Rugby union Welsh wing wizard JJ Williams dies

 Rugby union Welsh wing wizard JJ Williams dies.

Rugby union was always a game of red-blooded physicality and raw-boned masculinity. In more recent times rugby union has opened its doors invitingly to women and the game has been much the better for this major breakthrough. But when the rucks and scrums became particularly intense and committed, JJ Williams, the former Welsh wing wizard always emerged with ears that didn't resemble cauliflowers.

During the 1970s JJ Williams was one of the most consistent and industrious of players, a player who threw himself into the rough and tumble of the game with an unswerving dedication to duty and a passionately patriotic purpose that often left most neutral observers gasping with wonderment. When Wales were the noble monarchs of the game during this period, Williams name was often mentioned and eulogised over and over again rather like a favourite Welsh hymn.

His immensely talented contemporaries JPR Williams, Mervyn Davies, Phil Bennett and Gareth Davies were once famously involved in that glorious game against the New Zealand All Blacks in 1973. You must remember it surely. It was the match when Cliff Morgan a former hop-scotch rugby union exponent himself, screamed at the top of his voice as the BBC commentator on the day, waxing lyrical over the kind of dreamlike try international rugby union may never see again. 

It was sport at its most purest, classiest, flamboyant, ornate, perfect in its hand to eye co-ordination and breathtaking in its execution. It was rugby union at its most rhapsodic, a flowing, flinging, slinging, singing, dancing, joyous, complete try that was varnished and polished by some of the finest sporting hands you were ever likely to see. It passed through at least nine or ten sets of Barbarians hands, backwards and forwards, inside and outside, a unique work of art, rugby at its most instinctive. 

But JJ Williams was an essential cog in that irresistible Grand Slam side that the Welsh will always fondly ruminate over, savouring the man's very visible presence, a gentleman of the game, darting, weaving, spinning his web, dodging the flailing challenges, tucking the ball under that secure arm, carrying it for miles and miles until the opposition were now beaten and vanquished, breathing heavy winter air and puffing out his cheeks at full pelt.  

Sadly, the always melodious Welsh valleys will lower their heads today in mourning, eyes misting over with reverence and appreciation of their special hero. They will remember the way Williams would doggedly chase lost causes, running opponents ragged and then diving valiantly over the try line as if  Welsh rugby union would always remain in his heart even when defeat loomed large. 

Williams was a proud bearer of the Welsh red shirt, a lung-bursting athlete, a man with a ferocious roar and bark on the pitch when spirits were flagging. When Wales were romping away with innumerable Five Nations Internationals, Williams was always emotionally and spiritually involved in everything that the Welsh composed and fashioned from their box of tricks. 

In a world where nothing seems to make any sense at all, Williams could be easily understood. He was one of the chief architects and engineers behind those bows and ribbons Grand Slams. Williams was a truly outstanding sportsman, a fine, upstanding individual who always belonged in a red Welsh shirt. Rugby union will miss Williams deeply because he was one who mattered when Wales needed him most. Sport will lament one of its much loved characters, a man with an unmistakable love of the oval ball.  

Vaccine or no vaccine - that is the question why?

 Vaccine or no vaccine- that is the question why.

So let's get this one straight. The highly probable or miraculously improbable Covid 19 vaccine could be on its way depending on your degree of optimism. Now just how far have we come during the last seven months or so? Do we listen to the experts and medical aficionados or do we dismiss all the rumours and speculation with the proverbial pinch of salt? Will this emotional roller coaster ever come to an end or do we have to endure another round of intensive and ultra scientific discussion about something we have no control over, hoping against hope that by tomorrow morning it won't be there anymore. 

There has been so much guesswork and conjecture about the coronavirus for almost the whole of the year that some of us are almost conditioned to expect the worst. The trouble is that pessimism becomes so deeply ingrained in our souls that it's hard to get rid of it. Now though we're entering the realms of the truly bizarre although you may have found yourself thinking along the same lines in May or June.

We must have thought that a genuine corner had been turned when the pub saloon doors were flung open back in who knows when now. But then we discovered that even when the restaurants followed suit with their resumption of trade everything would be coming up roses and tickety boo. Then we were reliably informed that we could go back to the cinema to see our favourite movies and finally both the gyms and leisure centres would also be open for business again. How wrong and misled were we?

We were told that the numbers of Covid 19 fatalities were dramatically dwindling and that soon we could all renew acquaintance with humanity again. Yippee! Sadly we are back at the drawing board again stuck at square one and totally perplexed. Of course we'll get this disease and wipe it from existence shortly by next month at the latest - or perhaps next week, let's say next decade, even next year. It's a hard one to call. Some of us are making room for next Tuesday afternoon or just after the BBC 10 o'clock news tonight. It's time for a little honesty here. None of us know and it's probably just as well that we don't because the plot keeps thickening and the circle is increasingly dizzying. 

Yesterday at coronavirus headquarters the latest instalment told us nothing that we didn't know already. In fact it may have been a recorded version of the previous day's news agenda such was the repetitive nature of the headlines. We are still running our hand through our hair and every so often we're lifted from our seats with something that could be construed as much better news or the possibility of something good which is neither here or there. Still, we've got plenty of time and we're not going anywhere so when you're ready. 

There are so many conflicting reports that they may just well be completely contradictory and who cares about the gravity or severity of the virus because we already know how many people have been traumatically killed as a result of Covid 19. Every day the figures make for utterly distressing reading and the percentages are beginning to get on our nerves. We are now in second spike country and families are now living in different time zones. Some of us can no longer see their wonderfully elderly father in law or mum because the support bubble isn't the right one. And just when you thought bubbles were just those soapy washing up liquid manifestations that float in the air when your team West Ham play.

Today we learn about yet another vaccine in the pipeline. Now some of us have lost count of how many times we've heard about those whispers, those wildly woolly statements from the powers that be. On Sunday the Mail on Sunday newspaper headlined with the front page splash that a vaccine was close to the point of readiness by Christmas. For a moment you were tempted to hug your wonderful family, rush out into the street and show your gratitude to your local newsagent by insisting on a bottle of champagne and thanking them for just being there. 

Now we found that our stupendously knowledgeable laboratory scientists are beginning to see the first signs of a radical breakthrough. Slowly but surely the antibodies within human cells are beginning to sort themselves out. And not before time. These antibodies could play a crucial role in the long road to global recovery. Maybe just maybe somebody knows something that they can't reveal because it could be another false hope and we couldn't possibly take that for much longer.

Still though, we find ourselves up against those multi-tiered stages which sound like so much psychobabble and gibberish that you can hardly bring yourself to pay any attention. It occurs to us that we are now living in the age of made-up phraseology, explanations that sound as they've been influenced by too many science fiction magazines or medical brochures full of glossy looking molecular structures and photos of lovely looking hearts and kidneys. 

But we now have tier one followed by tier two and then tier three which fall into their appropriate categories and fit like a glove. Now what are we to make of tier one since none of us can really tell whether it's safe to tread there for fear of being treated as an unwelcome intrusion? On the other hand you could belong in the second tier in which case it may be time to wish you the best luck because tier one could be preferable and you simply don't know whether it may be the safer option. If you're in the tier three then that could be the best of a bad job or whatever may be the more suitable tier. 

Goodness me! What has become of the year? The human race has officially come to a grinding halt for roughly the tenth time so far. It saw red lights back in March and didn't see green again until the middle of July by which time we were talking about damage limitation. We are wading through another vat of treacle, traipsing through a mudbath that shows no signs of drying up at any time. 

And yet if you were to take heed of those in the know we could be on the verge of a brand new golden age, a glorious renaissance where the green fields of England will once again resound to a fanfare of trumpets and quaint market towns will be populated by jubilant Morris dancers skipping blithely around maypoles. Surely by New Year's Eve we'll all be well again, totally revitalised and pretending that 2020 was just a figment of our imagination, some weird hallucination that we thought we might have experienced and even if it did then we weren't really conscious of the passage of time anyway. 

Winter is here and November is almost upon us. We've had our flu jabs and ensured some kind of immunity but as the torrential rains sweep across the rain and the blustery winds howl and whistle against your living room windows, you simply can't ignore the turbulence within the medical profession. Some of the most remarkable doctors and surgeons are still wrestling with a lethal virus that just turned into a Biblical plague. We shall never ever forget this year because we may convince us that it will be unforgettable for al the wrong reasons. We must still hope for a happy, healthy 2021. Surely things will get better. Keep topping those cups of coffee and remain composed.     

National Greasy Foods Day.

 National Greasy Foods Day. 

This is not quite the day for greed, gluttony and unashamed feasting. But today is National Greasy Foods Day. Who knew? Or perhaps you did know but weren't prepared to let on. For the last seven months ago the very concept of junk food has become too appealing for words. This is not to suggest that we've spent the whole of this period denying ourselves the pleasures of the palate because our appetites may have been affected by the lack of eggs in our homes. Oh for the joys of eating greasy food. 

But come on folks. Today is the day to abandon ourselves shamelessly to those gastronomic goodies we think nothing of shoving into our mouth and just devour all of those things we shouldn't really be eating and yet now think of as the ultimate in comfort foods. So just for today perhaps let's gorge ourselves ravenously on fried chicken and chips in our local KFC and then move along swiftly to the world-famous McDonalds where those who may be in a hurry and desperately hungry after a hard day on the road can blithely avail ourselves of those cholesterol-friendly burgers dripping with enticing meaty flavours.

For well over 40 years now Britain and the world have partaken of the convenience food, the meal with guilty overtones written all over them, the meal that should never be consumed because you may be compromising your health by just eating them in unreasonable quantities. When Mcdonalds opened its first junk food restaurant during the 1970s none of us could have known the legendary influence they would have on our eating habits. 

And yet Mcdonalds would become the most instantly recognisable feature on all of our local high streets, a beacon of culinary excellence for kids and adults across the globe. And yet this is the day when we should forget about restriction, oppression and spartan living. Covid 19 has unwittingly instilled into the world a wartime rationing mentality although this may be considered a complete exaggeration. But greasy foods are those mouth-watering burgers, fish and chips, chunky sausages and barbecue foods that once dominated family gardens during the summer. 

It is though that greasy foods will always be synonymous with things that are supposed to be very naughty, bad and unhealthy for you. However none of us would ever think twice about wrapping our mouths around those juicy lamb steaks, the glorious spicy ribs and jacket potatoes oozing with tons of butter which our parents always told us were far too fattening. This though is the day for throwing caution to the wind, digging delightedly into the entire contents of cod or haddock and chips. 

Years ago of course chips were the guiltiest of pleasures, so bad and damaging for you that you felt sure government health warnings should have been issued. Chips, it has to be said, looked utterly repulsive, masses of stodgy lard that almost seemed inedible. You would look at the sizzling chipped potatoes and listen to the crackling bain marie as chips were flipped, scooped and flung into the air rather like a juggler in a circus.

Nowadays our tastes in food have become far more varied and sophisticated than they used to be. Now we eat Chinese and Indian suppers with customary relish. We chew our way gleefully through innumerable naan breads, poppadoms, chicken tikka, helping ourselves to addictive helpings of chicken chow mein, noodles, egg fried rice until we reach bursting point and our stomachs can no longer take any more. 

Across the world junk food has become convenience food, that natural point in the day when the work schedule becomes so unbearably hectic that very few of us can afford to whip up a roast or a nutritious meal consisting of meat, two veg and potatoes because time is such a precious commodity and besides it's almost time for bed anyway. 

So here we are on National Greasy Foods Day dreaming of the day when everything you should have reservations about eating is totally acceptable and who cares about the resulting pounds gained on our waistlines? Perhaps we should forget about the consequences and just tuck into a thousand cheese burgers, several bowls of flavoured crisps, vast boxes of deep crust pizzas and no holds barred on anything that could lead to severe indigestion and endless regrets. 

On reflection of course the very thought of greasy food does fill most of us with the most social conscience. What about those criminally neglected African countries where chronic starvation and malnutrition remain an appalling oversight? We lead our lives of privileged materialism and then look at the rest of the world with both horror and disgust. But then we shake our heads with utter bemusement and point accusing fingers at officialdom since they should be the ones to blame. 

How the rest of the world would give anything for a healthy, sit down meal with family and friends. And yet most of us can only look on helpless at this disgraceful obscenity. Of course we have no control over the distribution of food to any of those countries who continue to go without either food or drink but we do know that the governments of the world can affect change and this is the overriding problem. 

Still it's Sunday afternoon, the clocks have gone back an hour and in an hour or two it'll feel like midnight rather than tea time. So let's all hurry out to the local chippie, demand several chicken and mushroom pies, a dozen beef and onion pies, several kebabs, a mixed grill in your local Turkish restaurant and then gigantic helpings of chips, chips and more chips. It is, after all National Greasy Foods Day. We can't turn that one down.    

The last stop on the US election roadshow.

 The last stop on the US election roadshow. 

So there we are ladies and gentlemen. This is the last pitstop on the road to the White House. The numbers are being crunched frantically and it's anybody's to either lose or win. American political elections have always been highly charged, viciously confrontational contests, a bearpit of nasty personal attacks, vindictive name-calling and, it has to be said, humiliating, verbal punch ups where neither Republican or Democrat parties should be proud of their exploits.

In a matter of weeks or just under, the great American public will be required to go to the ballot box to vote for their next President of the United States and America has our utmost sympathy. This is not going to be an easy watch by any stretch of the imagination for both Donald Trump and Joe Biden are quite possibly the two weakest candidates poor America could ever come up with. In fact this is more or less an identical re-run of the last American election when the corrupt and very naive businessman who once appeared alongside a group of people dressed up as chickens, asked his country whether they could take him seriously or not. You should never underestimate though the Trump feelgood factor. 

For the last four or years ago Trump has acted out the kind of ludicrous charade of remaining in complete control of America. The preposterous promises, grammatical absurdities, the vain, narcissistic poses, the somewhat foolish posturing and self-indulgence have all been on display for as long as anybody can remember. The words and ill-conceived sentences have been enough to make us all fall off our chairs with paroxysms of laughter. But Trump has been doing his utmost to convince everybody that he's the man for the job. 

Firstly Trump gave us those potty and irrational sounding guarantees that he was going to build a wall to keep him well away from intruding Mexicans who were simply not welcome in America. Then he warned whoever was prepared to listen to him that Mexico would have to pay for that wall. For some time now Trump has been raving and ranting, shouting and threatening, ducking and diving, scheming and plotting almost incessantly without any real understanding of what may be falling out of his mouth. 

In the run-up to the election Trump has been going to head to head with his opponent  Joe Biden a man who, if truth to be told, looks as if he should be contemplating a well-deserved retirement. But Trump is relentless, a well-oiled campaigning machine, pushing his feet firmly on the accelerator and driving purposefully towards the finishing line as if he knows what might be coming. The vast majority of Americans, you sense, will probably breathe a huge sigh of relief when the new President is finally confirmed. 

Last night Trump and Biden were re-fuelling on the last stop of their very own political roadshow. They stood at their lecterns, microphones on at full blast and then fired all manner of verbal grenades at each other. To be fair to both men this wasn't the bloodbath it might have been and the gloves were kept on to some extent but at times you could almost smell the hostility. They exchanged glances at each other, civilised this time but then desperate to land the knockout blow when the other wasn't looking. 

Trump went over much the same ground as he'd trodden on at previous occasions. Trump it seems, may be becoming quite predictable in his powder puff platitudes. You may be able to anticipate his next publicity stunt with some degree of certainty. Trump told the nation that the young and next generation have never had a better opportunity to seize the day and make the most of those idyllic years in front of them. He reassured us that America will always be the Land of the Free, never be daunted by any challenge and would lead the world in technology, sport, art, architecture but not chicken impressions. 

So here's the deal. In all probability, Trump will emerge on the morning of the election as a re-elected President of the United States. We can't be sure at the moment but although Trump is falling behind in the popularity stakes, the charisma and blow wave hair are still intact. Across America the movers and shakers, the highly influential men and women behind the scenes are shifting the counters and trying to add everything up. 

But this is a man who quite obviously believes that conspiracy theories will just send him packing his suitcases and back into the land of nowhere. Trump, it seems certain, will be busting a gut to prove everybody wrong, a man whose well-entrenched persecution complex may just overwhelm him. If he does lose out to Biden- and that could happen- then Trump will blame everything and anything that moves. 

Trump will blame Fox, CBS, CNN, Sky TV and any media outlet who so much as suggests that he is plainly incompetent, stupid and a blundering idiot who should be sent as far away from the White House as it's possible to be. He will hold out those expressive fingers, opening and shutting the palms of his hands before pointing and gesticulating for the umpteenth time. Both men will once again take up that very distinctive side on delivery, opening out the whole of their torsos to an audience who will either be fast asleep or just hoping that they'll just finish what they've got to say and go home.

And yet last night was indeed the final showdown, the last hurrah, the curtain-raiser to that big night when the fireworks will be released. In retrospect Hilary Clinton, Trump's last adversary, must be privately thrilled that she doesn't have to face any more of the music when it matters most. We are approaching the final mile and they're still glaring ominously at each other. Trump, it goes without saying, has got this one all wrapped up and Biden will be history. This could go to the wire but Donald Trump would never appreciate anymore chicken jokes. Let the battle commence.    

Halloween and Guy Fawkes night on the horizon.

 Halloween and Guy Fawkes night on the horizon. 

So here we are rapidly approaching the end of October and it often feels as if the year has just passed us by in a whirlwind of broken hearts and lives abruptly ended by a global pandemic that has now taken us to the twilight zone of the year. The winter solstice is now sending a cold and icy shiver down the spines of millions and millions of people around the world and none of us can figure this one out.  

In a couple of weeks time families and children will be gathering their piles of branches and anything they can find that is remotely combustible, a night that will always be associated with that famous old arsonist Guy Fawkes. You remember him surely. He was the one who threatened to blow up the Houses of Parliament all those hundreds and hundreds of years ago. That he failed miserably probably says more about the man himself than any premeditated plot to get rid of the occupants who shout, holler, hector and harangue until many of them finally develop a sore throat. Fawkes was a dangerous loose cannon and maybe his opinion of mainstream politicians is one widely reflected by many of us. But then perhaps we'd stop short of blowing up Westminster. That would be going too far and just unacceptable. 

Before then of course the end of the month brings us Halloween,one of those mysterious days in the year when huge groups of kids run around the streets in a wide variety of comical outfits trying their utmost to scare the whole of your neighbourhood with repeated requests for either money, sweets or any other thought that happens to enter their minds at the time. It happens every year and has done for as long as any of us can remember. But Covid 19 has dominated the year's news agenda and Halloween may be cancelled.

It's all very well for young children to sit on street corners pleading for a Penny for the Guy with some weird looking stuffed puppet. But this year more than most reminds you of those destitute young chimney sweeps who would do anything to earn a crown or two during the Victorian era. True, we are not quite in Dickensian territory but you sense that this year may not be the one for children to loiter in dark doorways and asking for more from sir. 

You are taken back to your youth when the organised fireworks display at Valentines Park in Ilford, Essex was something to be savoured and remembered for quite a while. You can recall traipsing through acres of thick mud on Melbourne Fields and questioning your sanity. Who on earth would want to come out on a bitterly cold November night on a Saturday night when the dogs and cats were chattering their teeth and petrified? Far better to stay inside in the toasty warmth of our living room.  

You can still see those peeling green railings next to the park, the lengthening and excited queues, becoming aware of the breathless anticipation, children rubbing gloves together as if frost-bite were somehow imminent. Then some of the more daring of kids would sneak their way mischievously past the other kids, squeezing under a forest of legs and then overcoming all the odds by crawling through the tightest of gaps and into the park itself. 

Guy Fawkes always felt like a survival of the fittest, a demanding assault course that eventually ended in success but seemed like too much hard work. So you ran across the mudbath that was Melbourne Fields, racing like crazy to get to the ever colourful mini fun fair, light bulbs in varying shades of orange and yellow, beckoning you into that tempting world of much-coveted goldfish or just a thrilling ride on the dodgems. 

And yet by way of a supporting act to the main event there was a film to feast your eyes upon. In the distance there was a cinema projector screen which looked so out of place that you had to blink your eyes just to make sure that you weren't imagining it. Suddenly you were subjected to the entire repertoire of Disney characters, flickering across your peripheral vision and then becoming much more vivid if you happened to be near the front of the screen. 

There was the inevitable Mickey Mouse accompanied by Donald Duck, Pluto and those lovably childish titans of the silver screen entertaining families from all over the neighbourhood, kids whose imaginations had been captured and seized by something they thought they'd see in a much warmer environment than the one they were about to see now. 

So there we were, battered by pouring rain, shoes caked by mountains of mud, freezing cold biting deeply into our fingernails and wishing we could be anywhere but a treacherous playing field when there had to be other distractions. For this should be an evening for spending cosy nights drinking hot toddies, hot bowls of steaming tomato soup with heavenly hot jacket potatoes. True the kids love Fireworks night because once again they can scream with delight and incredulity at those deafening bangers and Catherine wheels, the sparklers that whizz around for what seem like the best part of a week or so. 

But the problem we have with this year's Guy Fawkes celebrations is that those organised firework extravaganzas are off this year. Besides how morale boosting would something like a carnival of light and sound be when it could have been so different. Sadly there are no fireworks with friends and families because there are bound to be more than six members of the family and you'll have to wait another year. Patience is a virtue. It almost seems though absurd that here we are acknowledging one of the most explosive nights of the year only for that evening to be overshadowed by the most dramatic year of our lives. 

There is an air of stunned disbelief once again about the year but when one of those timeless traditions has now been sabotaged by a savage and brutal global pandemic that has rippled then ripped through the planet like a sharp pair of scissors cutting through every page of a thick writing pad. We might have been looking forward to those whoops of joy when a rocket of fire soared majestically into the heavens, climbing higher and higher before fizzling out in much the way it always has.

 Still, we could always try again next year when that celebrated pyrotechnical wizard who almost destroyed that equally as well known seat of democracy will be spoken of again. Boris Johnson for one may be looking forward to November 5. We could probably do with some fireworks on those green House of Commons benches. It's been a long time now but perhaps the further away they keep from us the better it'll be for all of us. Mind you some of us still miss Dennis Skinner. Now there was a firecracker if ever there was one. 

Covid 19 hits Liverpool but the Mersey ferry sails on.

 Covid 19 hits Liverpool but the Mersey ferry sails on. 

Covid 19 is still spreading its dangerous tentacles far and wide over hill, valley and moor. On Merseyside the mists of its autumnal splendour are drifting towards the murky docks and life is hard, unbearable at times but then the fine, upstanding folks of this now legendary city still hope that one day that their patience will be rewarded and football will become the melodious leitmotif, the signature tune for both Liverpool and Everton's grandest attacking symphonies. 

You can throw anything at Liverpool and Everton but you'll never dampen their unflagging spirits and throbbing passions. For the first time in seemingly ages both Everton, now top of the Premier League and Liverpool, clinging onto their derby neighbours in second, are the major pacesetters in the embryonic stages of a brand new Premier League season. This is rapidly turning into one of the most remarkably hig- scoring starts to any football season. 

But yesterday it almost as if the whole of Liverpool had been submerged by the most depressing gloom ever to fall over any thriving English city. The coronavirus has now sunk its teeth into every conceivable area of our lives and Liverpool was poorly, woebegone, sick and trying to keep the proverbial stiff upper lip in the face of adversity. Wherever you looked there were all manner of masks, face coverings, day- trippers and residents rationalising something that couldn't be understood and then burying their head in their hands.

Over at Goodison Park Everton and Liverpool were playing their 100 something derby on a stage that was stripped and naked, a ground both solemn and sombre. There was not a soul in sight, none of those fanatical reds and blues lobbing hostile and, occasionally good-natured barbs at each other. For well over a century the footballing parishioners and feverish zealots of Liverpool and Everton have congregated, swayed and tumbled down the terraces of either Goodison or Anfield in that traditional footballing rendezous where waspish Scouse humour has often joined forces with memorable chants. 

A fortnight ago Liverpool were quite amazingly steamrollered by Aston Villa at Villa Park in a 7-2 defeat that bore no relation to anything that had preceded the club since the end of their last Premier League winning season and the start of the new season. To say it was a shock would be the most gross understatement of all time. How on earth had a delightful trophy-winning club reached such rock bottom and in such mind-boggling circumstances? Had Liverpool forgotten where they were, losing their bearings completely perhaps. For there can be no other plausible explanation for such a cataclysmic defensive collapse.

But when Sadio Mane gave Liverpool the lead it seemed as if the capitulation at Villa Park was merely a temporary blip, a crazy indiscretion that would never be allowed to happen ever again. Then the young and thrusting England upstart Dominic Calvert Lewin levelled for Everton and Goodison remembered the heroic deeds of Howard Kendall, Alan Ball and Colin Harvey during the 1970s, the smooth and streamlined trio of Kevin Sheedy, Paul Bracewell and the tigerish Peter Reid a decade later before entertaining ambitious hopes of winning the Premier League for the first time in the 21st century. 

Under Carlo Ancelotti, Everton have one of the shrewdest and coolest of managers, a man whose body language betrays nothing and gives the overriding impression that Italy have lost a World Cup Final rather than leading his latest club to a bells and whistles Premier League trophy. Ancelott is now a wise managerial veteran who has probably seen it all and that phlegmatic, grumpy face seems destined to remain that way regardless of who he may be managing. 

At Chelsea Ancelotti almost went to the top of the hill and won the Premier League but then discovered a seemingly arrogant Portuguese named Jose Mourinho who was convinced he could go one step further. History now tells us that Mourinho had perhaps a couple of tricks under the sleeve and although Ancelott was a brilliant strategist, the resources available to Mourinho were far greater once the Russian oligarch Roman Abramovich had got hold of the club.

Now though Ancelotti has got a new toy to play with and these are encouraging times for Everton. In this hard and challenging year for the world, Ancelotti may not be the man to leave us laughing in the aisles but he does know how to fashion and mould a team going nowhere. Everton have merely started the season promisingly but the crackling and crunching leaves of autumn have just settled, the peaty bogs of the countryside are now drenched with the fragrance of a new season and the log fires of winter are but a heart-beat away. 

In the middle of it all Everton have reaped a bumper harvest of early-season victories and top the Premier League deservedly. For ages they have endured that looming inferiority complex that their Merseyside rivals have taken a sadistic pleasure in all so frequently. Last season Everton must have been consumed with jealousy at the comings and goings at Anfield and when Liverpool finally rubber-stamped their thumping superiority over the blue half in August with a 25 point lead that just bordered on humiliation, Everton must have thought that things could never get any worse. 

But here we are into the second month of the new season in October and Everton have their noses in front in what still seems like some incredible figment of our imagination. We must hope that sooner or later the fans who are very much the lifeblood and raison d'etre for football's welfare, will finally be welcomed back rather like those demob happy Second World War soldiers running into their arms of their loved ones after a punishing train journey. 

The traditionalists among us are still at a loss since some of us need to be told that eight'o'clock kick offs on Saturday evenings are just some daft experiment rather than, quite literally, a permanent fixture. It does seem that the fixture planners are simply frustrated, music hall comedians rather than those with a passionate interest in football. Maybe football has taken leave of its senses. Saturday night used to be the perfect opportunity for all footballers to sample a tantalising glimpse of night-life but now they may be required to trip the light fantastic on a Premier League stage. Still, another eight months of combat, drama and excitement stretch ahead and the fans may have been a secondary consideration anyway. Let the goal glut continue.      

It's Friday folks and still no sign of an end to Coronavirus.

 It's Friday folks and still no sign of an end to Coronavirus.

You'd have thought we'd be turning a corner but if anything there is nothing but deterioration, more hardship, much more struggling, head-scratching, fury, exasperation and no really clear indication as to when and how long this can possibly go on for. Since the beginning of Covid 19 we've arrived at so many false dawns and grim prognostications that you begin to wonder what Nostrodamus would have made of the current state of affairs. 

At this rate we may well have forgotten which year we're in, what time it is and when our next family visit is likely to be. Because yesterday we were given another bombshell as if we haven't received enough of them for the last six months. We are now adopting a genuine, wartime mentality where you feel sure air raid wardens will be employed late at night and the wailing sirens will become the predominant sound of the times. 

Yesterday, Boris Johnson, the Prime Minister barked out the ultimate warning. London should prepare for a long, hard winter but there will be no fighting on any Churchillian beach or landing grounds because we haven't got the appropriate ammunition to hit back against the hidden enemy. For hidden enemy is pretty much what the coronavirus is. Nobody can touch it, feel it or smell it. It's a rampant disease and virus that George Orwell would probably have given us ample warning about.

Tomorrow, London, the South East and the Midlands will be declared a lockdown zone yet again. Oh no surely not. This has gone too far. Our tolerance threshold has been tested to the limit and we may be tempted to storm the barricades which may not be the wisest course of action. But what on earth is going on here? We're told to be on our guard because the virus is still out there but this time London, the capital city, has once again fallen victim to the dreaded disease, the disease that can kill quite mercilessly if let loose in the wrong catchment area. 

Once again Saturday night will not be the night to party, to let ourselves go, abandoning ourselves to wild drinking, carousing and cavorting, singing around pub pianos, kicking up our feet and doing the Conga around the back streets of suburbia as if we all have a divine right to enjoy ourselves. But no, the West End of London will once again be haunted by ghosts and apparitions in dark alleyways and probably the heart of theatreland in Shaftesbury Avenue where the showbusiness fraternity used to tread the boards.

Now though the closed and shut signs are still as disturbingly prominent as ever. Those darling, venerable old theatres which date back endearingly to the middle of the Victorian era, are now just handsome buildings that look tired, fed up and maybe disillusioned. For the last six months not a single penny has passed through the box office coffers and we are constantly reminded of the gravity of their plight. If this goes on for much longer, Drury Lane, the London Palladium, the Strand and many others may have to close for good. 

We knew this would happen because the lack of any kind of financial support had to take its toll. The theatrical community was bound to take a painful hit if only because the public pay for their tickets and the collateral damage was somehow inevitable. Take away the public with no audience and those spectacular musicals have now been reduced to busker status where a plucky guitarist sits in a railway station trying desperately to earn a crust. So where do we go from here?. 

This is clearly beyond a joke. Tomorrow evening nobody will be allowed to visit their brothers, sisters, cousins, aunties, uncles, family and friends because we simply can't and that's a bitter pill to swallow. So forget about those dinner parties, cheese and wine assemblies, coffee and cake for a dozen or more since it's out of the question, strictly forbidden. You must not cross the line, flood the pavements of London, line up outside clubs because the management will have one or two words if you do so and besides those clubs are just boarded up and very solitary structures, crying and weeping privately you suspect.

There is definitely an air of victimisation in dear old Britain and now London. What, they may understandably think, have they done to deserve this? It's not even as if the human race has done anything wrong although perhaps we have and nobody told us. We go about our daily lives, keep our noses clean, never step out of line, always look at our best and generally conduct ourselves in a respectable fashion. 

What really does baffle us is the insistence of this coronavirus, its blatant disregard for human feelings and, above all, its never- ending longevity. You feel sure that Covid 19 may be seeking a place in the Guinness Book of Records. At first we thought this was just some brief flu epidemic that, if we all took some Paracetemol, would disappear in a couple of days. Then we discovered that it was much more ominous and then self evidently deadly on a now pandemic scale. 

So tomorrow night you'll have to forsake that birthday party at Uncle Jim or that family get together at Cousin Neil because the laws have been imposed and you're staying at home. Do you hear? This is not the time for feasting, culinary noshing or dancing rhythmically across the floor in front of the vol au vents and the multi-flavoured crisps. It's Saturday night and you must not under any circumstances, have fun. You must obey those stifling strictures because if you don't do as you're told the local police will be paying swift visits to your home and slapping punitive fines on your property. Just be prepared. 

There can be no room for levity or merriment, sharing ancient jokes or sharing jovial observations about Donald Trump's hair or accordion impressions. So folks if you happen to be in the West End of London or anywhere where there may be signs of life and activity now is the time for pulling up the drawbridge. Get back inside that home and don't come out until you're told that the coast is clear. It's lockdown time again folks. This is not a severe punishment but although we are on the verge of another weekend, that doesn't mean you can go gallivanting about the streets with beer bottles in your hand and behaving disgracefully. Sadly Covid 19 isn't going anywhere soon so just be good to each other and stay safe. And just keep calm.