Scotland qualify for Euro 2020- or should that be 2021 and memories of Scotland past.

 Scotland qualify for Euro 2020 - or should that be 2021 and the memories of Scotland past. 

Scottish football will rarely have seen a night like it. They will look back over the years, searching forlornly perhaps for any one event throughout their chequered history where it all came right on the night and then cry profusely into their Tartan beers and whiskies. It'll come as no great surprise then that they have finally cracked the code, qualifying impressively for next years European Championship to be spread all over Europe this time for the first time ever.

Trust the Scots to confound the odds when the odds are heavily stacked against them. They always seem to come up smelling of roses though when nobody gives them a prayer. It seems to be in their DNA. It is now 22 years since Scotland last reached a major tournament and the embarrassment still lingers. No nation has a divine right to either reach either a World Cup or European Championship but for Scotland, gallows humour always seemed appropriate. Nobody though should begrudge them their moment of glory. 

When you think of Scottish football though the mind always travels back to those horrendous World Cups from years gone by. You think of the crumpled face of poor Ally Macleod whose Scotland team arrived in Argentina in 1978 on a tide of delusion and totally misplaced, wild-eyed and wacky optimism. According to Macleod, Scotland would shake them up when they won the World Cup because Scotland were the greatest football team of all time and that's official. But then things didn't go according to plan. 

So the image of Macleod on the pampas of Argentina remains like a dark stain. Gazing despairingly out onto the pitch against both Iran and Peru in the group qualifying stages, Macleod looked like a broken man, tortured by the sudden realisation that Scotland were not renowned world beaters and that the likes of Brazil, Argentina, Holland and West Germany were still technically superior to them by several country miles.  

And yet Scotland have done it again. Their 2-1 victory over Serbia sparked unbridled rejoicing in the Highlands and Grampians, a huge outpouring of utter relief and that indomitable fighting spirit that could never have been questioned. It is easy to think of the battles of Culloden and Bannockburn when mention is made of any Scottish conflict but here again the Scots took to facing up to a seemingly insurmountable challenge, hurdled it with some ease and wondered what all the fuss was about. They could have done this one in their sleep with blindfolds on. 

But then you remember the likes of Willy Ormond at the 1974 World Cup Finals in West Germany and the grave features of Ally Macleod four years later and there you have the personification of Scottish football. When Scotland got to the World Cup Finals in 1974, the nation was regarded as just another addition to the numbers that had already qualified. Sadly expectation would give way to mediocrity. The tartan hordes who would faithfully followed their team come rain or shine would drown their sorrows in the local bodegas of Buenos Aires. 

In their qualifying group Scotland opened their first World Cup since 1958 with a laborious 2-0 victory over Zaire and fared no better against Yugoslavia who at least could boast some kind of playing pedigree on the international circuit. Then the Scots came up against the mighty, all-conquering Brazil, who had won the World Cup several times before with the kind of flair and sophistication that Scotland could only have dreamt about. Then Zaire were demolished by Yugoslavia 9-0 while Brazil were more lenient with the African side in a 3-0 victory. But Scotland were on their way home from West Germany and the fairy tale fantasy was over. 

However, the memories could never be buried and when Archie Gemmill danced through a hapless Dutch defence with his imitation of a slalom skier, weaving and tricking his way through an orange wall of shirts. Sadly the two goal margin which would have ensured qualification for Scotland from the group stage was never completed. Holland's classy playmaker Ruud Krol drove an unstoppable shot from outside the Scots penalty area into the roof of the net for the Dutch second goal. Thus was the fate of Scotland sealed and from that point onwards the Scots were condemned to a place in football's Arctic wastes. 

There was the famous afternoon when Scotland, determined to gain some kind of revenge for their Auld Enemy's glorious World Cup winning victory the year before, came to Wembley and secured the sweetest of 3-2 victories. Who would ever forget the vengeful 'Wee Jimmy Johnstone' jinking, jiving, and skipping past the English defence as if they were somehow invisible? There were the midfield schemers and lock pickers Tommy Gemmell and Bobby Murdoch carving open gaping holes and supplying the necessary service and ammunition for their colleagues. There was the blossoming Denis Law of Manchester United who could hardly believe his luck when George Cohen and Bobby Moore decided to have the day off, a bad day in the English office. 

And who could ever have imagined the chaos and pandemonium that would ensue during the now notorious 1977 Home International tournament? For what must have seemed like years of pent-up frustration, thousands and thousands of Scottish supporters descended on Wembley, intent on destruction of the old stadium. That they succeeded so triumphantly probably says more about the hostility that existed between England and Scotland fans at the time. 

The images of Scottish fans disguised as thuggish hooligans will live on for as international football is played. Crossbars were sat upon and snapped in half with the posts and nets following suit. The green Wembley turf was ripped up cruelly and savagely by fans who allegedly believed they were. The future of the England and Scotland fixture was threatened albeit briefly but then calm was restored.  Until the early 1980s Scotland would continue to throw good-natured insults and oaths at their English counterparts. 

But we must express our congratulations to our friends from beyond Hadrian's Wall, our brothers and sisters in arms over the border. Scotland will always be friendly, welcoming, tolerably opinionated when the mood takes them and just prepared to buy you a strong tot of whisky if you were willing to reciprocate the gesture. We'll always smile at your effusive Hogmany celebrations when ladies and gentlemen hop in between swords in rich tartan skirts. 

Above all we love Scotland is a country of decorative, heather clad hills, imposing mountains and romantic liaisons at Gretna Green when couples tie the marital knot in a ceremony heavily steeped in tradition. It is a country that rightly celebrates the poet Rabbie Burns every Burns day, eats gallons of porridge for breakfast and then produces iconic sporting heroes such as Jackie Stewart from the world of motor racing, Bernard Gallacher from golf's fairways and more recently Sir Andy Murray who has now collected two Wimbledon's men singles titles with some panache and the most sublime tennis Britain has ever seen.

So Scotland we can never thankyou enough. There will of course never be any love lost between England and Scotland and although both crave absolute independence from each other, you'll always be in our good books. You can still hold your caber tossing tournaments during British summers quite unashamedly and Balmoral will always remain a royally commanding castle. So here's a toast to Scotland, the Scotland football team our friends north of the border. Three cheers to Scotland the brave. 

  

England beat the Republic of Ireland in strolling friendly.

 England beat the Republic of Ireland in strolling friendly.

After one of the most challenging weeks for English football the national team rid itself of repellent smells, strolling and almost trotting at times across the hallowed acres of Wembley Stadium rather like a family on a picnic who simply want to engage in some gentle exercise across the rich pastures of the English countryside. At times you were never quite sure what to make of this friendly because it did  live up to its pre-match billing with both England and Republic of Ireland shaking hands with each other politely and that was very much that. 

For almost the entire match, England and the Republic of Ireland gave us the most sedate exhibition of football you were ever likely to see. In fact so laid back and relaxed were both teams that you felt compelled to admire the civility and decorum displayed by two teams who didn't seem to be particularly bothered who had won. Suffice it to say that at the end small knots of men wearing yet another set of masks walked over to each other and just acknowledged each other's existence. It was almost an exercise in mutual appreciation and there was a sense that both were just happy to share each other's company. 

The English have always been apologetic and remorseful when it looks as though they may have done something terribly wrong. But on a mild Thursday evening at Wembley England did bulldoze through a very limp and submissive Eire defence and the Irish had more or less accepted their fate after an hour. England were knocking the ball around the central areas of the pitch with such a studied nonchalance and casual freedom that you almost felt deeply sorry for the Irish. 

But this was quite clearly a practice match, a leisurely knock about, coats for goalposts, meaningless, flat as a pancake, flaccid international friendly that bore as much relevance as an after-work, leisurely five a side contest where the best team did win and little damage was done when the final whistle went. England will now face their two UEFA Nations League contests with both Belgium and then Iceland with some degree of confidence but acutely aware that this was no litmus test of their current form. 

After their demolition of Wales in their first friendly of the season, England went about their business in much the way the aristocracy used to sip their tea and play croquet when the mood took them. The ball itself seemed to spend most of its time being carefully tapped around with mathematical precision, passes neatly executed and cohesive attacking movements that were a joy to behold. 

Many years ago Brian Clough said that football was designed to be played on grass rather than in the air and here was a classic demonstration of Clough's philosophy. At long last British football has come to its senses, finally recognising that the technical, short passing game is far preferable to the old-fashioned long ball wallop where no end product is forthcoming. England have finally discovered that the ball is no longer an impostor, not some frightening wartime bomb that may suddenly go off quite unexpectedly. 

It is no coincidence that current England manager Gareth Southgate has come to England's salvation, a man wedded to the loftier ideals propagated by the likes of Germany, France and Brazil many years ago. Southgate has introduced his players to a game where trust with the ball in possession has now taken precedence to desperate measures. England may have just missed out in a World Cup semi-final where opponents Croatia simply outclassed them in Russia two years ago but they are not moping. 

Wearing a grey cardigan and a dapper shirt and tie, Southgate reminded you of a bank clerk rigorously checking the day's finances with a shrewd and prudent eye. The memory of that penalty miss which cost Terry Venables England entertainers in a Euro 96 semi-final against Germany may still haunt him but Southgate has now grabbed hold of the baton and taken England into a comfortable environment where the air is pure, the future is potentially bright and successful and another chapter is about to be read. 

Last night England spent long periods, establishing a natural bond and intimate relationship with the ball, hogging possession, pondering, dwelling, thinking ahead rather than being drawn into some predictably irrational mindset where the ball is completely overlooked and the game just peters out into some futile anti-climax. England passed with a careful consideration of every possibility and there seemed to be an almost forensic analysis of what could happen in the bigger picture. England were models of accuracy, architects of their destiny rather than being dependent on statistics and percentages. The ball is a close acquaintance rather than something evil and anathema. 

England manager Gareth Southgate is now revelling in the good fortune of possessing a team who can adopt variations on a theme that are truly considered classical. Last night it looked as if the whole England team had been snatched from a nursery. There were so many young faces on view that you'd have been forgiven for thinking that every player had just finished a hectic game in the school playground. There is much to be said for nurturing, rearing and blooding the kids but this was a very youthful third year production as important exams are about to be taken.

England captain Harry Maguire, who has just endured one of the most troubled periods of his nascent career, spent the whole of the match with the face like thunder, a permanent scowl that led you to believe that the world had caved in on him and nobody would ever befriend him again. Maguire was a constant nuisance and torment to Eire with headers at corners that narrowly missed the target. There was the demanding perfectionist about the Manchester United defender that is singularly commendable. 

But the base of England's defence could well be their strongest suit. Both Michael Keane, Maguire, Tyrone Mings and Reece James were alert, dependable, always prepared to gamble by venturing forward into the opposition's territory and sure of their bearings. In midfield Spurs Harry Winks, Chelsea's Mason Mount, Jadon Sancho and the magnificent Jack Grealish were in perfect tandem, sewing their passes together as if they'd known each other for a lifetime. 

Here the Aston Villa midfield playmaker Jack Grealish served notice of a magical and mercurial talent, a player of extraordinary ball playing gifts, treating the ball as if it had been his closest friend. Grealish is clever, intuitive, a player of vision and awareness, always making the game look both easy and logical. At the moment Grealish can do no wrong running his opponents ragged at every opportunity, tricking, teasing and leading everybody a merry dance. For the time being there is nothing of the Paul Gascoigne about Grealish since dentists chairs and general clowning around are not part of the Aston Villa's man private life. 

It took no time at all before England eventually broke down the Irish defence. A swift and incisive blur of passes across the Wembley pitch found Harry Winks whose nicely weighted cross from a corner landed perfectly onto the head of Everton's Dominic Calvert Lewin and his glancing header was nodded powerfully into the net for England's opening goal. 

From that point onwards England never looked back and there was a complete subsidence in the Republic of Ireland's defensive ranks. It was easy why Eire have only ever beaten England twice in competitive games. Of course the Irish will always have the European Championship in 1988 when Ray Houghton headed home their winner and the much loved Jack Charlton just couldn't stop grinning. They did boast a Brady in their team last night but this was certainly not the cultured Liam of Arsenal renown.

And so it was England took the initiative and established a tight grip, their passing between the lines sending their opponents into a drunken stupor and then imposing complete control. Reece James was now scampering down the flanks with a vigour and vivacity that always took the eye. Mason Mount had the most educated feet on the pitch while Harry Winks was composure itself. Winks drops deep into a defensive attacking midfielder, a model of stability and reassurance, moving the ball easily to colleagues around him. His Spurs predecessor Glen Hoddle can only look on from a distance with a heartfelt admiration. 

In a matter of no time England added to their tally with a richly deserved goal. By now Calvert Lewin was dragging his marker all over Wembley, Grealish was a cunning, conniving nuisance, floating and fluttering around in the middle of the park with that unpredictable spark of magic while Winks and Mount were masterful ball manipulators. 

From another bewitching sequence of quick passes Jadon Sancho, a livewire who the Irish simply couldn't handle, cut inside his defender, assessed his options before deciding to drill a fierce shot low past Darren Randolph. Now the white shirts of Eire disintegrated and never looked like surfacing again. The hammer and bludgeon had been brought down and England were heading for an almost regulation victory over opposition essentially close to home. 

In the second half England relaxed into an easy going tempo that never threatened a cricket score. The football still had its pleasant simplicity about it, a slow, slow, quick quick staccato beat that was effortlessly rhythmical but no longer harmful in its intent. Half-way through the second half England put Eire out of their misery. The Arsenal full back Bukayo Saka, after several gallops on the full-back overlap and then surging thrillingly past his defender and then forcing a trip in the penalty area. Calvert Lewin confidently thumped home the penalty into the middle of the net and England's work was over for the evening.

As the players trooped off at the end you were reminded of the two-minute silence that fell over London last Sunday when fallen and dead soldiers from both World Wars at the beginning of the last century were remembered poignantly and dearly. A football match could never be described as a murderous and tragic conflict but when the final whistle went once again last night, there was a painful sense of loss and sadness that had no redeeming features. The crowd noises did their utmost by way of compensation but this felt like an altogether different product.            

It's good news day- the moment we've all been waiting for.

 It's good news day- the moment we've all been waiting for. 

How we've longed for this day. It's been long overdue but all good things come to those who wait. Or maybe that's a cliche well past its sell-by date. We've been gnashing our teeth, biting our fingernails, frequently incensed and at the end of our tether. How much more could we take? We were inclined to think that this was beyond a joke but the truth is that they've found a vaccine for the coronavirus. Now there's a sentence we never thought we'd ever utter - certainly not this year. This has been one of those painfully agonising dramas that looked destined to end in more floods of tears, grieving and mourning and aching exasperation. 

For a minute or two we thought it was one of those late Saturday tea-time radio announcements designed to buck up Britain in its lowest mood of gloom and doom. We thought they were just mucking around, creating havoc with our emotions, stumbling around in the dark looking for lights and candles in the gathering winter darkness. But then there was the delightful realisation that perhaps it was for real, that they had made a revolutionary medical breakthrough and we might, just might be on the verge of something spectacularly brilliant. 

Now before we get completely carried away on the crest of some dreamscape scenario where the whole world does the Hokey Cokey and dances around the Trafalgar Square fountains in perfect formation, this could be the time to err on the side of caution. The last seven months have been horrendous for those who just want to do the kind of things that they'd grown accustomed to. Our lives have been turned upside down and inside out by Covid 19 but within hours a vaccine for the virus could be around the corner. 

Britain has always remained rightly cynical about anything that feels as though it might be good news. It is our default position. If it's too good to be true then it probably isn't right. Besides, it took us the best part of three years to accept that Brexit was indeed a genuine work in progress that could only yield a positive result. There was a wonderful sense of vindication when they told us that we were leaving the European Union. We did tell you and how correct were we?

But a deadly virus was an altogether different set of blood cells and bacteria. When Covid 19 first struck back in March some of us thought it was just a fleeting visit from the wintry bug that used to be flu. We shrugged our shoulders dismissively, expressed surprise that a minor ailment that had struck down a couple of people on a cruise ship would just vanish overnight never to return again. Oh no it hadn't and it didn't. 

Here we right at the end of the year in November and finally the research scientists have cracked one of the great imponderables of the year. The vaccine could be on our doorstep within a couple of weeks or months even. But is it the definitive vaccine we're perfectly at liberty to ask about. We've been down this road before and it's full of potholes. In fact it's heavily populated with red and white cones but that's another story. There is though something in the air that's both bracing and invigorating. And no it's not the delicious smell of fish and chips from a British seaside resort.

What we have here is Pfizer@BioTech, the wonder drug that could save the universe overnight. They've poured chemicals into a myriad test tubes, carried out rigorous checks and more checks and hey presto. Houston we have ignition. Let's get this one on the road folks. It could be that elusive formula, the ultimate antidote, the perfect combination, the one we've all been searching for. Just in time for Christmas and Chanukah this is the present that we've all been looking forward to receive. 

And yet there remains that nagging suspicion, a lingering doubt, more negativity and another round of despondency. Vaccines are supposed to take years and years to become a remote possibility so you can forget about a cure because that could take centuries. Certainly this is an exaggeration but this is understandable. Still, we can keep dreaming because dreamers are visionaries and that has to be a good thing.

However here we are on the brink of something truly exciting. After all of that spontaneous Thursday evening clapping on our doorsteps, that banging of pots and pans in our roads, it's here. The NHS in Britain is about to get its loveliest news for seemingly ages. So put those saucepans and wooden spoons awayand get out the carnival maracas. It's time for the ladies to balance baskets of fruit on their head and pretend they're Carmen Miranda. It's time for the gentlemen to masquerade as John Travolta and strut their funky stuff on the disco floor with a fashionable nod to flared trousers.

By the beginning of 2021 we could be in carnival mood, shaking our hips to the sound of steel drums and revelling in reggae. Covid 19 will slip into some forgotten corner of history never to rear its ugly head ever again. We could be about to enter a golden age for not only Britain but the rest of the world. Who knows we could be restored to full health by perhaps next Easter or St Swithins Day. Hold on it could rain on that day. Stop again. Let's not get ahead of ourselves. 

The fact is that a breakthrough has been made and we have to find comfort in hope, certainty in re-assurance. We've been mesmerised by video conference computer screens, found novel ways of exercising with our dogs and then whipped up some of the most mouth-watering dishes when all of the eggs had gone and the baking powder looked as though it was running low. We've mixed and matched, improvised and adapted, imagining that we could find coping mechanisms without quite realising how.

But yes folks the vaccine could be winging its way towards us at the rate of knots. The men and women in white coats in experimental laboratories have hit on the elixir of life, the potion that waves a magic wand and guarantees immunity from that dreaded virus. That'll be the day. The grumpy curmudgeons are convinced that this is all rubbish and nobody should take any notice of these glad tidings but it'll only end in tears. 

Some of us though are still worried about the repercussions and side effects that the vaccine could exert its beneficial influence should it arrive on the commercial market in the immediate future. There is a school of thought though which would lead us to believe that this vaccine is just a smokescreen, a false dawn, a temporary morale booster when wishful thinking seemed the obvious reaction. Come on, this is not happening and we know it. Or is it?

Yesterday though Boris Johnson, the blond human dynamo who presides over his country as Prime Minister of Britain gave us yet another session of blustering bravado, optimistic and fairly jolly for a while before descending into some blunt dystopian vision where the good people of Great Britain had better not get too carried away because this could get worse before it gets better. 

Once again we have been told to stay at home, keep warm against the biting winds of winter. We have to remain safe and free of sniffles, coughs and spluttering. But somebody really should tell our Boris that we've been doing the aforesaid for almost the whole of the year so there's nothing new about this portentous warning. So the National Health Service had best be prepared for another winter of serious illness on quite the most remarkable scale. 

Today though we can all briefly luxuriate in the knowledge that this could be the turning point of this stifling and emotionally draining disease. This could be now known as Vaccine Day. Oh yes. Let jubilation be unconfined, dig out the bunting for joyful street parties with a thousand balloons, cakes for everybody, egg sandwiches for the entire population and lemonade for all. Line up those Conga dances. This is the day to put behind all of that unrelenting misery behind us. We can carry on and drink coffee. We can smell the roses and begonias. We can believe again. 

We can hardly believe the dramatic sea change because we thought we'd be stuck in this rut for ages. It's all going swimmingly well though. Over the weekend America welcomed its new President-elect and one Joe Biden stepped into the breach as replacement for one of the most comical Presidents of all time. Or have we simply underestimated Donald Trump. Trump buried himself on some very isolated golf course, still roaring with faux defiance, still protesting innocence and malpractice. 

By the end of this tempestuous year we may all feel like slumping onto our sofas, blow out our cheeks in both relief and hopefully elation  hoping that on New Year's Day that 2020 had been one exceptionally long and bad day after bad day. Some of us believe that we've now reached the bottom and the nadir. So here's the plan. If we close our eyes and wish upon a star the vaccine could be in your local doctor's surgery in no time at all. We can see the finishing line. We're almost there. Surely.    

At long last Joe Biden becomes the 46th President of the United States.

 At long last- Joe Biden becomes the 46th President of the United States. 

At long last and not before time. We didn't think it would ever happen and we were beginning to think that somebody had forgotten to make the announcement. Maybe it was just an elaborate hoax, some silly joke that none of us were in from the beginning. But it's true, folks. It can be revealed here and now without any shadow of a doubt that the United States of America have finally elected Joe Biden as their new President. For some of us this maybe the breath of fresh air we were longing to inhale for ages. 

Tonight Joe Biden has finally emerged as victorious, the new man at the helm of the power in the Land of the Free, the man with the fiercely patriotic stars and stripes racing through his blood, the man who replaced quite the most farcical, ridiculous, racist, misogynist President of the United States. Donald Trump is now history, not only a political dinosaur but forever condemned to the walk-on role in any American TV sitcom that may be in the throes in writing.

It hardly seems possible but after much counting, re-counting, making absolutely sure and then calculating for the umpteenth time, America has the President it deserves. Following extensive huffing and puffing, agonising, genuine procrastination and then much volatility in the highest circles of American politics, Joe Biden calmed everybody down, declared the victory and a nation waved goodbye to that famous target for mockery and derision. 

And yet Donald Trump has fired off the first of his legal bullets into the air and looks destined to land up with so much egg on his face that he may have to get used to a daily diet of omelettes for breakfast in the immediate future. For the last couple of days Trump has behaved with all the childish immaturity that we have now come to expect from somebody who not only throws his toys out of his pram but will now spit his dummy across the kitchen floor, demanding several bags of sweets and endless bars of chocolate.  

Since the first day of electioneering last Tuesday, Trump has been sulking, complaining, groaning, blaming, accusing and generally resembling the kid whose pocket money has been snatched from him rudely and then locked in his bedroom, grounded indefinitely until he apologises which he won't be doing. Trump is that spoilt, middle-class man who can never get his way because all of that excessive wealth and celebrity had gone to his head. 

For the last couple of days Trump has been quite literally talking to himself, engaging in banal comments about the unfairness of it all and how everybody else had been blatantly cheating, kicking up a stink, tarnishing the precious American political system with foul, cloak and dagger tactics.Trump believes that the whole of America has been sold short, betrayed by the people he thought he'd come to trust. 

But, in the opinion of Donald Trump America is now the laughing stock of the world, victims of gross mismanagement and now responsible for the kind of people who used to be associated with the Mafia mob culture of America's distant past.  Trump is now convinced that shifty characters armed with guns and violin cases are out to get him. Trump believes that those who were employed to watch the voting patterns in every state were deliberately plotting against him. Trump suspected quite clearly the hidden agenda, sneaky skulduggery, clandestine fiddling of figures and that rank smell of double-dealing and deception. 

Above all Trump thinks that some conspiracy network has been working against him ever since he first came to prominence as a pompous busybody businessman. First Trump built his gaudy hotels, a business empire that may have looked impressive at the time but then, from time to time, became more of a cumbersome liability than anything else. And then he put his name forward to become a prospective American president and that's when we gasped with a sharp intake of scepticism. 

And so it was that four years ago that Trump went eyeball to eyeball with Hilary Clinton and triumphed boastfully over and over again as if he'd just won the Lottery for the third time. Then there followed  four years of showbiz grandstanding, showboating, self-aggrandisement, exercising his fingers and thumbs with strange acts of vulgar exhibitionism. There were veiled threats against the Press he thought were intent on a witch hunt against him, grandiose promises of building walls and then one bombastic statement after another.

But late on Thursday night as Britain laid its collective head down for its nightly nap, Trump started rambling and waffling to himself because it simply seemed as if nobody was listening to him. It sounded as if he was simply talking to himself, a speech and diatribe that sounded so pathetic that if anybody had recorded it for posterity on You Tube may have fancied at least several million views. 

At first we sniggered and chuckled because we couldn't quite believe the evidence of our ears. A psychologist would probably have diagnosed Trump's weasel words as the first signs of a man who had lost the plot completely. There were references to burst pipes in Georgia, fallacious claims that he'd won in Arizona and Florida quite handsomely and then claims that the windows had been boarded up in some American states because the observers at the ballot booth had been scrawling noughts and crosses on the voting paper. This was now bordering on Hollywood vaudeville, Las Vegas cabaret and foolhardiness on the grandest scale. 

Still, Trump went on and on relentlessly, unfortunately and insistently, compiling cases for the defence as if any court in the world would even have given them a single moment's notice. Trump was now lost in his own private fantasy land, playing with notions of victimisation, composing sentences that might have been more appropriate in a teenager's diary. Why doesn't anybody believe him when he tells them that Donald should be the President of the United States for the rest of our lives and that there are sinister forces at work here?

 Trump is now firmly of the belief that the whole of America has been trying metaphorically been trying to stab him in the back ever since he came to office as President four years ago. And yet he has laboured under the delusion that every time he opens his mouth golden nuggets of wisdom and perspicacity have flowed from his lips. Here is the intellectual powerhouse America has been looking for in decades and for the first time in ages America has found a President with a phenomenal IQ. Sadly this was not forthcoming. 

But then he began moving those hands like one of those London buskers with a concertina. He shook hands with leaders of the world with that vigorous handshake that suggested that he may have been tempted to strangle them. He then poured out more and more soundbites, more ill-conceived platitudes and more aggressive sounding banter that quite frankly gave you the impression that he'd borrowed them from some cheap joke book.

Now though Trump has left the building or has he? Of course he'll remind you of that grizzly bear with an extremely sore head. He'll launch another bombardment of sinned against gibberish, insulting invective that nobody will take any notice of and then he'll cry, weep and sob in a dark room because the injustices were always obvious, the stars quite clearly in the wrong position and the figures were all wrong. Why couldn't anybody see that one? 

And yet tonight America may hit the pillow tonight, relieved, even ecstatic and grateful that perhaps a man so apparently tactless, off the record, unashamedly offensive to all and sundry and just insufferably clueless is no longer President. They will be pleased that they can still eat their pancakes for breakfast and eggs sunny side up with a cheerful optimism that might have been thought unlikely. So Joe Biden. This is your time to shine. America can sleep peacefully safe in the knowledge that Trump has played his last card.  

Trump or Biden? And the count goes on.

 Trump or Biden? And the count goes on. 

So it is that the plot thickens and the mystery is set to last for perhaps an eternity. Does anybody want to be the next President of the United States or will we have to draw lots, perhaps toss a coin, perhaps take it to a football penalty shoot out? There has to be a legal way of settling this ongoing dilemma since at this rate we could be here for some time and some of us believe that the year is just crawling towards its inevitable conclusion and surely it's bad enough that we've a global pandemic to contend with anyway. 

This morning the United States of America woke up to flatness and indecision, a complete funk, a genuine no man's land where nothing has happened and there are urgent issues to resolve. Nobody has won the American election yet which is rather like finding that your parents had forgotten your birthday when you were a kid. You were hoping to get that present you'd always wanted only to find that the day had passed by without any kind of recognition of the auspicious day in question. 

The world went to bed last night hoping that today the Land of the Free had just discovered the man they were hoping to be President would willingly accept the challenge of guiding his country to the land of milk and honey. And then there was one Donald Trump. So, in all likelihood, they switched off the lights, pulled the blankets towards them, settled their heads on their pillows and went to sleep. It would be a night quite unlike any they had experienced. They were then faced with the decision of whether to laugh or cry and you knew that it wouldn't be easy for one moment. 

The current incumbent is Donald Trump and it does seem possible that the whole of America possessed a heavy heart and really didn't care which way the result had gone. Just let the result be announced as soon as possible because a deadly virus has to be addressed and that has to take priority to any political bunfight. Of course the United States is full of reservations about the direction their country is heading. On the one hand is a man who has been declared bankrupt as a businessman three times and a man so vain that his bedroom mirror may one day crack under the strain. 

For the last four years Donald Trump has been very much his own comedy club routine, a man so arrogant, bumptious and conceited that he may find that one day America will be able to see straight through him and hold up their hands in horror. Trump is the man of a thousand daft finger and hand gestures, a man who summarily dismisses and then attacks the media for something he's either denied or never really felt any need to apologise for at all. The supposed deficiencies or shortcomings just don't exist.  

When all around him are attempting to stab him metaphorically in the back, Trump threw back the flak and bullets aimed directly at them. He accused the Press of being shallow, sham, two-faced, wrong on every count. He said it was all fake and made up and those slanderous comments were just bunkum and so there. Trump loves a conspiracy theory because he knows that everybody either hates him or just doesn't believe him any more. So he gets all hot and bothered, throwing his toys out of his pram, getting ever so tetchy, grouchy, irritable and irascible because everybody thinks he's crazy or just incapable of doing the job he was elected to do. 

So last night Trump went on the defensive because he loves doing that doesn't he? He would seem to revel in his own persecution complex because that's what he's succeeded in doing for so many years now. It's him against the world and he thinks he's the greatest President of all time. Unquestioningly so. Now what'll happen if Trump does lose which he won't because Trump is convinced that defeat isn't in his vocabulary and the man is just flawless, a perfect specimen, a paragon of virtue. 

Trump is now threatening to take this to the highest court in the land should he lose. He believes quite emphatically that Joe Biden and his charming helpers are ganging up against Trump and trying desperately to undermine and humiliate him in any way they can. Now take out that court injunction Donald because nobody dares challenge your authority. At the moment anyway he's in charge so move aside buster. 

And then there's Joe Biden's Trump's opponent, a man both restrained and laid back at one moment and then verbally aggressive in the next breath. This is not to suppose that Biden is all Jekyll and Hyde but he does want Trump to take the high road as soon as possible. There is obviously no love lost between the two men and the sooner this is over the better it'll be for all of us. There is the hint of the rotweiller about Biden in as much that he does growl and does know how to bite when the occasion warrants it.

For the next couple of days this contest could go on and on with none of us knowing anything that we already know about either Trump or Biden. The votes are being re-counted over and over again and Trump can almost smell litigation. Something of course will give because it has to and the suspense is simply wearing us down. You suspect Trump is on the phone to a million lawyers and legal firms, bending their ears constantly with sob stories about the whole thing being rigged against him. 

Eventually though America will one day rise from its bed, with gleaming white teeth before opening their curtains, throwing their windows wide open and telling the whole of New York, Los Angeles, Florida, Las Vegas, Michigan, Chicago, California, Texas, Detroit and Pittsburgh to name but a few of the 50 states who Trump so regularly celebrates that their new President is the best of any generation. 

Here in Britain we look on events in America with a wry detachment if only because none of us can really help either Trump or Biden. We may sympathise and empathise with both men but there's not a lot we can do. Here Prime Ministers are normally appointed in the time it takes us to get our head down at night until the following morning. There can be no hesitation or deviation though there are some parts of the country that take an age to count votes and some of us are snoring our heads off by then. 

We hear rumours of riots on the streets of the USA, running battles between the police and gangs of knuckle duster fighters who just want a good, old fashioned punch up. Shop windows are being threatened with, cars will be burnt and utter mayhem will ensue. At the moment America is divided, distraught and disillusioned with everybody and everything around them. We have been down this road on innumerable occasions only this time we hope to reach the right destination. The world is thinking of you America. We always will.   

Jeremy Corbyn- the man they loved to loathe but could never be endured.

 Jeremy Corbyn- the man they loved to loathe but could never be endured. 

And so it is that we ponder on the fate on the much-despised former leader of the Labour party. While Jeremy Corbyn sits, perhaps in splendid self isolation, in a dimly lit room away from all the bullets of critics and vicious snipers who quite rightly believes that he is now full deserving of everything he gets out of life, the rest of us can take another deep breath and be infinitely thankful that he may never darken any corridor of power again. If he does the savage roars of disapproval, hatred and opprobrium may be heard again just in case Corbyn didn't hear them the first time around. 

For almost the entire year the name of Jeremy Corbyn has almost been completely forgotten if only some of us thought he'd left the country in disgrace. Corbyn's pompous self-righteousness had almost become a given when he was leader of his permanently underfire Labour party. And now the wholly objectionable Corbyn has been given the ultimate two fingers of rejection by his own party once again for allegedly distancing himself from vile antisemitism and almost criminal arrogance. 

You see according to Corbyn all of the comments he made were either wildly exaggerated or not said by quite as many people as were alleged to have made such wilful accusations. Now the truth is that either Corbyn is a vehement racist or he simply occupies some candy floss fantasy land where the fairies and the pixies play happily until tea-time. One of these days he'll be mistaken for one of Judy Garland's friends in the Wizard of Oz. 

In some blustering outburst of self serving drivel and potty bombast Corbyn rigidly sticks to his guns, insisting quite outrageously that all Jews are some of his best friends. He repeatedly asserts that no member of the Labour party either now or when he was leader of the Labour party will ever tolerate antisemitism and always condemn those who do adhere to such disgraceful ideologies. Over and over again like that cracked piece of a vinyl record, Corbyn keeps smashing that foul slur on his character out of the park and into a muddy ditch. 

Yesterday the new leader of the Labour party Sir Keir Starmer, fresh-faced, enthusiastic, good to his family and utterly respectable, gave Corbyn his marching orders. Now it is that Corbyn has been suspended, reprimanded painfully and left with a painful bruise on that massively inflated ego. No sir, Jeremy Corbyn loves the Jewish population so much that if  the chance came along he would willingly undergo conversion to Judaism. What balderdash and nonsense. Corbyn is now well and truly a shamed outcast, a genuine pariah who should be promptly be put on the first plane to some desert island where nobody can find him. And then obscurity.

The bottom line is of course that no matter how hard he tries to wangle his way back into the good books of the Jewish population, the hole he has now dug for himself is now too deep and apologies are somehow meaningless. Here is a man who openly endorsed the violent deeds of Hamas, broke bread under the Lebanese flag, smiled inanely at their followers and then had an attack of amnesia when somebody reminded him of the event. There is something of the night about the Corbyn demeanour, a man so abhorrent that you could never again listen to another word that drops accidentally from his mouth. 

So it is that Britain once throws the legal book at Jeremy Corbyn. Corbyn was the man who protested his innocence constantly while totally oblivious to his CV. You're reminded of the allegedly saintly and pure as the driven snow Jeffrey Archer, a Tory politician who shockingly maintained that he'd emerged from an American university with an official degree in a subject that he'd clearly never taken in his life and yet Archer seemed to get away with it. 

Corbyn, rather like Archer, is a very clever and cunning spiv, a devious misfit who tries his utmost to pull the wool over our eyes but only succeeds in complicating matters even more. He reminds you of that 1950s Ealing comedy film where a whole class of mischievous school-boys try desperately to prevent Ted Ray from leaving as headmaster. They use laughing gas and spray powder on his chair that makes him itch and scratch helplessly. The film now seems dated, although it does seem relevant in its way. Corbyn is very much the impudent rascal, the evil schemer, the ultimate back stabber, a man so unbearably reprehensible that perhaps even his family may have disowned him. 

And now the Labour party go away in a huddle in deep discussion, frenetically defending the party's integrity and general goodness and then casting their old leader into some embarrassingly naughty corner. If Starmer wants to know what course of action he should take then he may care to remember what happened to Margaret Thatcher when the whole of her Cabinet carried out their dastardly act of treachery by leaving a blood-stained carpet behind their once fragrant leader. Who on earth would be a politician? It's a messy business of that there can be no doubt.     

Nobby Stiles dies- and then there were four.

 Nobby Stiles- and then there were four. 

On the morning of the 1966 World Cup Final, Nobby Stiles took himself off to a local church and offered a silent prayer for an England victory against West Germany. The rest of Stiles England team mates were shopping for their wives and girlfriends while in an Upton Park barbershop my grandfather and his colleagues were bracing themselves for a jolly, good, old fashioned knees-up should England have won by then. 

Yesterday Nobby Stiles died at the age of 78 and then there were four. Slowly but surely the strong spine of England's World Cup-winning team from 54 years ago is gradually showing signs of wear and tear. In fact at some point the surgeons and doctors may have to administer a sharp dose of morphine because the pain and discomfort maybe too much to bear. Stiles had all manner of terminal diseases that eventually took its toll on a battered and bruised body that simply couldn't take any more. 

But with the passing of Stiles goes yet another precious link of that immortal class of 66, a period of our lives when everything and anything seemed possible, London was the centre of the universe, a pop band from Liverpool would revolutionise the music landscape for the entire decade and the latest fashions of the day would become the dominant topic of conversation on every media outlet. For Nobby Stiles though, it was the look and appearance that captured our imagination and made us smile warmly. 

When Stiles skipped and jigged his way around Wembley Stadium with that infectious, toothy grin, the nation fell helplessly in love with a Manchester United defender who, two years before England's World- Cup victory was instrumental in United's first European Cup Final victory against Benfica. Nobody could ever begrudge Stiles his moment of glory because Stiles was our hero, our man of the moment, a genuine character among a team of characters, lovable, adorable, delightful company and quite cheeky. 

On World Cup Final day Stiles was magnificent, immovable, unyielding, solid as a rock, tough as old boots, no-nonsense, an immensely steadying influence. In the history books he may be regarded as one of those underrated players who never really hogged the limelight because he was just glad to be part of the biggest occasion of any player's life. But when it came to the crunch, Stiles was the man they turned to for comfort when tensions were at their tautest. 

For Stiles epitomised everything that the day represented for all of us. He was brave as a lion, fearless, undaunted by the West German challenge, full of whole-hearted endeavour and industry. To all intents and purposes, Stiles was simply deployed as England's stopper, designed to spoil and block every West German attack with a stubbornness that eventually drove the opposition to distraction. 

But Stiles ran himself into the ground for the cause, covering all bases, snapping at the heels of persistent forwards, tackling, intercepting and cutting out the German advance parties with an assurance and meticulous attention to detail that was astonishing to behold. Stiles, though was always on hand to mop up the damage when England found themselves caught out for pace. His passing was accurate and he did what was needed on the day to frustrate the Germans. 

So when the final whistle went and England were declared World Champions for the first time, Stiles tried his utmost to re-capture his childhood, jumping up and down, scarf and bobble hat askew on his head, uninhibited and totally beside himself with joy. It was a moment of release, cathartic pleasure after all the uncertainty and anxiety before the game. Then he laughed and smiled again, abandoning himself to the moment, mission accomplished and ready for the party in Kensington later on in the evening. 

Stiles was one of those players who once they'd rolled their sleeves up and hollered out instructions to his colleagues, would be the one everybody would come to respect. He was conscientious, powerful, never afraid, always available, chasing and following forwards as if his life depended on it. Stiles positional sense was impeccable and he would always anticipate and pre-empt rather than rashly cleaning out his opponent. 

After the crowd noises had faded with the years and age intervened, there would be little to look forward to for Stiles. Of course he was devoted to Manchester United but the honours and trophies would dry up completely and a gilded World Champions medal would be a lasting and sentimental keepsake for a man who never really demanded a great deal out of the game. 

When the playing boots were hung up and discarded, Stiles tried his hand at management and it has to be said, this would never be his forte. Stiles was never a manager and when Preston North End came calling, Stiles did have a go. By his own admission Stiles was workmanlike but Preston, who had once given to the world Tom Finney would never blossom under the former World Cup winner. 

Your memory goes back to an old Second Division match during the 1970s when Preston came to West Ham and were soundly beaten 3-0. In the visitors dug out, Stiles could be seen waving furiously at his team-mates in the hope they could see him, a forlorn hope. But Nobby was unmistakable, a wound-up clock, animated, fuming with rage, pleading, exhorting, punching his fists at his players and boiling over with resentment. 

In recent years Stiles would have to confront dementia and handled the passing of the years with courage, humility and little fuss. He embraced the after-dinner circuit with as much passion as demonstrated when a player. We can only have given a penny for his private thoughts since today's generation of players may have come as a terrible shock to his system. Stiles was hard but fair, unforgiving in the tackle but one of the game's more hilarious humorists when a joke was appropriate and football was something to be enjoyed rather than endured. Nobby Stiles was always a force for good, a traditionalist perhaps as opposed to a dreamer. We can still hear and see you Nobby because you were one of us.