Yeovil turn the FA Cup clock back and the FA Cup is up and running.

 Yeovil turn the FA Cup clock back and the FA Cup is up and running.

So the FA Cup is up and running, ready for its perennial diet of shocks, giant killing, amusing back stories and of course the players. And then there are the managers on the touchines with their sartorially elegant array of hoodies, sweat shirts and coats with ornate fleeces. Of course this is what the FA Cup is all about. It could hardly be anything else. The beginning of December is their starting point, the first declaration of their intent even though they may be the architects of their own wishful thinking. 

This is the essence of the FA Cup, its raison d'etre, the reason why millions of rosette makers and souvenir merchants in small country market towns get so busy at this time of the year. They know they'll never get to a Wembley FA Cup Final but at least they can say with rightful confidence that they were there at the beginning of it all. So they all jump into their coaches from all four corners of Britain and pretend to think that something that may be possible in their wildest dreams is  simply a fantasy. 

Deep in the heart of cider drinking country Yeovil, once FA Cup giant killers on a monumental scale, were at it again. In 1948 Alec Stock, their jovial, jokey and friendly striker, scored the decisive winner for Yeovil at a time when everything was rationed apart from football of course. Yeovil beat the old First Division high fliers of the time Sunderland which at the time felt like a miracle because nobody had ever challenged football's hoi polloi, its landed gentry, the wealthy landowners of football's upper classes. 

At the end of another year of emotional contrasts and national rehabilitation, football now ends the year with a sombre message from its recent past but the recognition of a hope that things will get better. Football has always needed the FA Cup, rather like humans need oxygen and healthy blood cells. It is the light at the end of a rainbow, the fundamental diversion from everything that might be troubling our souls and the perfect antidote to all ills and pains. 

The FA Cup is the one football competition everybody wants to win but realistically accepts it'll never be able to do so. We all know that the aristocracy always have more jewels than they have, more stately homes, more materialistic belongings, bigger stadiums and classier seats in their ground. So over the weekend the postmen, milkmen, shop workers, supermarket lorry drivers, IT specialists, landscape gardeners, and the market research folk offered their services to the cause in hand. They are the people who keep the nation ticking over and then on FA Cup day become hilariously delusional. 

Once again Huish Park was the idyllic setting for Yeovil's day out in the FA Cup sun. The slope on the pitch may have gone with all of the Post war gloom but the spirit is prospering as never before. This time Yeovil are well and truly on an upward trajectory. They are now back in the non League or what is now the National League because that's the way of the world. Yeovil are still a work in progress but they did rub shoulders with the glamorous elite of the Football League several seasons ago. Maybe this is the way it was always meant to be for the Somerset club. 

But football still remains admirably situated on a level playing ground, an egalitarian field where the movers and shakers of the Premier League can still mix and fraternise with the humble and pragmatic. The chances are that Yeovil will never win the FA Cup at any point in the future or maybe they will. Still, they can always engage with the FA Cup which has now become the cousin they visit every year who always treat them to a slap up Sunday roast.

For much of Yeovil's first venture into FA Cup territory, there was a sense that history could have repeated itself if it tried really hard enough. But then there was Stevenage, the newcomers to the Football League pyramid, a Hertfordshire haven, a club still learning the ropes. They are now dangerously placed in League 2 and after Yeovil had taken an early lead, looked as if they were going to make a contest of this. At least this was welcome respite for Stevenage in their battle against relegation. 

Realistically Stevenage should have worn the superior robes of footballing royalty but then they looked around at the Huish and discovered that their opponents had a much nobler Cup pedigree. In their traditional green  Yeovil looked like that environmentally friendly team who always look after plants and flowers. On Saturday evening they blossomed beautifully. Their attacking movements are still stilted and loosely connected at times but there is an old time frivolity about them that warms the heart. 

At times this FA Cup second round kept sputtering into life then fizzled out like an old sparkler from Guy Fawkes night. Yeovil were solid, respectable, purposeful and coordinated but then seemed to lose their way rather like a coach that comes off at the wrong motorway roundabout. They performed like seasoned troopers, always looking for original designs rather than threadbare pieces of wool that become useless. Their passing was moderately impressive at times but this was not France in their World Cup pomp. Their football bordered on creditable rather than the outstanding. 

With Daniel Moss, Luke Wilson, Max Hunt and Morgan Williams providing defensive stability, Yeovil were at ease with themselves, never flustered or remotely worried by Stevenage but still concerned about the prospect of just being knocked out of the FA Cup. Then Dave Gorman, busy and naggingly industrious, joined up with Matt Worthington, a hard working, conscientious ploughman, scheming, plotting, foraging away in Stevenage's thorny bushes, winning the ball confidently and then finding his colleague with the neatest of touches. 

Then there was Yeovil's man of the match and moment. Sonny Lo Everton had been the driving force and spark plug for Yeovil's winning goal. Lo Everton was here, there and everywhere, holding onto the ball quietly but effectively and then moving the ball across the centre of the pitch with effortless economy. He was the machine factory worker who just gets on with the business of clocking on and then producing something crucial. Lo Everton was all exuberant skill and stylish efficiency. 

And so it was that Lo Everton became the essential component to Yeovil's passage into the FA Cup third round. After Stevenage had poorly dealt with a defensive clearance the ball was headed into the path of a hungry green shirt and Yeovil were right on course. Lo Everton, adjusting himself perfectly, kept the ball for a couple of seconds before slipping a precise, short pass into the path of the home side's striker Charlie Wakefield. Wakefield ran onto the ball laid into his path and slammed the ball into the back of the net for what would prove to be Yeovil's winning goal.

Once again the romance of the FA Cup was well and truly alive, finding its most intimate location in one of its prettiest rural spots. The Somerset locals may well have headed straight to one of its typically timber beamed pubs where the regulars can only long for Manchester City in the third round. Huge quantities of cider and scrumpy must have been consumed and the Huish terraces were jumping for joy again. Long live the FA Cup. You'll always be our friend.  

    

Let the political parties begin.

 Let the political parties begin. 

Now let's turn the clock back to this time last year. We were all caught up in the most depressing rut that any of us could remember. Or at least we thought we were. We couldn't celebrate Christmas because it was forbidden and strictly off limits. The coronavirus had well and truly scuppered any of the plans we might have made and a nationwide lockdown had ruined the whole yearly spectacle. The kids were devastated and families across not only Britain but the rest of the world had to settle for an orange and a couple of roast chestnuts. 

Roll forward twelve months and here we are at the end of 2021 and the transformation isn't quite complete but things are different and altogether much more encouraging. The life changing vaccines have been the perfect antidote to our miserable malaise and everything is open again. The shops, restaurants, cafes, theatres, jazz clubs, music venues and British football grounds have resumed normal service. Can any of us say fairer than that? The pubs and clubs are heaving with the enthusiastic punters who used to spend  deeply contented hours just drinking, carousing, cavorting, joking, laughing and smiling again. 

But for some of us the echoes from the past are still haunting us again. The numbers of deaths and fatalities are not nearly as horrendous as they were at the beginning of this year. The number of infections though relating to Covid 19 pandemic are still alarmingly high and the hospital admissions are hovering dangerously over the 7,000 mark but things are brighter looking since the people of the world are now safely ensconced in their offices, their work places, their distinguished looking universities and colleges while acutely aware of the fragility of the human race, the delicate vulnerability of the human condition and a chastening awareness of another medical meltdown. 

Clearly the very presence of a wholesale vaccination roll out process has lifted hearts and changed the mood of the British population. We are eternally grateful for a vaccine which, we have now been assured, will provide us with almost complete protection against another new variant as if we haven't seen enough of them by now. Sadly though we find ourselves faced with yet another outrage; now these have come along rather like buses. Just when we thought we'd seen the last of these ghastly developments another one comes along in quick succession. 

Roughly a week before last Christmas, the British government violated all the rules and regulations they were wholly responsible for implementing in the first place. It does seem that Boris Johnson and his pantomime characters decided, on the spur of the moment, to have one wild knees up, a Christmas party to end all parties complete with food, drink, party games, probably jugglers, fire eaters, magical tricks, boisterous heavy rock music and dancing until the wee small hours of the morning. All caution was thrown to the window, electric guitars played with gutsy gusto and speakers blasted out Metallica's entire back catalogue. And that was only on Christmas Eve or maybe it was a week before. 

Meanwhile in the shires and counties of dear England, its landscape of Christmas reindeers, festive decorations and pretty villages, the country was trapped in lockdown. It was a country that had nowhere to go, whose economy was seemingly shot to pieces and as a nation we were so demoralised that you would hardly have blamed the good folk of Britain for just hibernating during the rest of the winter. The fact is at the beginning of this year none of us went that far anyway so we hid behind closed doors and windows, becoming more and more agitated by the day, week and month. Or maybe we shrugged this off as a temporary ailment. 

So on Christmas Day families around Great Britain and the rest of the world sat slumped in their sofas, moping, isolated, disconnected, detached from their loved ones. Even our dogs and cats were in a state of severe dejection, curled up in their baskets and not entirely sure what to make of this domestic stagnation, whining because they'd been denied their yearly paper hats and a Santa hat to boot. So we just sat in front of the TV and, to be honest, it must have felt like any other day. What was the point in stuffing ourselves with turkey and all the trimmings when most of us would have been content with cheese on toast followed by a glass of orange juice? 

As the weeks passed up until late January, then February and March this year, the cinemas could have been mistaken for libraries, shops would continue to put the shutters up while restaurants and cafes must have felt like neglected old buildings that hadn't seen a lick of paint for ages. It wasn't a war zone as such because nobody had fired a gun in anger but it must have felt like it. The sense of confinement and estrangement prevailed and the streets of London were like ghosts of Christmas past. 

But back at 10 Downing Street they were raving the evening and night away as if nothing had happened. Quite clearly there was a blatant sense of gross injustice in the air, feelings fuelled by the irate citizens of Britain who felt as if  Boris and his cronies had overstepped too many boundaries, taken far too many liberties and of course they were having a laugh. Who on earth had given these politicians dispensation to do whatever they liked? The nation had been ripped apart emotionally by a deadly virus  and were about to storm the barricades and here was a government behaving abysmally. 

Never were the class divisions so starkly exposed as they were then. The rich Old Etonians were drinking several gallons of beer, wine and general booze and raising a toast to a grand old Christmas. Across the rest of the country the public were drowning their sorrows with a couple of bottles of lemonade and a couple of packets of peanuts. 

We are now used to those politicians with their snooty air of privilege and entitlement, their total indifference to the homeless, the forgotten figures in draughty doorways, the criminally disadvantaged who may never be able to look forward to a future because they've only got themselves to blame. So while Boris and co were doing the Hokey Cokey and boogying the night away to the hypnotic DJ beat, Britain was staring at the clock and doing nothing at all.  Once again Boris had apparently let down the country. Oh the double standards, the bare faced hypocrisy. 

Here we are a year after the scene of crime and the Tories are now rapidly covering their backs, defending their right to have a good time. And yet England, Scotland, Wales, Northern Ireland, Eire, the Commonwealth and the global community were experiencing a kind of prohibition. Everything was either banned, banished, off limits for the duration and the freedoms we'd taken for granted had now disappeared for months on end. 

The questions remain though. Who on earth had given a group of Hooray Henry Tory grandees and benefactors permission to booze the night away, kicking their legs into the air ecstatically and behaving with all the civility of football hooligans who used to patronise the terraces of Millwall during the 1970s. Those of course in the hallowed corridors of Westminster will of course maintain that nothing was smashed or nobody hurt and that all the correct guidelines were strictly observed. 

So that's OK then. Most of us though are more or less completely disillusioned with anything that comes out of the Westminster Hall of Comedy. They are resigned to monosyllabic ministers who just waffle about nothing in particular when confronted with a microphone. They sit on their green benches, some wearing masks and others simply snoring away as late afternoon becomes an early winter's evening. 

For Boris Johnson the last couple of weeks have been particularly bad days of office. There were the childish stories about Peppa the Pig, mumbling, muttering inanities and general poppycock. Then underneath his breath, Johnson forgets what he was supposed to be talking about and generally getting his knickers in a twist. So he meekly apologises to who ever happens to be in earshot and the Johnson persona shrivels up as if he'd committed the ultimate sin.

Still, we can only hope that if Christmas can go ahead then nobody blurts out anything about last year's frightful fiasco. Who wants to be reminded of a past that may well come to haunt them. This may not be the right time to compare Mr Johnson to Ebenezer Scrooge. Oh bah humbug Boris let the Christmas festivities commence. Whatever you do though don't you dare mention anything related to lockdowns. The people of Britain are in no mood to give our caring, sharing Prime Minister the benefit of the doubt.     

 

My football poetry.

 My football poetry.

Gather around folks. Yours truly has ventured into the wonderful world of poetry. But this poetry has a marked difference to what some would regard the conventional poetry, verse, stanza and everything that rhymes. My poetry is football poetry, poetry with guts and tenacity, poetry with imagery and vivid description, football heavy with nostalgia, topical relevance and football that cheers from the terraces. 

So here it is. If you go to Football Poets. org and look for Joe Morris you'll find my slowly expanding collection of football poetry. It is a poetry laced with originality and verse that doesn't necessarily rhyme at all but it's thought provoking, full of the frustrations that come with supporting your team for a considerable length of time, the FA Cup, several Euro 2020 poems and right up to date poems that could make you chuckle and laugh.

We've always known that any kind of written poetry still falls into the niche market but if you've got a tea break in your day and you simply want a mildly amusing poem for just a couple of minutes then feel free to browse, peruse and cast your eyes on my football poetry. 

Oh yes and if you want to comment on any of my poems please leave your reaction or maybe it isn't your cup of tea then that's fine. This is an entirely new direction for my writing and it's all just for fun. So it's Football Poets org. and my name is Joe Morris. 

Thanks everybody

Joe Morris

St Andrews Day- not long until the festive fiesta.

 St Andrews Day- not long until the festive fiesta.

In the glens and highlands of Scotland they'll be wearing their tam o'shanter to all those magnificent parties that the Scots seem to carry off so well. Today of course is St. Andrews Day in Scotland, a day for recognising the Patron Saint of Andrew, a significant date on the calendar for everybody who loves to wear the tartan kilt and enjoying the festivities that will almost certainly accompany the day. They'll be dancing around their swords, swigging back the whisky in abundant quantities and reminding the English that 54 years ago the Scots reclaimed the World Cup at Wembley a year after England had won it the year before. 

This may have been regarded as a moral victory for the Scots back in 1967 but it was just a Home International end of season friendly tournament and that probably won't be remembered for too long. Still here we are on St Andrews Day, a day when the battles of Culloden and Bannockburn are marked again, a day when Nicola Sturgeon, the First Minister of Scotland, will rightly declare that Scotland's claim to independence still has a ring of truth to it. 

In recent years Scotland have yearned insistently for greater freedoms, greater autonomy from the English stranglehold and a desire for a personal identity that some in the Scottish parliament has made patently clear. But there can be no denying the sheer beauty of the Scottish mountains, the wondrous scenery, the breathtaking crofters, the enduring thistle and shortly the imminent arrival of Hogmany at the beginning of the New Year. The Scots have always been our friendly rivals at a time when nationalism threatened to swallow up both the English and Scottish. 

Of course Hadrian's Wall remains that traditional dividing line that continues to antagonise both sets of football supporters when the English meet the Scots. During the summer England metaphorically ran into a brick wall when the Scots stood tall and immovable in the face of a slovenly England side who simply ran out of both ideas and ideologies in their attacking armoury. The 0-0 Euro 2020 group stage draw was neither here nor there and by the time the referee blew the final whistle, England had exhausted themselves in a terribly under cooked performance. 

But tonight they'll be jigging between the ancient swords, devouring plates of haggis by the hundreds and thousands, a nation united by its admirable desire to retain its stubborn individuality, its historical adherence to its folksy ballads and that delicious skirl of the bagpipes. Scotland may think that the English hate them and the feeling of course may be mutual but any country that gives us the comic genius of Billy Connolly, a former Prime Minister in Gordon Brown who once declared his allegiance to Raith Rovers and who once produced the inimitable figure of James Bond as depicted by Sean Connery must have something to commend it.

So Ladies and Gentlemen. Today is St Andrews Day and the Scots will be in appropriately alcoholic mood. Here is a nation whose favourite son gave us the life changing TV. When John Logie Baird connected some loose wires to a very primitive transmitter the age of the cathode ray gave way to a technological revolution that would change our lives for ever. Baird told us that the future would be the humble TV or television, the revolutionary medium that now spews up record breaking numbers of channels from all over the world. Now Sky compete frantically against the likes of BT Sport, MTV, CBS, Eurosport and thousands of other alternatives. It is the franchise that keeps giving. So if you've a spare kilt at your disposal think of our Scottish friends and three cheers for the Sassenachs. 

Storm Arwen is on its way.

 Storm Arwen is on its way. 

Oh no! The alphabetical storms are on their way. Now way back when, storms or any meteorological phenomena were just regarded as periodical weather events that simply blew over our rooftops, knocked over a couple of tiles, shook several telegraph poles and trees before just stopping. They'd probably play havoc with our plans for the day because, let's face it, you can't play croquet or tennis while wild winds and gusts of rain are sweeping through your local park. 

But Ladies and Gentlemen. Storm Arwen is preparing itself on some unsuspecting British coastline and you may wake up tomorrow with branches and twigs scattered all over your driveway. Storms have now become a common occurrence during the calendar year and Storm Arwen won't be entirely unprecedented because we've all seen storms in their different manifestations and now know what to expect. Of course storms can be powerful and tempestuous but that comes with the territory. 

In recent years we've seen all kinds of storms. There were the dramatic hurricanes that increasingly made their presence felt. We'll never forget the storms that were never predicted but then suddenly materialised the following morning. There were the storms that should have amounted to nothing more than several bucket loads of rain but then had a change of heart. There are the storms that you found to be utterly terrifying as a child as you pulled the blankets over your head and hid under the bed sheets. After several claps of thunder and lightning you dropped off to sleep, nervous, apprehensive and hoping for no more. 

Of course in October 1987 Britain was given the ultimate re-assurance by BBC weatherman Michael Fish that any forecasts of a major storm would be no more than a rumour. By the following morning we all woke up to find damage, carnage, debris, trees lying across roads and cars in an imminent state of complete disintegration, a world now horrified and perhaps traumatised by the evidence before them. For quite some time Britain must have thought the world had indeed come to an end. And yet this was not a disaster maybe a mini disaster where somehow we could pick up the pieces. 

In recent years there was a storm that became a tsunami, a vast mountainous spray of water that surged horrifically towards the mainland of an exotic island and tore down everything in its path. Suddenly, shops and houses became floating pieces of twisted steel, wood and glass that had left the people helpless and despairing. There were drifting restaurant signs, cars and buses now merely swimming for their lives. It was devastation on a massive scale and for those whose lives were turned upside down from that point onwards, it would leave them homeless, distraught and, in some cases, inconsolable.

Storm Arwen though is on its way and 100mph winds are expected to blast their way through the North East of England and then poor Scotland who always seem to get the brunt of bad weather. But we love the weather anyway. Who cares if it rains because you'll never hear any of us complaining? Storms though leave us conflicted with the whole gamut of emotions. Why do they have to wake us up during the night and why do they have to make such a raucous noise when they arrive. Could they perhaps not keep up that incessant howling, whistling, rattling and roaring refrain? Could they turn down the volume and the intensity, the crashing, sweeping, shrieking cacophony?

There are some who may take some quiet pleasure in a major storm or a succession of storms. Perhaps they remind us of CS Forrester's Hornblower stories or Joseph Conrad's lyrical descriptions of ship wrecks. Then there are the thick sheets of rain sweeping across the yardarm followed by yet more ferocious gusts of wind that leave Conrad's boats battered and in splinters. Storm Arwen though is poised to leave us high and dry, quivering and quaking at the sheer immensity of it all. 

It could be that by the time Storm Arwen blows itself out and heads for another country or continent, we'll all turn to each other and wonder what all the fuss was about. For the time being it is time to batten down the hatches, lock your doors, cover the ears of your pets and cower under a kitchen table. There's no need to panic, no thoughts of an emergency because by this time next week a sweltering heatwave could catch us out altogether and that passing storm was ancient history. So folks don't beware of yet more storms that have now been immortalised by alphabetical sequences and everyday names. They are merely storms that look nothing like teacups.   

More Boris Karloff than Boris Johnson.

 More Boris Karloff than Boris Johnson. 

This is beginning to resemble a classic episode of Yes Minister where Paul Eddington and Nigel Hawthorne exchange light hearted pleasantries about government legislation and government red tape. Then the conversation becomes completely lost in any translation and before you know it both are talking a load of nonsense about nothing in particular. For Eddington and Nigel Hawthorne read Boris Johnson. You really couldn't make this one up. Poor old Boris is suffering from what is commonly known as foolhardiness. And that's putting it very mildly. 

On Monday he spoke before the leading businessmen and women about the crucial issue of social care caps and the continuing importance of the NHS. Halfway through his speech Boris crashed into a metaphorical wall, shot himself in the proverbial foot and fell headlong into the prickliest of bushes. Here was the ultimate catastrophe. In fact it couldn't have got any worse had he tried. For a moment Boris looked as if he simply wanted the ground to open up such was the severity of the blunder that had just claimed him. 

For several cringeworthy, deeply embarrassing and barely believable moments Boris Johnson was in danger of being laughed off stage and treated like the end of the pier comedian whose jokes had reduced his audience to a lengthy silence. The Prime Minister really didn't know which way to look. He was both ridiculously apologetic and did nothing but plead for forgiveness. What else could he have done under the circumstances? He'd lost his place, had failed miserably to make himself abundantly clear on anything connected to said speech and it all fizzled out miserably into some peculiar, rumbling undertone. 

So this is how things panned out on Monday afternoon. Johnson outlines all of the major Tory policies on social care and suddenly his voice goes off on some weird tangent that none of us could understand. Then he looks down on his pile of papers and before we knew it the whole performance turned into a Whitehall farce. There was a horribly muddled incoherence about his words and sentences that sounded as if the rest of the speech had been written in a Latin that even he could make neither head nor tail of. 

Almost immediately things went downhill. There was the by now familiar bumbling, fumbling, mumbling and shuffling of papers. Then Johnson just shamefacedly lost his way, rather like a man who was reading last week's shopping list. Suddenly Page One was now Page Five and on Page Three were references to jars of jam, cereal, bread, cleaning fluid and cheese flans. No, that can't be right Boris. He could have sworn that everything had been prepared and was in the right order. And finally  Johnson was reduced to a comical whisper and a desperate plea for understanding. 

Now the latest episode of Yes Minister started imitating reality. Johnson must have felt pathetically isolated, the spotlight burning down on him intently and at this point even improvisation couldn't come to Johnson's rescue. He could have taken a deep breath for a couple of moments and just bluffed his way through an ever increasing sense of crisis. But he didn't because this was damage limitation and besides he was well and truly stuck. So what could he do? The fact is he went off on some hilarious account of his weekend. You know the kind of thing. 

On Sunday Boris and his wife Carrie had taken their children to Peppa Pig World, a theme park for very young toddlers barely out of Farley's rusk, bottles of milk and dummies. He then explained the delights of wandering around a location where all you could hear was the uplifting sound of crying babies and our little darlings throwing tantrums. So it was that Johnson began the painstaking process of back tracking, humouring his audience as best he could and then pretending that nothing untoward had happened. 

For several open mouthed minutes Boris's stunned audience thought their Prime Minister had drunk too many glasses of wine the previous night or that their man had reached a mental roadblock. The blond hair by now was in a state of complete rebellion, the face white and creased with anguish, nay less total confusion and hidden under the Johnson persona was a private longing for the trapdoor. This was Johnson doing what only he can do when faced with adversity only funnier. It was time to blag and make it up on the hoof. Not a chance. 

He then had the audacity to ask his captivated listeners whether they'd heard of Peppa Pig and whether they knew anything about the characters in the book. Some of us are, to be honest, extremely concerned about the Prime Minister's welfare since quoting a children's book in the middle of a gathering for some of the most high profile businessmen and women in the country falls horribly short of what many of us would consider rational behaviour. 

At the end of the meeting everybody left the building none the wiser. Maybe the Prime Minister had finally lost the plot, a man estranged from the real world and staggering around in the dark looking for a light switch. What on earth are you talking about Prime Minister? Can we do anything to help you? The fact is none of us knew where exactly where he was going. If this was meant as a cheap publicity stunt to remind everybody that he was only human and flawed then this was not the way to go about such matters. So his words just vanished into some surreal world of complete incomprehension. 

Today the news topic will probably move onto something entirely different. But you can't help but feel that, for Boris Johnson this has been the week from hell. And we're still on Wednesday. The appeals for forgiveness and clemency were that of a condemned man who had gone down for pinching sweets. So Boris slouched away from the scene of a crime, emotions scattered all over the place and quite possibly giggling because only Boris could get away with treating the serious issues with all the frivolity of clown falling off their cycle. You chuckle for a few seconds before sticking a custard pie in the face of the master of ceremonies. Oh Boris. For how much longer are you going to subject your public to so many acts of buffoonish tomfoolery? It may be time to e-mail 10 Downing Street.   

Ole Gunnar Solskjaer- next for the sack.

 Ole Gunnar Solksjaer- next for the managerial sack. 

Something had to give at Manchester United and it did. This wasn't entirely unexpected and, on reflection, perhaps only a matter of time. Poor Ole Gunnar Solskjaer, the now previous manager of Old Trafford, departed the club via the exit door at Old Trafford. The natives, once restless, have now been rewarded for their patience. After all how many crushingly heavy defeats could United take in recent games without looking like broken pieces of machinery.

But the axe has now fallen at Manchester United and the man who once scored the decisive goal that completed United's treble season with a last gasp Champions League Final victory against Bayern Munich in 1999 is now no more than some evil pantomime villain who should never darken the club's corridors again. How fickle can the finger of fate be when, after United's poorest run of form for ages, the baby faced assassin from Norway has now become nothing more than some distant, historical figure, a careless mistake on United's part, a rash judgment that should never have seen the light of day. 

So it was that Solksjaer packed his belongings, left his office at Manchester United and became the latest victim of the back stabbing brigade who love to see the back of managers who simply can't hack it at the highest level. Of course Solksjaer is an honest, law abiding, respectable and perfectly capable coach. But the truth is that managing a club of Manchester United's size, status and globally famous magnitude was never likely to be a suitable match. 

When Sir Alex Ferguson left United for the last time, after those colossal Premier League title winning achievements which now stand at some remarkable, record breaking high. United were left with a huge, gaping gap that has to be yet to be adequately filled. The  years following the Ferguson golden years would always be both traumatic, transitional, uncertain and almost anti climactic. But Solkskjaer was perhaps too kind, diplomatic and philosophical to be as ruthless as his predecessor. Besides the Norwegian never did find a packet of chewing gum to his liking. Fergie was never without his. 

Now United have worked their way painstakingly through the likes of Louis Van Gaal, a Dutch market researcher with clipboard permanently in his hands. Tactical formations were never Van Gaal's forte. Then there was the current West Ham manager David Moyes who Ferguson personally recommended to United but then realised that Moyes simply wasn't up to such an onerous, almost thankless task. Then United turned to the demanding perfectionist who was Jose Mourinho. When all was said and done Mourinho gave a convincing impersonation of a man who simply found himself with a hand grenade in his hand that suddenly went off. 

Today United are manager less once again, looking around and beyond at another what they hope will be a higher profile appointment. The name of Zinedine  Zidane has been mentioned and although a world class talent for the French national team, will always be remembered for that shocking head butt of an Italian defender Marco Matterazi in a World Cup Final. At the time the global game could hardly contain its outrage and condemnation at such a violent attack and some United fans may have their reservations.

So now United are simply back to square one. You remember those awkward years after the departure of the memorable Sir Matt Busby, a footballing giant, a man of immense knowledge about the game and a man of intelligent erudition. Once Busby had gone, United thought they'd turn to Frank O' Farrell and Wilf Mcguiness as messiahs and salvations. Sadly there would never be any hint of a trophy to adorn the Old Trafford trophy cabinet and neither man truly covered himself in glory. 

By the time Dave Sexton and Tommy Docherty had warmed the manager's bench at United, the once holders of the European Cup in 1968 were just treading water and going nowhere. When United were relegated to the old Second Division for the first time in recent history in 1974, this was no temporary setback. United came straight back up to the old First Division and cheerful Docherty planted the lid of the FA Cup on his head when United outwitted and beat Liverpool in the 1977 FA Cup Final. 

Then there was the larger than life Ron Atkinson who looked more like a suave businessman than a football manager. Atkinson won the FA Cup for United in 1983 and 1985 but the old League Championship proved beyond them and utterly elusive. Atkinson finally waved the white flag of surrender and Alex Ferguson, a hard piece of granite from Aberdeen, was recruited for the United job. It took Ferguson ages to get his feet properly under the table but still United stumbled, staggered and toppled over like drunken sailors at chucking out time. 

The famous Mark Robins goal for United in a vital FA Cup third round tie against Brian Clough's Nottingham Forest at the City Ground proved absolutely crucial. United never really looked back and by the time David Beckham, Nicky Butt, Paul Scholes and Ryan Giggs transformed the club from top to bottom, the change in fortunes was almost immediate. It was a renaissance with a touch of baroque thrown in for good measure. Now the club's culture and infrastructure had been given a thorough cleaning. United would win umpteen Premier League titles, the FA and League Cup on several occasions and the Champions League twice. Oh and we mustn't forget the Treble. Sir Alex would be most incensed at such a glaring oversight. 

But now United face another period of head scratching, deep introspection and worrying morbidity. It almost feels as though the club have run out of plausible options and are afraid to experiment again. Zidane sounds as though it could be the right appointment but the occasionally hot headed Frenchman could find himself imitating his fellow Frenchman and United legend Eric Cantona. Cantona wasn't normally partial to martial arts but the kung fu high kick on a Crystal Palace supporter wasn't a good look.

Today United were considering the possibility of bringing Mauricio Pochettino out of cold storage. The former Spurs and Southampton boss does look tailor made for the United managerial vacancy. After all Pochettino did take Spurs to a Champions League Final which they promptly lost to Liverpool. But Pochettino must be longing to find another Premier League club. Of course he is fiercely ambitious but United want success now rather than later on which, given the predicament they find themselves in, does sound distinctly unreasonable. 

And so the managerial merry go round takes another rotation. Managing a football club of any standing does require a health warning. In the old days managers such as Bill Nicholson, Bill Shankly, Bob Paisley and Brian Clough were all given a settling in period. Then all four proceeded to build attractive, well designed teams and within a short period of time, eventually took their clubs in the right direction.

But Manchester United will always be Manchester United and Premier League titles must seem like an old silent, black and white film where the leading characters always seem to end up on the losing side. The next week at Old Trafford is bound to be eventful and United must be hoping that in some corner of the country Sir Alex Ferguson will have one or two ingenious suggestions up his sleeve. Watch this space.