Alcaraz is the man of the moment.

 Alcaraz is the man of the moment.

It almost felt like the end of an empire, a farewell to genius, the passing of the baton and a generation, the way it used to be but no longer is. You looked across Wimbledon's fair and green acres with those grotesque if unavoidable brown scuff marks on both Centre Court baselines and realised that something was in the air, an aura of transition, another exciting development in the evolution of the world's greatest grass court tournament. You had to be there to see it and experience it. Even if you were watching it from a distance you were essentially there in the middle of it all. This was a seminal moment, the opening page of a new era for the loyal Wimbledon fans and patrons who never fail to be enchanted by it all.

For it was yesterday that a young man by the name of Carlos Alvaraz won the men's singles Wimbledon Final in five of the most intoxicating sets SW19 had seen in quite a while. By the end of it all  Alcaraz deposed the old monarchy and Novak Djokovic slowly drifted away from the centre of all that fuss and publicity and took a back seat for once. The now former Wimbledon champion could hardly believe that finally somebody had penetrated his seemingly impregnable armour. No longer could the all conquering Serbian claim proprietorial rights on tennis's victory podium. The crown had been loosened and defeat for Djokovic became a painful reality. He must have known this day would come but was never sure when.

So the 36 year old tennis maestro found that a combination of ageing reflexes and perhaps that crucial edge of stamina had finally betrayed him. But now the party is over at least for now. The bearing is still athletic and agile but that last striving for greatness no longer seemed to be in evidence. That sheer bloody mindedness, the wholehearted willingness to reach new plateaus of achievement and, above all, the natural ability that has never deserted him, were always to the fore. But for the first time in ages, the Djokovic ruthlessness may have been lacking.

We all know about the ego and ferocious drive that has always lifted his game to the highest of levels but suddenly Djokovic looked flawed and vulnerable. There was a fragility and nervousness about the Serbian that only the most neutral observer would have noticed. Of course he was hungry and motivated but while Alcaraz was dragging him so brutally from one side of his baseline to the other there was a moment when the former Wimbledon champion had nothing else to offer in his once extensive repertoire. Even the impossible returns were just beyond the eight time Wimbledon champion. It all began to unravel for the swarthy, well tanned Serbian. The shots became desperate lunges and the power seemingly evaporated.

At roughly tea time Djokovic had reached a critical point in the match when everything Alcaraz had produced was burnished with perfect timing, glorious spontaneity and immaculate wristwork. The Spanish conquistador unfurled his cape and struck the ball with an astonishing clarity of thought and lethal conviction. We have now reached a point where people will begin to draw understandable comparisons to his fellow countryman Rafa Nadal who for a while dominated the Grand Slam circuit.

But the first set for Alcaraz turned into a disastrous horror show. Every passing return of serve and a rickety forehand combined to tie up the Spaniard in knots. The smooth fluency of the whipped forehand was almost invisible and the co-ordination had somehow disappeared into the far flung courts of 14 and 15. The feathery touch had gone beyond the blue yonder somewhere over the hills while both the forehand, backhand and those attractive sliced responses to Djokovic's wonderfully well organised game, were almost swallowed up by a Serbian onslaught. Djokovic won the first set 6-1 with almost effortless ease and Alcaraz was struggling with his own game on a frequent basis.

In the second set though Alcaraz re-established his foothold on the game with shots of liquid delicacy and laced with versatility. The first serve had now become a potent weapon and the brilliant returns were almost breathtakingly executed from nowhere. Now he mixed and matched a vast array of sumptuous drop shots and the occasional artillery of lobs that left Djokovic groping for air. Then he launched those venomous forehand winners that sizzled past the Serbian. Both tramlines became Alcaraz main focus of attack and the shots were spun, clipped and sliced with absolute precision. When Alcaraz swung his racket  with yet greater whip, the ball flew past Djokovic and the crowd sighed with pleasure. The Spaniard clinched the second set after an intriguing tie break 7-6.

Now the Spanish youngster began to assert himself as a positive force in the game and the third set turned into a stately procession. Alcaraz cruised his way almost nonchalantly into a two sets to one lead. The shots were being peppered from all angles, half volleys, audacious chips, cross court marvels that had no right to be reached. There was now a completeness and accomplishment about Alcaraz that had been left behind in the first set. The Number One seed took complete control of the third set and won a comfortable third set 6-1 as if Djokovic had merely been a figment of his imagination.

But once again Djokovic showed all those remarkable powers of resilience and survival that you might have expected from a once great champion. There was something indefinably brilliant about the Serbian's fighting spirit. It almost felt as if defeat was somehow alien to him and he stormed through the fourth set like a man who just didn't care about his age. For a while there was a youthful exuberance about his game that sustained him and then rewarded his efforts with the fourth set, chalking up a 6-3 pummelling.

In the deciding fifth set both players went hammer and tongs for each other, trading blistering end to end shots that could be heard in Southfields. The crack of a Wimbledon yellow ball is so evocative and  summery that you'd be forgiven for thinking that the game was being played  in some kind of fantasy tennis world where the game is just riveting. First Alcaraz forced the issue before Djokovic rallied heroically to stay in the match but you knew that a changing of the guard was about to take place. Forehand was met with backhand and then top spin double fisted return was heavy with deception. It was all very cunning, dramatic and utterly compelling. 

Alcaraz though had too much for the former Wimbledon champion and the greater variety of shots brought the youngster to the threshold of victory. Djokovic was visibly wilting and the conclusive, concussive forehand clump across the Serbian's chest was just too hot to handle. The shots were raining past Djokovic and down the line almost constantly. And then there was match point for Alcaraz which was promptly delivered like the ultimate body blow. The fifth set was much more tightly contested but the Spanish wonder boy came through 6-4 with flying colours. Wimbledon had anointed a new face and a new champion. Wimbledon could hardly have asked for anymore.

Djokovic beats Rublev at Wimbledon

 Djokovic beats Rublev at Wimbledon

This was surely tennis at its finest and purest. Wimbledon has become renowned for producing matches and legends of the highest quality and yesterday was no different to anything we'd seen before. This was tennis at its most beautiful, an aesthetically pleasing spectacle that turned into a spectacular. Even the most cynical and hard bitten would have to admit that the yearly summer bloom at SW19 has never looked so ornate or decorative.

Yesterday we saw four sets of pulsating, thrilling, delightful and astonishing tennis that somehow defied any superlative or description. Sometimes you had to blink in case you were just hallucinating. By the end of the match the crowd found themselves in a ferment of conflict. Do they support Novak Djokovic in his pursuit of even more monumental record breaking or do they heckle him for what appeared just a hint of arrogance and presumption in the Serbian powerhouse?

The Centre Court has often been the perfect gladiatorial amphitheatre, two giants of the game face to face with each other, rackets at their most tightly strung, a thousand glares and grimaces twisting their facial features. It is tennis at its most emotional and demonstrative, a life or death experience where every set point or game counts and matters immensely. Perhaps we should bottle these days in the sporting calendar and use it for general reference whenever we feel the sport is somehow lacking in some indefinable quality.

For Novak Djokovic this was a step closer to another of Wimbledon's august days in July on the occasion of a men's singles final and another title. The 36 year old Serbian could complete a fifth successive men's singles trophy which would emulate the remarkable feat achieved by the equally as extraordinary Swede Bjorn Borg. For it was he who elevated tennis to an art form and, from time to time, was seemingly unbeatable. But Djokovic is now in another Wimbledon semi final and even now it's hard to believe that our very own Andy Murray actually beat Djokovic in a men's Final exactly a decade ago.

There is a notable edge, an abrasive and aggressive side to  Djokovic that many of us have probably never seen at SW19. Maybe he's taken all of the consistent success at one of the most famous tennis tournaments for granted, believing himself to be utterly invincible. Maybe it has come far too easy for him in recent years but what can't be denied is that there are moments when the Serbian finds himself somewhat isolated, yearning for greater acceptance, reaching out for a higher volume of cheering and adulation.

The visible cupping of his ear in response to the ironic applause of the Wimbledon crowd perhaps exposes internal vulnerabilities in his character, a cry for love and approval. Then there are the fist clenches, the amusing grins on his face when he wins a point and the general dissatisfaction expressed when things aren't going his way. Borg used to disguise his displeasure with a gentle ruffle of the fringe of his hair, a blowing on the fingers and the customary twiddle with his racket.

Now though Djokovic is at the very height of his career and therefore immune from any kind of real setback. If John McEnroe were still involved in Grand Slam tournaments you feel sure that he would probably have strangled the umpires even though Hawkeye would have begged to differ. But Djokovic does things rather differently in as much that even the remotest hint of trouble can be dealt with by a stifled grunt or another bunched fist.

After four staggeringly flawless sets the Wimbledon champion finally saw off his Russian opponent and world class junior Andrey Rublev, thoughts turned to Djokovic's ruthlessness, his amazing powers of endurance, the stamina that just kept giving and a brand of tennis that bordered on the miraculous. With Roger Federer now retired and Rafael Nadal biding his time for another tournament, Djokovic was left with the onerous responsibility of providing his sport with the professionalism and virtuosity it has never really needed but welcomed all the same.

In the opening set though all the form books were thrown out of the window. The Wimbledon champion, probably taking his eye off the yellow ball for a while by Rublev's accomplished all round game, had briefly lost his way. There was a grit and dogged determination about Rublev that none of us would have seen coming. There were the powerful forehand returns to Djokovic's booming first serve, the quick witted exchanges at the net, the sliced backhands and dinked drop shots that left the Serbian groping for a plausible answer. Rublev edged the first set 6-4 but this only served to energise Djokovic, sending a surge of electricity through him like a bolt from the blue. It was the ultimate wake up call.

Then the second set dawned and the Wimbledon champion awoke smartly to his task as if an alarm clock had rung resoundingly in his ears. By now the match itself was just a tennis carnival, both players stretching each other from tramline to tramline with a memorable collection of delicate backhands and barnstorming forehands loaded with class, panache and variation. There were lunging volleyed returns that were literally taken with their rackets on the ground. This was sensational and thrilling tennis that never let up for a single moment and you doubted whether you'd seen anything better.

But Djokovic roared into contention with vigorous winning passing forehands that sizzled past Rublev like bullets from a gun. There were explosive sliced backhands heavily laced with top spin and for which the Russian had no answer. Djokovic was here, there and everywhere, throwing himself heroically at shots he had no right to win. The Serbian forehand now became an instrument of destruction, whipped across and past Rublev as if he was invisible. There were the rolled wristy returns that generated such force that Rublev must have thought everything was now completely beyond Djokovic. The Wimbledon champion cleaned up the second set authoritatively 6-1. Game on.

The third set by now was an inevitable second chapter of a book. You knew who'd committed the crime before the misdemeanour had even been committed. Djokovic ran through the third set like a dose of salts, brushing Rublev aside effortlessly and disdainfully rather like a man shrugging off a feather. We knew where this one was going. There was yet another repertoire of impossible returns of serve smashed past Rublev, more backhands of fabulous finesse, more forehands that looked as though Djokovic had just invented them. He was an irresistible force of nature, the complete article, briefly disturbed by a first set defeat but retrieved by years of experience at the topmost echelon of world tennis. Once again Djokovic dominated as if he were meant to do so. It was 6-4 to the Wimbledon champion and game almost over.

In the fourth set Djokovic looked as if the first set had been a phantom. The shots to both tramlines were heavy and lethal, stinging half volleys and volleys, passing shots that flew past his opponent. Suddenly there was a recognition that nobody could stop the Serbian. The express train was hurtling through the countryside at frightening speed and victory for Djokovic was literally minutes away. The backhand was now fully fired up with the intensity of a compulsive winner. The Wimbledon champion wrapped up a semi final appearance.

And so the Wimbledon champion acknowledged the applause of the Wimbledon faithful because that was part of his job description. You wave at the Centre Court crowd, smile benignly at a sea of faces and marvel at the grandeur of it all, Wimbledon's charm, its people, its easy going conviviality, the enduring respect for the game in every global corner and the Pimms, the quintessential Englishness of the fortnight. We've seen it all before but our admiration is unrelenting. Bring on the Wimbledon semi finalists.  

Three Brits fall at Wimbledon

 Three Brits fall at Wimbledon

It almost seemed too good to be true. There we were expecting miracles at Wimbledon and then it all fizzled out in disappointing anti climax. When Andy Murray resumed his encounter against Greek hotshot Stefano Tsitspas yesterday afternoon many of us assumed that this was going to be Britain's day or at least Scotland's day. But then we remembered Murray's chronic injury record, the hip replacements, the bad backs and then sighed with despair.

Still, Murray has been there, seen it and done it. Murray is now twice winner of the men's singles Final title and probably feels as though he has nothing else to prove. But you know what's it like with British sport. We almost feel it's our prerogative to win things at the drop of the hat. We growl and groan when we lose understandably but then realise that we're just as good as the rest of the world and expectations become much more unrealistic.

Yesterday Murray, accompanied by Cameron Norrie and Liam Broady, all bowed out of this year's Wimbledon. We couldn't blame the weather because quite clearly it was boiling hot and besides these are just feeble excuses. British players should be at their fittest, most athletic and agile when the heat is on. Sadly though this was not to be Britain's day and occasionally we do experience bad days at the office. For Norrie, Broady and Carrie the excitement and drama seemed to drain out of the day as soon as Murray fell.

There was a point during the afternoon at SW19 when new kid on the block Cameron Norrie must have been startled by a thousand headlights. Instead he saw a tall, powerful American player called Chris Eubanks and knew it would be curtains sooner rather than later. Norrie was a singularly gracious loser this time but at least he could comfort himself in the knowledge that the better player had won and there was no shame in losing at this stage of his career. But as the years pass by perhaps the pressure will grow and the intensity generated by these games could work in his favour.

For the vast majority of the crowd the hot sunshine and sweltering heat may have taken them back to those halcyon days when Bjorn Borg, Jimmy Connors and John McEnroe were in complete charge on Centre Court and the rest were just making up the numbers. But for Norrie this could turn into a steep learning curve rather than an arduous battle against the odds. You feel sure that Norrie will undoubtedly win Wimbledon one day but, given patience and encouragement, that day could be sooner rather than later.

The South Africa born player who took up brief residence in New Zealand, Cameron Norrie has an insatiable appetite for tennis, striking a tennis ball with ferocious power and accuracy, playing the game as if he were fated to win every shot at his disposal and looking the finished article. Corrie is  hungry for victory, fast across the court and fully endowed with a whole host of perfect shots. He fist pumps with anger and annoyance at himself because standards are impossibly high and when things are going against him he turns on himself with just a hint of frustration and self reproach.

From the opening first set Norrie was simply swept away, totally outclassed and eventually overwhelmed by Eubanks. Norrie started nervously and then found himself blown away by Eubanks and his stunning ammunition. Norrie swept his hair and tugged at his shirt anxiously as if blaming his clothes for his discomfiture. But then Eubanks got to work on the hapless Brit punching away forehands decisively, slicing the ball deceptively with both backhand and forehand and achieving a technical prowess few of us knew he had.

During one game Eubanks hit a cultured and controlled backhand past his British opponent and then there were  perfectly executed  returns delivered with the sweetest timing. Then the American seemed to get stronger and stronger with every passing shot, drilling cross court winners that screamed past Norrie like yellow bullets. Before you could blink for a moment, Eubanks had wrapped up the first set with a display of ruthless aces, astonishing chip and charges to the net and more swooping backhands from ridiculous angles. Eubanks won the first set 6-3 but that was over in the blink of an eye lid.

But then Norrie whipped up the hysterical Wimbledon crowd to fever pitch and launched the most amazing of comebacks. The Norrie backhands and forehands became crisper, meatier and significantly more crucial. His all around game was now firing on all cylinders and another British hopeful began to believe. The shots rained down on Eubanks, pinning the American to the baseline and whistling past him with lacerating speed. Norrie triumphed in a superb second set, swinging his racket with all the conviction of a gunslinger and then sending the fans wild with cunning lobs and drop shots.

Sadly, that was as good as it got for Norrie. Eubanks was in no mood for sympathy and the American's hard hitting, clinical tennis just devoured any of Norrie's resistance. Losing all of the most important service games and break points, Norrie had no answer to Eubanks who was almost cruising to inevitable victory. It had become men against boys and how we knew it. Eubanks blasted Norrie into submission in the third set 6-2, a margin so convincing that you knew the Brit had lost the contest even then.

By the fourth set Cameron Norrie acknowledged his opponent's overall superiority and couldn't really find a definitive solution to Eubanks polished all round game. And yet in a tight, fiercely competitive fourth set, Norrie went for it hammer and tongs, whipping the ball violently from deep  on his baseline and serving as if his life depended on it. It was nip and tuck, both players trading shot for shot, booming forehand shots that defied description. This could have gone either way. Sadly for Britain, Eubanks came through with an almost classical all court intelligence, winning the closest of tie breaks 7-6.

Now the Wimbledon aficionados lifted their voices and cheered from the rafters even though the home fans grudgingly admitted that Norrie had been well beaten. But they knew what they'd just seen and loved what they'd just seen. It had been a beautiful day in this summertime of sport. The strawberries and cream at SW19 may not have been eaten with the same relish but the ivy on the wall still shimmered in the July sunlight and Wimbledon glowed with its daily radiance. It had been another perfect day at the home of British tennis and although it hadn't quite gone according to plan, the tennis feast had been a joy to watch.

NHS at 75

 NHS at 75

How eternally grateful are we to the NHS? Today the National Health Service celebrates a well deserved 75th birthday. It hardly seems possible that we've come so far when it looked as though its future had been threatened by a global virus that seemed to go on indefinitely. But thankfully we knew how to look after ourselves. It could have been so much worse and yet our powers of resilience showed no signs of letting up and we got through it in the end. But the warning signs are still there.

Today the NHS is still teetering on a precarious precipice, wobbling under the severest pressure and still weighed down by rash mismanagement and the kind of po faced bureaucracy that continues to hamper its very existence. And yet it was never like this all those decades ago when a heroic politician by the name of Aneurin Bevan wisely considered the state of the nation's health and felt that there had to be some vital facility for those who were in desperate need of medical attention.

And so it is that we celebrate the culmination of a dream project that was bound to bear fruition and then just rapidly blossomed into the most beautiful flower of them all. Besides, where would we have been without our front line nurses, eminent surgeons, obstetricians, pathologists, doctors, cancer and dementia specialists, mid wives, matrons, paediatric experts and all manner of catering staff, porters and everybody who has played such a fundamental role in its development throughout the decades?

Of course there have been moments of crisis and, sadly, accident and emergency departments have been stretched to breaking point. At the moment the NHS are trying desperately to make up for the monumental loss of Covid 19 patients, and addressing at source the crippling waiting lists for cancer, kidney transplants, dementia cases and all of the ongoing mental health issues that became the aftermath of Covid 19. There must have been a point when everything became overwhelmingly unbearable, a forlorn plea for help that never seemed to be there.

But in 1948 hospitals and doctors surgeries opened up their doors to the sick, the ailing, the infirm, the poorly and those who simply couldn't cope anymore. Suddenly sympathetic doctors with bedside manners smiled solicitously at their local patients or those who'd travelled from afar. In front of us was the kind doctor with a stethoscope wrapped around their neck whose torch would be shone brightly inside your mouth and determined the severity of your illness. We knew we were being cared about almost immediately and there was somebody out there who could appreciate your pain. They were there for you and invariably engaged you in comforting conversation when we were so anxious to hear soothing diagnoses.

But for those cynics who still believe that the NHS are still underperforming and failing to rise to the daunting challenges, maybe we should remember where they were when the global virus first dawned at the end of March 2020. The ambulances were ready, the paramedics on duty and on every Thursday evening we were implored to clap for the men and women who were about to give such unstinting dedication to their profession.

Now though the NHS are still making their presence felt, still the benevolent face of Britain, the caring, understanding and compassionate influence on our everyday lives. For 75 years, day in and day out they have worked unsocial hours, through the night, always available to us whenever the need was at its gravest. We knew they had the vast resources and that nothing would be too much trouble.

For my late and lovely mum, who was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease and suffered so much, the NHS extended the warm hand of tenderness and love. Every day her carers dressed her, delivered meals  on wheels without any complaint or hesitation. My equally as wonderful late dad was similarly attended to with everything they could possibly offer. We tend to take the NHS for granted because they've always been in the background, taking our blood pressures, reaching out to us and talking if that is the therapy we need.

So today let's sing out a million congratulations to the National Health Service. It's time to light the birthday candles for the NHS, acknowledging the huge debt of gratitude we owe this essential service. In our local health centre there is a photo that looks as if it was taken during the 1950s. It shows a smiling mother with her young daughter gazing out of a window, mum pointing out the buildings next to parent and child.

Personal childhood memories of your local doctor abound. There was the venerable and hugely respected Dr Elliot, a no nonsense and ruthless GP who didn't mince his words. On one occasion, mum took her toddler son with a heavy cold only to be dismissed as a malingerer. Well, not exactly a malingerer as such but our medic prescribed the most simple medicine. You were told, in no uncertain terms that all you needed was an Aspirin, an early night and re-assured that you'd have made a complete recovery by the following morning.

Happy Birthday NHS. You've been with us for over 75 years and it's time to don the party hats, eat as much cake as possible and cast your mind into the future. Sometimes we tend to assume that they'll always come to our rescue when our fevers had just become intolerable. But now is the time more than ever when we look to our hospital receptionists, expressing the deepest admiration for those pushing the disabled in wheelchairs and for some of us with fractured fingers. We can never thank you enough NHS. 

National Disco Day.

 National Disco Day.

Now where did that one come from? We had no idea of its existence and if we hadn't been told then we'd have been convinced that somebody had been pulling our leg or just making it up as they went along. In fact it does sound like some barely believable invention or perhaps something that had been dreamt up by some party- going type who loves to remember the good, old days. But then every day is a good one. It does feel like some nostalgic throwback to when our generation just danced the night away.

Today folks it's National Disco Day. You knew that anyway, didn't you? It had to be National Disco Day because a vast majority of the world were recovering from the exertions of a Saturday night when everybody boogied on down and strutted their funky stuff until the point of complete exhaustion. So on the following Sunday morning we all tried to imitate John Travolta and just slung our jacket over our shoulder before embarking on a dizzy sequence of hip swaying and indulging in those slinky body popping movements and whatever your interpretation of disco music was.

Suffice it to say that in the summer of 1977, eminent film producer and impresario par excellence Robert Stigwood came up with the brilliant idea of marrying the music of the time with the disco floors of New York, Los Angeles and California and coming up with the perfect fusion of American funk, the mainstream sound of soul and mixing the whole pot pourri with some of the most delightful music ever heard or seen.

For those who had been subjected to the overbearing, aggressive and disturbingly anarchic sound of punk, this was the perfect antidote to the late 1970s period of pogo dancing with men and women wearing black leather coats and safety pins attached to their noses. It was a wild, uncontrollable, faintly annoying tempo and beat although for those who followed the likes of the Clash, the Sex Pistols, the Undertones and Sham 69 maybe it was an acceptable reminder of music's constant evolution.

But essentially disco music was a triumph of the human soul, a celebration of cool, Manhattan soul, an expression of dance with few inhibitions and no boundaries. Meanwhile Stigwood was busily working away at his most ambitious project of all. Saturday Night Fever, starring the hitherto unheard of John Travolta and now the sadly missed Olivia Newton John, was electrifyingly stunning. None of us could have anticipated that it would become the greatest cinema phenomenon of the summer of 1977. Saturday Night Fever broke all box office records and it was the most attractive adornment to any film archive in years to come.

We waited patiently outside the Barkingside Odeon cinema and the queues snaked all the way around the local high street, teenagers naturally bubbling over with excitement but not really sure what to expect. We'd bought the Saturday Night Fever album and could hardly wait to place it on our record turntable for our further delectation. It was vinyl gold and every track on the album had lived up to all of our expectations.

The Tramps Disco Inferno was a pulsating metaphor for disco music as a specific genre while Yvonne Elliman's equally as uplifting If I Can't Have You defined the structure of disco music. But then we discovered a group of men in sparkly baseball jackets who were born in England but grew up in the Australian outback. The Bee Gees were high falsetto, high pitched and unmistakably soulful. The hits tumbled from the conveyor belt like jars of honey. After years of striving and struggling to make themselves heard with songs like Words during the 1960s and Massachusetts, the Bee Gees were now firmly on the radar of the disco scene that galvanised us to the point of a musical fever pitch.

There were in no particular order Staying Alive, the soundtrack Saturday Night Fever, You Should Be Dancing and the more romantic How Deep Is Your Love. As both a collective and successful franchise these were songs for the ages, the tunes we simply couldn't get out of our heads. We will always remember Saturday Night Fever because it also spawned an artistic gallery of soul practitioners with a lovely feeling for  good time vibes. In turn  that would now take disco music into a whole new dimension.

There were the Detroit Spinners, the Whispers, Tavares, the Stylistics, the evergreen Temptations who were strictly Motown but nobody would ever have objected to their presence. There was the peerless genius of Stevie Wonder, a child prodigy who had learnt all of the finer nuances of the harmonica by the age of 12. Of course Stevie could appeal to the girls and guys who would fill the floors of the remarkable American pop music show Soul Train and the sense of something like a dramatic change was underway.

But now a crystal ball on the ceiling was spinning and a spectacular riot of colour had now flashed away almost incessantly for the entire 1970s decade. And then there was Earth, Wind and Fire, a group so superlatively brilliant that whenever a retro night club dropped the vinyl on the two decks, you were aware that something sensational had gripped the disco floors of the world. September, Fantasy, Boogie Wonderland and In the Stone were so infectiously danceable that many of us thought we had yet to hear anything better.

Sadly, the era of the disco floor is no longer as relevant and accessible as it used to be and Tramps and Stringfellows are no more than some historical music footnote. London is still a  melting pot for soul singers like Gregory Porter but the aforesaid disco pioneers are no longer the force they used to be. It could go down as one of the most memorable styles of music but as Herbie Hancock's ground breaking synths in You Betta Your Love fade from the thumping speakers, you recall the distinctive disco rhythms that we knew so well and wanted to continue for ever. Happy National Disco Day everybody.

Wimbledon - anybody for tennis?

 Wimbledon- anybody for tennis?

We all know about Wimbledon's sporting significance and most of us believe it to be one of the most satisfying and rewarding summer spectacles of them all. Apart from the first day of a Lord's cricket Test Match or the Henley Regatta, it is still up there with the best. In many ways Wimbledon is quintessentially English, as synonymous with Middle England and the capital city of London as afternoon tea with scones, jam and cream, an invigorating walk in the Lake District and then a swift half of warm beer next to a thatched cottage.

We've always done Wimbledon with a very British sense of style and impeccable sense of occasion.  We dress up in all our finery or simply casually with loose, possibly patriotic T- shirts, natty Panama hats, with hampers crammed full of middle class pate, smoked salmon, a tupperware box of cheese and pickle sandwiches, a couple of bottles of Pimms and of course the obligatory strawberries and cream, punnets of them. Oh, and don't forget the essential bottles of water in case the sweltering heat gets to us. We nod respectfully as the sets and games unfold, clap thunderously when the rallies are at their most mesmerising and then gasp with amazement when tie breaks look as though they could be drawn out until midnight.

So it is that Wimbledon is woven into the fabric of England's heritage. It always makes it in time for the last week in June and this year at the beginning of July so if you're ready we'll begin on Monday again. It's that hardy perennial that always looks pretty. You'd hardly expect anything else. The ivy clad walls outside the grounds of Wimbledon are being pruned to perfection, multitudes of flower boxes will decorate most of the main courts while on the outer courts there will be a constant buzz and hum. Here the young British hopefuls will limber up optimistically and then realistically when they discover they may have to wait for a while before approaching anything remotely resembling world class and world beating form.

In recent years Britain has finally found in its ranks one of the most precocious talents it had ever seen. He came from the sleepy Scottish town of Dunblane and his name was Andy Murray. We didn't expect a great deal of Murray at the time because we knew the last time a Brit had won at Wimbledon, some of the flappers had just conquered the dance floor with their twinkle toed Charleston and the social classes had accepted Fred Perry as one of the finest tennis players any of them had ever seen. But it had been roughly 75 years since Britain had unearthed its very own lustrous gem. And finally their patience had been rewarded.

Murray has reeled off two men's singles titles at SW19 and even now it seems as if we might have been imagining it. The Brits have always either failed miserably at Wimbledon or just surrendered when they were just agonisingly close to victory. The sight of Tim Henman bowing out in a semi final anti climax against Goran Ivanisevic on Centre Court must be one of the most harrowing sights ever known to any Wimbledon enthusiast. It was the Wimbledon where rain stopped play and with Henman poised to win, the umbrellas went up and the following day, Henman trooped disconsolately off Centre Court like a man who had been deprived of all his important belongings. 

It is now 51 years ago since another Englishman and proud Yorkshireman Roger Taylor almost reached a Wimbledon Final but then stumbled at the final hurdle. And therein lies the inherent frustration that has often come between a British tennis player and a Wimbledon final. True Virginia Wade did become the first English woman to win at SW19 in the late and much loved Queen's Silver Jubilee in 1977. A Dutch player by the name of Betty Stove was beaten on that gold tinted day for British tennis by Wade, the first English lady to curtsey before royalty wearing a mauve cardigan and then accepting her winning trophy.

But here we are once again and the towering presence of one Novak Djokovic looms ominously over Wimbledon as if he'd always been there and never left the building. This could be his eighth Wimbledon men's singles Final title and at this rate he could be in line for a knighthood or some very fitting accolade to acknowledge his remarkable achievements in the game. We may never see the like of Djokovic ever again but then we must have said exactly the same when Bjorn Borg, Jimmy Connors and John McEnroe were at the height of their careers.

When Borg chalked up five Wimbledon men singles titles there was probably an understandable assumption that nobody would ever emulate such a stunning feat. We can still the Swede blowing gently on his racket and fingers, composing himself almost constantly and twiddling his racket for good measure at least five or six times but none of us seemed to mind at all.

Then there was Jimmy Connors, the American gunslinger, brave, heroic, determined, stubborn at times, perhaps unnecessarily childish and petulant when he couldn't get his own way. Connors proceeded to go through that familiar ritual. He would yell at the top of his voice, growl and snap just to make sure that everybody could hear him and then severely reprimand himself  for not maintaining his absurdly high standards. There were the shouts, the noisy bellowing noises, the fruity language and the kind of behaviour reminiscent of a toddler at their second birthday party.

Then there was John McEnroe. Now if McEnroe had still been around today there is a real possibility that he wouldn't have lasted five minutes within the hallowed corridors of SW19. McEnroe was the ultimate revolutionary, a man who loved an argument, an insurrectionist of the worst kind, always kicking off, sounding off, blowing his top, insulting umpires, testing the emotional reflexes of everybody, rubbing everybody up the wrong way. Umpires were just a convenient excuse for McEnroe to let off steam, a rebellious non conformist who refused to listen to all and sundry. He was quarrelsome and troublesome,  spluttering his fury at an umpire who hadn't seen the chalk on a Wimbledon tramline.

So it is that we reach the present day generation of Wimbledon wonderkids, experienced veterans and the ones with massive potential. In the age of Rafa Nadal,  Djokovic and the latest big hitters Wimbledon will continue to hold us in thrall for perhaps for ever. The crowds will always converge on Wimbledon, queuing for ages outside, flasks of coffee or tea at the ready. The manners, etiquette and protocol will always follow the tournament wherever it happens to go. Wimbledon's quirky mannerisms and theatrical histrionics will never desert it because that's the reason they keep coming back year after year.

For some of us Wimbledon will always be remembered for the lengthening shadows that will fall over Centre Court at roughly 5pm in the afternoon when the punters were at their most relaxed and those who were taking their seat after work were always ready to cheer themselves hoarse. Then in the twilight of the evening and the onset of darkness all you could hear was the distinctive clatter of the old wooden racket. Suddenly a red light would appear on the electronic scoreboard and some of us were just looking forward to the nine o'clock news without worrying about the welfare of Bjorn Borg. 

So the nets will be tightened, the umpires chair adjusted accordingly, the lawn mower rollers heaved back to their right and proper place. The tramlines will look immaculate, the grass shimmering in the summer heat and the players will look at their fittest. Wimbledon has spanned all the decades seamlessly without wondering why it appeals to so many millions around the world, why it holds that enchanting fascination to those who just love tennis. Game, Set and Match, Wimbledon. You're guaranteed five star entertainment. Enjoy everybody.   

Elton John at Glastonbury.

 Elton John at Glastonbury.

The sun was setting over the rural heartlands of Somerset. Away in the distance, bright, amber coloured clouds settled on the hills of cider country and the birds flew off to explore yet more pristine fields of green. The English countryside had never looked more picturesque, pictorial or prettier. Then, as if by magic, a legendary 76 year old musician and immensely gifted singer and songwriter was doing what he's always done best. This was the right setting at the right time. We applauded him rapturously because we knew we'd been in the presence of greatness, excellence and an extraordinary talent who just happened to be retiring from the world of pop music.

It is hard to believe that Sir Elton John is now calling it a day, gracefully withdrawing from a life of celebrity, unfortunate notoriety at times but still giving it all for one last, massive gig. The life and times of Sir Elton John have been extensively well chronicled since Sir Elton has never shied away from the dazzling glare of publicity, a man of style, delightful flamboyance, hilarious glasses, a whole wardrobe of outlandish clothes and an image that was unmistakable in its uniqueness.

Last night John or Reg Dwight as his parents and close family must have called him, went for the burn, a face radiating enthusiasm and huge enjoyment, the happiest of smiles playing almost constantly around his mouth and eyes. Elton John may have been dreading this moment but there was nothing at all to worry about since he was in good, wildly appreciative company and besides he didn't have to get up at the crack of dawn anymore and the memories would keep him warm for an eternity.

After an extensive tour of the world and his final farewell to those fiercely devoted fans around the globe it was time to take it easy for this spectacular entertainer, a witty and humorous but at times quite serious and business like man who cherishes the privacy of his family and no little solitude. By his own admission he has been on one of the most gruelling and demanding of roads since a teenager and his body could no longer take any more. Sometimes genius can manifest itself almost immediately and Elton must have known that as soon as he sat down at the piano as a kid, the song writing was on the wall.

We all now remember the biopic film of Elton John. Rocket Man was a splendid and revealing insight into the life of a man who must have appealed to all demographics and classes. For a moment or two you wonder what he must have made of punk rock, that loudly anarchic movement who disapproved of everything from royalty to the British government. But John rose above the chaos and mayhem of the Sex Pistols, the Clash, Sham 69 and the Undertones with a grace and acceptance of the inevitable that lifted the soul no end. 

The film Rocket Man of course highlighted all of the career highs and lows of a life lived in the fast lane with a generous helping of sex, drugs and rock and roll just as an aperitif. The main course, as we all know, was one of  furious arguments, the tormented sexuality, the disclosure of a gay man inside of a persona who we must have thought  was perfectly straight but was nothing of the sort. Nowadays of course homophobia has become a virulent disease that none of us should ever tolerate. But for Sir Elton John, the recognition of who he really was may well have been doing far more damage to him than he could possibly have imagined.

His life has embraced the whole spectrum of emotions ranging from frustration, heartache, bewilderment, tragedy and delirious delight when the all night parties were in full flow. Of course there were the celebrations, the shameless hedonism and debauchery, the flaming rows with John Reid, the man whose very public relationship with Elton John became headline news. Then there was Bernie Taupin, the man who penned most of his lyrics. Taupin would become his closest of friends, a kindred spirit John would always confide in and trust when things were hurtling out of control. Taupin was John's chief creative, the inspiration behind everything John would turn his hands to and still is.

And so last night was very much an effusive celebration of Sir Elton John, his mastery of the well crafted song, his homage to everything he valued above everything. When the darkness finally fell at Worthy Farm in Glastonbury we knew we'd rubbed shoulders with craftsmanship, a natural adroitness with the written word on the page, a man in complete control of all human feelings and a very real identification of what mattered to him most on the night. The fans were almost idolatrous at times and the appreciation was so mutual that everybody seemed to be singing from the same hymn sheet.

Yes the Glastonbury crowds, the ocean of faces, the hundreds and thousands quite possibly thousands more who just couldn't quite get onto the sprawling fields. All had gathered to acknowledge star quality, now a seasoned trooper but quite the most stunning talent. There were the outrageous glasses, the heart shaped glasses and then innumerable rows of people wearing glasses who were just swept away by the immensity of the occasion. You often felt as if you were watching some record breaking cultural event, an iconic spectacle, perhaps religious in its intensity but quite astonishing to behold.

So Sir Elton John sat down respectfully at his Yamaha piano, the piano that had almost become an integral part of his personality, faithfully following him around the world, the piano that had turned into a reliable friend. Then he found a comfortable seat and the red tinted glasses gazed across admiringly to the rest of his illustrious band. This was a much more sober, more mellow and reflective Elton John, a far cry from those crazy days of relentless orgies and showbusiness parties.

You remembered for a while the mid 1970s when life was all about those giant American stadiums where John would stride onto stage wearing quite the most amazing baseball gear complete with cap. Then there were the massive platform shoes and boots glittering in the mid day sun. Who could ever forget the wonderfully camp dresses with feathers and frills, yet more glasses that were so hard to believe that if you didn't know it was Elton John you could have sworn he was about to join the greatest fancy dress party of all time?

Then there were the years of social conscience when John, who had formed a close bond with the late Princess Diana, would display an even kinder and more compassionate side to his nature. There was the Aids Foundation that he would become enduringly associated with and his commitment to that cause would almost define his character. The 1980s would become a decade to pause for breath, a time of personal introspection, a chance to slow down and ponder his life most thoughtfully.

And so the songs came thick and fast. John opened with the instantly recognisable Pinball Wizard, a song so rousing and stirring that you had to remember the film from which the song came. Here was a hard driving, punchy rock number that you could still see the Pinner born maestro, complete with glasses and shoes, flicking a silver ball around a pinball machine like the kid at the seaside who just doesn't want the day to end.

This was followed swiftly by The Bitch is Back, which as the title would suggest, hasn't the highest opinion of women. Still, this was another rollocking, rocking almost infectiously catchy number that reminded us why we were so emotionally swept away by this larger than life showman. The song is gossipy, emphatic and adamant. In many ways the song was almost self explanatory but perhaps he just wanted to create a stir. Most of us could recognise where he was going to so it didn't really come as a surprise.

Benny and the Jets was another honky tonk, plinkety  plonk, piano related song oozing gallons of charm and character, the kind of a song you'd listen to over and over again in your local pub and never tire of hearing. We were never told who Benny was nor did we ever question the reference to the Jets but this was another classic that although released as a single, never quite reached the giddy heights. Still, it was a wonderfully enjoyable set and one we could sing along to in the shower for quite a while.

Next up was the engaging sentimentality of Daniel, a song so warm and reassuring that you almost felt as if you knew who Daniel was and where he came from. Daniel is an enchanting story about a man travelling the highways and byways in a Chevrolet with the sun roof down and looking out for new adventures. Somehow you believed that he would find his destination because here was a man with purpose and self motivation.

Then there was the ultimate and somehow quintessential Elton John, a song written for the ages and a song that had a golden hallmark on it, a song of such touching simplicity that it was almost timeless. Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, the title of the album, was a magnificent nod to the nostalgia and reminiscence we all indulge in from time to time. Goodbye Yellow Brick Road sounds like some affectionate tribute to the way life used to be and his heartfelt farewell to the old.

Moving forward rapidly to the 1980s Elton gave us I Guess That's Why They Called Blues. Perhaps the distinctive harmonica in the song represented his transition to another phase of his life. You can well imagine the blues element and the rich discovery of something else rather than hard rock. Still, there is a delightful innocence about the track that makes you want to hum it over and over again. But decades later the ditty still tells you everything you need to know about Sir Elton John.

In Philadelphia Freedom, as Sir Elton so eloquently described it last night, here is a song about his Philadelphia years during the 1970s. Here he introduces a funkier, more soulful beat, the smooth cadences of Philly where John finds complete liberation of the soul. This was the first genuinely American sounding track and although still heavily layered with rock there is something very sophisticated and life affirming about Philadelphia Freedom.

At roughly the same time as Philadelphia Freedom, John would release another song that bore striking similarities to the aforesaid song. Are You Ready For Love lay dormant for decades in a draw and although you might have vaguely heard of it, the recent re- release of the song was immortalised in a TV advert several years ago. Once again there is that instantly recognisable Philly sound, a fusion of cool orchestrations and rhythmic verses.

Sad Songs (Says So Much) is a reflection of the way John must have felt about bittersweet and melancholy tunes which can be so uplifting when your day has been stressful in the extreme. In many ways sadness has accompanied much of his journey although light has always been at the end of tunnel. But it still sounds as fresh and original as the day of its release and for that reason, holds up beautifully to the discerning ear. 

Someone Saved My Life Tonight, from the award winning Captain Fantastic, was another exemplary composition that pretty much says what it does on the tin. While the world was falling apart around him and the drug parties became progressively wilder and worse, there was Bernie Taupin who read the riot act to him in Rocket Man. While Elton was recklessly throwing himself into champagne filled baths and then sticking two fingers up at convention, Taupin was always there to catch John in the safety net.

Your Song is simply a gorgeous ballad that flows from the pen of the one and only Reg Dwight. It might have been a love letter to a girlfriend which might have written on a train heading to New York. It is a classy, straightforward song that might have come to him late at night when the coffee pot was boiling and the piano was tinkling its ivories.

Candle in the Wind assumed a much greater poignancy twice over for Sir Elton. His first recording of the song was his way of expressing a long held admiration of  Marilyn Monroe, the Hollywood icon, who would perish at the hands of domineering film producers and directors. Monroe was simply exploited for all she was worth. Candle in the Wind is all about the fragility of fame and its preciousness. When Princess Diana tragically lost her life it re-discovered a new lease of life.

Tiny Dancer is another film related song that purrs along admirably, sweetly phrased and joyously rewarding for those who love a good, old fashioned sing song. The title would imply that Elton John must have known a dancer from whom he would derive great inspiration. But it is cleverly written and thought provoking, instantly likeable and something to treasure on a long car journey.

In the long and hot summer of 1976 when the mercury soared and temperatures reached a record high, Elton John teamed up with Kiki Dee to record Don't Go Breaking Heart, the number one hit of the summer which dominated the charts. Last night Sir Elton was joined by Rina Sawayama one of the many modern voices John seemed to be championing quite successfully last night. Once again Don't Go Breaking My Heart took you right back to your teenage years and adolescence when the summer of 1976 appeared to last for ever. It had to reach number one and did so for some time.

Crocodile Rock sounds like the kind of record that Sir Elton John when the good times were rolling and eccentricity began to take over. It is another stylish rock number that sounds ridiculous but then becomes much clearer when you realise that in another distant past there was the Bunny Hop. It was music at its funniest and carefree, happy and jolly, a perfect excuse for a bop and another party.

As the concert drew to its climax, Elton began to thank both the band, his husband David Furnish and children, the cherishable friends and family with acknowledgments to everybody who had made life so complete. Out there on Worthy Farm, the vast droves of adoring fans wore their glasses with pride, girlfriends bouncing up and down on boyfriends shoulders and the flags fluttering gently in the Somerset breeze.

Saturday Night is Alright for Fighting is another highly energetic, red blooded and fully charged rock track that was both amusingly irreverent and perhaps Elton's take on pub brawls on a Saturday night. Here was a musician and stylist at the top of his game ready to milk the applause over and over again. Suddenly we were taken back to 1970 something and we were transported back to an era where everybody felt that anything was possible.

Back in the 1980s I'm Still Standing was the most defiant of all statements, a message about negotiating all the setbacks and disappointments of our younger years and still smelling of roses. In the video of I'm Still Standing Sir Elton marches proudly along sun kissed promenades and seaside beaches with a boater hat on his head. Elton remains undefeated and unscathed by the critics and the cynics. It is almost his redemptive song.

The penultimate song of the night showed the legend that he is. Once again referring back to his appreciation of youth, Sir Elton sung Cold Heart, a variation on a theme of  Sacrifice another hit from another time but still impeccably delivered rather like a birthday present to a member of your family. This was Sir Elton John at his most humane, generous and benevolent, a striking reminder to all of his admirers that Elton could still belt out a song.

Don't Let the Sun Go Down was another emotional trip down memory lane for the Pinner maestro. For a moment you thought the tears would flood out of his eyes but then Sir Elton composed himself. He thought for a minute or two about his late friend George Michael and their duo collaboration on the song. He may well have dedicated the song to Michael and if so you could hardly have blamed him.

And then the finale. Rocket Man was such a highly accomplished piece of song writing that it may well have been designed just for him. Rocket Man was quite possibly a throwback to a time when Elton John was still hugely ambitious and idealistic, when the stars could still be reached. It suddenly occurs to you that it might have appealed to the astronaut in him, looking to conquer new territories.

And that was that for Glastonbury just for another year. The tents were dismantled, sleeping bags thrown gleefully into the back of the car, flags presumably preserved for next year. We remembered the incomparable Cat Stevens, who sent out his political anthems about peace and love, a thankyou to the NHS and a whole variety of noble causes. There was Blondie aka Debbie Harry who is now 70 something but still capable of blasting out her back catalogue of punk hits with a flirtatious relish. All in all it was Glastonbury to fondly recall so it'll see you next year at roughly the same time and same place.