Jesse Lingard

 Jesse Lingard.

This is the story of Jesse Lingard. It is a sobering reminder of  where football is at the moment. It isn't a cautionary tale because we were warned this would happen to the game at some point. When Brian Clough once signed Trevor Francis as the first million pound footballer in the game, we were just dumbfounded. And by sheer coincidence we are back at the home of Nottingham Forest for this latest landmark moment in football.

Yesterday Jesse Lingard signed for Nottingham Forest after so much deliberation and thinking time that some of us believed he'd left the country for ever and would instead sign for former Manchester United team mate Wayne Rooney in his latest American project. It is hard to know how that little enterprise would have panned out because Lingard really didn't fancy a busman's holiday in the United States. Then the Saudis came calling and of course they're not short of a few bob or shillings. So after wrestling with his soul and weighing up the permutations Lingard still courted controversy.

For what now seems like a lifetime Lingard has been the subject of almost preposterous speculation about the destination of his next club. He left his boyhood club Manchester United ages ago and then promptly went on some inexplicable sabbatical, staying at United for a whole season and not sure about where on earth he could possibly go. And this is where it all gets slightly silly and unedifying. 

West Ham United, in their infinite wisdom, have been chasing Lingard's signature since seemingly the Boer War but yesterday he left most of football seething with anger and convinced more than ever that the former Manchester United pin boy was a brazen mercenary simply out for a hefty pay day at the end of his career. By the end of Thursday evening, Lingard's mind had been made up decisively. He wouldn't be joining West Ham because his wages would be chicken feed and besides how would he ever pay the bills, rent, electricity and gas? Then he told us how much he'd be getting for his next football club. 

We blinked in horror, rubbed our eyes in stunned amazement and then gasped in outrage. All the reports suggested it was something in the neighbourhood of £200,000 a week and that was with, quite possibly, add ons, bonuses and any other extra treats Nottingham Forest could offer. So it was that Lingard just upped sticks, moved quietly into a Nottingham country estate with its gated community and just grinned excitedly at the prospect of a lucrative windfall, cum National Lottery win that some of us simply shuddered at.

But here's the moment when Lingard's actions become, quite possibly, morally reprehensible. You see the problem is that Lingard, although now a free agent after his departure from United, still wanted a kings ransom to supplement the substantial income he was already receiving. He'd become a greedy guts, shamelessly acquisitive, demanding his financial rights while in the land of Tik Tok, he was still prancing around American streets, making strange hand gestures with a flash dance group and just adopting an air of sickening entitlement. Look at Lingard he's the best thing since slice bread and he'll be raking in yet more bank loads of lovely lolly. Money money money? The root of all evil? Or the road to ruination? You can be the judge of those two cliches. 

At Nottingham Forest, under their relatively new manager Steve Cooper, he will almost certainly be the highest paid player to play for the club in modern times. He'll be waltzing past defenders, showboating  with the familiar collection of flicks and tricks and running the length of the pitch to score the most heavenly of goals. When Lingard was out on loan to West Ham a couple of seasons ago, he scored a barrow load of goals and transformed the club's fortunes overnight. 

We were in the middle of the coronavirus lockdown and football was at a crossroads. It had no paying customers or fans inside the ground and West Ham had made a moderately impressive start to that season. But when Lingard became available to them, he jumped at the chance of regular first team football. So he seized the day and scored goals galore in a magical spell for the club and the club clinched Europa League by finishing sixth in the Premier League.

Naturally, heads were turned and Lingard wandered around the London Stadium with England team mate Declan Rice with the broadest of smiles. Surely this would be the precursor to a dream move to East London for Lingard. It was in the stars. For the rest of that summer, Lingard went into a kind of bewildered trance, visibly attracted by the bright lights of London but still lost in a nostalgic state of flux. Besides, Manchester United had always been his team and it just didn't seem right for him.

And so it was that Lingard, quite literally, lingered, pondered, weighed up his options, ruminating, agonising again and again before eventually West Ham ran out of  season and patience. Lingard chose eventually to remain at Old Trafford until somebody gave him the keys to a bank vault. Ralf Rangnick, United's previous manager, gave Lingard the benefit of the doubt, promised Lingard the world only to find that he was more or less surplus to requirements. Where to next for the England player? Perhaps America or even Saudi Arabia? In the end reality kicked in and perspective hit Lingard quite dramatically.

In the end it didn't really matter where he ended up since most of us had now realised that this wasn't just an end of career move with all the comfortable fixtures and fittings thrown in. For an entire summer Lingard has either been close to, in talks with, at the advanced stages of finding his new club and that would be West Ham. He'd loved his time with the club when he was out on a loan so it had to be a logical progression. Not so simple as that.  

Some of us have been unnecessarily tracking the developments of this absurdly convoluted transfer saga with eagle eyed scrutiny. Every day the theme finds another soundtrack and then another intelligent piece of  word play or grammatical variation. The longer this Whitehall farce has been drawn out the more you're inclined to think that Lingard knew his heart wasn't set on a return to West Ham. So why did he bother and, above all, why did exceptionally patient West Ham manager David Moyes give Lingard so many chances, so much room to manoeuvre, so much convincing and persuading when clearly Lingard just wanted the money and run with it all the way to Forest's City Ground?

Still, here we are literally weeks away from the most unusually early start to the football season and those whose faith in the game has been undermined by its fundamental ills will settle down once again for yet another nine months of teeth gnashing, emotional meltdown, a ludicrously mental investment in our much loved club and then the hope that the season ends up in its customary conclusion. Normally expectations are kept to a minimum but then after over 40 years of devotion to West Ham can be too trying for words.

West Ham have already invested in the Moroccan centre back Nayef Aguerd from French club Rennes, the permanent signing of goalkeeper Alfphonse Areola and the immensely promising Flynn Downes from Swansea who grew up as a West Ham supporter and does fit in nicely with the club's ambitions. But the longer you scan the pages of innumerable football transfer gossip the more you find yourself drawn into a trap of fandom and then the realisation that once the season starts it'll keep on going even when you'd rather it stop. Wow football! What a game! 

It's a heatwave.

 It's a heatwave.

Historically speaking, the British tend to regard the weather with all the cynicism of those who think every summer is a complete wash out, not really worthy of discussion and yet we do talk about it because it's so intriguing and unpredictable. In fact you could probably spend the whole summer passing judgment on what the public think may be its gloomy moods, miserable narratives, occasional melancholy and then the kind of weather that leaves us breathless, rhapsodic, delighted and overjoyed.

Over the weekend the heatwave that had been confidently predicted arrived just in time for the glut of village fetes, barbecues and trips to the outdoor lidos, swimming pools jammed solid with revellers, children, teenagers and families. They'll be picnicking in some of London's most beautiful parks, lounging languidly on pristine green grass next to delightful beds of roses, chilling out at outside music concerts in their vast masses and then sunning themselves next to soothing rivers where the local duck and swan population just happen to be minding their own business.

The more adventurous among us will be rambling along pathways that meander for ever, jumping over rocks on their way, leaping energetically over tiny, tinkling streams that deliberately make the dulcet tones of summer and then we can hardly believe how ornate the countryside is. We explore caves, climb mini rock faces, stop at quaint tea shops for a pot of glorious tea, scones, butter and jam, pick up postcards and souvenirs and smile happily at charming ornaments. We watch the cornfields and sunflowers in all their rural order and symmetry. It doesn't get any better. 

And yet the weather forecasters have now told us that the heat will be of the roasting kind, sweltering, tropical heat, boiling down on the rooftops of London, the shire counties and melting the roads. Yes folks, some roads on some of our major motorways are beginning to melt but don't panic, please. This is the tarmac and besides our friendly road maintenance men and women have got this completely under control and there's no danger of any national emergency despite the reports from those in the know.

You see the problem is Britain just doesn't make allowances for soaring temperatures or the plummeting centigrade that suddenly hits freezing point and before you know it, thick snow carpets the ground, the snow turns to ice and the gritters come out to remedy the problem. There is a sense here that the country doesn't have any plan B or contingency measures, adequate preparations for the contrasting vagaries of the British climate. It never rains but pours and the British get all grumpy and discontented because it rains relentlessly during the summer. Perhaps we should all emigrate to the Mediterranean since it never rains there.

Then the hot sunshine in the blue sky makes one of its intermittent appearances rather like a retired actor who was fed up with treading the boards but would love nothing better than a popular TV comedy show. At the moment we are in a state of incredulity because we're not sure what'll happen to the rest of the summer. This is totally out of character with the norm in Britain. It's unheard of. Normally it buckets down with rain quite heavily and you're blown off your feet by gusty, gale force winds for what seems an eternity. None of us are remotely surprised or confused. The British weather has a very distinctive theme and is never disappointing.

On reflection you tend to think of both May and June or those months during the year when not a great deal seems to happen. It's either dull, overcast and drizzly before another torrential downpour of rain. Then it just seems to be mild and pleasant for a while. This has been the recurring theme of the British climate. There's room for improvement but the dream scenario would be an incessant heatwave from the beginning of May until the August Bank Holiday which was much the case in 1976 and 2019.

But for the next week or so the balmy and beautiful heatwave has covered the British isles like a warm blanket. Now the chances are that it may remain like this for some time but of course there's no way of telling. You'd be need to a modern day Nostradamus to make head or tail about what next may be in store for us. It would be fairly safe to assume that snow is not on its way from the Alps and you can keep those pullovers in your chest of drawers since they may be surplus to requirements. 

Anyway some of the forecasters are quite happy to put their cards on the table and predict a scorcher that could hit over 100 degrees of heat. Now, this is not a cause for an emergency or crisis that could kill us all in one day. Surely this is scaremongering or over reacting. Besides in Spain, Italy, Greece, Cyprus and Israel they know exactly what to do themselves. From mid-day the siestas keep tempers under control and why complain about the heat when the rain sends us into a morbid state of grief?

Yesterday though my wonderful family had the most perfect outdoor party with mouth watering plates of egg, cheese and smoke salmon beigels, jugs of Pimms and a handsome variety of crisps. There was much merriment, jollity, mirth and laughter. It was good to be among the people you've always loved and always will. Suddenly the coronavirus had become ancient history and there was optimism  everywhere. How blissful. 

Tiger Woods last hurrah.

 Tiger Woods last hurrah.

British golf has always warmly welcomed its legends, those golfers with an enduring touch of class about them, the ones Britain has always embraced as one of their own, wrapping a warm blanket of adulation and adoration around them as if they could never do a single thing wrong. They hold out the hands of hospitality and break into thunderous applause because they know when they see greatness  they've seen it all before.

Yesterday they acclaimed the stunningly talented Tiger Woods as if the man had just been knighted as golfing royalty and the sword had descended on Woods shoulders by Her Majesty the Queen. This would be Tiger's last ever British Open at the spiritual home of golf and the admiring hordes of his followers responded to this peerlessly brilliant golfer, reverence seeping from the grandstands and cheering at its most idolatrous.

Throughout the decades St Andrews, Troon and Lytham St Annes have witnessed some of the most sumptuous golf ever played at tournament golf. Of course Augusta and the US Masters may challenge such a grandiose boast particularly when the azaleas are blooming and the Americans are circling around the 18th hole on the last day of competition. But now it's the middle of July and while heatwaves are expected for the next couple of days in Britain, the world's golfers were driving off their tees with sunshine in their hearts.

For some of us the gallery of the great and good was always too good to be true. There was Jack Nicklaus, one of America's most cultured, gifted, gloriously sophisticated of all golfers. Nicklaus used to stride down a fairway like an emperor surveying his empire, a gentle, smooth, debonair, gentlemanly sportsman always in control of his emotions, never remotely flustered and always immensely dedicated to his sport. The Golden Bear was the quiet, silent one, always familiar with the geography and undulating contours of a golf course, modestly and unobtrusively stamping his authority on the game.

Then there was Arnold Palmer and Lee Trevino, two of the game's patriarchs and masters of their craft, plotting their way around a golf course like men who were probably born with the best irons in their youthful golf buggy. Trevino was the joker and humorist, giggling and laughing, teasing and chatting to anybody within earshot. Trevino would loft and chip his shots from the fairways delicately and decisively and then lethally from the edge of the green. He would then float impossible shots from sandy bunkers as if he'd played the same shot when he was a kid at his local golf course. The hole would be found with effortless ease.

The late Arnold Palmer of course was the most technically brilliant of all golfers. Palmer was just an exquisite driver of a golf ball and could just accumulate the birdies like numismatists collecting coins. But it was his all round game from the driving range to the fairway and then the green that had most of the connoisseurs of the game swooning with admiration. At no point in any match did Palmer ever look rattled or concerned about his golf or the state of a match. Both Palmer and Trevino were almost statesmanlike, confident in their ability at all times and swinging the club with an almost honourable air about them. 

In more recent years the likes of Tom Watson and the late Seve Ballesteros have strolled down the fairways of some of Britain's most beautifully maintained golf courses as if it were their second home. Watson simply dismissed all of his contemporaries like a medieval king waving away one of his servants and then lecturing them for simple disobedience. Watson dominated global golf for many years but then retired from the game when he felt the time was right. Ballesteros was one of the most intelligent golfers, judging the flight of the ball as if he could read the wind in the air and the direction it was travelling in.

But yesterday it was Tiger Woods last throw of the dice. Woods has endured one of the most horrendous years in his life in recent times. His private life has been plastered all over the front pages and sports pages all over the world. His relationships have been relentlessly scrutinised and exposed in quite the most lurid fashion. The private life of any sportsman or sportswoman can ultimately and sadly lead to their dramatic downfall. One moment you're on the top pedestal and the next you're banished to the sinbin because your misdemeanours have broken you in half. Tiger Woods has cried, wept and sobbed so many times that sympathy for the man depended on the way you felt about him.

And yet on the Scottish coast of St Andrews where golf and sporting excellence have almost gone hand in hand with each other, we wished this year's latest crop of starry eyed golfers well. Of course Mark Twain was ever so slightly misguided when he said that golf was a good walk spoiled because this 150th British Open clearly proved this not to be the case. 

Last night, Australia's Corrie Smith was one of the first pace setters in this year's British Open with impressive rounds of 67 and 74, looking comfortable, relaxed and almost leisurely at the end of the day. Smith was followed by American Chris Young breezed around the Scottish rough and fairways with 64 and 69 while Dustin Johnson is being touted as one of the best golfers in the world at the moment. The St Andrews leader board was studded with superlative technicians of the game.

Then there was Ireland and Britain's very own Rory Mcilroy, now regarded as one of Britain's finest and potentially the greatest of all time. Golf just seems to come quite naturally to Mcilroy and if he continues to build up his consistency he could well emerge as the unforgettable one. The Irishman oozes with confidence, whipping his drives from the tee with the most immaculate arm and shoulder movements while deep in concentration. He may well be his worst critic but there is an insatiable hunger about Mcilroy that is somehow infectious. 

You remembered then the purists and artists that have so enlivened the British golf. Nick Faldo came agonisingly close to dominating the global game of golf but then faltered at the final hurdle. Colin Montgomery was, and is still, one of the sweetest strikers of the game but once again came up short at a critical stage of a tournament. 

So there you have it Ladies and Gentlemen. The man who is Tiger Woods will never grace St Andrews again, slipping over the horizon like the captain of a ship sailing imperiously into the distance. His recent past has been most unfortunately troubled but the memories remain and historians will place him in a compelling chapter about golfing geniuses who came horribly unstuck when everything seemed perfect.  This is the last page of that book and Woods hopes you've enjoyed the journey. Farewell Tiger.

Anyone for Prime Minister?

 Anyone for Prime Minister?

Here we are looking forward to what could potentially be the hottest week so far in Britain and the latest Punch and Judy seaside show is about to get underway. The Tory politicians masquerading as the people with only our best interests at heart, are now gnashing their teeth, rubbing their hands with glee and taking a sadistic thrill out of the misfortune of now former Prime Minister Boris Johnson.

In the last couple of days they've been jostling for the best position, pushing each other aside, promoting themselves in tacky videos and generally behaving like children nagging their parents for more sweets. This is the beauty parade that could get very ugly and nasty. Britain is by now accustomed to the presence of these preening, posturing charlatans, these self obsessed egomaniacs, the chancers, the opportunists and our self regarding government ministers who seem to spend most of the days just underestimating the intelligence of the public. But surely we know much more than they'll ever know even if they think otherwise. 

Ever since Boris Johnson strode towards the famous microphone stand outside 10 Downing Street and declared he'd forgotten how to lead the country, the clamour has grown quite vehemently for his successor as soon as possible. Politics can be such a messy business, the kind of profession that only the most hard headed could possibly tolerate for any length of time. In fact if you fancy five years of character assassination, constant criticism, persistently negative commentaries from all directions and a barrage of verbal poison then this could be the job you've always wanted.

And so it was that Johnson succumbed to the inevitable and for a while it looked as if there had been a ceasefire at Westminster. Poor Boris has been subjected to so many deadly bullets and missiles that there must have been private moments when he must have wished he'd never contemplated doing the job in the first place. So when that precious moment of release came, Johnson probably and begrudgingly accepted his fate and just wanted an empty room alone with his congested thoughts.

To say that the last two and half years have been hectic and tempestuous would be the greatest understatement ever made in public. When Johnson won the 2019 General Election by a substantial margin he must thought this Prime Minister lark would be a piece of cake. Little did he know that that cake would be of the rock variety. It wasn't particularly palatable and completely indigestible. This was not plain sailing and who ever thought realistically that it would be?

So from very late 2019 the problems came thick and fast. And then they became completely unmanageable, rather like the mountain of filing your boss gave you when they were in a bad mood. In March 2020 things reached a calamitous pass. By the end of that March Boris must have felt like a wartime general throwing up his hands in horror and just allowing the tide of events to just overwhelm him. The coronavirus lockdown would define his leadership of the country. Three years down the line and Johnson must feel like a severely wounded hospital patient with both legs hanging in plaster.

This has not made for gratifying viewing and by the end of last week, Johnson, apart from those ever present feelings of persecution, must have felt relieved that things could hardly have got any worse. Every week from those early days of Covid 19, our Prime Minister bravely faced the music at tea time on a daily basis. He stood at the lectern with his trusty government doctors or scientists and just nodded in bewilderment, trotting out a vast spreadsheet of facts and figures, barely able to recognise the immensity and tragedy of it all.

So he hung his head, glanced from side to side, referring to those in the know and tried to pretend that he wasn't terrified when we knew he was. Every day he expressed his despair, a horribly forlorn figure who thought that somebody had handed him a bomb. But now on the warmest day of summer 2022 there is a sense that we may be over this one. And last week it all came to a grisly and gruesome end for Boris Johnson. As we knew it would.

After a relentless bombardment of resignations, obvious shows of no confidence and sheer disenchantment, Johnson threw in the towel. He didn't really want to go and you couldn't really blame him for being just a tad bitter and resentful. In fact the Prime Minister had been hounded out of office, a case of history repeating itself ad nauseum. First there was Margaret Thatcher and then there was Theresa May who rightly felt hard done by since they must have believed they hadn't done anything drastically wrong.

But the history books will tell us that Boris Johnson did everything to upset everybody, rock the boat, polarise Britain and then made a rod for his own back. Clearly the man was just a foolish, deluded liar who, when faced with the knowledge that he'd got his hands in the cookie jar and then got his fingers burnt painfully, kept apologising and being extremely remorseful. To this day even Johnson must have thought none had noticed his blunders and that everything would be hunky dory. 

Sadly the air of fallibility and vulnerability that almost characterised his job as Prime Minister was exposed for what it was. There were the embarrassing denials, the admissions of guilt, the insistence that he didn't mean to do it but did. Of course there were the parties, the gatherings, the cheese and wine that may have been consumed and then the recognition that he may have been ill advised. It all came out in the wash, the damage limitation, the childish pleas that for another chance, please.

And last but not least there was the Boris Johnson ultimate party trick, so to speak. This became another protracted saga of absent mindedness, confusion heaped on confusion, the willingness to come forward and hope the country would forgive these rushes of blood to these head. Besides being Prime Minister can't be easy when you're suddenly confronted with perilous moments of crisis that had just got out of control. 

So it is that the election of a Prime Minister. In no particular order of merit there is Jeremy Hunt, Sajid Javid, Priti Patel, Grant Shapps, Lynne Truss, Ben Wallace, Rishi Sunak and Uncle Tom Cobley with his gang of troublemakers. It occurs to you that the great Harold Macmillan, who would become one of the finest and most venerable of  Prime Ministers, may well be spinning in his grave. The man who turned into a Tory grandee in later years may well have been livid, mortified to know that Boris Johnson had really left a repulsive stink in the House of Commons.

Still here we are in the muddled aftermath of it all and for the British government these must be deeply worrying times. The constitution is still intact if only just. But the infrastructure is creaking horribly and the girders are far from safe. This is not the way we expect our politicians to behave and yet they continue to do so. Of course Boris Johnson will now embark on that familiar joy ride of hugely lucrative after dinner speeches for which we can only assume his considerable bank balance would quite clearly benefit.

Johnson will then embark on another colossal journey of copiously detailed memoirs, more books and regular appearances on TV chat shows and who knows perhaps a chat show of his own. His recently written biography on Johnson's all time hero Sir Winston Churchill will now be followed by another on William Shakespeare and perhaps world domination will be his by this time next week.

Some of us still have vivid memories of the former Prime Minister sliding on a Zip wire across the London landscape waving a flag, Johnson proudly boasting that the London Olympics would finally be here and table tennis suddenly turning into wiff waff. Then there were those golden years of Mayor of London when everything he did was either moderately good or just plain awful. There was that dreadful moment when he rugby tackled a youngster and came across as very macho, a figure of well respected masculinity. 

Now though two and half years since becoming Prime Minister is back to where he was originally. He's out of 10 Downing Street, no longer Prime Minister and wondering why everybody kept picking on him and besides it wasn't me guv. Perhaps Johnson was complex and unfairly misunderstood. But you're still left with the enduring impression of an old Etonian who simply regarded the Prime Minister's job as some fantasy public school prank that went terribly wrong. Any volunteers for the 10 Downing Street job? You don't have to be a masochist but it does come with a significant health warning.

Cameron Norrie falls at the semi-final hurdle and Novak marches to the Final.

 Cameron Norrie at the semi-final hurdle and Novak  marches to Wimbledon Final.

It goes without saying that Cameron Norrie did his utmost to reach a Wimbledon Final. In fact he restored our faith in British tennis. Since the departure of Andy Murray in an earlier round, British tennis must have resigned itself to the fact that we'd have to wait another 75 years to win the most high profile and socially important date on the sporting calendar. The men's singles has never enjoyed such a high profile since none of us know when. But yesterday you began to believe that those high days of summer at SW19 could still take pride of place in our sporting consciousness.

Sadly, Britain came tantalisingly close to producing another men's singles Wimbledon winner but then Norrie was facing perhaps one of the world's most accomplished tennis players and there were moments during the opening set when Novak Djokovic was extremely flawed, wobbly, jittery and vulnerable. Realistically Norrie should have been back in his locker room much sooner than he did. This said much for the complete dominance Norrie exerted over Djokovic in an amazingly one sided first set.

Privately there must have been a part of us that wanted Norrie to wipe the floor with the classiest tennis all court player at the moment. It could be said that he took the tall Croatian to the cleaners quite comprehensively in the first set, powering his returns from  Djokovic's first service with a single minded ruthlessness, an almost dramatic intensity and a bloody minded callousness that always threatened. Britain elevates its sporting heroes to the highest plateau when all seems lost. Norrie almost found a platform of his own.

But then reality came crashing into the Centre Court and most of us were happy to admit that Norrie had shown enough gallantry and really didn't need to apologise. He was, after all, only 26 and there's plenty of time, time to compose different tactics, even more surprising approaches to the net and even more subtle variations that will leave most of another discerning Wimbledon crowd speechless with astonishment. He still has time and, for yet another typically patriotic Wimbledon audience, this will have to suffice.

So here we were at the spiritual home of British tennis. The umpires sat high on their new, gleaming chairs, the score board was ticking over quite efficiently and there was a sea of panama hats wherever you looked. The bright summer sunshine reminded us of Wimbledon glory days gone past. Essentially Wimbledon is the official definition of summer in England; all polite manners, graciousness in defeat, naturally partisan when a Brit wins, effusive in its praise of the opponent and full of adulation for the winners. 

Yesterday Wimbledon was perhaps resigned to its fate, tolerant in the face of adversity and, more or less prepared to accept that class and experience would inevitably tell. After all, Djokovic has done it all, winning most of the Grand Slams, travelling the global circuit in the sure knowledge that he can still win the big matches with some assurance and comfort. The years may be catching up on him and the twinges could require more medical attention in the long term but the Croatian once again gave an exemplary display of stunning craftsmanship. The ball, at times, almost had a mind of its own.

You found yourself wondering whether Norrie would ever kick on after the first set, building momentum, taking the game away from Djokovic point by point, game by game. But the man born in Johannesburg, South Africa, who once had connections with New Zealand and whose parents were Scottish and Welsh, couldn't quite muster the energy and resourcefulness that might have been crucial.

And yet after an explosive and dynamic first set, Djokovic woke from his early morning nap but not before Norrie had gone through a remarkable combination of powerfully whipped forehand returns, punishing first serves, authoritative back hands predominantly double fisted but never afraid to use just the arm and the natural follow on with high shoulders. Then there were the discreet drop shots, yet more impressive forehands that were blasted forcefully at Djokovic before the cunningly delivered slices, the gentle dinks over the net and then galloping across the court to play the cross court diagonal shots that whistled past the Croatian.

Now Djokovic brought out another set of watercolours, a mixture of masterpieces and brilliant exhibition tennis, shots of varying degrees of power, real assertiveness, cleanly delivered fluency and decisive control. With the onset of age, the shrewd selection of his forehands made it impossible for Norrie to read the Croatian's mind. Now the British great hope for the future lost his sense of direction. The Djokovic ammunition had now become lethal. Norrie knew the match would inexorably slip away from him. And it did.

After Djokovic had lost the first set 6-2, he would now level up the match with a handsome second set victory wrapped up with a convincing 6-3 set. By now Norrie began to look overwhelmed and stage struck, the ball now no longer obeying his command and the traditional writing was on the wall. There was a renewed sense of purpose and conviction about the Djokovic game that hadn't been evident in the first set. Djokovic returned some of Norrie's strokes masterfully and conclusively, bewildering rallies that seemed to last for an eternity, now finishing in miraculous drop volleys, winning games he had no right to get a racket on and ferocious forehands that resembled bullets at times.

Now Djokovic closed out the third set with yet another compendium of classical passing shots across and down the tramlines, winners laced with huge intelligence and a sensitivity of touch that rolled back the years quite frequently. The wrists were rolling, world class oozing from every pore. Soon Djokovic had thundered his way towards the end game for Norrie, the old days were coming back and the Croat fairly raced to victory in the third set 6-2. Norrie was vanishing like a late night star in the sky. There was no way back for him and after a blistering barrage of shots heavy with top spin and slice, volleyed beauties that Norrie probably didn't see and the full Djokovic artillery.

The patient crowd, now basking in the gorgeous sun and heat of a balmy Wimbledon afternoon, felt as they had just witnessed one of those matches at Wimbledon that none would have objected to had it finished at midnight. Some of us wanted the match to go on for much longer. But there was no specific time frame and everybody had feasted on this meal with a ravenous appetite. Djokovic promptly won the fourth and final set 6-4 and by now the Wimbledon champion had shown exactly why this was the case.

The Croatian had reached another Wimbledon Final and Britain briefly sighed with disappointment, acutely aware that their man Norrie would definitely be back at SW19 again last year. After all Andy Murray, with admirable perseverance, eventually won the men's singles. It was Friday afternoon, the rush hour was underway and the gentleman from Croatia had declared his credentials. A men's singles title is yours for the taking, Novak Djokovic. This could be your Sunday.     

Oh Boris Johnson- he survives again

 Oh Boris Johnson- he survives again

If Boris Johnson had been Larry the Cat he may well have had nine lives and still lived to tell the tale. As events are slowly proving Johnson has not only kissed the Blarney Stone he's probably taken it into his living room at 10 Downing Street, placed it on his mantelpiece and is now eternally grateful that it was still in the same position as it was yesterday. To quote one of Johnson's predecessors things can only get better. They can hardly get any worse or can they? Time will tell.

For what seems like the umpteenth time, Boris Johnson has got away with it again. He's told another white lie, committed perjury and not for the first time, rubbed Britain up the wrong way. He's antagonised the nation in a way that is now becoming the familiar norm, forgotten a vital piece of information, blurted out what he considered to be the absolute truth and then contradicted himself in the same sentence. In other words he hasn't a clue what he's doing, has lost his bearings and just covered his back while nobody was watching him. 

The last couple of days at the House of Commons have become a veritable Andrew Lloyd Webber musical- cum- comedy and irreverent satire in the making. Johnson is officially the joker in the pack. He has now become the personification of naivete and mind blowing ineptitude. He reminds you of the late American comedian Jack Benny my wonderful dad once waxed lyrical about after the Second World War.

Benny would walk onto a stage, stand in the middle of the stage, folding his arms casually, gazing vacantly across the audience and inducing wild laughter with a twenty minute silence. The look of bemusement on his face was, according to my dad, priceless. Then Benny would launch into his memorable act as if nothing had ever happened. So it is that Boris Johnson confronted the British public last night like a man who'd been accused of murder and insisted he was nowhere near the crime.

Not for the first time, Johnson was verbally assassinated by all and sundry, a man now lost in a world of betrayal, deception and muddled thinking on a monumental scale. He kept looking for a sympathetic ear but only found hostility, vilification, insults, humiliation and the worst kind of loathing. Even his closest colleagues and alleged friends turned on him with vile invective and the most acid of tongues. Poor Boris must have been wishing that the 2019 General Election had never happened and that even his previous job of Mayor of London would be still be available again at some point in the future. 

And so it was that Boris Johnson had become drawn into the most toxic argument he would ever know. There is now an air of poisonous volatility amid the hallowed corridors and tea rooms of the House of Commons. You could cut the atmosphere with a knife but that could never be sharp enough for some of his rebels and dissidents. Boris has literally crossed the line this time. You'd better believe it. He really pushed all the wrong buttons and the man has to leave by the tradesman's entrance immediately. 

The story goes like this. Former Deputy Chief Whip Chris Pincher was seen at a party. Yes folks one of those parties that Johnson so passionately denied the existence of during the coronavirus lockdown. Now Pincher of course was just being very high spirited and intoxicated. Let's not beat about the bush. He was completely drunk, broke every law in the land and then got carried away in the heady scent of alcohol. 

This is where things become the stuff of juicy, salacious gossip. Pincher, for whatever reason, thought it might be a good idea to wander over to a fellow reveller and grope him quite aggressively. Then Pincher became very physical with said male, started touching him in places he must have wished he hadn't, fondling the party goer and behaving in quite the most despicable fashion. We're not quite sure about the more intimate details of this unseemly encounter but we can only be relieved that a News of the World gossip writer hadn't been there to record what can only be regarded as a naughty dalliance.

Sadly, our doughty Prime Minister Boris Johnson had been informed of this less than savoury incident. But in retrospect, maybe Johnson should have been the last person to be consulted for his reaction. At first he had no knowledge of what had happened but vitally, a couple of days later had forgotten where he was when he heard about it and then wiped it from his mind although he thinks he knew  about the party. At the moment Johnson still thinks he's at Eton and one of the teachers has just given him Latin homework.

Interviewed by the BBC's Chris Mason yesterday Johnson looked around the room, waited to be interrogated and wondered whether a Peppa Pig story would rescue him from this dire predicament. So he feebly dipped into his famous anthology of excuses and bumbled around desperately for the appropriate phrases. The blond one from Uxbridge may well have thought he was just being unfairly persecuted for nothing in particular but even his body language was reminiscent of Coco the Clown.

So we sat and watched as Boris squirmed with embarrassment, apologised quite vehemently and then went through that routine where all the words fall out of your mouth and you wish the ground would just swallow you up. He bluffed his way convincingly through all the minefield of accusations, thought he'd escaped the worst that could follow only to find that his most influential colleagues had stabbed him in the back and the blood was still dripping from Johnson's suit.

This morning now former chancellor Rishi Sunak and former health secretary Sajid Javid, resigned from the Cabinet in a state of high dudgeon. In fact they were absolutely furious, incandescent with rage, seething with annoyance. The colleagues Johnson thought he could trust  had run for the hills, gone, left the front green benches and no longer wanted to be tarred by association with a Boris Johnson government. Shame on you Boris.

And as morning became afternoon and now evening, local and semi celebrated Tory backbenchers are telling Boris exactly where he can stick his job. What possessed him to be so absent minded, so foolish in the extreme, so lacking in honesty and understanding of the obvious. We'll now accuse the whole of Johnson's colleagues of a complete lack of transparency when they tell us something that is both dodgy and not quite right.

Still though Johnson sticks to his guns, the ridiculous assertion that he hadn't done anything drastically wrong. He may well have embellished the truth but then that has now become ingrained into the Johnson mentality anyway. Against a violent tide of rebellion, Johnson lives to fight another day. He wipes the shrapnel from his crumpled suit, tells everybody to get on with what they were doing before and just drop the subject. It's time to think of the dying and suffering in the Ukraine, get the British economy on its feet and try to make a full recovery from Covid 19. But you already know that so please let's not go over old ground. Mr Johnson will never tire of either London or the world. Be happy, everybody. Indeed we will.

Heather Watson, British tennis and a man called Cameron

 Heather Watson, British tennis and a man called Cameron

Wimbledon legends past and present lined up almost regally on Centre Court. It was one for the photograph album or, in the modern currency, perhaps Instagram. They came from all four corners of tennis history, those who have graced and adorned the lush green grass of SW19. There was Rod 'The Rocket' Laver, surely one of Wimbledon's greatest players of all time, all debonair elegance and beautifully supple wrists, Stan Smith who once engaged Ilie Nastase in the most delightful Final against Ilie Nastase exactly 50 years ago and John Newcombe, still tall, stylish, statesmanlike, ageing gracefully and in a class of his own.

Then the gathering of the greats stood patiently awaiting their moment in the golden sun of a Wimbledon afternoon. It almost felt as if greatness had met genius in a lovely rendezvous. Firstly, the ladies stepped demurely onto Centre Court. Angela Mortimer was followed by Ann Jones, both very feminine and almost matriarchal, burnished with talent, style and ladylike refinement. There was Chris Evert, graceful as always, Billie Jean King, a proud feminist, active campaigner, pioneer and remarkable record breaker. 

For the men there was Jan Kodes, a Czech master of his craft, Pat Cash, the Australian who only won Wimbledon's men's singles title once but left the most engaging of impressions on the crowds, Stefan Edberg, who briefly came and went but still enchanted and finally the man who, having arrived at Wimbledon seemed to take up permanent residence on Centre Court. 

Bjorn Born was the Swedish nobleman who dominated Wimbledon's Men Singles for what seemed like for ever. Borg was quiet, taciturn, softly spoken, unruffled by the chaos and crisis that might have been raging around him and just the most charming tennis player you could ever wish to meet. He never fussed, never spoke out of turn and was always a model of composure. At times he restored your faith in tennis since there was a time when the likes of John Mcenroe and Jimmy Connors threatened to play havoc with the game. He won five Wimbledon titles and on Saturday he walked out onto Centre Court, now grey of hair but still classically well proportioned and quite happy to wield the racket again if asked.

But on the middle Sunday of the tournament Wimbledon dressed up in its most attractive finery. Britain still had one Heather Watson, the next potential Wimbledon champion for another day. Watson is one of quite a few female British tennis players to emerge into the spotlight and is still hearteningly young. Nobody had expected to emulate the iconic feats of Virginia Wade 45 years ago. But Heather Watson announced herself in that most humble and unassuming fashion. Her day will come but not this year. 

Heather Watson could well have the makings of a Wimbledon superstar, a seemingly nerveless player, impeccably mannered and poised at all times. Watson has everything British tennis could possibly want in a champion. She is  possessed of an innate technique, wonderful powers of concentration and an economy of movement that leads you to believe that one day she will hold up the Ladies Singles winners trophy. Yesterday Watson skipped around the baseline, lunging at returns with unashamed heroism, then swinging miraculous returns of serve with all the accuracy of a player years older than her.

She was lithe, athletic, thrillingly energetic, never overcome by the occasion and frequently prepared to go for the shot that took the breath away. She whipped the ball powerfully across the net, chipping and slicing the ball deceptively and pulling her opponent all over the court. There were of course the forehand blasts that sent her German opponent Julie Niemeir scampering across Centre Court as if she genuinely believed that she could do it for British tennis. That she came agonisingly close probably says more about her all court game than anything we could have hoped for. 

Watson's opponent Julie Niemeir from Germany, was the very epitome of muscular strength, a powerhouse of a tennis player, full of pumped up aggression, feminine virility, inexhaustible energy and a flair for producing the right kind of shot at the right time. Yesterday Niemeir had far too much class and know how for her British opponents, sweeping Watson off and at times petrifying us with the enormity and variety of her game. Niemeir seemed almost effortless at times with cunningly executed drop shots and angled chips that seemed to baffle Watson.

During one unforgettable rally, Watson and Niemeir just refused to lose the point. There were the flashing and stunning forehands and backhands deep into both players midriff, the ball arcing up into the air and then falling over the net almost apologetically with breathless, beautifully disguised cross court exchanges. It was like watching a game of a children's pat-a cake, the ball flying across the net and then returned as if by magic in the same breath. What felt like a 40 shot rally finally came to an end but you could quite easily have watched this same match for the rest of the afternoon.

Niemeir though won the first set quite convincingly 6-2, the second 6-4 and never really looked in any trouble at any point of the match. Watson, though, you suspected, was just overcome by it all, millions of British eyes piercing through Watson's soul. Of course Watson, at times, showed hints of brilliance and an obvious aptitude for the all court game. Yesterday she committed herself whole heartedly to the task in hand but you feel sure that with the wind in the right direction and the stars aligned, Heather Watson will make her point felt and equal the marvellous achievements of Virginia Wade, Ann Jones and Angela Mortimer.

Meanwhile back in the man's game Britain has finally released another gem into the big time. Hot on the heels of Andy Murray, now comes Cameron Norrie. Now it may be that Norrie's best years are ahead of him and this is the foundation stage of his nascent career. He probably won't win the men's singles title for quite some time but these are years of development, maturity and adjustment. But yesterday everything seemed to click for Norrie and a relatively straightforward victory over American Tommy Paul did wonders for his morale, confidence and, quite possibly, ego.

Gone are the days when men's tennis in Britain was regarded as a music hall joke, some supporting act in a cabaret of high achievers. Before Andy Murray, there were few moments of consolation. Of course Tim Henman, now a BBC co-commentator, had transcended all class boundaries by emerging from a middle class upbringing in Oxford with something to offer the game. But Goran Ivanisevic and the intervention of rain soon put paid to any of his hopes of winning the tournament. 

Further back in time and also some 50 years ago, Roger Taylor, also clean cut, personable and respectable, reached the semi final at Wimbledon but faltered at the critical points during his match with the aforementioned Jan Kodes in an exhilarating contest that gripped the nation. We would have to wait another 50 years before Britain would finally produce its first men's singles winner since Fred Perry spawned a leisurewear industry.

And so Cameron Norrie formerly of New Zealand with Scottish and Welsh parents, came bounding onto Centre Court like a teenager pulling out of their driveway in a Nissan Micra having just passed their driving test. The afterburners were on at full speed, the enthusiasm almost pouring out of his racketwork. There were times when the Wimbledon crowd were almost spoilt so commanding had Norrie been in all three sets.

 Cameron has an explosive first serve accompanied by all the tricks of the trade, magnificent return of serves pinging and cracking from the tight strings with an almost orchestral harmony about them, deep, probing returns that reared up outrageously at Paul's face. There was a beefy bravado to Cameron's game that seemed to last for the whole of the match. Then there were those feathery touches, the delicious slices, the unpredictable backhand chips that almost seemed to plop over the net. There was a fearsome brutality about his groundstrokes that completely beat Paul all ends up, racing to a comprehensive 6-4 7-5 6-4 three straight sets victory.

So the American with a back to front baseball cap and daredevil exuberance that was somehow infectious, made defeatist gestures as if accepting that his time was truly up. Cameron Norrie went through the traditional routine of mini fist pumps to himself, a ritual at Wimbledon that somehow belongs in this intense environment. Then he progressed through to the next round of Wimbledon and there was a sudden realisation that this journey could go for much longer than most of us had expected.