Fortnum and Mason

 Fortnum and Mason.

Summer is slowly sinking into a golden sunset. August is bidding its farewell to the massed West End of London throng down below and shortly autumnal mists will remind you of grey curtains. Yesterday my lovely wife Bev and I ventured into the capital city for one tantalising glimpse of summer sunshine. The traffic on the roads was flowing freely, the modern day Red Routemaster buses were gliding past our vision in much the way they've always done and Green Park was naturally at its greenest.

If you were to believe some people the whole issue of environmental awareness is such a hot topic of discussion and green energy is something we've grown accustomed to in recent times. Climate change will be around in the news agenda for some considerable amount of time and the eco warriors will doubtlessly bang the drum for cleaner air, less pollution and healthy living for quite a while. But yesterday Green Park was at its most verdant, the formidable trees in one of London's finest parks still standing tall and proud while around them the kids are on their school summer holidays and their doting parents will be there to accompany them.

At this time of the year, the children of the world are smiling and laughing quite uninhibitedly since school is certainly out for the summer, the gates are firmly shut and they'd love to spend the rest of the day in the M and M sweet shop in Leicester Square or the relatively new Lego store where plastic bricks abound in some profusion and life is just perfect. Then it's off for a whirlwind tour of the museums, Hamley's legendary toy shop in Regent Street before running off excitedly to the Oasis Lido swimming pool in High Holborn. The kids have never been happier and yet we all know the reason why.

Yesterday my wife and I converged on one of the most glamorous and striking of all department stores. Its facade is now as familiar as the Tower of London and Buckingham Palace. It has the old fashioned glamour and charm of one of the most attractive buildings you're ever likely to see. There is a vivid grandeur and style about Fortnum and Mason that shouts history and heritage. Fortnum and Mason was built in the early 1700s so you could say that it's rather like a well established member of our family who always seemed to be there for us. So we greeted it like an old friend and smiled at its stunning architecture.

The idea of course was to buy something special for a wonderful member of our family. We knew what they wanted and nobody would be disappointed. For yours truly this was my first time inside the hallowed surroundings of Fortnum and Mason. Outside the shop a light turquoise colour reminded us of green once again but once inside we set about pottering about a couple of floors of sheer beauty and sophistication. This felt like a voyage of discovery, a wondrous realisation that we were among some of the most beautiful merchandise in one of the most luxurious of London department stores 

Our intention was to buy coffee for my wife's cousin whose birthday it would be shortly. Shortly we were confronted with green tea and coffee caddies, whole collections of tins were spread liberally around the floor piled neatly on top of each other. There were stands of tins, different coffee beans from around the globe, weighing machines behind the counters and yet more homages to ceramics. You felt extremely privileged and honoured to be walking in the footsteps of the super wealthy elite and the good, respectable folk who just fancied a spot of  window shopping. Nothing wrong with that.

So we walked past one of the most expensive and elegant hotels in London and blinked in the sun. It was too good to be true and yet it was. The Ritz has been putting it on for centuries now and yesterday it stood there steadfastly rather like its neighbour Buckingham Palace. It occurred to you that even a cup of tea in the Ritz would have seemed like the fondest dream. Then you remembered that former Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher had sadly died in the Ritz and it was like walking amongst giants. But of course the Ritz is stylish, magnificent and dominant, almost imperturbable .

Then we wandered around the whole of the West End. Green Park led almost naturally into Piccadilly Circus where the statue of Eros continues to be one of those appealing tourist landmarks that will always be endearing. There were the interactive images that once extolled the virtues of Coca Cola quite prominently, Timex with precise timing, Spearmint chewing gum and Bolivar which seemed to have been there for decades. Now modern technology had replaced the old school of advertising. For the traditionalists this probably came as a shock to their system but progress is inevitable.

During the 1960s, my lovely dad had given me my first introduction into the world of the West End of London. It must have felt like a spiritual home for my dad because he never tired of its shops, department sores, the hotels, cafes and restaurants and those brightly lit theatres that glowed in the wintry darkness of a Sunday afternoon and then came alive. You can still hear him waxing lyrical about the size, shape and design of every establishment in the West End. 

For my wonderful mum and dad, the pilgrimage to Lyons Corner House in Marble Arch, the most imposing restaurant of them all, was always anticipated with much pleasure. It was the West End of so many guises, mannerisms and eccentricities, the historic books in Charing Cross Road, Tin Pan Alley musically riffing in Denmark Street, the music sheets, pianos, trumpets and saxophones from the many jazz clubs including probably the best Ronnie Scott's, the Aberdeen Steak House with that eternally red glow and the exotic restaurants that once presented a Chicken in A Basket followed by the glorious Black Forest Gateau cake.

But here we were again once again back in the West End that looked so heartbroken and bereft during the pandemic. Fortnum and Mason demands the utmost respect, a cultural institution that has rarely changed throughout the decades. It has the stamp of royalty about it that few can match. Then you stopped for a moment or two and found yourself surrounded by soothing muzak inside Fortnum and Mason with equally as pleasant birdsong in the background. It was the kind of sound that you might have thought you were imagining so idyllic was the setting.

So we left with the coffee in beautifully prepared boxes and sachets. It was time to leave one of the most desirable looking shops in the West End of London. My wife and I were definitely pleased with this shopping expedition because Fortnum and Mason has served both the public and those celebrities in the public eye with little fuss and enormous dignity. It's almost a permanent fixture in our lives and long may it serve us all.

Spain are the new Ladies World football Champions

 Spain are the new Ladies football World Champions

In the end England really couldn't have done a great deal more. The England ladies had gone as far as they could and accepted defeat graciously. For most of the nation, they'd reached the land of fantasy, exceeded all of our expectations and didn't quite cross the finishing line. The World Cup has always been that elusive promised land for the men but for the ladies this narrow defeat to Spain in the World Cup Final represented something much more satisfying than we might have thought at first.

Now it is that women's football is at its highest point, the zenith of its recent development and everything that might have appeared impossible is now achievable. Of course they were beaten by a technically superior Spain side on the day but this was an England side at its most redemptive. They hadn't really impressed throughout the tournament, but rather like the men, they'd tried, laboured at times and then persevered because this is what England teams of any sex normally do when their backs are against the wall. At some point we'll sit down in our local pubs or at work and analyse the enormity of England's achievement even in defeat.

Make no mistake women's football has become  spectacularly successful at every level but you suspect that men are probably wondering how it took the ladies only a couple of attempts at reaching the World Cup Final and the men have been busting a gut since the Crimea War to finally win a World Cup. Or at least it seems that way. 57 years is a long time by any stretch of the imagination but the reality is that our ladies, although outclassed in the end by Spain, still held their heads up high and never flinched from the task at hand.

Last year of course Sarina Wiegman, the Dutch manager of England's noble ladies, guided her England to European Championship victory and a trophy at long last. We'd seen the blue print and template then and how we were blown away by the fearlessness, the ambition the team had shown, the devil-may care adventure of England's attacking approach. England had boldness coursing their veins, a collective work ethos that both stunned and surprised most of us and a red blooded commitment to the cause. They were all in this one together and nothing could stop them. Until, sadly yesterday, when this all felt like one match too far.

But these are revolutionary years for the England's ladies football team. Perceptions have radically changed, stereotypes happily binned and England's women have now something to chew on as food for thought. They may have lost this particular battle but finally the emergence of a proper football team is something we can readily embrace. There's a bright future ahead and nobody should panic since this is quite definitely a positive sporting highlight of the year.

Comparisons of course with 1966 were frequently referenced in the days leading up to this World Cup Final and it may be invidious to quote the men's World Cup Final victory against West Germany with the modern day incarnation. But the girls are making giant strides at getting there, fulfilling rich potential and defying the odds. For a while there were sporadic glimpses of the girls class and style but Spain was a country with perhaps just a tad more streetwise savvy, knowledgeable at all times and more than capable of living with the best.

The fact is that in the heart of Sydney where football takes much more of a low profile in Australia, England went head to head with their Spanish opposition without any signs of debilitating anxiety or nervousness. It must have felt as though England had almost conquered Mount Everest but their crampons on the way to the top had let them down. This now feels like the English mentality on the big occasion. You almost find a way to win but fail to pick up on important parts of the script. Most of the seemingly insurmountable obstacles have now been successfully negotiated but you now feel that all the ladies need is one determined shove towards the winners podium. The men can obviously sympathise.

And yet the Australian public have taken warmly to all of this fuss, commotion and publicity for football's most worldly and finest. This was an improbable setting for a football World Cup and cricket seems to get most of the recognition. The Ashes admittedly remained Down Under and perhaps Australia still take a private satisfaction when the Poms are put in their place. But this is football and not cricket and besides the English summer game is now drawing to its close.

So it was that England, valiant and dogged to the bitter end, seemed to take the game to Spain in the opening phases of last night's game. There was a natural fighting spirit, a clear expression of their intentions on the nights. The ladies had a lovely cohesion about them, a willingness to make the ball work in their favour and they just kept passing in close proximity. But the lack of an attacking cutting edge and lethal penetration in attack blunted England's forward momentum. England had both movement and gallantry on their side but the goals refused to arrive and Spain made their opponents pay.

Soon though Spain showed all of those exotic interpretations of the game, quick passing around their English counterparts like motorway cones. The likes of Jeanni Hermeso, Ona Batlle, Irene Parades , Teresa Abelleira, Laia Codina and Mariona Caldentey combined freely and expansively across the pitch and in vital areas where the maximum damage could be done for Spain. Their passes were almost as honeyed and precise as their male counterparts but there was a coherent structure to the Spanish game that had to be admired. Spain were stylish, spontaneous and delightfully quick witted, an education to watch for learned students of the game. Women's football had come of age.

But after a promising start for England, Spain began to monopolise possession completely, linking their attack together with the kind of  perfect engineering we've come to expect from the men in recent years. Spain's football had by far the greater impact on this match, a side of richly progressive ideals who now had their ultimate prize in their hands. The ball seemed to have an obvious destination at times and Spain's attacking manoeuvres had a cleaner texture, a pleasurable adherence to the game's finer arts.

Sadly though England's ladies could never really find the right buttons to switch. It was all very well intentioned and worthily constructive but goals were never on their menu last night. Jess Carter, the always influential Millie Bright, the eternally busy and industrious Lucy Bronze, eminently skilful Georgia Stanway, the consistently inventive Alex Greenwood, dashing and darting Ella Toone, Lauren Hemp, adventurous Rachel Daly and the incomparably conscientious Alessia Russo up front were all primed and ready to go. But yesterday another long and gruelling season for the ladies seemed to catch up on them.

And finally Spain clinched the only goal of the game. After an impressive spell of commanding the midfield and making their passes stick, Olga Carmona seized the ball outside the English penalty area and drove a powerful shot across Mary Earps in the England goal. From that point onwards the air seemed to have been completely sucked out of the England's players. You knew that this had been a temporary setback but realistically Spain were much the better of the teams and almost had an intuition that this was to be their night. 

So Spain are World football Champions and the English women will return to Heathrow airport wiser than they may have been last year. They are now very much more enlightened about the world game and will presumably prepare for another day with even more confidence. The Super League season on the domestic front is about to be re- launched. It's business as usual for England's ladies and who knows maybe both the men and women may win the World Cup on the same day and time. It is a fond hope and one that has to be clung onto. Well done Ladies.

Sir Michael Parkinson passes

 Sir Michael Parkinson passes

He became one of the most instantly recognisable figures on British TV throughout the 1960s and 1970s. His voice was simply unmistakable and we could all relate to him in a way that hardly seemed possible. Besides, there were no chat show programmes on TV when he first started and none of the hard hitting interviewers who could handle all of the questions we might have wanted to ask. But he did and we were pleasantly surprised. None of us could have foreseen the extraordinary impact his chat show would have on the rest of the nation.

Yesterday Michael Parkinson died at the age of 88 and for some of us this truly marked the end of an astonishing era in broadcasting and journalism. He was the one figure we could always trust and turn to on a Saturday night during the 1970s when Match of the Day had finished and we were confronted by a man who thrived on confrontation without any malice. For the BBC it must have felt as though they'd landed the biggest jackpot of all time. Parkinson had arrived in the building and would remain there for the next four decades, a broadcasting giant who would tower over the TV landscape like an emperor presiding over his kingdom.

Every Saturday night the man with Barnsley blood in his veins would grill his equally as famous subjects in the most probing of all interrogations. His legs were invariably crossed, shirt, suit and tie immaculately presented and clipboard replete with questions that we might have wanted to ask given half the chance. They were sharp, piercing, frequently fascinating meetings, highly amusing ones and those loaded with facetious sarcasm. Parky would get right under the skin of a whole sequence of Hollywood A Listers and of course those wonderful actors, actresses, dancers and singers that had once captured his imagination as a blossoming news journalist and then a genuinely hard hitting inquisitor.

The stories now are endless and well chronicled. We all know that Parkinson always modelled himself on Humphrey Bogart with that rakish trilby hat on his head, phone in one hand and the gift of the gab on the other. We have now discovered that journalism was always in his bones, the result of a lifelong affection for Lauren Bacall, James Cagney, James Stewart and all of those celebrities from the golden age of Hollywood. Parky was driven, well motivated and clearly determined to find out every salient detail of those he was relentlessly interviewing.

And so it was that he rolled up at Granada Studios in Manchester in the early 1960s, fresh faced, enthusiastic, desperate to be among the same company as Mick Jagger of the Rolling Stones, glamorous film heavyweights in the industry and just curious to know what made them tick. He would produce and host a TV programme called Cinema, which is self explanatory. Parky loved the movies, the lighting technicians, the cameramen and women who brought visibility to the whole structure of it all and then the directors who would abruptly snap their clapperboards when the film and scene was complete.

But then a far sighted BBC TV executive and ideas man or woman thought the time was ripe for an innovative chat show and knew that Michael Parkinson was the man for the job. His journalistic background had opened so many doors for him that by the time he walked into a TV studio for the first time in June 1971 all the omens were encouraging. For the next couple of decades Parkinson dominated Saturday nights with his easy going fusion of witty banter, humorous anecdotes, the charm offensive and what would become a frequently provocative late night chat show.

The guests came thick and fast. There was the unknown Scottish comedian who also doubled as a folk musician but would go on to become the funniest and most captivating comic genius of all time. Billy Connolly, at first dipping his toes in comedy waters tentatively with his first mild innuendo, proceeded to provide us with hilariously physical comedy and genuinely creative stories from his working class  origins in Glasgow's thriving shipyards. There was something different and original about Connolly's style and Parkinson warmed to his Scottish friend as if they'd known each other since birth.

Over and over again Connolly would stomp down the stairs and head for the big chair, outrageous at times but lovably outlandish in his clothes. Then Muhammad Ali would return again and again much to the delight of boxing fans but also a magical presence wherever he went in the world. Ali would be at his most argumentative, lively, expressive and forthright. In fact in one of his many interviews with the Louisville Lip, Parky would challenge Ali about his contentious views on the black civil rights movement. It was a moment in history that all who'd witnessed it will always remember. Ali protested loudly and furiously about the direction America was going and then the sparks flew.

But there was something comforting about those late night chats under the BBC lights. It almost felt as though you were being invited into Michael Parkinson's living room such was the intimacy of the show's environment. There were of course those memorable face to face conversations that none could ever forget. We were indeed privileged to be associated with these weekly forums with the great and the good. 

There was Parky's clash with entertainer Rod Hull and his annoying Emu puppet where what should have been an otherwise ordinary discussion turned into a living nightmare for the Yorkshire talk show host. Suddenly this ridiculous looking puppet would lunge towards Parky before attacking him with unbridled aggression, grabbing hold of Parky in the ugliest of strangleholds. Then there were the uncomfortable encounters such as Hollywood icon Meg Ryan when the When Harry Met Sally star refused to open up on her life, giving the clearest indication that she didn't really want to be on the show with Sir Michael. Ryan then chose to clam up in the most repressed fashion. Finally Parky seemed to wave the white flag of surrender.

After his last Parkinson show, featuring the Sirs Billy Connolly, David Attenborough and Michael Caine, Michael Parkinson wound down his career with his very own Radio 2 Sunday show, where he was given a natural platform for playing his favourite kind of jazz, the American songbook and the great Hollywood music composers such as George Gershwin and Cole Porter. A brief spell on local radio followed and then gentle retirement. It had been the most distinguished career as firstly a news journalist and then nationwide fame on the Parkinson show. There was nothing pretentious about the man because you knew what you were going to get. There was always a groundedness and straightforwardness about the man all of us found we could identify with.

His lifelong friend and cricket umpire Dickie Bird had always been his most faithful confidant when things might not have gone according to plan. For almost an eternity Parky had become established as one of the most attentive and understanding of  listeners and we had now expressed an enduring admiration for this master talker. Goodbye Sir Michael Parkinson. You were the best and greatest interview host of all time and Saturday nights will always be treasured. Thank you Sir.

The new football season

 The new football season.

On the eve of the new football season in England, you can still hear the whispers, the advanced talks between agents, players, managers, the disgruntled millionaires who still think the world owes them a living and then the chairmen who just believe that they're always right anyway. It could only be the beginning of the new English football season which kicks off in its customary fashion, all bells and whistles going quite raucously and then the cavalry charge will arrive fitter, stronger, healthier and more controversial than ever, you suspect.

At this stage in proceedings the transfer window still looks as if its stained glass is in danger of being smashed if the prices of players are any indication at all. Declan Rice, now Arsenal's new £105 million signing from West Ham must be privately worried that if Arsenal do embark on a remarkable winning run from the start of the season that the gaskets, carburettors and engines don't blow up on them towards the end of the season. Besides they now know who the opposition are and there can be no excuses this time. When Manchester City streaked past Arsenal in the final furlong of the last Premier League season, some of us were inclined that maybe they were neither ready or conditioned for the Premier League title.

But tomorrow football makes its seasonal reacquaintance with the highs and lows, dramas and melodramas, triumphs meeting disasters, pitch side VAR monitor screens, cans of spray and a good, old fashioned abundance of goals from every conceivable angle. We're expecting a bombardment of shots from long distance, tackles from dangerous directions, passes from the sweetest feet in the land and nothing but heated arguments about debatable offside decisions.  We would though expect nothing less. We've seen it all before and we can sense the tension, the painfully delayed reaction when goals that had looked perfectly legal and acceptable are then chalked off because a player's shoulder blade or elbow had strayed offside.

In the old days - and still apparent in the modern game- every football pitch resembled a green baize snooker table and that first whiff of burgers and hotdogs has lost none of its pungency. You were introduced to your first match day programme of the season, the stands and terraces had retained a timeless charm and faded glamour. And you were there at lunchtime caught up in the joyful cacophony of it all. There was the industrial language, the ear splitting Anglo Saxon expletives and somebody in front of you with a hotdog that looked as if it was about to explode with tomato ketchup. It is the reason why we became besotted with the game, admired its traditional values and then just kept going back over and over again.

Normally the first day of any football season is accompanied with warm, hot sunshine but then nobody really cares about the weather because they're much more concerned with the game's urgencies, necessities, practicalities, the fight for survival, the inflated and sometimes grandiose ambitions. We never mean to take football seriously but when the first whistle blows and you're there in the middle of it all, there is an indefinable anxiety, a gnawing concern that worst case scenarios are bound to happen. So you settle down and hope for the best, not realising of course that your neighbour is going through the same kind of experience.

Then of course there are the kids who you were responsible for, the proud mums and dads, uncles and aunties who are there to offer warm reassurance that football is just a game and it isn't the end of the world should your team lose. Just after the Second World War attendances at some matches seemed so vast that fathers used to lift their sons and daughters onto their shoulders and allow them to watch the game in some degree of comfort. Charlton Athletic's old Valley ground used to accommodate almost 80,000 until health and safety intervened and over 70 years later the new Valley can barely struggle to make room for half that amount.

Tomorrow the turnstiles will creak metallically open and the orderly queues will form again outside grounds. Here the most prominent sight will be that of boisterous programme sellers, hotdog and burger vans and sleek horses gingerly stamping their hooves. Then the ever present police will usher everybody towards their respective seats in the ground and it'll seem as if the game had never been away. Ahead will lie the compelling spectacle, the often grim theatre as nails are bitten to the quick and then the whole spectacular paraphernalia that comes ready packed for all supporters.

We know that by 3pm tomorrow afternoon the chants and vulgarities will be oiled, the scene will be set and we'll then face the realistic expectations without any explanations. Tomorrow Luton Town, once supported by that masterful comedian Eric Morecambe, will be attempting to justify their existence as a Premier League team. But of course they'll make an immediate adjustment to the big time because the cynics will just assume that come the end of this season they'll be relegated back to the Championship. If only happy Harry Haslam, a former Luton manager was still around, he'd silence the pessimists. But where would football be without its inherent cynicism?

The supporters, forever the lifeblood of the game, will be huddling together, brand new scarves wrapped loyally around their necks, there will be new club home and away shirts that will probably cost a second mortgage on full display and then the pies, the savoury snacks, the yells and shouts, the red blooded virility, the male testosterone, the intriguing tribalism, Bovril at half time and then the second half. Oh  we can hardly wait for that. 

Tonight Manchester City will set out on that long road to what they must hope will become the promised land of a fourth successive Premier League title. Even the thought of such an extraordinary feat sets the heart beating. From this point it does seem almost unthinkable and yet why ever not? What did they say about Christopher Columbus? There are unexplored territories here as well but this one has almost miraculous connotations. Under Pep Guardiola the acquisition of last season's Treble has an almost romantic feel to it. We knew that one team would emulate Sir Alex Ferguson's hat-trick of trophies for Manchester United but we didn't think that their neighbours City would muscle in on United's act.

Tonight City head across the Lowry Lancashire landscape to face newly promoted Burnley, who, after relegation from the Premier League season at the end of last season, now find themselves back where their supporters feel they rightly belong. The Championship has stiffened sinews at Turfmoor and here they are once again competing with the aristocrats and monied classes of the Premier League. You feel certain that this time, under the hugely charismatic figure of Vincent Kompany, once a City pin up boy, Burnley will thrive handsomely and play the kind of football that Kompany's mentor Guardiola will continue to champion so consistently.

Arsenal, under the lively Mikel Arteta, will probably set off like a steam train with football incorporating all of football's purest virtues, football played patiently and attractively from the back and then recycled repeatedly because that's how the game should be played. Then there's Liverpool, who under Jurgen Klopp flattered to deceive and didn't really click at all effectively last season. This season the bushy greying beard will be bristling and Klopp's so called heavy metal image will once again be out on parade for all to see.

Meanwhile Manchester United, one of the most legendary names in world football, will be attempting to pick up from where they left off last season. Erik Ten Haag knows all about the onerous responsibilities that will fall on his shoulders. The enduring legacy left by Sir Alex Ferguson can never ever be forgotten but the Dutchman has taken it all on the chin. You feel sure that given time that he'll imprint his style of football on an Old Trafford, one that he must be hoping that some of Sir Alex's magical sorcery will resurrect the good times again.

At Chelsea of course there was a time when Premier League titles and Champions League trophies were almost a common occurrence. Recent seasons though have seen a sharp decline, a deterioration in standards that could never really be maintained once Graham Potter, the last Chelsea manager had been sacked. Chelsea will always draw the crowds because art and fashion are somehow synonymous with the club. Mauricio Pochettino almost brought the Premier League title to Spurs but the Argentine is still a silk weaver and the football he's capable of producing at the Bridge comes sprinkled with a liberal dusting of unmistakable class.

And last but not least there's Spurs and even their most devoted supporters are beginning to wonder if they'll ever see an open top bus with trophies on it. New Greek manager Ange Postecoglou has been handed the unenviable task of lighting up the Seven Sisters Road again. Spurs split personality has always been a subject of much mirth and merriment from their neighbours down the road Arsenal. At times any accusations of schizophrenia can hardly be denied since even Spurs most partisan supporters must think they're going through a mid life crisis. In the golden days of Ossie Ardilles, Ricardo Villa, Garth Crooks Steve Archibald and Perryman, football was an ornate ornament, football that had classical overtones, one and two touch dynamics, the football of Bill Nicholson and Arthur Rowe.

Now though Spurs will open their season with a London derby with Brentford, who themselves are discovering so many memorable experiences that maybe someone will just wake them up from their reverie. It is to be hoped that any reference to the Double years will be sent away suitably reprimanded. Today one of their own Harry Kane, a player and supporter from the cradle, looks as though he might be on his way to Bayern Munich so hearts will be broken in North London and some of their fans may well become inconsolably distraught.

So it is then that up and down the country, in every piece of remote woodland, quaint village, bustling suburban road, street, shopping centre, amusement arcade, timber beamed country pub and community centre, we will be celebrating the return of the Premier League and the whole English football pyramid. We will bite our fingernails, tease our colleagues at work about their team's deficiencies and stoke up another set of conversations and dialogues about how your team were robbed. Ladies and Gentlemen football is back again and the whole emotional juggernaut is about to set off from a motorway service station near you. Whoever you support, have a good season everybody.

Arsenal beat Manchester City in the Community Shield.

 Arsenal beat Manchester City in the Community Shield

It's that time of the year again. Summer is fading into a glorious sunset, autumn is looking for its first yellowing leaves and the new football season is knocking on our door yet again. It only seems like yesterday since we were plastering sun factor 55 onto our bodies and the holiday season was in full swing. Football has once again resurfaced from its hibernation after perhaps the longest season of all time. It's hard to believe that West Ham United were still competing in the UEFA Europa Conference Final in early June and winning it. This was hard on the heels of Manchester City's FA Cup Final derby  victory over their noisy neighbours Manchester City in early June and the Champions League victory over Inter Milan shortly afterwards.

So after a decent interval, football paused contentedly to catch its breath and here we are back in the first week of August. This is the moment when the shrill whistle of the referee, VAR sprays signifying free kicks, contentious offside decisions and pitch side monitors employed to arbitrate on the authenticity of goals, will all provide a familiar backdrop to both the Premier League and the rest of the Football League.

When Manchester City wrapped up the Treble of FA Cup, Premier League and Champions League we thought we'd seen it all. City had used so many geometric angles and then played some of the most beautifully imposing football that there was a sense that things could never get any better. The template had been set and even Arsenal had to take off their collective hats by way of showing their effusive appreciation.

For much of last season Arsenal seemed to be racing away with the Premier League title but then hit a solid brick wall in the concluding weeks of the season. First there was the squandering of a two goal lead at Anfield when Liverpool could hardly believe what they were witnessing, then the Gunners travelled across London to West Ham where history repeated itself before Southampton rubbed their eyes with wonderment at the Emirates, holding the Gunners to a season defining 3-3 draw. Then Arsenal, almost drained of all confidence by now, were beaten quite emphatically by Brighton at the Emirates 3-0.

Yesterday City went head to head with Arsenal at Wembley Stadium in the Community Shield. In another incarnation, this traditional curtain raiser to the football season used to be known as the Charity Shield. But that was the point when football detached itself from its moral compass or so some thought. Football shook hands with Saudi sheikhs and owners, Americans with only rampant materialism on their minds and then those now celebrated TV channels who demand millions of pounds from their subscribers. 

The fans looked on aghast and dumbfounded barely grasping the exponential damage that had been inflicted on the game. During the summer Declan Rice had become the latest victim of circumstances when Arsenal forked out £105 million for the former West Ham captain who had just won the Europa Conference Final against Fiorentina in Prague. Some of us were convinced that football had completely lost possession of its senses, gone barmy and just found itself in the middle of the free market economy  unable to escape.

So three months later Rice lined up for his new club as if nothing had happened. For a while we thought the negotiations for Rice's transfer to Arsenal would still be ongoing just a week before Christmas. But yesterday Rice donned the red shirt acutely aware that the vast footballing community would be watching with a good deal of fascination and ever so critically. But the former Chelsea apprentice overcame the first of many hurdles and once again lifted another trophy.

And yet Manchester City, still floating on a cloud of elation after their stunning Treble exploits, worked their way stylishly and attractively into the game with their now customary party pieces and subtle mannerisms. For most of the first half an hour John Stones was at his most magisterial, blocking all avenues to goal for Arsenal then gliding imperiously into space in the middle of the park. Bernardo Silva is one of those skilful full backs who never disappoints, scampering and scurrying into space, sprinting tirelessly into the Arsenal penalty area with marauding raids and Kyle Walker seems to get faster and more mobile with age.

Julian Alvarez was spreading a typically profound influence on the match with his delicate passing and free roaming missions in the middle while City were humming the most mellifluous tune. Then Rodri ganged up with Jack Grealish who is beginning to look like one of the most dependable of midfield players for England. City were at their most well organised, inventive and mesmeric. Their passes shimmered across the green acres of the Wembley pitch as if illuminated by a chandelier and the City attacking momentum was quite literally irresistible.

When Cole Porter, one of City's conveyor belt of young academy graduates, picked up the ball in acres of space, it seemed that nothing would materialise. But the brilliant ingenuity that had preceded Porter's goal for City was a sight to behold. From deep in their own defence, the ball was moved to another City product Phil Foden. In quite the most delightful turn and then turn of pace at speed, Foden ran quite majestically into the Arsenal half. Foden threaded the ball through to Porter who ushered the ball towards him before cutting back onto his shooting feet. Porter then curled a deliciously curling and bending low shot that flew past Arsenal keeper Aaron Ramsdale. 1-0 to City.

But then Arsenal slowly eased their way back into a moderately entertaining match. Both new boy Julien Timber, William Samba at his most authoritative and Rice were playing out from the back with that methodical approach we've come to expect from a contemporary Arsenal side. Rice, in particular seemed to be roving in a much more advanced attacking role. Then the artistic Leandro Trossard, a shrewd Arsenal investment from Brighton, joined forces with the superbly tireless Martin Odegaard who in turn passed the ball across the centre of the pitch with a tenderness and spontaneity that seemed to come naturally to them.

At this point the Mikel Arteta, Arsenal's now emotional manager, now looked as if he was staring into a mirror. In the opposing technical area, Arteta's mentor Pep Guardiola at Manchester City and it was no coincidence that Arteta was now utilising much of the coaching expertise he'd learnt from Guardiola while he was assistant coach at Manchester City. Arteta started galloping up and down the touchline as if this were a dress rehearsal for a potential Champions League Final. The face expressed horror when Arsenal were denied a certain free kick and the game now turned full circle.

With seconds to go though it looked as if Arsenal had exhausted every available opportunity. But a last ditch corner was quickly taken short out to Saka who darted around his opponent before finding Trossard. The quick witted Swiss playmaker collected the ball and then struck low towards goal. A huge deflection took the ball away from City's helpless keeper Stefan Ortega and Arsenal were level.

And then it came for the penalty shoot out, that often dreaded lottery which some of us still find highly debatable but perhaps necessary since somebody has to win. Immaculately struck penalties took us to sudden death. Then City took their eye off the ball momentarily and, after missing their penalty, Arsenal's Fabio Vieira, a surname never to be forgotten by Arsenal's devoted faithful, clipped the ball high into the net for Arsenal's decisive winner. Arsenal had won their first trophy of the season. They must be hoping to add to their collection. The Premier League awaits with enormous anticipation.

It's that man again - Donald Trump

 It's that man again - Donald Trump

You may have thought he'd disappeared from view permanently. Perhaps he'd retired to a private and inaccessible island where nobody could find him. But he's still in our rear wing mirror, still stirring the pot, scheming, conniving, conspiring, and then telling packs of lies which we'd all believed would be the only way he would remain in the public eye. Still, we must have recognised by now that you can't keep a serial fibber down for long. The man has falsehood and fabrication running through his veins.

The man in question here is Donald Trump, surely the most ludicrous and preposterous  American president of all time. Plenty of news print and online literature has been wasted and exhausted on the life and times of Trump since the man is still at large and according to the vast majority of his critics, still polluting and terrorising your global neighbourhood. The very mention of his name still send shivers down your spine and he won't be going anywhere quickly. Trump never did modesty and of course he's no shrinking violet since most of the USA knows all about his dishonourable intentions and they don't make for pleasant reading.

But the truth is that ever since the last Presidential election when Trump was toppled from his lofty perch, the American public knew what would happen next. Joe Biden would be promptly elected as the next President of the United States and Trump would throw a strop, constantly threatening to take legal action, grumbling at the injustices that had been perpetrated and blaming everybody else but himself. The Trump ego is still the size of a continent and it's their fault and certainly not his.

For the last couple of days America has been preparing for its elections next year and they're biting apprehensive fingers, hoping that the voting public will just get off his back, stop criticising his every move and just resigning themselves to the fate that awaits them. Trump wants his old job back and another opportunity to create as much mayhem and controversy as he can possibly muster. The Trump mindset has always been a dangerous grenade just waiting to explode.  This is going to be one unsavoury bloodbath and we know what Trump is capable of doing because he's been doing the same thing over and over again. He's been gambling with the Americans future ever since somebody gave him a business venture to make as much money as possible and then lose most of it in the same breath.

Now though the focus has moved onto Trump's retrospective dealings. You must remember the international incidents, the physical violence that followed Trump's fall from grace. At the beginning of last year Washington turned into the most horrendous battle ground stopping just short of civil war. Trump's most fervent supporters all gathered together near the Senate and the White House and promptly raided the building, destroying furniture and ransacking everything they could lay their hands on. They were annoyed, seething with anger, fuming with grievances and determined to make their presence felt and voice heard.

You'd have thought the message had got through to him by now, the penny dropped. Trump is a fraud, a charlatan, a joker of the worst possible kind and somebody none of us could tolerate for a single second more. Then things got confrontational, judgmental, uncontrollable. There was a sense here that Trump had now completely divided the whole of America and this represented the ultimate crime. So the great American public took to the streets with garish placards and animated Stars and Stripes American flags. It would become etched on the global consciousness for all time.

Suddenly the nation that gave us baseball, American football, burgers, fries, doughnuts and gallons of coffee drunk at any time of the day, was in riot mode. The nation that effectively gave us TV chat shows and innumerable displays of ostentatious wealth was not happy, incensed at its very own political system, one we could hardly make head or tail of anyway. Now Trump is back again on the campaign trail, revving himself up like a Cadillac engine and putting his head above the traditional parapet. He's still there world, still blustering, still barking, faking, foaming at the mouth and promising yet another barrage of propaganda, more damaging turmoil. You couldn't possibly make this one up.

In the other corner Joe Biden, the current American president, continues to give the impression of a laid back cowboy who would happily remain in his rocking chair with a stetson on his head and some charming tales about the Wild West. Biden would love nothing better than handing out a good, old fashioned battering of Trump in the next US elections. Give that man a bourbon and try to remember that America is still a beacon of democracy regardless of all those murderous guns and rifles that are very much enshrined in its constitution.

And so Trump puts on a brave face. He now faces the severest criminal charges for attempting to rig the outcome of the last election. Here is one fraudulent, sneaky, covert and corrupt showman, a conman in the eyes of some and just a shameless poseur who still thinks women were there to be humiliated, abused and exploited. But after a short period in the wilderness Trump is undaunted, still fighting, competing, arguing, making his case to his beloved nation. He will stand up in court in due course and vigorously protest his innocence but we are now at a point when America is still facing a future with that orange hair and loud Tannoy of a voice still in our midst, a voice that booms across the length and breadth of  America with deafening clarity.

The next couple of months could get very nasty or tasty depending on your point of view. Poor Joe Biden is still in charge but there are people who still think he's weak and ineffectual, bordering on the totally incompetent. Unlike Trump, Biden is soft spoken, restrained, tactful and diplomatic, everything that Trump quite clearly isn't. He is a safe pair of hands and capable of course but there is nothing to commend him for. Biden lacks any semblance of personality or some believe and what else needs to be said?

 He has none of Kennedy's charisma, some of Nixon's deviousness but then you find yourself comparing Biden to nobody in particular. Gerald Ford and Jimmy Carter were hugely admired, Reagan was just a horse loving cowboy masquerading as President while Clinton blundered his way through scandal after scandal. Both son and father Bush were creditable figures but even they were condemned for losing the plot. Still, as we approach the autumnal mists of the year it is time to gaze across the Atlantic and wonder whether America is still rowing together in the same direction. You hope they will. 

Australia retain the Ashes but not without a fight.

 Australia retain the Ashes but not without a fight.

It all felt as if things were going swimmingly well for English cricket. The first Ashes Test had offered us everything; buccaneering cricket, cricket at its most pulsating, fierce and frenetic, daring and unconventional, enthralling entertainment from both England and Australia and then something that took us by complete surprise. At the time we were truly shocked and ever so flummoxed. At the end of England's first innings captain Ben Stokes sensationally declared at 393 for 7 and most of us thought it was just a hoax, something we must have imagined and nothing more than a rush of the blood to Stokes head.

But then we realised that this was just a strategic ploy to lull the Aussies into a false sense of security. Set the baggy green caps a specific target in the hope they'd topple over like skittles in a bowling alley. But Australia had Steve Smith, Pat Cummins, Travis Head and Cameron Green in their ranks. Mitchell Starc, too, was steaming into bowl with fire, brimstone, typical Australian savagery and uncompromising length and line. They also had one of the finest and most uplifting of sights. Marcus Labuschagne came from an esteemed Australian batting heritage and his were performances of polished brilliance and artistry.

Throughout the Ashes series though, the Australians remembered just how good it felt to get one over England, one upmanship of the highest order. At some point during this last Test summer of the Ashes the Australians were lofting sixes and fours high over the pavilions rather like like baseball legends with a different kind of ball. There were magnificently placed shots swept joyously through the covers, soaring over deep mid wicket, flying past gully and then destined for a whole sequence of boundaries. There were violently powerful shots that landed in alcoholic bars and imposing terraces. It was  cricket to treasure and fondly recall with nostalgic pride in years to come.

In the final Test, with the series levelled and the Australians proudly holding onto their precious urn, Stuart Broad, England's most spectacular of quickie fast bowlers, delivered his final ball in Test cricket. Broad came thundering into the crease like an English country locomotive train, bandana dripping with sweat and fully aware of the legendary status that he had achieved. You cast your mind back to his educated cricketing ancestors and then lingered for a while, thinking back to when cricket was more sedate and formal where patience was indeed a virtue and Geoff Boycott just took his time and plenty of it.

Long ago, you recalled Geoff Arnold and John Snow, Sussex and Surrey in perfect harmony, Arnold gingerly trotting forward then speeding towards the crease. With ball clenched between his fingers, the Surrey paceman bowled with a neatness and precision that left batsmen baffled and bewildered. Then there was Snow, quicker and nimbler while also deadly with the ball that moved and swung away from the batsmen before cutting back into the batter with sharp and deadly intent.

A decade later there was the inimitable Sir Ian Botham, the consistently industrious and invariably accurate Chris Old and then there was Bob Willis. Here were men of style and steel, character and the most amiable temperament. Both Botham and the now sadly late Bob Willis were bowling demons, destructive forces when the mood took them. They were also the men who dramatically changed the course of the 1981 Ashes series when it looked as if the urn was going straight back to Sydney, Melbourne, Adelaide and Brisbane. The wombats and koalas could hardly wait any longer.

And so it is that England reluctantly accept defeat yet again and an English summer heads for the mellow mists of autumn without its Ashes. At the Lords Tavern they'll be drinking a regretful pint or several, discussing the merits of the declaration that none of us could have anticipated when Ben Stokes was first questioned and then embraced for a derring do adventure. It had been an Ashes series that may have disappointed some in the land of Blighty but still savoured with just a hint of pleasure. It was a summer of  cricketing arts and crafts displayed in all their heroic splendour. Those old rivals had done it again.