting for the right moment to book our yearly holiday to far off places abroad where the sun shone eternally, pina coladas were drunk by the gallon next to a shimmering swimming pool and Britain was thousands of miles away from here.
Little did we know it at the time that something was ominous in the air with far-reaching implications, terrible repercussions and something that would throw all of us into full -time panic mode. We had to look forward to something but were deprived of doing so because the world became inaccessible, out of bounds, trapped in a raging pandemic disease that just kept getting worse by the day and beyond human control.
And so it is that we welcome summer 2020 and after another series of contradictory messages from both government and those talking heads in the House of Self Parody, we have now been given permission to go on holiday. Whoopee? Let's get out that passport, stock up on those plentiful supplies of sun factor cream 72 and just pack every single piece of clothing into a fit to burst suitcase while always concerned about what might happen if we do get too close to anybody on the plane.
Still, in a couple of weeks time all of those sun kissed beaches in those quintessentially exotic lands far away from British shores will once again be heaving with sun umbrellas, Brits paddling lazily in turquoise seas and kids running in and out of the waters with cute little caps on their heads. Then the Mediterranean idyll will find all of those British tourists with unfortunate red burn marks on their body where the sun factor has failed to reach its intended spot. Then emergency measures will be called upon as dozens of after sun tan lotion bottles will be dug out of bags overflowing with sangria and donkeys.
No matter of course that we may not be up to going away on holiday just yet because the rumours of quarantine, hand sanitisers at airports and yet another consignment of masks to be worn at customs remain as true as they might have done a couple of weeks ago. So there you are already to go, suitcases packed, sun -glasses perched on the bridge of your nose, paperback books tucked away safely in your baggage and then somebody tells us that once we get to our destination we may have to deal with yet more confinement.
Suddenly, the whole concept of going away for a week to two weeks in either the Med or any other part of the world now becomes distinctly less appealing than it should. The fear factor and sense of foreboding is too much to take in and most of us may not entirely fancy the prospect of squeezing through the aisles of a plane, plonking ourselves down on our seats and then suffering the ultimate indignity of claustrophobia when we could be booking ourselves into a bed and breakfast hotel in Skegness or Blackpool.
And this is where we begin to weigh up the pros and cons of this whole bizarre set of events. Is travelling abroad a calculated risk or perhaps Spain, Italy, Greece, Cyprus, the USA, Mexico, the Far East or Israel really does feel like the ultimate temptation too good to be resisted? But hey come on we've got to get away from Britain after all these months of just becoming stressed out because the kids have been driving you mad at home and you're about to explode.
We mustn't forget all that unnecessary hassle and aggravation at the airport where everything becomes like an assault course or some perilous expedition into the unknown. Under the circumstances you probably won't be looking forward to the prospect of walking for miles around the airport concourse, dragging your cases through a minefield of annoyances, those loathsome inconveniences.
There are those tiresome customs desks, hypnotic luggage carousels, the endless parade of perfume shops, checking in with your passports and those wretched security checks where trouser belts have to be taken off, watches and jewellery removed from your pockets and everything that smacks of red tape bureaucracy just leaves you screaming with frustration.
But way back in the early 1970s when we signed up for this time consuming rigmarole at our local airport nobody knew this would happen, much less bargain for. In those days airports, although busy, must have assumed that if you had booked your holiday in either January or February you really wouldn't have to worry about such minor details as out of date passports or the Tablet you'd forgotten to pack. We could negotiate that particular problem since you could always fly off at a later date during the summer.
The blunt truth though is that nobody is going nowhere at this moment although the doors and gates could be open at either Heathrow, Luton, Gatwick and all of those wonderful regional airports around Britain very soon so just hold on and we'll get there. However after all those months of teeth- gnashing and finger biting the enthusiasm to hit the beaches and hotel swimming pools of the world may not be quite as feverish as perhaps it should be. Or maybe you're just counting the hours down before that Easy Jet plane is winging its way over the Iberian peninsula.
The fact is thankfully that we may be edging our way tentatively back to that point of the year when Easter chocolate eggs were only weeks away and spring was the most enticing prospect. Nobody can really tell where we are at the moment because the pubs and restaurants have been ordered to be ready for the beginning of July and most of those non- essential shops are, we assured, ringing those tills.
The feeling though is that half of the world is open and functioning at something that seems like semi business as usual while the other half is still kicking its heels. People are still wandering around in masks, those who aren't wearing them are beginning to ask themselves whether they should and it all feels as if we're like extras for a potential remake of Emergency Ward 10. It just feels like one of those years that really didn't happen at all and should have been scrapped on New Year's Day.
Of course we love life and our mental health but the end of June probably feels like the end of November or the week before Christmas. The end of the world isn't nigh and we know that but the significance of the year and the energy have long since evaporated. All of the cultural and major sporting events have now been placed in cold storage and what could have been so richly satisfying and aesthetically perfect is now just a torn page in history. Or so it would seem.
For instance last night BBC Two devoted the entire evening to the many- layered history of Glastonbury, a pop and rock music festival so enshrined in the hearts of hundreds of late 1960s hippies and modern day kids that a year without it, is a gaping wound. Two presenters stood in an empty field in deepest Somerset surrounded by cows and not a lot else. There was a very lonely electricity pylon but in the place where the esteemed Motown legend who is Diana Ross should have been tomorrow night was grass and stunning scenery. It is all very demoralising but then again there's always next year.
So here's the deal everyone. Forget about Glastonbury, the tennis from Wimbledon, quite possibly cricket and every other national treasure because they won't be happening. Euro 2020 would have been approaching its final stages although the Premier League football season is still jumping up and down in the background and won't be happy until the end of July. These were all scheduled plans that didn't take place nor were they in retrospect, destined to happen.
This is the advice for what's it worth. Close your eyes, take a deep breath and when you wake up at any time in the foreseeable future this will all be over. Trust me, you've looked into your crystal ball and the future is resplendently bright. It can only be a matter of time now. Stay safe and alert everybody and keep well.
Set against an increasingly hostile backdrop of riots, demonstrations and irrationally aggressive behaviour it is now comforting to hear that at long last we can finally book that welcome holiday to the sun. Before that now dreadful lockdown in March most of us were optimistically waiting for the right moment to book our yearly holiday to far off places abroad where the sun shone eternally, pina coladas were drunk by the gallon next to a shimmering swimming pool and Britain was thousands of miles away from here.
Little did we know it at the time that something was ominous in the air with far-reaching implications, terrible repercussions and something that would throw all of us into full -time panic mode. We had to look forward to something but were deprived of doing so because the world became inaccessible, out of bounds, trapped in a raging pandemic disease that just kept getting worse by the day and beyond human control.
And so it is that we welcome summer 2020 and after another series of contradictory messages from both government and those talking heads in the House of Self Parody, we have now been given permission to go on holiday. Whoopee? Let's get out that passport, stock up on those plentiful supplies of sun factor cream 72 and just pack every single piece of clothing into a fit to burst suitcase while always concerned about what might happen if we do get too close to anybody on the plane.
Still, in a couple of weeks time all of those sun kissed beaches in those quintessentially exotic lands far away from British shores will once again be heaving with sun umbrellas, Brits paddling lazily in turquoise seas and kids running in and out of the waters with cute little caps on their heads. Then the Mediterranean idyll will find all of those British tourists with unfortunate red burn marks on their body where the sun factor has failed to reach its intended spot. Then emergency measures will be called upon as dozens of after sun tan lotion bottles will be dug out of bags overflowing with sangria and donkeys.
No matter of course that we may not be up to going away on holiday just yet because the rumours of quarantine, hand sanitisers at airports and yet another consignment of masks to be worn at customs remain as true as they might have done a couple of weeks ago. So there you are already to go, suitcases packed, sun -glasses perched on the bridge of your nose, paperback books tucked away safely in your baggage and then somebody tells us that once we get to our destination we may have to deal with yet more confinement.
Suddenly, the whole concept of going away for a week to two weeks in either the Med or any other part of the world now becomes distinctly less appealing than it should. The fear factor and sense of foreboding is too much to take in and most of us may not entirely fancy the prospect of squeezing through the aisles of a plane, plonking ourselves down on our seats and then suffering the ultimate indignity of claustrophobia when we could be booking ourselves into a bed and breakfast hotel in Skegness or Blackpool.
And this is where we begin to weigh up the pros and cons of this whole bizarre set of events. Is travelling abroad a calculated risk or perhaps Spain, Italy, Greece, Cyprus, the USA, Mexico, the Far East or Israel really does feel like the ultimate temptation too good to be resisted? But hey come on we've got to get away from Britain after all these months of just becoming stressed out because the kids have been driving you mad at home and you're about to explode.
We mustn't forget all that unnecessary hassle and aggravation at the airport where everything becomes like an assault course or some perilous expedition into the unknown. Under the circumstances you probably won't be looking forward to the prospect of walking for miles around the airport concourse, dragging your cases through a minefield of annoyances, those loathsome inconveniences.
There are those tiresome customs desks, hypnotic luggage carousels, the endless parade of perfume shops, checking in with your passports and those wretched security checks where trouser belts have to be taken off, watches and jewellery removed from your pockets and everything that smacks of red tape bureaucracy just leaves you screaming with frustration.
But way back in the early 1970s when we signed up for this time consuming rigmarole at our local airport nobody knew this would happen, much less bargain for. In those days airports, although busy, must have assumed that if you had booked your holiday in either January or February you really wouldn't have to worry about such minor details as out of date passports or the Tablet you'd forgotten to pack. We could negotiate that particular problem since you could always fly off at a later date during the summer.
The blunt truth though is that nobody is going nowhere at this moment although the doors and gates could be open at either Heathrow, Luton, Gatwick and all of those wonderful regional airports around Britain very soon so just hold on and we'll get there. However after all those months of teeth- gnashing and finger biting the enthusiasm to hit the beaches and hotel swimming pools of the world may not be quite as feverish as perhaps it should be. Or maybe you're just counting the hours down before that Easy Jet plane is winging its way over the Iberian peninsula.
The fact is thankfully that we may be edging our way tentatively back to that point of the year when Easter chocolate eggs were only weeks away and spring was the most enticing prospect. Nobody can really tell where we are at the moment because the pubs and restaurants have been ordered to be ready for the beginning of July and most of those non- essential shops are, we assured, ringing those tills.
The feeling though is that half of the world is open and functioning at something that seems like semi business as usual while the other half is still kicking its heels. People are still wandering around in masks, those who aren't wearing them are beginning to ask themselves whether they should and it all feels as if we're like extras for a potential remake of Emergency Ward 10. It just feels like one of those years that really didn't happen at all and should have been scrapped on New Year's Day.
Of course we love life and our mental health but the end of June probably feels like the end of November or the week before Christmas. The end of the world isn't nigh and we know that but the significance of the year and the energy have long since evaporated. All of the cultural and major sporting events have now been placed in cold storage and what could have been so richly satisfying and aesthetically perfect is now just a torn page in history. Or so it would seem.
For instance last night BBC Two devoted the entire evening to the many- layered history of Glastonbury, a pop and rock music festival so enshrined in the hearts of hundreds of late 1960s hippies and modern day kids that a year without it, is a gaping wound. Two presenters stood in an empty field in deepest Somerset surrounded by cows and not a lot else. There was a very lonely electricity pylon but in the place where the esteemed Motown legend who is Diana Ross should have been tomorrow night was grass and stunning scenery. It is all very demoralising but then again there's always next year.
So here's the deal everyone. Forget about Glastonbury, the tennis from Wimbledon, quite possibly cricket and every other national treasure because they won't be happening. Euro 2020 would have been approaching its final stages although the Premier League football season is still jumping up and down in the background and won't be happy until the end of July. These were all scheduled plans that didn't take place nor were they in retrospect, destined to happen.
This is the advice for what's it worth. Close your eyes, take a deep breath and when you wake up at any time in the foreseeable future this will all be over. Trust me, you've looked into your crystal ball and the future is resplendently bright. It can only be a matter of time now. Stay safe and alert everybody and keep well.
Thursday, 25 June 2020
Liverpool almost there but not quite.
Liverpool almost there but not quite.
There's one match to go and the waiting is over. Still, the feeling persists that a heavy cloud of anti climax hangs over Liverpool football club. The fact of course remains that after 30 years Liverpool will once again be acclaimed as Premier League champions( or the old First Division in the old currency) tonight if Manchester City stumble against Chelsea and lose. Finally, it all seems to be coming together for Liverpool and how good it'll feel when, as opposed to if, they hold the Premier League title aloft in maybe a matter of hours although certainly days now.
By way of an irony Manchester City's opponents Chelsea will know exactly how Liverpool are feeling since they have likewise clinched Premier League titles in recent years. And Liverpool will not need reminding of that embarrassing moment when Steven Gerrard lost the ball on the halfway line against Chelsea to hand one of their title chasing rivals Manchester City the Premier League trophy. The image of Gerrard stumbling on the ball to allow Demba Ba to race away and score for Chelsea was all the more galling because the other title chasers Manchester City would go on to claim the Premier League.
Last night's 4-0 victory for Liverpool against Crystal Palace at Anfield must surely have felt like a coronation but the pomp and ceremony that normally marks a Premier League title- winning season will be missing and how Liverpool's fanatical fans will feel that grievous loss. There will be no fanfares, no trumpets, no adulation and, above all, no fans to witness that street carnival after winning the League, nobody on the Kop and nothing but a distinctly uneasy atmosphere.
We know it has to be this way but of all the teams to win a Premier League title Liverpool will no doubt know better than most that when you've waited for 30 years for a party invitation your supporters should be ready to celebrate the homecoming with an open top bus celebration. There are those of us who may feel an enduring sympathy for some of the most adoring and loyal football supporters in the land since Liverpool have had it all sewn up during the 1970s and 1980s and finally 1990.
Time was of course when Anfield was that impregnable fortress, that sturdy ship out at sea, a side with the most watertight and impenetrable defence, a midfield who were just models of synchronicity and an attack with an insatiable appetite for goals. Liverpool managers became legendary figures, men of wit, humour, timeless class and utter diplomacy who loved Liverpool with an almost unreasonable passion. Their names were carved into the Anfield bricks and mortar, clearly legible on tablets of stone. But the next couple of hours or days will not of course feel the same. So let's turn the clock back and remember how it all started for them.
When Bill Shankly arrived at Liverpool in 1959 Liverpool were ordinary, mediocre, almost anonymous and completely out of contention for any conceivable trophy. But then came the 1960s and an empire was built, a winning mentality implemented almost immediately and Liverpool became unbeatable. There was the rock known as Ron Yeats, midfield engineers such as Ian Callaghan, and Gordon Milne, a wondrous wing magician in Peter Thompson and the voracious Ian St John, a striker of pace, power and persistence.
During the 1970s of course as Bill Shankly handed over the reins to Bob Paisley, Liverpool seemed to get progressively stronger, more inventive, even harder to beat and full of goals from everywhere. There was Phil Thompson at the back, Phil Neal and Emlyn Hughes putting up the defensive shutters, Chris Lawler, Brian Hall and the academically comfortable Steve Heighway, a whirling dervish of a winger, teasing and tormenting with that distinctively upright style, ball firmly glued to feet.
And then there were Liverpool's trump cards up front. Throughout the 1970s Kevin Keegan and John Toshack were two of English football deadliest strikers. One was a muscular terrier of a striker, squat and stocky but full of powerful running and tirelessly busy, a livewire nuisance to hapless defenders, full of scurrying and scampering runs into space, a player of grit and industry. Kevin Keegan was here, there and everywhere, ubiquitous, a pain in the neck and full of footballing stubbornness. Keegan dominated old First Division defenders and Toshack was his willing accomplice.
Then there was John Toshack, a Welsh beanpole, as tall as Blackpool tower, quite the most magnificent of presences in oppostion penalty areas and a natural aptitude for scoring goals. Bought from Cardiff, Toshack announced himself to the Liverpool with a glut of goals and from that point innumerable old First Division championships. Toshacks were scored predominantly with his head but once the scent of goals was in his nose Toshack was unstoppable, feeding off Keegan telepathically and then surging into the six yard box with an electrifying menace.
After the imperious reign of Graeme Souness, Ray Kennedy, Terry Mcdermott and still quite remarkably an ageless Ian Callaghan, Liverpool were still breathing fire during the 1980s. When Liverpool won yet more League championships during the 1970s and 1980s it almost felt as if the club had been given some special medicine that would be guaranteed to bring them home the old First Division title.
Now Liverpool would invest in one of their shrewdest signings. Kenny Dalglish was one of Celtic's most wondrous of attacking talents, a force of nature, a forward besotted with the art of scoring goals on an almost weekly basis. In the year before Liverpool's second consecutive European Cup Final victory against Bruges at Wembley, Keegan had left Liverpool with a stunning 3-1 victory against Borussia Monchengladbach and Dalglish inherited Keegan's throne. Dalglish was quite the most gifted striker, always popping up in dangerous areas, turning defenders rather like a man easing his way through a revolving door. Dalglish would score goals with effortless ease over and over again.
And so to the present day and modern times. In 1989 on that last fascinating match of the season Arsenal pipped Liverpool to the old First Division championship with that final, nail biting burst into the penalty area where the Gunners stylish midfield player Michael Thomas squeezed home the winner that stopped Liverpool in their tracks. It left the likes of John Barnes, Steve Mcnamanan and manager Kenny Dalglish stunned and speechless. Liverpool had been denied by a Thomas that certainly wasn't doubting.
The following year Liverpool redeemed themselves and this time the moon was in the right position. This time though there were no cliff hanging finales. Liverpool breezed through to the finishing line and ensured themselves of what was then their 18th League title. Who knew then that it would take another three decades to add to their now ever- expanding collection of trophies?
Who knew that while thousands of Liverpool and Nottingham Forest were tragically losing their lives in an an FA Cup semi final that would prove the ultimate turning point in fan crowd control. And yet here we are again today proudly acknowledging Liverpool's latest escapade, a long overdue receipt of their first Premier League trophy or the League championship. It is now only days away before the city pays homage to its beloved red idols. How deservedly so.
Frustratingly though this was not the way they would have wanted to sing their praises, eulogising and lionising the individual brilliiance of Sadio Mane, Mo Salah, James Milner, the superb Jordan Henderson, the outstanding Virgil Van Djyk at the back, the delightfully overlapping Andrew Roberston on the flank and all of those whose contribution may have been overlooked as the unsung heroes. You'd be inclined to think that they may well have been few and far between.
It does seem a crying shame that Liverpool will indeed have to do without their Kop choir, a huge congregation of natural singers whose voices will not be accompanying that final whistle when Liverpool will be declared the new Premier League champions. In a season that now feels as though it'll go on forever, even the club's now historic anthem 'You'll Never Walk Alone' begins to sound like the most pertinent of hymns. Oh if only Bill Shankly, Bob Paisley and Joe Fagan could see the present day faces of Liverpool. Even without the Kop the roar, somewhere, will be heard the length and breadth of Britain.
There's one match to go and the waiting is over. Still, the feeling persists that a heavy cloud of anti climax hangs over Liverpool football club. The fact of course remains that after 30 years Liverpool will once again be acclaimed as Premier League champions( or the old First Division in the old currency) tonight if Manchester City stumble against Chelsea and lose. Finally, it all seems to be coming together for Liverpool and how good it'll feel when, as opposed to if, they hold the Premier League title aloft in maybe a matter of hours although certainly days now.
By way of an irony Manchester City's opponents Chelsea will know exactly how Liverpool are feeling since they have likewise clinched Premier League titles in recent years. And Liverpool will not need reminding of that embarrassing moment when Steven Gerrard lost the ball on the halfway line against Chelsea to hand one of their title chasing rivals Manchester City the Premier League trophy. The image of Gerrard stumbling on the ball to allow Demba Ba to race away and score for Chelsea was all the more galling because the other title chasers Manchester City would go on to claim the Premier League.
Last night's 4-0 victory for Liverpool against Crystal Palace at Anfield must surely have felt like a coronation but the pomp and ceremony that normally marks a Premier League title- winning season will be missing and how Liverpool's fanatical fans will feel that grievous loss. There will be no fanfares, no trumpets, no adulation and, above all, no fans to witness that street carnival after winning the League, nobody on the Kop and nothing but a distinctly uneasy atmosphere.
We know it has to be this way but of all the teams to win a Premier League title Liverpool will no doubt know better than most that when you've waited for 30 years for a party invitation your supporters should be ready to celebrate the homecoming with an open top bus celebration. There are those of us who may feel an enduring sympathy for some of the most adoring and loyal football supporters in the land since Liverpool have had it all sewn up during the 1970s and 1980s and finally 1990.
Time was of course when Anfield was that impregnable fortress, that sturdy ship out at sea, a side with the most watertight and impenetrable defence, a midfield who were just models of synchronicity and an attack with an insatiable appetite for goals. Liverpool managers became legendary figures, men of wit, humour, timeless class and utter diplomacy who loved Liverpool with an almost unreasonable passion. Their names were carved into the Anfield bricks and mortar, clearly legible on tablets of stone. But the next couple of hours or days will not of course feel the same. So let's turn the clock back and remember how it all started for them.
When Bill Shankly arrived at Liverpool in 1959 Liverpool were ordinary, mediocre, almost anonymous and completely out of contention for any conceivable trophy. But then came the 1960s and an empire was built, a winning mentality implemented almost immediately and Liverpool became unbeatable. There was the rock known as Ron Yeats, midfield engineers such as Ian Callaghan, and Gordon Milne, a wondrous wing magician in Peter Thompson and the voracious Ian St John, a striker of pace, power and persistence.
During the 1970s of course as Bill Shankly handed over the reins to Bob Paisley, Liverpool seemed to get progressively stronger, more inventive, even harder to beat and full of goals from everywhere. There was Phil Thompson at the back, Phil Neal and Emlyn Hughes putting up the defensive shutters, Chris Lawler, Brian Hall and the academically comfortable Steve Heighway, a whirling dervish of a winger, teasing and tormenting with that distinctively upright style, ball firmly glued to feet.
And then there were Liverpool's trump cards up front. Throughout the 1970s Kevin Keegan and John Toshack were two of English football deadliest strikers. One was a muscular terrier of a striker, squat and stocky but full of powerful running and tirelessly busy, a livewire nuisance to hapless defenders, full of scurrying and scampering runs into space, a player of grit and industry. Kevin Keegan was here, there and everywhere, ubiquitous, a pain in the neck and full of footballing stubbornness. Keegan dominated old First Division defenders and Toshack was his willing accomplice.
Then there was John Toshack, a Welsh beanpole, as tall as Blackpool tower, quite the most magnificent of presences in oppostion penalty areas and a natural aptitude for scoring goals. Bought from Cardiff, Toshack announced himself to the Liverpool with a glut of goals and from that point innumerable old First Division championships. Toshacks were scored predominantly with his head but once the scent of goals was in his nose Toshack was unstoppable, feeding off Keegan telepathically and then surging into the six yard box with an electrifying menace.
After the imperious reign of Graeme Souness, Ray Kennedy, Terry Mcdermott and still quite remarkably an ageless Ian Callaghan, Liverpool were still breathing fire during the 1980s. When Liverpool won yet more League championships during the 1970s and 1980s it almost felt as if the club had been given some special medicine that would be guaranteed to bring them home the old First Division title.
Now Liverpool would invest in one of their shrewdest signings. Kenny Dalglish was one of Celtic's most wondrous of attacking talents, a force of nature, a forward besotted with the art of scoring goals on an almost weekly basis. In the year before Liverpool's second consecutive European Cup Final victory against Bruges at Wembley, Keegan had left Liverpool with a stunning 3-1 victory against Borussia Monchengladbach and Dalglish inherited Keegan's throne. Dalglish was quite the most gifted striker, always popping up in dangerous areas, turning defenders rather like a man easing his way through a revolving door. Dalglish would score goals with effortless ease over and over again.
And so to the present day and modern times. In 1989 on that last fascinating match of the season Arsenal pipped Liverpool to the old First Division championship with that final, nail biting burst into the penalty area where the Gunners stylish midfield player Michael Thomas squeezed home the winner that stopped Liverpool in their tracks. It left the likes of John Barnes, Steve Mcnamanan and manager Kenny Dalglish stunned and speechless. Liverpool had been denied by a Thomas that certainly wasn't doubting.
The following year Liverpool redeemed themselves and this time the moon was in the right position. This time though there were no cliff hanging finales. Liverpool breezed through to the finishing line and ensured themselves of what was then their 18th League title. Who knew then that it would take another three decades to add to their now ever- expanding collection of trophies?
Who knew that while thousands of Liverpool and Nottingham Forest were tragically losing their lives in an an FA Cup semi final that would prove the ultimate turning point in fan crowd control. And yet here we are again today proudly acknowledging Liverpool's latest escapade, a long overdue receipt of their first Premier League trophy or the League championship. It is now only days away before the city pays homage to its beloved red idols. How deservedly so.
Frustratingly though this was not the way they would have wanted to sing their praises, eulogising and lionising the individual brilliiance of Sadio Mane, Mo Salah, James Milner, the superb Jordan Henderson, the outstanding Virgil Van Djyk at the back, the delightfully overlapping Andrew Roberston on the flank and all of those whose contribution may have been overlooked as the unsung heroes. You'd be inclined to think that they may well have been few and far between.
It does seem a crying shame that Liverpool will indeed have to do without their Kop choir, a huge congregation of natural singers whose voices will not be accompanying that final whistle when Liverpool will be declared the new Premier League champions. In a season that now feels as though it'll go on forever, even the club's now historic anthem 'You'll Never Walk Alone' begins to sound like the most pertinent of hymns. Oh if only Bill Shankly, Bob Paisley and Joe Fagan could see the present day faces of Liverpool. Even without the Kop the roar, somewhere, will be heard the length and breadth of Britain.
Tuesday, 23 June 2020
Open up those pubs and restaurants but not the theatres.
Open up those pubs, restaurants but not the theatres.
Today the blond one from Uxbridge and the academically brilliant one from Eton school will stand up in the House of Comedy and announce yet another package of mind- boggling measures designed to lift the nation out of its private anguish, thus eliminating that bodily discomfort and removing that gut wrenching malaise that seems to have hovered over Britain and the rest of the world for over three months.
With his hair in some rabid state of revolt and insurrection, Boris Johnson will tell everybody whom it may concern that part, if not all of its catering and hospitality section, can get cracking on the cooking, juggling those pots and pans, checking the ovens thoroughly for rust and dirt while acutely aware that even if they do light the cooker they may find that those good, old habits may not be quite up to the usual high standards.
Wherever they look the nation is bombarded by that seemingly endless overload of TV cookery programmes and everything is quite literally organised chaos and pandemonium. Chefs with boundless enthusiasm and phenomenal reserves of energy rush around kitchens that may or may not bear any resemblance to ours. They dart and dash across pristine kitchen floors, frying pans and pots crackling with the most oleaginous oil, before sprinting across a studio floor in the hope that nothing untoward happens to them.
And so it is that the pub, cafe and restaurant kitchens of Great Britain have been given permission to re-open again on American Independence Day. July 4 is the day set aside for eager customers to gently feel their way into one of the most sociable environments outside our homes. Now we all know that the last couple of months have been fraught with difficulty which may be an understatement anyway but you get the gist of the point.
Anyway the fact is that life without that delectable pint of lager, cider, beer, Coca Cola, orange juice, sambuca, Prosecco and any other choice of alcohol has been distinctly lacking in friendly banter with your family and friends. We've missed the good humoured gossip, the topical references and gags, the in jokes and that collective levity, the carefree aura, that moment to just be with your kith and kin, your mates, your acquaintances, your colleagues at lunchtime for a quick half pint.
If all goes according to plan then entire families, uncles, cousins, dads and mums, brothers and sisters, brothers and sisters in laws, aunties and nieces and that bloke who you also play snooker with, will now be awaiting that longed- for day when we can all join forces once again for perhaps the most emotional reunion. We'll all converge on the bar, prop it up for a while because we just want to savour that indefinable feeling we once got when things were normal. And then we'll get gloriously drunk, drunk on the champagne of life. Hey, come on everybody let's celebrate this much deserved moment of release.
But yes, it's true. You can stroll down to your local watering hole- cum boozer without feeling like an alien impostor. You can shake the hands of the people you might have thought had vanished off the face of the Earth and you can be a social animal again. There is a sense here that this may take some time getting used to again since adjustments will still have to be made to our lives on an unprecedented scale. Now there's another airing for the word 'unprecedented' which you've only heard about a million times in the last three months.
Still, we've made it until now so this may be the time to take advantage of one of Britain's favourite pastimes, its way of unwinding from the stresses and travails of the day, its major source of relaxation, its focal point when things go haywire perhaps and a haven of enjoyment when things aren't going your way at work.
The reality is though that even though we think we're on the verge of some decisive breakthrough in this whole medical breakdown the truth is that we're only halfway there, that in- between period where, having just about overcome every obstacle known to humankind, we still find ourselves weighing up the pros and cons which is hard to take. Still, patience is a virtue as they say.
And yet by this time on July 4 we'll all be bellowing out the orders in the King George, the Red Lion, the Prince of Wales and every other drinking hostelry imaginable across England's fair acres. We'll be balancing fifteen pints of best bitter and Foster's with all the dexterity of a high wire trapeze act in a circus carrying nothing but a pole in their hands. It'll come quite naturally to them for since time immemorial the English pub drinker does like their creature comforts.
Sadly though those very pubs still look ever so miserable and crestfallen, small wooden stools turned upside down on well worn tables and a snug looking sofa that looks slightly sorry for itself. Then there is the small matter of those pumps and optics, the central feature of any pub but now almost lost in deep thought. It is hard to believe that back in March these impressive pieces of architecture were full to the brim with drinkers, jokers, gamblers on those fruit machines and just devoted revellers there simply to have a good night out with those you've always enjoyed the company of.
It must seem an age ago since most pubs played host to those timeless favourites of dominoes, shove ha'penny and bar billiards. But the eternally popular snooker continues to dominate the interior of most pubs these days. Presumably there are those who simply spend their evening studying the Sun and the Financial Times papers while racking their brains over the crossword. Now though we may only have to wait a fortnight before indulging those simple pleasures.
Meanwhile the restaurants of Britain will also be swinging open its doors to the hungry hordes. The West End of London without its Aberdeen Steak House, its Pizza Hut and Express, innumerable Italian, Spanish, Greek, Brazilian, French and Vietnamese eateries have been rather like any location without its human patronage. China Town must have been like a desert in recent months and all of those moreish KFC chicken shacks must have been desperately hoping that one day this would all seem like some nasty illness which indeed it was. Mcdonalds, you suspect, were probably sulking in the corner or just besides themselves with self pity.
But this is where we find ourselves even more puzzled. Rumour has it that the West End theatre community with all of those dazzling, foot tapping and feelgood musicals may remain in the dark until well into 2021. Leading impresario Sir Cameron Mackintosh may well have broken the hearts of every musical enthusiast when he declared that he didn't think any of the great plays, comedies and dramatic productions would now be performed. He told that us the footlights would not be switched on and the orchestra, such an integral part of the evening out, would just have to stay at home and communicate with their contemporaries via social media and Zoom.
Still here we are once again into whatever week we're in of the lockdown and nobody has found any cutters for those chains. It would be easy to dismiss the whole of 2020 as a complete write- off and you'd probably be right to assume this to be the case. The longer this goes on the more likely it is that most of us will just pretend that it didn't happen. Indeed it has though and you weren't hallucinating. This is no Hollywood movie set and Walt Disney hasn't come back to life so hold on to the bar of this roller coaster because there are still six months left of the year and for those who believe that an alien invasion may not be far off, be careful what you wish for. Or maybe not.
Today the blond one from Uxbridge and the academically brilliant one from Eton school will stand up in the House of Comedy and announce yet another package of mind- boggling measures designed to lift the nation out of its private anguish, thus eliminating that bodily discomfort and removing that gut wrenching malaise that seems to have hovered over Britain and the rest of the world for over three months.
With his hair in some rabid state of revolt and insurrection, Boris Johnson will tell everybody whom it may concern that part, if not all of its catering and hospitality section, can get cracking on the cooking, juggling those pots and pans, checking the ovens thoroughly for rust and dirt while acutely aware that even if they do light the cooker they may find that those good, old habits may not be quite up to the usual high standards.
Wherever they look the nation is bombarded by that seemingly endless overload of TV cookery programmes and everything is quite literally organised chaos and pandemonium. Chefs with boundless enthusiasm and phenomenal reserves of energy rush around kitchens that may or may not bear any resemblance to ours. They dart and dash across pristine kitchen floors, frying pans and pots crackling with the most oleaginous oil, before sprinting across a studio floor in the hope that nothing untoward happens to them.
And so it is that the pub, cafe and restaurant kitchens of Great Britain have been given permission to re-open again on American Independence Day. July 4 is the day set aside for eager customers to gently feel their way into one of the most sociable environments outside our homes. Now we all know that the last couple of months have been fraught with difficulty which may be an understatement anyway but you get the gist of the point.
Anyway the fact is that life without that delectable pint of lager, cider, beer, Coca Cola, orange juice, sambuca, Prosecco and any other choice of alcohol has been distinctly lacking in friendly banter with your family and friends. We've missed the good humoured gossip, the topical references and gags, the in jokes and that collective levity, the carefree aura, that moment to just be with your kith and kin, your mates, your acquaintances, your colleagues at lunchtime for a quick half pint.
If all goes according to plan then entire families, uncles, cousins, dads and mums, brothers and sisters, brothers and sisters in laws, aunties and nieces and that bloke who you also play snooker with, will now be awaiting that longed- for day when we can all join forces once again for perhaps the most emotional reunion. We'll all converge on the bar, prop it up for a while because we just want to savour that indefinable feeling we once got when things were normal. And then we'll get gloriously drunk, drunk on the champagne of life. Hey, come on everybody let's celebrate this much deserved moment of release.
But yes, it's true. You can stroll down to your local watering hole- cum boozer without feeling like an alien impostor. You can shake the hands of the people you might have thought had vanished off the face of the Earth and you can be a social animal again. There is a sense here that this may take some time getting used to again since adjustments will still have to be made to our lives on an unprecedented scale. Now there's another airing for the word 'unprecedented' which you've only heard about a million times in the last three months.
Still, we've made it until now so this may be the time to take advantage of one of Britain's favourite pastimes, its way of unwinding from the stresses and travails of the day, its major source of relaxation, its focal point when things go haywire perhaps and a haven of enjoyment when things aren't going your way at work.
The reality is though that even though we think we're on the verge of some decisive breakthrough in this whole medical breakdown the truth is that we're only halfway there, that in- between period where, having just about overcome every obstacle known to humankind, we still find ourselves weighing up the pros and cons which is hard to take. Still, patience is a virtue as they say.
And yet by this time on July 4 we'll all be bellowing out the orders in the King George, the Red Lion, the Prince of Wales and every other drinking hostelry imaginable across England's fair acres. We'll be balancing fifteen pints of best bitter and Foster's with all the dexterity of a high wire trapeze act in a circus carrying nothing but a pole in their hands. It'll come quite naturally to them for since time immemorial the English pub drinker does like their creature comforts.
Sadly though those very pubs still look ever so miserable and crestfallen, small wooden stools turned upside down on well worn tables and a snug looking sofa that looks slightly sorry for itself. Then there is the small matter of those pumps and optics, the central feature of any pub but now almost lost in deep thought. It is hard to believe that back in March these impressive pieces of architecture were full to the brim with drinkers, jokers, gamblers on those fruit machines and just devoted revellers there simply to have a good night out with those you've always enjoyed the company of.
It must seem an age ago since most pubs played host to those timeless favourites of dominoes, shove ha'penny and bar billiards. But the eternally popular snooker continues to dominate the interior of most pubs these days. Presumably there are those who simply spend their evening studying the Sun and the Financial Times papers while racking their brains over the crossword. Now though we may only have to wait a fortnight before indulging those simple pleasures.
Meanwhile the restaurants of Britain will also be swinging open its doors to the hungry hordes. The West End of London without its Aberdeen Steak House, its Pizza Hut and Express, innumerable Italian, Spanish, Greek, Brazilian, French and Vietnamese eateries have been rather like any location without its human patronage. China Town must have been like a desert in recent months and all of those moreish KFC chicken shacks must have been desperately hoping that one day this would all seem like some nasty illness which indeed it was. Mcdonalds, you suspect, were probably sulking in the corner or just besides themselves with self pity.
But this is where we find ourselves even more puzzled. Rumour has it that the West End theatre community with all of those dazzling, foot tapping and feelgood musicals may remain in the dark until well into 2021. Leading impresario Sir Cameron Mackintosh may well have broken the hearts of every musical enthusiast when he declared that he didn't think any of the great plays, comedies and dramatic productions would now be performed. He told that us the footlights would not be switched on and the orchestra, such an integral part of the evening out, would just have to stay at home and communicate with their contemporaries via social media and Zoom.
Still here we are once again into whatever week we're in of the lockdown and nobody has found any cutters for those chains. It would be easy to dismiss the whole of 2020 as a complete write- off and you'd probably be right to assume this to be the case. The longer this goes on the more likely it is that most of us will just pretend that it didn't happen. Indeed it has though and you weren't hallucinating. This is no Hollywood movie set and Walt Disney hasn't come back to life so hold on to the bar of this roller coaster because there are still six months left of the year and for those who believe that an alien invasion may not be far off, be careful what you wish for. Or maybe not.
Sunday, 21 June 2020
Palace enjoy their behind closed doors day by the seaside.
Palace enjoy their behind closed doors day by the seaside.
Oh we do like to be beside the seaside. For the first time in three long, agonising months Premier League football poked its head out of the cupboard, held back its suppressed laughter and then got on with all of those domestic duties it thought it had completed back in March. Back then it merely seemed as if all the practicalities of Premier League business would be dealt with a familiar aplomb. Premier League leaders Liverpool would win the Premier League title by a country mile, relegation and promotion issues would be resolved quite naturally and everything would be tickety boo. Or so we thought.
Here we are on the longest day of the year in the middle of June and some of us may be in holiday mood rather than looking forward to these cheap, pre-season friendlies that seem to be masquerading as the very last of the remaining fixtures of the Premier League season. In the last couple of days Project Restart for football is beginning to assume the air of a summertime kickabout in the local park. We can barely believe what they're saying and what we're being subjected to and the sooner the end of July comes around the better although we would never wish the year away.
There have been all manner of conflicting reactions to the resumption of the Premier League but some of us are still wrestling with this preposterous absurdity. Has football really lost its marbles, its wherewithal or are we just imagining this all and sooner rather than later we will wake up? But matches will be played out to their straightforward conclusion, sweat will be exerted in the sweltering heat of the English summer, physios will be summoned wearing huge perspex shields and the game will just meander along like some country bumpkin wandering down a country lane.
Still, we've got this far so we might as well carry on. The experts and media pundits are just delighted to be back in a football ground but there are some of us who may be wishing whether this was all worth the bother. This is beginning to feel like some strange dreamscape where the angels play their harps and everything isn't really what it seems it should be. But let's get this Premier League season out of the way and consign it to dusty history before we really think we're in some kind of netherworld.
After all the delays and discussions, excuses and justifications, baffling facts, figures and statistics, football opened up to a fanfare of artificial crowd noises, sponsored silence on the terraces, and an atmosphere more reminiscent of Bournemouth library, a hollow concrete bowl where you could almost hear the traffic outside the Vitality Stadium rather than the traditional roar of a Saturday afternoon crowd inside it.
Football has dealt with all of these problematic imponderables rather like a scientist in a laboratory using every available combination of chemicals in rows and rows of test tubes. Do the players take huge wage cuts? Should there be wage deferrals and more importantly, those wage deferrals where all the players became very self conscious of who they were and whether it wouldn't have been advisable to give something back to the game in the name of local charities?
Now though the Premier League is up and running and acting out the same kind of scripts it was trying to perform to an audience that has suddenly become surplus to requirements. Still you can only deal with the unfortunate circumstances you're presented with. There have been lengthy spots of furloughing of players, players exercising with packets of cereals, a couple of indoor treadmills and one or two compact exercise bikes tucked away in the kitchen. It all seemed rather bizarre and piecemeal but footballers are nothing if not adaptable.
When Liverpool skipper Jordan Henderson came out with the most charitable of all offers with millions given to all struggling families and the elderly he was regarded as some kind of Messiah. Last week Manchester United striker Marcus Rashford laid out his case for a potential OBE with his suggestion that there should be free meals for children during the summer holidays. We have now changed our perceptions of footballers although we knew that some of them did have it in them to react in the way that Henderson and Rashford had.
Meanwhile back at the Vitality Stadium, Bournemouth met Crystal Palace in what may just as well have been a neutral venue. For as far as the eye could see giant pieces of red and black cardboard had been cut and pasted into the place where the Cherries loyal supporters would have been. There were banks and banks of sponsored names wherever you looked and a section amusingly referred to as the Red Army which would have been more suitable at either Arsenal, Manchester United or Liverpool.
Now it was on a bright sunlit summer evening that Crystal Palace swaggered around the tight confines of Bournemouth's quaint little ground, toyed with Bournemouth like the proverbial doll and then shook the home side like a child's rattle. These have been immensely enjoyable seasons for Bournemouth who, under the bold, idealistic managerial tenure of Eddie Howe, have played some of the most beautifully designed and neatly fashioned football the game has seen for quite a while.
But now that brisk, invigorating South Coast air seems to have got to Bournemouth. The football is still delightful and rather like the sweetest of jams to the palate. The isosceles triangles, the footballing trigonometry, the pleasing angles and the passing movements were all made in heaven. Bournemouth had an almost intimate relationship with the ball and the three seasons of top flight football seems to have done them the world of good.
Sadly now though their residency in the Premier League could be reaching an end. The tapestries are still there for all to see but the stitches are beginning to look both frayed and threadbare. When the red and black shirts took to the pitch at the Vitality Stadium even the trees looking over the ground looked slightly forlorn. Bournemouth are no longer the force of good we thought they'd be for many a season to come and their opponents Crystal Palace simply danced around their hosts at times as if they weren't really there.
Palace of course will now finish the season in either safe mid table security or even on the fringes of the top ten after the kind of season that even their most patient fans might have thought was beyond them. And yet under the dependable and still shrewd Roy Hodgson, Palace have found a way to play the game like a well drilled platoon of army recruits. Their football had both poise and delicacy, attractive interludes and the most eye catching fluency that left Bournemouth gasping at the sea air.
With goalkeeper Aaron Ramsdale, defenders Jack Stacey, Steve Cook and Nathan Ake failing to establish any kind of understanding with each other, Bournemouth looked socially awkward and quite possibly distanced. Adam Smith, Jefferson Lerma and Harry Wilson were not really reading the same lines as would normally have been the case and Bournemouth became overwhelmed by a turbo charged Palace attack. David Brooks does look a stunningly honed young talent but when he pulled up with cramp during the second half, the game was up for the Cherries.
When Luka Milivojevic gave Palace the lead early on with an impeccably flighted free kick into the net, Bournemouth looked positively shell shocked as if affronted at their visitors cheek and chutzpah. Shortly Palace were running rings around the home side, hopping and skipping, twisting and turning, dinking and shimmying, spinning and swirling around Bournemouth as if this was just a run of the mill five a side training ground exercise.
Suddenly, the brilliant and effervescent Wilfried Zaha began to show us the fleet footed, bamboozling trickery and close ball control that should come as second nature for any winger. Gary Cahill was playing like one of those hugely experienced defenders who seems to have been around for ages, a player who once gave Chelsea some of their best years. Scott Dann was busy and bustling while Cheikhou Kouyate was a tall and imposing presence who West Ham must be missing like crazy. Then there was Patrick Van Aanholt, constructive, always forward thinking and innovative.
Now it was that the alert and lively Jordan Ayew, Van Aanholt and James McArthur came into their own as effective attacking influences. Now all three were weaving fine silks around the Bournemouth defence. After another delicious collaboration on the wing, the blond Van Aanholt slotted the ball through to the by line where a sharp cut back was almost spoonfed to Ayew who guided the ball home from the closest range for Palace's second and what would prove to be the winning goal.
And so it was that Bournemouth fell even deeper into the briny South Coast water while Palace were casting their eyes on loftier aspirations near the top of the Premier League. It's all systems go for the Premier League and depending on your point of view this could be a very eventful and interesting end to a season that some of us now believe is heading into some Wild West territory where normality still seems an obvious abnormality. Still. it has to be better than the Watney Cup. Pre- season friendlies will never seem the same.
Oh we do like to be beside the seaside. For the first time in three long, agonising months Premier League football poked its head out of the cupboard, held back its suppressed laughter and then got on with all of those domestic duties it thought it had completed back in March. Back then it merely seemed as if all the practicalities of Premier League business would be dealt with a familiar aplomb. Premier League leaders Liverpool would win the Premier League title by a country mile, relegation and promotion issues would be resolved quite naturally and everything would be tickety boo. Or so we thought.
Here we are on the longest day of the year in the middle of June and some of us may be in holiday mood rather than looking forward to these cheap, pre-season friendlies that seem to be masquerading as the very last of the remaining fixtures of the Premier League season. In the last couple of days Project Restart for football is beginning to assume the air of a summertime kickabout in the local park. We can barely believe what they're saying and what we're being subjected to and the sooner the end of July comes around the better although we would never wish the year away.
There have been all manner of conflicting reactions to the resumption of the Premier League but some of us are still wrestling with this preposterous absurdity. Has football really lost its marbles, its wherewithal or are we just imagining this all and sooner rather than later we will wake up? But matches will be played out to their straightforward conclusion, sweat will be exerted in the sweltering heat of the English summer, physios will be summoned wearing huge perspex shields and the game will just meander along like some country bumpkin wandering down a country lane.
Still, we've got this far so we might as well carry on. The experts and media pundits are just delighted to be back in a football ground but there are some of us who may be wishing whether this was all worth the bother. This is beginning to feel like some strange dreamscape where the angels play their harps and everything isn't really what it seems it should be. But let's get this Premier League season out of the way and consign it to dusty history before we really think we're in some kind of netherworld.
After all the delays and discussions, excuses and justifications, baffling facts, figures and statistics, football opened up to a fanfare of artificial crowd noises, sponsored silence on the terraces, and an atmosphere more reminiscent of Bournemouth library, a hollow concrete bowl where you could almost hear the traffic outside the Vitality Stadium rather than the traditional roar of a Saturday afternoon crowd inside it.
Football has dealt with all of these problematic imponderables rather like a scientist in a laboratory using every available combination of chemicals in rows and rows of test tubes. Do the players take huge wage cuts? Should there be wage deferrals and more importantly, those wage deferrals where all the players became very self conscious of who they were and whether it wouldn't have been advisable to give something back to the game in the name of local charities?
Now though the Premier League is up and running and acting out the same kind of scripts it was trying to perform to an audience that has suddenly become surplus to requirements. Still you can only deal with the unfortunate circumstances you're presented with. There have been lengthy spots of furloughing of players, players exercising with packets of cereals, a couple of indoor treadmills and one or two compact exercise bikes tucked away in the kitchen. It all seemed rather bizarre and piecemeal but footballers are nothing if not adaptable.
When Liverpool skipper Jordan Henderson came out with the most charitable of all offers with millions given to all struggling families and the elderly he was regarded as some kind of Messiah. Last week Manchester United striker Marcus Rashford laid out his case for a potential OBE with his suggestion that there should be free meals for children during the summer holidays. We have now changed our perceptions of footballers although we knew that some of them did have it in them to react in the way that Henderson and Rashford had.
Meanwhile back at the Vitality Stadium, Bournemouth met Crystal Palace in what may just as well have been a neutral venue. For as far as the eye could see giant pieces of red and black cardboard had been cut and pasted into the place where the Cherries loyal supporters would have been. There were banks and banks of sponsored names wherever you looked and a section amusingly referred to as the Red Army which would have been more suitable at either Arsenal, Manchester United or Liverpool.
Now it was on a bright sunlit summer evening that Crystal Palace swaggered around the tight confines of Bournemouth's quaint little ground, toyed with Bournemouth like the proverbial doll and then shook the home side like a child's rattle. These have been immensely enjoyable seasons for Bournemouth who, under the bold, idealistic managerial tenure of Eddie Howe, have played some of the most beautifully designed and neatly fashioned football the game has seen for quite a while.
But now that brisk, invigorating South Coast air seems to have got to Bournemouth. The football is still delightful and rather like the sweetest of jams to the palate. The isosceles triangles, the footballing trigonometry, the pleasing angles and the passing movements were all made in heaven. Bournemouth had an almost intimate relationship with the ball and the three seasons of top flight football seems to have done them the world of good.
Sadly now though their residency in the Premier League could be reaching an end. The tapestries are still there for all to see but the stitches are beginning to look both frayed and threadbare. When the red and black shirts took to the pitch at the Vitality Stadium even the trees looking over the ground looked slightly forlorn. Bournemouth are no longer the force of good we thought they'd be for many a season to come and their opponents Crystal Palace simply danced around their hosts at times as if they weren't really there.
Palace of course will now finish the season in either safe mid table security or even on the fringes of the top ten after the kind of season that even their most patient fans might have thought was beyond them. And yet under the dependable and still shrewd Roy Hodgson, Palace have found a way to play the game like a well drilled platoon of army recruits. Their football had both poise and delicacy, attractive interludes and the most eye catching fluency that left Bournemouth gasping at the sea air.
With goalkeeper Aaron Ramsdale, defenders Jack Stacey, Steve Cook and Nathan Ake failing to establish any kind of understanding with each other, Bournemouth looked socially awkward and quite possibly distanced. Adam Smith, Jefferson Lerma and Harry Wilson were not really reading the same lines as would normally have been the case and Bournemouth became overwhelmed by a turbo charged Palace attack. David Brooks does look a stunningly honed young talent but when he pulled up with cramp during the second half, the game was up for the Cherries.
When Luka Milivojevic gave Palace the lead early on with an impeccably flighted free kick into the net, Bournemouth looked positively shell shocked as if affronted at their visitors cheek and chutzpah. Shortly Palace were running rings around the home side, hopping and skipping, twisting and turning, dinking and shimmying, spinning and swirling around Bournemouth as if this was just a run of the mill five a side training ground exercise.
Suddenly, the brilliant and effervescent Wilfried Zaha began to show us the fleet footed, bamboozling trickery and close ball control that should come as second nature for any winger. Gary Cahill was playing like one of those hugely experienced defenders who seems to have been around for ages, a player who once gave Chelsea some of their best years. Scott Dann was busy and bustling while Cheikhou Kouyate was a tall and imposing presence who West Ham must be missing like crazy. Then there was Patrick Van Aanholt, constructive, always forward thinking and innovative.
Now it was that the alert and lively Jordan Ayew, Van Aanholt and James McArthur came into their own as effective attacking influences. Now all three were weaving fine silks around the Bournemouth defence. After another delicious collaboration on the wing, the blond Van Aanholt slotted the ball through to the by line where a sharp cut back was almost spoonfed to Ayew who guided the ball home from the closest range for Palace's second and what would prove to be the winning goal.
And so it was that Bournemouth fell even deeper into the briny South Coast water while Palace were casting their eyes on loftier aspirations near the top of the Premier League. It's all systems go for the Premier League and depending on your point of view this could be a very eventful and interesting end to a season that some of us now believe is heading into some Wild West territory where normality still seems an obvious abnormality. Still. it has to be better than the Watney Cup. Pre- season friendlies will never seem the same.
Thursday, 18 June 2020
Forces sweetheart Dame Vera Lynn dies at 103.
Forces sweetheart Dame Vera Lynn dies at 103.
We all felt we knew Dame Vera Lynn who today died at the grand old age of 103. Vera Lynn was an extended member of our family, the friendly neighbour who thought nothing of sharing pleasantries and light hearted banter over the garden fence. She was the auntie we knew but didn't really know. She was that lovely old lady who would always proffer a smile and laugh even though she didn't know you that well.
You could confide in our Vera because she was always warmhearted and full of the joys of spring. She would ask you how your children were, bake a cake for the kids and then dispense her pearls of wisdom and sagacious advice because she loved life, sharing her infectious zest for living without ever questioning or judging you. She would hang her washing on the line, run upstairs to attend to her young daughter who was still crying like a baby because she was still a baby. Then her daughter would giggle in her cot and the echoes of the Second World War could still be heard.
Born in East Ham, a salt of the earth East Ender, Dame Vera Lynn captured the hearts of the whole of Britain and the rest of the world as the 'Forces Sweetheart', a heroic wartime heroine, the sweetest chanteuse, the all pervading, glorious influence who spread her infectious voice and love across diverse continents, war torn cities, towns and villages where the sound of the 'Doodlebug' became the most familiar soundtrack during six years of hell and purgatory.
On a thousand radio sets across the lands of England, the Commonwealth and farthermost points of Asia and Africa, the voice of Dame Vera Lynn became the sound of hope, positivity and musical triumphalism where the guns, bullets and bombs threatened to obliterate the whole of the globe. She travelled the length and breadth of almost every army encampment and stood defiantly on stage with the voice of an angel. She knew what was going through the minds of those battle hardened soldiers who were fighting not only for their lives but for those who were suffering in the remotest corners of the planet. She gave of herself instinctively and unquestioningly because her voice was the voice of salvation.
But today our Vera, the woman and girl who illuminated all of our lives has passed and we can never thank Vera enough. For Vera was indeed the Forces Sweetheart, the singer who transformed the lives of so many young men who worshipped her from afar but wished they could be their girl. Of course the soldiers had wives and girlfriends waiting for them at home when demobbed after the Second World War but Vera Lynn was the one photo they would clutch to their hearts before lights went out.
Forevermore Dame Vera Lynn will always be associated with one anthem, with one song, one memorable anthem, the soundtrack to our lives at the present moment and the soundtrack that accompanied those who were sent away and sadly never came back. 'We'll Meet Again' has now a completely different and equally as emotional, topical resonance. It was, and remains, a powerful, victorious, heartwarming and, above all, tremendously inspirational song that still sends a shiver down the proverbial spine.
It dominated the record collection of every family across both Britain and the world and it was always on the lips of every man, woman, auntie and uncle whose instant identification with its meaning always made us feel good about ourselves. ' We'll Meet Again' was so stunningly appropriate that it almost became England's second National Anthem. For those of a sentimental disposition it means so much more than any of us could possibly imagine and now sounds like a heartfelt cry from the core of our being.
And so it is that we bid a fond farewell to the songbird from London's East End, a lifelong West Ham supporter, a fact that gladdens some of us no end. But when this now historic year wends itself regretfully into the distance we may hope that somewhere out there the voice of Dame Vera Lynn will boom out across the green, undulating hills of England. If there are bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover you may be sure that our Vera will still be there in spirit. Thanks Dame Vera.
We all felt we knew Dame Vera Lynn who today died at the grand old age of 103. Vera Lynn was an extended member of our family, the friendly neighbour who thought nothing of sharing pleasantries and light hearted banter over the garden fence. She was the auntie we knew but didn't really know. She was that lovely old lady who would always proffer a smile and laugh even though she didn't know you that well.
You could confide in our Vera because she was always warmhearted and full of the joys of spring. She would ask you how your children were, bake a cake for the kids and then dispense her pearls of wisdom and sagacious advice because she loved life, sharing her infectious zest for living without ever questioning or judging you. She would hang her washing on the line, run upstairs to attend to her young daughter who was still crying like a baby because she was still a baby. Then her daughter would giggle in her cot and the echoes of the Second World War could still be heard.
Born in East Ham, a salt of the earth East Ender, Dame Vera Lynn captured the hearts of the whole of Britain and the rest of the world as the 'Forces Sweetheart', a heroic wartime heroine, the sweetest chanteuse, the all pervading, glorious influence who spread her infectious voice and love across diverse continents, war torn cities, towns and villages where the sound of the 'Doodlebug' became the most familiar soundtrack during six years of hell and purgatory.
On a thousand radio sets across the lands of England, the Commonwealth and farthermost points of Asia and Africa, the voice of Dame Vera Lynn became the sound of hope, positivity and musical triumphalism where the guns, bullets and bombs threatened to obliterate the whole of the globe. She travelled the length and breadth of almost every army encampment and stood defiantly on stage with the voice of an angel. She knew what was going through the minds of those battle hardened soldiers who were fighting not only for their lives but for those who were suffering in the remotest corners of the planet. She gave of herself instinctively and unquestioningly because her voice was the voice of salvation.
But today our Vera, the woman and girl who illuminated all of our lives has passed and we can never thank Vera enough. For Vera was indeed the Forces Sweetheart, the singer who transformed the lives of so many young men who worshipped her from afar but wished they could be their girl. Of course the soldiers had wives and girlfriends waiting for them at home when demobbed after the Second World War but Vera Lynn was the one photo they would clutch to their hearts before lights went out.
Forevermore Dame Vera Lynn will always be associated with one anthem, with one song, one memorable anthem, the soundtrack to our lives at the present moment and the soundtrack that accompanied those who were sent away and sadly never came back. 'We'll Meet Again' has now a completely different and equally as emotional, topical resonance. It was, and remains, a powerful, victorious, heartwarming and, above all, tremendously inspirational song that still sends a shiver down the proverbial spine.
It dominated the record collection of every family across both Britain and the world and it was always on the lips of every man, woman, auntie and uncle whose instant identification with its meaning always made us feel good about ourselves. ' We'll Meet Again' was so stunningly appropriate that it almost became England's second National Anthem. For those of a sentimental disposition it means so much more than any of us could possibly imagine and now sounds like a heartfelt cry from the core of our being.
And so it is that we bid a fond farewell to the songbird from London's East End, a lifelong West Ham supporter, a fact that gladdens some of us no end. But when this now historic year wends itself regretfully into the distance we may hope that somewhere out there the voice of Dame Vera Lynn will boom out across the green, undulating hills of England. If there are bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover you may be sure that our Vera will still be there in spirit. Thanks Dame Vera.
Wednesday, 17 June 2020
The Salisbury Poisonings- excellent TV.
The Salisbury Poisonings- excellent.
In complete contrast to all of the last three months of unrelenting misery and sombreness we were given yet another dose of the same medicine. The BBC do get it completely right with their thought -provoking dramatisations and for the last three nights they reminded us once again of the dark and very moody version of events relating to the Salisbury Poisonings two years ago.
Back then we were just shocked by one of those news stories that are supposed to be shocking. It was the spring of 2018 and England were about to embark on one of those helter skelter rides towards the summer's World Cup in Russia. Little were we to know it then but in the quiet and genteel city of Salisbury, mysterious events were beginning to unravel before almost frightening the life out of the nation.
On an otherwise ordinary Sunday lunchtime a father and daughter sat down on a bench in Salisbury having just eaten in a restaurant. What we didn't know at the time was that both were unwitting targets of some appalling poisoning attack from evil terrorists whose intention was to kill without any hint of remorse.
Sergei Skripal and his daughter Yulia Skripal were, at the time, unwitting victims of the kind of incident that convulsed and paralysed almost the entire county of Wiltshire and quite possibly beyond. The opening sequence showed Sergei frothing at the mouth and fitting as his daughter slumped onto his lap, their world now thrown into turmoil and infirmity. Death could have been the most tragic outcomes for both but since then both father and daughter have made a full recovery or so it may be assumed.
But this was a gripping three night reconstruction of the events which unfolded with almost morbid rapidity. Slowly but surely we were introduced into the lives of Nick Bailey, the serious, dedicated and businesslike cop who was unintentionally drawn into this horrific vortex of potentially lethal toxicity, a man who just wanted to get on with his business of being the upright copper while ensuring the continued welfare of his doting family.
We were then given chapter and verse on the life of hard- bitten health officer Tracy Daszkieewicz, a plain-speaking, hard-working, ambitious and driven woman determined to get to the bottom of a nightmare that refuses to go away. We follow her keenly as she rushes hither and thither from one crime spot to the next, a woman of fierce convictions, moral purpose and hell- bent on bringing justice to those who may have found their lives under serious threat.
Attending endless meetings with police officers and impassioned encounters with outraged residents of the local neighbourhood, we saw her visibly crumpling under pressure while mum did her utmost to give positive reassurances to son Toby that she would never desert him and still loved Toby. It was acting of the highest order, a wonderful portrait of a character whose devotion of duty almost broke her at times.
And we then move back to Nick Bailey and his family. Bailey is seen accidentally picking up the nerve shot Novichok, a potentially deadly poison which almost killed Bailey. Staring into the bathroom mirror, Bailey is initially seen checking his now dilated eyes and then sweating in bed wihout realising for a minute that things were wrong and unsavoury. After frequent self examinations, Bailey eventually collapses during the night, falling onto the living room carpet and ending up in hospital clinging onto life desperately.
Nick 's wife Sarah continues to offer loving and compassionate support to a husband who now finds his own life hanging in the balance. The whole background story is now told in vivid and graphic detail with both wife and husband caught up in the most horrendous web of secrecy and ambiguity. Nobody can be sure what's happening because nobody knows anything but would like to know more.
Then there is Ross Cassidy with his wife Mo. Ross is a close friend of Sergei Skripal and once again a perfectly innocent member of the public who, through no fault of his own, is questioned by the police for his friendship with Sergei. Cassidy gives any relevant information that may help with the police's inquiries. Cassidy then gives a full explanation to the police and wonders whether he was being followed by one of President Putin's alleged henchmen on a trip back from the airport to meet up with his mate Sergei. All very cloak and dagger and clandestine, very much a case of not what you knew but who you knew.
Also there was the heart breaking case of Dawn Sturgess, impeccably played and the only death in the whole episode. Dawn is a hardened and incurable alcoholic who lives with her partner Charlie Rowley, both incorrigible addicts who were brought together by a strange twist of fate. Dawn loves to party and get completely drunk while Charlie just offers a sympathetic shoulder to lean on recognising sooner rather than later that both he and she might come to a sticky end.
In the most alarming scene, we see both Dawn and Charlie rummaging through a bin, searching for goodness knows what. Dawn picks out the spray bottle which would eventually kill her while Charlie digs a chair out which left him fighting for life but would not kill him. The story had now become so intriguing that you were left on tenterhooks about what fate would befall all the characters.
After seemingly indefinite investigations, numerous BBC News bulletins, searching post mortems and deeply probing discussions from all concerned we are now left to imagine what might have happened and what did actually happen. This was by turns both an extremely powerful, hard- hitting and compelling drama where you could hardly take your eyes away from the action. There were blazing arguments and disagreements from health officer and police alike, moving moments throughout when everything that could have gone wrong did. But the air of suspense kept you glued to your TV.
Then after spraying from her bottle Dawn dies, the family gather together in collective mourning, mum and dad reproach themselves for not doing enough to help their stricken and troubled daughter and the intensity of their grief takes its toll with dad Stan who confesses that he could have done more to save Dawn but couldn't because Dawn just couldn't stop herself. Charlie, Dawn's partner, naturally sobs his heart at Dawn's funeral but then Dawn's daughter remembers the good times she enjoyed with mum. Mum Sturgess is equally as impressive as the helpless but doting mum who regularly tells her grand- daughter that mummy is sick but is being taken care of.
This was the BBC at its most professional, clever, accurate and perceptive, a play about raw human feelings, a play that hit all the right psychological and sociological buttons. It was about a TV dramatisation that got right under the surface of what makes a society ticks when somebody throws a ticking time bomb into a city that just wants to be left alone in peace. Sadly Salisbury may not be remembered now for its historic and beautiful cathedral. Rather it will always be synonymous with a bench in the shopping centre where two people minding their own business almost died at the same time.
Happily this story did have a happy ending although it could have been all so different. Nick and Sarah Bailey with their kids, are still living as the reunited family, Dawn Sturgess sadly died, Ross Cassidy and his wife Mo are doing all kinds of charitable work while some of us were left drooling with admiration at a brilliant TV script and eternally grateful to the BBC for another mini masterpiece. Thanks Auntie Beeb. You've done it again.
In complete contrast to all of the last three months of unrelenting misery and sombreness we were given yet another dose of the same medicine. The BBC do get it completely right with their thought -provoking dramatisations and for the last three nights they reminded us once again of the dark and very moody version of events relating to the Salisbury Poisonings two years ago.
Back then we were just shocked by one of those news stories that are supposed to be shocking. It was the spring of 2018 and England were about to embark on one of those helter skelter rides towards the summer's World Cup in Russia. Little were we to know it then but in the quiet and genteel city of Salisbury, mysterious events were beginning to unravel before almost frightening the life out of the nation.
On an otherwise ordinary Sunday lunchtime a father and daughter sat down on a bench in Salisbury having just eaten in a restaurant. What we didn't know at the time was that both were unwitting targets of some appalling poisoning attack from evil terrorists whose intention was to kill without any hint of remorse.
Sergei Skripal and his daughter Yulia Skripal were, at the time, unwitting victims of the kind of incident that convulsed and paralysed almost the entire county of Wiltshire and quite possibly beyond. The opening sequence showed Sergei frothing at the mouth and fitting as his daughter slumped onto his lap, their world now thrown into turmoil and infirmity. Death could have been the most tragic outcomes for both but since then both father and daughter have made a full recovery or so it may be assumed.
But this was a gripping three night reconstruction of the events which unfolded with almost morbid rapidity. Slowly but surely we were introduced into the lives of Nick Bailey, the serious, dedicated and businesslike cop who was unintentionally drawn into this horrific vortex of potentially lethal toxicity, a man who just wanted to get on with his business of being the upright copper while ensuring the continued welfare of his doting family.
We were then given chapter and verse on the life of hard- bitten health officer Tracy Daszkieewicz, a plain-speaking, hard-working, ambitious and driven woman determined to get to the bottom of a nightmare that refuses to go away. We follow her keenly as she rushes hither and thither from one crime spot to the next, a woman of fierce convictions, moral purpose and hell- bent on bringing justice to those who may have found their lives under serious threat.
Attending endless meetings with police officers and impassioned encounters with outraged residents of the local neighbourhood, we saw her visibly crumpling under pressure while mum did her utmost to give positive reassurances to son Toby that she would never desert him and still loved Toby. It was acting of the highest order, a wonderful portrait of a character whose devotion of duty almost broke her at times.
And we then move back to Nick Bailey and his family. Bailey is seen accidentally picking up the nerve shot Novichok, a potentially deadly poison which almost killed Bailey. Staring into the bathroom mirror, Bailey is initially seen checking his now dilated eyes and then sweating in bed wihout realising for a minute that things were wrong and unsavoury. After frequent self examinations, Bailey eventually collapses during the night, falling onto the living room carpet and ending up in hospital clinging onto life desperately.
Nick 's wife Sarah continues to offer loving and compassionate support to a husband who now finds his own life hanging in the balance. The whole background story is now told in vivid and graphic detail with both wife and husband caught up in the most horrendous web of secrecy and ambiguity. Nobody can be sure what's happening because nobody knows anything but would like to know more.
Then there is Ross Cassidy with his wife Mo. Ross is a close friend of Sergei Skripal and once again a perfectly innocent member of the public who, through no fault of his own, is questioned by the police for his friendship with Sergei. Cassidy gives any relevant information that may help with the police's inquiries. Cassidy then gives a full explanation to the police and wonders whether he was being followed by one of President Putin's alleged henchmen on a trip back from the airport to meet up with his mate Sergei. All very cloak and dagger and clandestine, very much a case of not what you knew but who you knew.
Also there was the heart breaking case of Dawn Sturgess, impeccably played and the only death in the whole episode. Dawn is a hardened and incurable alcoholic who lives with her partner Charlie Rowley, both incorrigible addicts who were brought together by a strange twist of fate. Dawn loves to party and get completely drunk while Charlie just offers a sympathetic shoulder to lean on recognising sooner rather than later that both he and she might come to a sticky end.
In the most alarming scene, we see both Dawn and Charlie rummaging through a bin, searching for goodness knows what. Dawn picks out the spray bottle which would eventually kill her while Charlie digs a chair out which left him fighting for life but would not kill him. The story had now become so intriguing that you were left on tenterhooks about what fate would befall all the characters.
After seemingly indefinite investigations, numerous BBC News bulletins, searching post mortems and deeply probing discussions from all concerned we are now left to imagine what might have happened and what did actually happen. This was by turns both an extremely powerful, hard- hitting and compelling drama where you could hardly take your eyes away from the action. There were blazing arguments and disagreements from health officer and police alike, moving moments throughout when everything that could have gone wrong did. But the air of suspense kept you glued to your TV.
Then after spraying from her bottle Dawn dies, the family gather together in collective mourning, mum and dad reproach themselves for not doing enough to help their stricken and troubled daughter and the intensity of their grief takes its toll with dad Stan who confesses that he could have done more to save Dawn but couldn't because Dawn just couldn't stop herself. Charlie, Dawn's partner, naturally sobs his heart at Dawn's funeral but then Dawn's daughter remembers the good times she enjoyed with mum. Mum Sturgess is equally as impressive as the helpless but doting mum who regularly tells her grand- daughter that mummy is sick but is being taken care of.
This was the BBC at its most professional, clever, accurate and perceptive, a play about raw human feelings, a play that hit all the right psychological and sociological buttons. It was about a TV dramatisation that got right under the surface of what makes a society ticks when somebody throws a ticking time bomb into a city that just wants to be left alone in peace. Sadly Salisbury may not be remembered now for its historic and beautiful cathedral. Rather it will always be synonymous with a bench in the shopping centre where two people minding their own business almost died at the same time.
Happily this story did have a happy ending although it could have been all so different. Nick and Sarah Bailey with their kids, are still living as the reunited family, Dawn Sturgess sadly died, Ross Cassidy and his wife Mo are doing all kinds of charitable work while some of us were left drooling with admiration at a brilliant TV script and eternally grateful to the BBC for another mini masterpiece. Thanks Auntie Beeb. You've done it again.
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