Life in partial recovery.

Life in partial recovery.

There is a feeling here that we may be on the way back. Rumours have abounded that the whole world is out of the intensive care unit and could be taken to a hospital ward where the patient will now be allowed to recover properly until further notice. Now we've no idea when the patient will be released and left to go home but there is a nagging suspicion that a complete convalescence may be required until we can tell with a reasonable degree of certainty that the operations have been entirely successful.

We are now almost four months into the coronavirus lockdown and all of the illogicalities have yet to be figured out, the scientific data continues to leave us mystified and the medical cognoscenti are still telling us that sooner or later this four-month, global stagnation, this now lengthening period of suspended animation and economic apocalypse shows no sign of blowing over- at least for a while.

So this is where we are now. In the last couple of days, tattoo parlours, nail bars, beauty treatment and, most recently, swimming pools are open for paying customers. Here we are confronted with yet more random guesswork and calculated gambling. We are not quite into Russian Roulette territory but all of the aforesaid services still hold the element of the unknown about them. In theory they all sound as though they should be given an overwhelming thumbs up, a clean bill of health. But is everything safe? Are all activities at the mercy of human infection somewhere along the line?

 The underlying fears of course are still hovering around in the background and we'll never know just how safe it may be for the ladies to have their regular sessions of nail varnishing, bodily decoration on most of their bodies and all of that pampering that normally accompanies a trip to the local shop. At the moment tattoo parlours are very much the latest fashion statement, a vanity project for some while for others just a hobby or something to do on a rainy Tuesday afternoon when the basket weaving is beginning to get on your nerves and macrame isn't really the fulfilling experience you thought it would be.

Anyway, there was one moment over the weekend that did tickle your funny bone which almost seems totally inappropriate at the moment but this one announcement almost had you falling off your chair with laughter. So here's the latest directive from Her Majesty's government. It beggars belief and it almost belongs in some indefinable category of absurdity. You may or may not have heard about it in which case you can just dismiss it as crazy balderdash, the idea of somebody who perhaps should get out more, foolhardiness on a scale barely imaginable.

Here we go folks. If you go to your local swimming pool you are expressly forbidden to do the back stroke. No, it's true. How could you possibly make up something like that? It has to be advisable because, in theory, this is a totally plausible suggestion since we all know about the perils of bumping into somebody else while powering down a swimming lane with all the consummate ease of a Duncan Goodhew or Sharon Davies.

Now how on earth did we come to the earth shattering conclusion that performing the back stroke could be so dangerous to your health? We're all aware of these now- familiar social distancing laws now reduced to one and a bit so we're now absolutely clear on what and what not to do. But since when did the backstroke constitute a health hazard? Still, these are the stipulations everybody so we'll just have to listen to them and the warnings are perhaps understandable.

For those who can swim without reaching Olympic standards, the prospect of being told not to do the backstroke ever again, quite possibly, doesn't exactly fill any of us with hope. Most of us have mastered both the front crawl and breaststroke but to outlaw the backstroke almost seems like some very totalitarian act, an order to stop what you're doing immediately otherwise you'll be heavily fined.

Some of us learnt the rudiments of swimming at school and do like the occasional dip from time to time but this smacks of paranoia and scaremongering for whatever reason. It isn't often that you find yourself compelled to launch into a thousand laps of the backstroke because you simply want to show off to everybody. But if it is your forte and it's the one stroke you know you have a proficiency for then why on earth should you be denied the pleasure of doing so?

But why is the backstroke now considered taboo? We've spent a greater part of this coronavirus lockdown gritting our teeth, stepping gingerly when we do go out, queuing up outside supermarkets for hour upon hour and then covering our faces with masks which may well become compulsory shortly even if we have to nip into the local corner shop for a tin of peas. So we couldn't travel that far and exercise had to be taken a stage further. Surely the backstroke has to feature prominently in our swimming routine.

For the last three and half months we've been wandering around in darkness even when it was quite clearly daylight. We ventured over to parks, communicated via Zoom, taken part in cyber quizzes, hooked up with family and friends on tiny computer screen squares and then done it all again, day after day. And yet how much walking can you possibly do and how much talking can you do without any real physical interaction? Work and school were banned, nobody was allowed to go anywhere without the consent of 10 Downing Street. Surely though this is showing signs of fizzling out.

So we suddenly became aware of the leisure centres and swimming pools which were now gathering dust. Soon they would be shut abruptly but, as events would prove, sensibly. But now the swimming pools are now echoing to the sound of multi splashing, humans doing their bit for their heart with vigorous exercise, good for the arms, shoulders and leaving you completely revitalised. And yet now we can't do the backstroke which is rather like telling a cricketer that he can't use a bat in case the varnish on the bat is infected with goodness knows what.

It almost feels a lifetime ago when the process of learning how to swim became a vital necessity because you were told repeatedly that you had to learn all the basic swimming strokes. Now it was that we won our deserved certificates for swimming a width of the pool, the length of the pool and then, if you were so motivated, the lifeguard certificate which was somehow beyond some of us. In retrospect it all seemed pretty daft at the time but when your teacher tells you to climb into a pair of pyjamas, dive into the pool and retrieve a plastic brick at the bottom of the pool, you did as you were told.

But there you are everybody. Beware the swimming police, watch out for that big, bad wolf prowling and growling around your local lido or swimming pool. The jobsworths are on the warpath and be sure not to fling your arms in a back stroke motion because the consequences could be legal resulting in an appearance in court, a severe looking judge with the law quite firmly on their side and the back stroke could mean the loss of several thousands of pounds. Isn't everything going swimmingly? Woops, you'll have to excuse that excruciatingly painful pun. They do get better. Honestly.

Another 1966 World Cup winner passes. Jack Charlton dies.

Another 1966 World Cup winner passes. Jack Charlton dies.

Another giant oak tree has fallen. Jack Charlton, who today died at the age of 85, was a towering colossus of a footballing centre half, a man never to be messed with by any opponent in his playing days and woe betide the player who fell out with him as the highly regarded manager of the Republic of Ireland.

Charlton, the most loyal, one-club men of them all, performed with an almost royal distinction at Leeds United for his entire playing career and would never look back regretfully at any totally unwarranted criticism of his playing style. Charlton was as hard as they come, powerful in the air, ruthless, uncompromising and, by his own admission, he simply stopped onrushing attackers, reserving most of the bouquets of praise for his kid brother Bobby who for many years would never talk to him and then patched up his differences with him because life was too short for unnecessary arguments.

But Jack Charlton belonged quite unequivocally to the old school of footballing hard men, one of football's so called cloggers who, once he'd committed himself to a tackle, would never hold back. Many a seasoned old First Division player would admit on more than one occasion to a sense of fear and trepidation as big Jack would rumble forward for a corner or free- kick.

Tall as a beanpole and leggy as the giraffe as he would affectionately become nicknamed as, Charlton was a domineering, statesmanlike and unyielding figure at the back for Leeds. Charlton was never renowned for his skill on the ball or some creative bohemian who would bring nothing but flair to that much talked about Leeds side under Don Revie. However, he was fair but firm, strong and fiercely dedicated to the cause, unflinching in those collisions with big, bustling forwards such as Peter Osgood at Chelsea or Jimmy Greaves at Spurs.

After deciding not to enter the mining collieries of his native North East on a full time basis, Charlton  was recruited by deeply focused and shamelessly aspirational Don Revie, the manager who brought the very best out of Charlton. Rather than joining his native Newcastle or Sunderland, his inspirational mother Cissie would join in with her sons garden kickabouts with an almost whimsical air about her. Charlton though turned his back on both Newcastle and Sunderland and Leeds came a calling.

For Charlton though international recognition would come inexplicably late on in his career. This is not to suggest that he was a late developer but at the age of 30 Sir Alf Ramsey, the England manager, would call him up to his eventually triumphant World Cup- winning team. Against a very tough and stubborn West German side, Charlton was imperious, immaculate and totally in control of everything at the heart of England's immovable defence. He was a studious reader of the game, a player of footballing erudition, vocal, blunt and absolutely no- nonsense into the bargain.

The story went that when Bobby Moore was in possession of the ball with only seconds of extra time left and the World Cup in their hands, Charlton would plead vociferously with Moore to get rid of the ball with a couple of Anglo Saxon expletives. So Moore promptly obliged, Geoff Hurst raced away and thrashed the ball into the back of the net for England's cherry on the cake fourth and decisive goal.

Then Charlton, in one of the many iconic moments during the 1966 World Cup Final, slumped to his knees at the old Wembley, gazed at the heavens and wished the day would never end for him. He held his hands up in a brief display of celestial gratitude. Charlton knew what had just happened but couldn't quite take in the magnitude of this remarkable achievement. It was a day when time, quite literally seemed to stop still and then become frozen since the England national football team would never experience such a day again. Maybe one day, maybe some day.

Charlton was innumerably capped for England and then emerge as a successful winner of major trophies. He won the old First Division championship with Leeds in 1969, the FA Cup with Leeds in 1972, a League Cup in 1968 and the UEFA Cup twice. Charlton always loved the cut and thrust of the big occasion, never happier than when his brother Bobby sent over a corner for our |Jack to head in at the near post for England. A perfect sibling footballing partnership.

It may have one of the many urban myths and one of those apochryphal stories that may have lost something in the translation but you'd be inclined to believe that it did happen. Worse for drink after the greatest football day of his life, Jack Charlton boarded a Central Line tube train heading for any Essex suburb that took his eye. We are now led to believe that Charlton got off the train at Leytonstone, knocked on the door of the first house he could find and, allegedly, sat in the garden of the resident's home, no doubt telling that same World Cup winning story over and over again.

Above all Charlton loved winning, loved to hog the limelight. He was booked and sent off on countless occasions, injured frequently and, notoriously hung on goal lines like a lighthouse winking its light. In 1973 Middlesborough came calling with his first managerial job. Middlesborough were promoted from the old Second Division to the First under Charlton and a messiah was born. He'd caught the managerial bug and became addicted to the taste of victory.

In the swansong of his career, Charlton was bestowed with the ultimate accolade. When the Republic of Ireland summoned him Charlton had no hesitation. In 1990 Charlton took Eire to their very first World Cup in Italy and then four years later in the USA. In the roasting heat of an American summer's day, Charlton, in a hissy fit of pique and red mist anger, lost his temper understandably with a poor, unsuspecting linesman and official and in a flurry of animated fingers, told the FIFA judiciary exactly what he thought of them.

Retirement beckoned for Charlton after that now celebrated World Cup venture and his lifelong passion for fishing by the most tranquil of river banks took him completely away from the hot furnaces of club and international football. In recent years Jack Charlton took a back seat from the game because he'd adorned football with his humorous and authoritative presence. Our Jack was a legend and our Bobby will weep a river of tears for his kid brother. Football will, quite naturally, miss him. Thanks for the memories Jack.

Today my dad would have been 93.

Today my dad would have been 93.

Today my wonderful dad would have been 93. There are times when I feel sure that he's with us somewhere in spirit, still full of cheerful banter, breezy bonhomie and full of the joys of every season. Sadly though he passed the day after my birthday in 2005 and the sense of loss will always be numbing. But for all his mental health problems and a devastating illness through my teenage years, my dad was the best, the greatest, the most gentlemanly and the most loving. He was the kind of man who would think nothing of walking across a road to chat to a perfect stranger.

In an age, particularly recently, when human relationships and families have come under the most extreme scrutiny it may be good to know that in all of these disease-ridden moments in our lives, we can still remember our loved ones, our devoted ones, the ones who have always been constants in all moments of trouble, hardship, stress and unbearable pressure.

My dad was the warmest, loveliest and most compassionate father any son could ever have. Frustratingly, we had nothing in common with each other but throughout my early childhood, I adored and idolised him. He was the man who sacrificed his mental health because family meant the world to him. He was the one who always thought of others, his doting family, always put his family first and never spoke ill of those who were less fortunate or disadvantaged.

But for reasons which became patently obvious, I could never share any of his interests and maybe with a pang of regret, this was the only obstacle that prevented us from forming a deep, lasting and emotional attachment, a friendship and father and son relationship that should have been there from day one and yet never was. I'll always love him though because he was my dad.

How often would I rush out immediately when I knew he was about to turn the corner of our road and emerge elegantly dressed in his usual jacketed, smart shirted attire, cigarette tenderly fixed between his index finger and then reluctant ash falling to the ground in an act that came as naturally as breathing. Since he was a young teenager my dad would smoke, smoking quite heavily and although the smell was personally repulsive I would never have dreamt of stopping him from lighting up. It was at that moment that my dad had come from the hellhole that was his work.

Isn't it amazing how complicated relationships and family alliances can become and then we begin to wonder why without ever really touching the surface of this eternal conundrum? And yet we do count our lucky stars since we know without any doubt whatsoever that we will always love those who continue to mean so much to us.

We all look at that ever so crazy and dysfunctional family known in reality TV terms as the Kardashians that even the most extraordinary wealth and luxury still has the capacity to damage and hurt us.  Sometimes you find yourself utterly grateful for a life that remains grounded, sensible, well ordered, logical and practical. There comes a point when money although welcome, can still be more of a hindrance particularly when the bank balance reaches a million.

And this was very much my dad's take on life. He was never judgmental, never snooty, never condescending and always treated everybody as his equal. He was never greedy, never consumed with jealousy at the apparent affluence others might have had, delightfully contented with his life and his family. He would never resort to violence when peace and reconciliation were the obvious alternatives. Above all he was excessively kind and understanding, tolerant and free with his generosity. A humble, unassuming, proudly working class man with working class values.

I found myself reaching out for the good times I had with my dad because that represented redemption for me, a way of exorcising the demons that haunted him for much of his life. There was that aforementioned time at roughly 6 in the evening when he would walk towards me while waiting anxiously for his arrival. The days of workaday toil were at an end and there I would be ready to greet him rather like a Second World War child who couldn't wait to see their demobbed dad. 

At mealtimes there were the inevitable conversations about football and sport. But suddenly the kitchen would fall into a solemn hush, as my dad tried desperately to distance himself valiantly from any reference or discussion about football or any sport. How often he would grow ashen faced and outraged at the mere mention of the Beautiful Game. Why couldn't we turn the discourse to Harold Wilson, the white heat of technology, Vietnam, Richard Nixon or the imminent troubles in Northern Ireland when the IRA threatened to send the whole of England into a state of indefinite bedlam?

My dad would turn his attention to his only true hobby. Cars became his major pre-occupation and eventually the cause of his mental breakdown. There were dreadful times when my family feared that this self -destructive obsession would destroy him. He suffered from what is now referred to as bipolar disease, a mentally crippling disease that led to wild mood swings and a frightening inability to communicate with anybody.

I find myself writing this piece with the heaviest of hearts because this is not the way either my dad or I would ever have thought something like manic depression would ever drag him into a fiery pit of despair. We experienced what, as a family, we came to know as his highs and lows since this is how manic depression would manifest itself. There were those horrendous slumps into my dad's personal world of hell, the highs consisting of delusions of grandeur when he clearly convinced himself that he was in complete control and nobody could tell him what to do and the lows that you would rather not go into any chapter and verse about.

There was the time when my dad found a job as chauffeur in the West End of London. On one glorious Sunday lunchtime my dad was assigned to look after and act as a tour guide to an obscenely wealthy Saudia Arabian family. Guided to the family's palatial penthouse suite in Park Lane, the heart of London's brightly illuminated West End, our family was wined and dined in the kind of lavish splendour that none of us could ever have ever anticipated.

Then there was my dad's platonic relationship with the touristy West End of London, a highly illuminated, dazzling beacon of light in what seemed to be those darkest recesses of his life where everything looked hopeless and inconsolable. How my dad loved to take his sleek, grey Ford Cortina out for a run to those garish but astonishing colours that would flicker, flirt, flash and then fulminate in an explosion of Coca Cola red.

Piccadilly Circus had everything my dad was looking for when Sunday afternoons during the 1970s were reduced to lengthy power cuts. There were the hospitable cafes, the gregarious restaurants where families and friends would eat out under the red lights of the Aberdeen Steak House, the statue of Eros, full of love and affection and Wrigley's Spearmint chewing gum which would be comfortably juxtaposed with, strangely, Timex watches. My dad was not only deeply in love with my mum but the heart of the jumping, jiving, swinging West End of London.

There was a deep seated longing on my dad's part to feel special and important, a sense that he simply wanted to make sure that the pleasure he was deriving from his Sunday afternoon would be instantly transferred to us. We would spend endless hours on those very Sunday afternoons casually strolling and window shopping our way along Regent Street before retiring for tea at that famous Jewish rendezous the Lyons Corner House in Marble Arch. The 1960s now seem like eons ago but for my dad there was an intimate connection and rapport with a world that never failed to disappoint him.

There were the hilarious holidays to Spain in the primary school half term break in June, the navy jackets, Fred Perry shirts and ties donned for days of baking heat on Sundays by the seaside. For my dad formality and courtesy were almost essential regardless of the occasion but then there were those evenings when uproarious laughter would leave both my grandparents and family in a memorable state of elation.

Half way through a Jewish Passover( Pesach service), my grandpa would stand to recite the traditional prayers without ever imagining that the events that would follow were destined to leave my dad on the floor in a paroxysm of giggling. Suddenly my dear grandpa pa would slowly lose his trouser belt and then his trousers. The trousers would gently fall to the ground, slowly descending into an oblivion of ankles and socks.

But for my dad family meant everything. Even through my most traumatic teenage years when autism had yet to be diagnosed, my dad was always there for me. When my parents would just leave me to my lonely devices for a  Tuesday night out club with friends, he was deeply supportive, bewildered at times as to why my personal friendships had yet to be established and fantastically sympathetic even though he couldn't really understand what I was going through. 

Then there was my dad's enduring relationship with the West End, a place of fun, life, vitality, tireless activity, a world of epic escapism, his natural destination after the most turbulent period of his life. The West End was a glittering revelation where he came alive, eyes twinkling, smile permanently etched on his face during the grimmest  Sunday winter's night.

And finally there were the days at home, listening with rapture in his heart to Frank Sinatra's Double album of instantly recognisable standards 'Portrait of Sinatra. Now firmly ensconced within the bosom of his adoring family he would sit in the family garden, sun glasses glued to his eyes, bronze, sun tanned chest exposed to a British summer heatwave which may have been a rarity but still a treat to those who worshipped it in the way both of my parents used to long for it. There was Glen Miller, Duke Ellington, Ella Fitzgerald, Tony Bennett, Count Basie and a festival of jazz to caress my dad's ears.

Above all my dad never liked any fuss, any commotion or bother. He was a man with simple tastes in a world that would often become incomprehensible from time to time. He enjoyed straightforward food. ordinary food, food with little in the way of pretentious colours, tastes or smells. He drank little or no alcohol although he would indulge on holiday excursions. He smoked because he'd always smoked but there were none of those vices that the rest of the 1960s had embraced so willingly. Of course he didn't take drugs and looked on with horror at those who did.

Sons and daughters always look up to their father for those formative signs of encouragement and support. When they receive those first trophies for best actor or actress in the school play, win that precious award or certficate for having mastered the violin or recorder, dad is the one at the back who keeps pointing at their offspring and singling them out when the spotlight falls.

When my dad finally blows out the 93rd candle on his birthday cake I feel sure that he'll be insisting that he wants nothing in the way of approval or recognition. After asking him what he wanted for his birthday for the umpteeenth time he would re-assure me that all he really wanted was a packet of Polo mints and a cup of tea. Any of my enterprises or life projects would be followed by the inevitable good luck son statement. For this was my lovely, wonderful dad. Happy 93rd birthday dad. You'll always be in my heart.

Cricket- first test, England against West Indies.

Cricket - the first test, England against West Indies

Barring monsoons or snow on a prodigious scale, the first test between England and West Indies will go ahead and the chances are that cricket will have survived the coronavirus although as we have been reminded quite a few times now the match will be known as the biosecure Test which sounds as though it should be played in a laboratory surrounded by test tubes or bunsen burners.

Back in March cricket fell into that unusual category of one of those sports that had to be re-evaluated quite thoroughly because it is a spectator sport although not in the same numbers as football. Cricket, regrettably, is not nearly as high profile as it would like it to be although England's Test matches against the leading cricket nations of the world has never been in doubt.

Today, at the Ageas Bowl, Southampton England meet one of the most charismatic, happy-go-lucky, effervescent, extrovert cricketing sides in the world. When the West Indies come to any town or city in England it normally means that the cricket will be stunningly crafted, breathtakingly breezy, classically flawless and quite the most brilliant spectacle. It will be a delight to all the senses, great fun to watch and terribly therapeutic if you're feeling down in the dumps.

During the 1970s some of us could hardly believe what we were watching. It almost felt as if the Harlem Globetrotters basketball team had dropped into Lords and sprinkled some stardust all over the outfield and that well-trodden batting strip. The West Indies were a magnificent force of nature, enormously gifted, vastly resourceful, oozing technical virtuosity, full of mighty, formidable batting strength in depth and immeasurably superior to anything England could offer. This time though we won't allow anything to get us down so we'll watch with bated breath and remember who England are playing.

This year though it'll be a whole new ball game or a red ball game. Cricket, rather like football, will be taking its lead from football when it treads on the well-manicured, burnished green grass. It'll be played against a backdrop of no fans and the behind closed doors charade that has now come to characterise the winter game of football. There is a belief here that cricket will cope in adversity since, by its very nature, the hundreds and thousands who populate the seats and terraces at the Etihad Stadium, Anfield, the Emirates, Stamford Bridge and Old Trafford may not be conspicuous by their presence.

Cricket was the game that first emerged into the light of the day many centuries ago when the village greens of England would contentedly resound to the bat and bowl while the sheep in another peaceful field would graze contemplatively, only occasionally looking up at the aristocrats and gentry in all their athletic, white-shirted glory. Then cricket was a much slower game although to some extent it still is. The pace perfectly suited the leisured classes who would then take their drink breaks whenever the mood took them.

But today in the high tech, social media driven, electronic age of whizzy graphics, instant statistics, TV, radio, Smartphone and Tablet, cricket is still flourishing when we probably thought the sheer pace of change would leave it well behind the rest of sport. Cricket is bang up to date, full of helmets, umpires with earpieces, coloured clothing and, more recently, numbers on the back of their shirts. You'd be forgiven for thinking that cricket was just copying football but the summer game of cricket is, quite literally, in a class of its own.

After winning last year's World Cup in their own backyard and then tumbling to humbling defeat to the Aussies in the Ashes, England are back again on home soil. For months we didn't think it would ever happen but cricket is back again. The County Championship, along with the biff and bash slogfest of those limited-overs, day and night-time matches, has yet to come out of the winter hibernation so that one is on the back burner for the minute.

England's opponents the West Indies of course, demand our respect regardless of generation and time frame. The old days of absolute mastery, astonishingly executed cricket, beautiful cricket with equally as spectacular performances are perhaps now long gone but the beauty and the panache with which they decorate all of their displays can never be discounted. We all know how impossible to beat the West Indies used to be and there were times during the 1970s when even the neutrals just wanted them to put on their purple finery, a team of almost regal status rather than a mundane bore.

In the mind's eye you can still see the West Indian fans filling the Oval with their joyous steel drums pounding away almost ceaselessly, sending out their wonderfully rhythmic melodies across the suburban shires of Surrey. It was a day of endless music, calypso carnival and record breaking cricket as the wickets tumbled, the noise became progressively louder and the singing much more melodious than perhaps we were expecting.

This was all because the West Indies had arrived. It meant that the pantherine and graceful Clive Lloyd was on captaincy duty, a long legged, powerful fielder and prolific batsman who chalked up big scores and colossal centuries. Then we move on to Sir Viv Richards, a Somerset batsman of majestic, magisterial, lordly and princely stature. In that distinctive maroon cap, Richards would doff that cap just before the first ball of the day had been delivered and then launch into some of the most destructive, punishing, heartless, callous, forthright batting the world had ever seen.

When the mood was right and the sun in the right position, Richards was unstoppable, irrepressible, a batsman of almost barbaric ferocity. He would settle in his crease against the likes of Ian Botham, Bob Willis, the cunning spin of Derek Underwood and many a trembling Englishman. He would dig his bat gently maybe once even twice before thrashing his cover drives, hooking with fearsome intent and then strategically nicking the outside edge for innumerable fours that left the English fielders gasping for another drinks break. Then there were the carousel of sixes that soared high into the air, over a thousand church steeples, office blocks and deep into the unspoilt meadows of Somerset.

Richards also had the highly respected likes of Gordon Greenidge equally as lethal and supple with his batting wrists, pulling the ball away to the inevitable boundary then pushing the West Indies total along with almost indecent haste. Greenidge was equally as brutal with the short ball, clumping the ball viciously with bloodthirsty aggression and totally without remorse. Greenidge, like Richards, had impeccable timing, an ever present sense of adventure and natural discipline, a cricketer for all occasions and its purest exponent.

Then there was Rohan Kanhai, a batsman with patience as a virtue, a charmer, a versatile all rounder, clipping, prodding and then blasting the ball in all manner of directions. There was Alvin Kalicharran, compact and clever, sound of technique, always watchful and frequently dangerous. The West Indies class of the 1970s always knew how to express themselves because they knew exactly when to hit the accelerator and when to parade the full range of cavalier strokes, ultra confident shots that flowed from their hands like a mountain stream in full spate.

When the likes of Andy Roberts, Malcolm Marshall and Michael Holding came running into their batsmen in full flight it was rather watching a family of swans gliding onto a small and placid river. But these swans had much more than the grace and majesty you might have expected of cricketers. They bowled with razor sharp accuracy, a deliberately hyped up hostility and under orders to create havoc, destruction, carnage and a clattering splinter of broken stumps.

Today though England, captained by the heroic and triumphant Ben Stokes will find himself in tandem with the rapidly maturing Rory Burns, the blossoming Dom Sibley, Joe Denly, the brand new or seemingly so Zak Crawley, the permanently enthusiastic Ollie Pope, the marvellously agile and quick witted Jos Buttler, the eager beaver Dom Bess, the excellent Mark Wood, the wily and experienced Stuart Broad while never leaving out the fiercely committed James Anderson.

For the West Indies the names may be unfamiliar but the traditions are undeniable. The likes of John Campbell, Kraigg Brathwaite, Shai Hope, Jermaine Blackwood, Royston Chase, captain Jason Holder, Kemar Roach, Shannon Gabriel and Alzarri Joseph are unknowns for some of us. But you can be sure that when they all come together with those natty maroon caps and pride in their hearts, the instincts will be as sharp as ever, the hunger for victory still there for all to see and England will certainly know they've been in a game.

With the global pandemic around them though these will not be conventional cricketing encounters. Cricket will have to contend with its shields, hand sanitisers and masks in much the way that most of us will have to grow accustomed. Cricket in the world of coronavirus will surely be the most novel of sights and it maybe hard to imagine if, rather like football, cricket will, one day, be able to safely accommodate its fervent supporters and fans. But then you think of the memories left behind of Viv Richards and Clive Lloyd and they all come flooding back warmly. Cricket at its very best.

Saints go marching in - Southampton beat Manchester City with uncharacteristic ease.

Saints go marching in- Southampton beat Manchester City with uncharacteristic ease.

So the Saints did indeed go marching in and by the end of another early July evening some of us were so disoriented that in a sense Southampton may just have assumed that they were heading in the right direction. There were no signposts or reference points but this was, without any shadow of a doubt, an end of season, inconsequential Premier League matc with nothing to aim for or cling onto. Somehow the satnav is far preferable to the old road map although the A to Z still has its merits if you're stuck on a hard shoulder or some remote lay by.

Yesterday Southampton, who must have thought it was curtains towards the end of last year, have quite literally pulled themselves together. In a rainstorm at St Mary's last winter, Southampton were steamrollered by ambitious Leicester City with a humiliating 9-0 defeat. They often tell us that the writing on the wall may have been there for all to see but Southampton rolled up their sleeves, knuckled down to the task in hand and now find themselves in comfortable mid table terrain.

But nobody could have seen this one coming. This was yet another midsummer exhibition at a time of the year when most footballers would much rather be listening to the soothing, sonorous waves of a Mediterranean sea than the industrial thud of boot against midriff or thigh. However, this is Project Restart, football's version of the summer fiesta where the chirruping of the late night crickets compete against the swish of the matador's cape for attention in a world where nothing is real and the way it should be.

Frequently this fourth round of matches that have been tightly crammed into a bizarre schedule of Premier League matches, is now beginning to look like a roller coaster that shouldn't really be hurtling towards its destination at such a hectic speed. Still, for most football fans, this quite definitely beats watching paint dry and besides the Premier League season had to end because if it had been declared null and void there would have been an uproar and certainly an outright revolt.

Grown men would have been storming the barricades, breaking down the turnstiles quite angrily and football would have lost its soul, its true value and that comforting sense of identity. And so it was that at the end of June and now into the first week of July the Premier League is doing a wonderfully convincing impersonation of men who may be enjoying themselves in their chosen sport but not really knowing why.

Amusingly, the whole of this game was played out to a chorus of noisy seagulls who were doing their utmost to serenade an empty St Mary's stadium with a classic Solent sea shanty. Here we were at a football stadium in July desperately stifling laughter and holding back our belly aching derision. In the normal scheme of things the South Coast would have been welcoming their traditional intake of daytrippers, ice cream licking children, parents, families, mums and dads strolling along the prom with not a care in the world.

But this was a strange footballing intrusion, not so much an imposition, more of an unexpected phenomena where players and managers join forces with small knots of men- the coaching staff- leaning forward in their seats and wearing those medicinally protective masks. Occasionally it reminded you of a low budget film about a group of footballers gathered together at a summer boot camp where actors and actresses pretend to be keepy uppy exponents or stepover and drag back experts. There were though no film cameras in sight nor the obligatory directors with a loud tannoy.

Then the referee blew his whistle for kick off at St Mary's  and you'd have been forgiven for thinking that you were stranded on a windswept beach during the winter. Suddenly, there was a cavernous echo about St Mary's that almost felt supernatural. All around the players were waves of subdued fan noises that sounded like another set of gentle tidal crashes onto the shore. Every so often players and managers would take it in turn to holler and yell, barking blasts of sound that were ever so spooky at times.

Poor Pep Guardiola, who probably felt he'd won the Lottery when Manchester City won the Premier League last season, looked ever so slightly defeated and downcast. Last Thursday City rolled back the seasons with a thumping 4-0 victory over the new Premier League champions Liverpool but in front of yet more cardboard art City looked leg weary, downtrodden and worn out. Against Southampton, whose act of defensive gallantry deserved much more than a medal, City were out on their feet, aching for warmer climes to rest tired limbs and not quite up to their rarefied standards.

For Southampton manager Ralph Hasehuttl this had to be one of his most satisfying 90 minutes in English football. There hasn't been a great deal to cheer about for Hasenhuttl who not only got a soaking in Southampton's 9-0 embarrassment at home to Leicester but probably thought his world had come to an end. But football's bearded Austrian handed out some stern instructions to his players, read that familiar riot act and after Manchester City sorrily trooped away from the South Coast, we acknowledged that every underdog has its day in the July sun.

When the sprightly and frequently energetic Kyle Walker Peters, Jack Stephens, Jan Bednarek and the ever reliable England man Ryan Bertrand pushed forward with harmonious intent, Southampton dropped anchor and sailed effortlessly away from the harbour. While the probing, prompting and scheming Stuart Armstrong linked up imaginatively with the purposeful Oriel Romeu, the irresistible Nathan Redmond and the always inventive James Ward Prowse, Southampton, certainly for much of the first half, were neat, tidy, economical in their passing and impressive moving forward.

Manchester City, to their eternal credit came out for the second half revived, refreshed and revitalised. Hurt and chastened by Southampton's attacking masterclass during the first half, City were back firing on all cylinders and for almost the entire second period, showed all the flamboyant flounces and elaborate passing patterns that would have blown Southampton into the Solent last season and the one before.

The underlying worry for City is that they could be kicked out of next season's Champions League on Financial Fair Play grounds so this rare setback must still rankle with them privately. Their football is still a joy to behold, rather like some joyous shangri-la. The passes are made of the silkiest texture, their movement on and off the ball a classical music concerto where everything happens spontaneously and perfectly. When the piano hits the right chord and the cymbal crashes dramatically you almost feel as if you've just witnessed footballing poetry.

Last night City were still knitting and sewing their passing together, recycling the ball over and over again, gathering their team around and then engaging in close, one touch football that could now be heard quite clearly at St Mary's. For the entire second half City opened up and sliced apart Southampton, dissecting and examining the Saints for further forensic inspection. Then they camped inside the home team's half, surrounding Southampton and then outnumbering them at times.

But Southampton had already scored the opening goal of the match with a truly stunning goal. For the first quarter of an hour City were not at their sharpest unlike the old City who would have gone at Southampton with tooth and claw. This was not the way it was meant to be and the goal shook the former Premier League champions to the core of their being.

A terrible goal kick from City keeper Ederson ended up at a red and white striped Saints shirt before the ball landed at the feet of Che Adams. Now this was the moment when every goalkeeper must dread. You mess up your clearance carelessly and you're punished for your sloppiness and negligence. It does happen from time to time but not to City surely. Sadly it did. There was a temporary sigh of despair and Ederson just wanted a holiday sun lounger.

So here we were in the realms of the fantasy. Che Adams, wonderfully perceptive, splendidly observant and very streetwise, noticed a goalkeeper stumbling back into his goal. Adams promptly sent an astonishingly deliciously curling lob high over Edison from almost the half way line. It was a goal made in heaven, a goal of vintage magnificence, a goal to show your children and grandchildren over and over again. And so it would prove the Southampton winner.

You were taken on a brief dance down memory lane. You would have imagined the reaction of one Lawrie Mcnemeny, a Southampton manager, Guardsman and magician supreme. When Southampton played at the old Dell ground, Mcnemeny would grin from ear to ear when the likes of Mick Channon would follow a goal celebration with a windmilling arm, drooling at Kevin Keegan re-capturing his grander Liverpool days and then smiling widely when that firework of a midfielder Alan Ball would release his all action dynamism into an old First Division match.

Southampton though are safe from relegation and have been for some time. Their team still looks slightly ragged and nervous at times and next season should tell us much more about the motivational powers of Hasenhutll. As long as they can wipe from their minds the 9-0 catastrophic defeat to Leicester then things will indeed run smoothly. For now the Saints will keep marching on as long as they don't drop anything.

Let the good times roll.

Let the good times roll.

We always knew this day would arrive and indeed it has. It always seemed to have potential so this may be the opportunity to welcome everybody back to the land of milk and honey. Let the good times roll everybody. After a seemingly endless three month trauma we can now see the first signs of recovery. There you are.

It's the fourth day of July and to all you drinkers and revellers this is your day, a day devoted to your bibulous pleasure, a day of riotous bacchanalia, of clinking foaming pints of beer and ale, jumping onto tables, singing perhaps discordantly at the top of your voices, slapping your family and friends on the back in an excess of congratulation and soaking in saturnalia. Nobody deserves it more than us. You've been in denial since March, queued patiently outside all of those mega giant supermarkets, spoken perhaps with some difficulty through all of those medical masks and you've done it. Well done to you all.

And yet all the while there remains the very real and underlying concern that you could be tempted to overdo it today or this afternoon maybe this evening. After three months in the desert, the consumption of alcohol now feels like the ultimate indulgence and the danger is that we could go overboard. Now the question you may have to ask yourself is whether you really need to drink yourself into a wild stupor to the extent that by midnight even the late- night foxes in the neighbourhood may be desperate to avoid you.

There may be something called self- control, self- restraint or just plain and simple moderation. But after all these months of abstinence and frequent visits to either the supermarket or off licence, you'd be forgiven for flinging open those Wild West saloon doors and demanding a row of bourbons, twenty pints of the amber nectar, several hundred shorts and an endless requests for whisky after whisky, vodka after vodka and scotch after scotch. Wow, are we thirsty?

By this time tomorrow morning perhaps millions of weary and exhausted palates will be desperately craving cups and cups of black coffee, nursing a sore head and wishing they hadn't taken the trouble to traipse down to the local boozer. But not my family because we're teetotal and we don't mind admitting it. This is not to say that we're not partial to a drop of something sweet and refreshing but to those of you who just love the traditional decor of your local watering hole, that first drink will feel like nectar, an ambrosial delight, patience rewarded, the moment you've all been waiting for.

Back in medieval times of course nights in the local tavern were about as crazy and debauched as it was possible to be, full- blooded intoxication almost a nightly occurrence. You'd saunter up to the barman, insist on large tankards of mead before the court jesters would leap onto a creaking table and all hell would break loose. Suddenly, the whole of the drinking population would resort to the kind of dissolute behaviour that seemed to come as second nature to them.

Today though things may not be quite as outrageously silly as they were then but now Britain will think that, after all of those torturous trials and tribulations, those nights of private drinking in the comfort of their own homes will now be condemned to history. Now of course pubs have suddenly morphed into gastro bars, doubling up rapidly as Sunday food carveries where families tuck into their mouth waering roasts with salivating relish. Toby and Wetherspoon have now become the new drinking experience.

Now pubs have been joined by remarkably profitable wine bars in the City of London or the heart of the country. Some of the most celebrated of French, Australian and Italian wine labels have crept into our lives as a means of winding down after another stressful day at the office. But the drinking culture has always been synonymous with the British way of life as if it had never gone away.

Tonight though the chairs will be neatly taken down from dusty tables, a million dart boards will be cleaned and steamed, some will go straight for the dominoes and a vast majority will head straight for the snooker table. Soon the soft tapping of green, red, black and blue ball will resound around the whole of Britain's cities, villages, towns and sleepy hamlets. It'll be the sweetest noise the drinkers of Britain will have heard for ages. It will signify that normal life is back again.

Then by way of a treat, somebody will suggest that this could be the opportune moment for a night of glorious karaoke singing into microphones that keep crackling with unnecessary feedback. So all of your uncles, cousins, aunties and nieces you haven't seen since at least the end of the Second World War will step up onto the stage and declare that they have indeed found the road to Amarillo.

Since this is an extra special night the pub will now abandon itself to one of those ambitious local bands who just want to sing their hearts out for the delectation of all those people who have always remained loyal to them. It's bound to be a very convincing Led Zeppelin tribute group with all of those heavy rock vibes while next up is a Neil Diamond impersonator who keeps extolling the praises of Sweet Caroline.

Oh yes. Before we forget it should be pointed out that all of the barbers and hairdressers will also be allowed to open those doors for a much needed Mohican, plenty off the back and a considerable amount off the front. You found yourself wandering what your grandfather would have made of this all. This is not the way he would have wanted the world to be and he'd have lost a fortune in the last couple of months or so.

But he was still a very respectable East End barber who used to cut the hair of three 1966 World Cup winning heroes so he was always pleased to see all of his customers. A sturdy, strong willed and no nonsense character, he would probably have told us all to pull ourselves together and stop performing like a bunch of pathetic hypochondriacs or soppy malingerers and just go to bed. For him coronavirus may well have been just a very bad case of flu when we know of course that it isn't. Still, he was an excellent barber and you feel sure that he would have been looking forward to a day like today.

So there we are folks. It's another Saturday in the calendar year and Britain can finally let itself go. It's time to drink and drink to our hearts content, finally getting rid of all that thick thatch of hair on your head. Isn't life good and wonderful? It's time to re-discover something of those simple enjoyments that, overnight in March, were swept away from us because of some horrendous global disease. March has now become July and the rest of the year could take us into any direction it wants to. For most of us though 2020 still feels like the year that could have promised so much but then we woke up one morning and found that something had gone and deserted us. Of course we love life but there are too many haunting echoes and uncomfortable memories. Who cares let's drink!

Still, we all have each other and the families and friends that remain our foundation and rock are still here and time will of course be the great healer. Mind you if the Red Lion is packed to capacity tonight you maybe inclined to raise a toast and celebrate American Independence day. Mine's a burger and a glass of bourbon. Keep safe and well everybody. It's time to kick your legs in the air and dance. Yee ha!

New buzz words, newfangled phrases and what was that word again?

New buzz words, newfangled phrases and what was that word again.

So far the relatively new century has given us plenty to talk about and think upon. There are those very knotty and complex issues that may never be resolved or explained properly. But this may well be life and we are now venturing into new territory. The language is much the same as it always was but quite recently the English vocabulary and grammar may have been ever so slightly garbled by the way in which our lives have now been completely turned upside down.

But the major source of contention is that in the last four years now, the English language has come under a potentially devastating attack from forces it can't quite control. Every decade, every generation has its quirky expressions, its mystifying phrases and what appear to be wholly incomprehensible buzz words, pithy cliches at times and no small amount of gibberish.

But hold on the English language is always receptive to strange, new word patterns since the language has always found itself in a constant state of evolution. We pick up words, absorb words like the proverbial sponge. Occasionally we get words completely mixed up in wildly funny malapropisms and sentences that don't quite scan once you've said them but are nonetheless memorable in their delivery.

Back in the 1960s of course the whole of London was swinging which led you to believe either that  London was lost in some nostalgic childhood playground or quite literally on swings. Or maybe it was cool, mainstream, up to date, modern, ahead of its time, revolutionary, go ahead and just the centre of the universe while the rest of the world was just sleeping. It could be that London was just enjoying change, that transitional period where everything was brand new and available on the open market.

Then of course London became far out and can you dig it man as if England had some of the world's foremost archeologists. Every generation brings with it a whole new selection of temporary catch phrases. If London did indeed swing during the 1960s then who is to argue that it simply continued to doing so throughout the 1970s when London suddenly became groovy and ten years later referred to the whole of the 1980s generation as wicked.

And so it is that we move right back to the present generation and today's novelties and oddities for this is what they seem to be. Since the beginning of the 21st century London's architectural skyline has come to be dominated by the Walkie Talkie, the Cheese Grater, the Gherkin and a rich variety of high rise structures that may or may not have disfigured its landscape. But words are not buildings. Words are flexible, multi-talented and are capable of any amount of verbal gymnastics. Words can be physical, vocally versatile and expressive. Buildings and words just stand on their own, open to interpretation and comment but never really do anything as such apart from provoking human reaction. But how important both are.

The point is here that over the last four years language has taken quite a severe buffeting, a good deal of bowdlerisation and no little tinkering, tampering and refining. Up until three or four years ago depending on your point of view, the world of the written word in books and newspapers was quite happily going about its business as usual Then almost overnight the English language was suddenly plunged into some weird and eerie darkness where vampires came out late at night and quite possibly evil spirits haunted us for the rest of our lives.

Four years ago former Prime Minister David Cameron announced quite boldly that he'd had enough of all those whinging, wailing, moaning and discontented people who simply wanted Britain to get out of the European Union. Britain had become totally disenchanted with all of those interfering busybodies in Brussels who just kept telling us what to do and following us around in their annoying droves.

There was a sense here that the whole of Europe was being too bossy and dictatorial, too tiresome and utterly disagreeable for our liking. So what did we do? We told them exactly how we felt about them, told them in the politest way that we wanted nothing to do with them at any time in the future and then told them to get lost. Europe was surplus to requirements, no longer relevant, a very dated anachronism.

Towards the end of the year a new Prime Minister Boris Johnson led the way in a radical departure from the EU which has yet to be digested by some but now seems like the right decision. When Cameron made way for Theresa May because he still wanted to be friends with those officious decision makers in Brussels, the English language changed dramatically overnight.

In roughly early 2017 and probably the latter end of 2016 Britain had adopted Brexit, a bright, shiny new phrase which had clearly been made up on the spot without any consultation from the British public. Now we've all become over familiar with Brexit for Brexit came to represent everything that would become anti Europe, politically controversial but blunt and self explanatory. Or was it?

For the next three years Brexit sparked off so many arguments, flare- ups and inflammatory comments from those on high and those who may have just wanted the quiet life that you wondered whether the subject would just run out of steam. But Brexit just kept going on and on interminably, posturing, pontificating, speechifying and just waffling because nobody seemed to mind and besides you couldn't beat a spot of rip roaring rhetoric.

But then Brexit fiercely divided Britain and families across the nation would do nothing but bicker, fall out with each other for days on end and then reluctantly apologise a couple of weeks later. There was never room for compromise here because Brexit was very trying, a repetitive, cracked vinyl record where the stylus had got irreparably stuck. Brexit eventually exhausted itself after a million references to Brexiteers who were neither on the left or right. Most of us were beginning to dread switching on either the TV and radio because we knew exactly what we were going to get.

And then when Boris Johnson had finally landed his dream job as Prime Minister of country things became much clearer and simpler. Johnson had also lost patience with his EU neighbours and was just desperate to sever his links with Brussels as soon as possible. So the soft Brexiteers and hard Brexiteers had a private party and together with Johnson waved goodbye to Europe with the most smug of grins. They told you they'd do it and they did. So there.

At the beginning of this year we thought we'd seen the back of barely incredulous grammar, newfangled phraseology and seemingly barmy words that had been joined up with equally as vague neologisms, word constructions that smacked of silliness. We giggled for a while before totally losing our way in a labyrinthine maze of complicated sentences. By the end of last year some of us were just gritting our teeth since the English language had been completely destroyed and taken away from us.

So it was that at the start of 2020 when everything had been resolved in Brussels, we settled down for just a very normal and ordinary year, the beginning of a new decade and nobody to bleed our ears with the same old blather and bluster. It was a time for recovery and rehabilitation, away from the fire and brimstone of sharp suited politicians with nothing but Brexit on their minds. What else was there left to talk about? We'd exhausted every angle. Surely nothing more could be said that we hadn't heard before. No point in pressing the same old chestnuts because those very chestnuts were getting on our nerves.

Little we were to know that lurking around another dark corner and ready to pounce there was something else to become very animated about. It was almost too good to be true. For a moment we were drawn into another world of complacency where nothing could ever upset or disturb us. Think again. The apparent certainties of life were about to be blown out of the water.

In January we were told us about some obscure outbreak of a disease that had stricken a cruise vessel and some illness in China which quite literally overnight became globally viral and astonishingly deadly at the same time. It had been burdened with a title that sounded like some crazy science fiction novel. Within a week the whole world knew about the coronavirus pandemic, a disease that would claim the lives of millions around the world.

Within weeks we were stuffing our supermarket trolley with dozens of toilet rolls, eggs and everything we could lay our hands on. We were scurrying around our homes, frantically devising improvised exercise routines, not going out at all in case something very bad and debilitating happened to us and a hospital ward would become a long term second home for the time being. Then it started and none of us knew why.

Before any of us could blink we were thrown into a torturous round of self isolating and self isolation before somebody came up with the ultimate classic. In early March and the rest of April and May we had to master the arts of social distancing. Now where on earth had that one come from. It sounded like the kind of reference that might have been dreamt up by some very imaginative university lecturer or a sociology teacher at the end of the 1970s. Perhaps it was the brainchild of a forward thinking geography teacher with patches on his jacket. It did sound too posh and just a touch too stuffy.

Still, here we are in the first couple of days in July and another literary gem has thrust its way into our consciousness. In what way did the world become inextricably drawn into a lockdown. The world is in lockdown and who were we to argue the point? Lockdowns was more or less an apt summary for a world that had been immobilised, incarcerated in our own homes and shut out from society for the foreseeable future. But lockdown suggested that somebody had thrown away the keys and we had been left to our own devices, not really knowing who to turn to and what to do in a restricted and straitened world.

So what to make of lockdown, self isolation and social distancing? Do we simply have to accept the status quo, become conditioned to the new normal or do we challenge the Establishment, take to the streets in vociferous protest, demand another revision of the English language, make it up as we go along or do we privately laugh at those eccentric wordsmiths who love playing with grammar? Be sure that when the coronavirus does thankfully pass over we won't have to wrestle with another awkwardly uncomfortable news agenda. It may be wishful thinking.