Another year in sport.

 Another year in sport.

At the end of every year sport normally takes a hearty pat on the back, congratulated and acclaimed as a force for good, athleticism at its most pulsating and speed of thought often the operative phrase. We liberally sprinkle over sport those positive, upbeat adjectives, similes and metaphors normally associated with sport. Not a day seems to go past when we either despair of drug cheats or sigh with exasperation at the outrageous antics of the playboys, rebels and exhibitionists who just bring sport into disrepute.

But then we look to sport's greatest exponents, the ones who score memorable goals in FA Cup Finals, World Cups and then conquer Europe with a Euros trophy. We swoon with delight when our cricket side humiliate Australia in the Ashes but even that pales into insignificance when the Aussies, as they did during this summer, hand out a dose of their own medicine. But sport does like to capture the headlines, dominating the news agenda on either back page tabloids or saturation TV coverage and long may it do so.

It is after all one of the most exhilarating of sights, the long distance runners at Olympic Games, the magnificent and magisterial 100 and 200 metre sprinters, shot putters, hammer and javelin throwers, the gruelling physicality of rugby union and league, football's enduring passion play, the flowing beauty of Wimbledon and tennis, and the gently lyrical rhythms of cricket with its grace and gentility. Sometimes it plays capricious mind games with us, deluding us into thinking that our team is definitely superior to yours and never the twain shall meet.

Sadly, the sporting year of 2023 was sadly lacking in any kind of outstanding brilliance, moments of dazzling ingenuity to recall for a long time, nothing that could in any way be described as special or unique, a moment to treasure, totally spontaneous and just miraculous. We always expect our sportsmen and sportswoman to maintain the highest standards of excellence and then wonder why we never seem to do well on the big occasion. 

Besides aren't sports people supposed to be over paid, cossetted, their every whim pandered to from dieticians, nutritionists to sports scientists who spend countless hours analysing their every heart beat and their consistent levels of fitness? But then they get injured at the wrong time and place and suddenly we think they're only in it for the money. Those footballers are just mercenary creatures whose only interest seems to lie exclusively in their next sports car, their latest fashion accessory and nothing but their puffed up ego.

Last night BBC's annual sports awards ceremony the BBC Sports Personality of the Year Award demonstrated the poverty of world class or British sportsmen or women who would normally grace our TV screens on a winter's evening just before Christmas. Years ago of course some of us would gather around our TV sets to watch the usual gathering of the great and good in London's White City where all the men wore the most elegant of black dinner suits, crisp white shirts and bow ties. The women of course were always radiant and blooming in their best party dresses and smartness personified.

In the last couple of years Sports Personality of the Year Award has moved from Manchester to Glasgow and then Birmingham. These were glitzy and glamorous locations with high tech settings and to those of a critical nature, might have made London look like a dowdy Victorian parlour room. But once again this annual sports extravaganza and homage to the best in the land, certainly did itself justice. The audience were in place, the applause was suitably rapturous and the candidates were ready and waiting. The Media City in Salford, Manchester was the choice of venue this year.

The field of course was an attractive one but for those of a nostalgic outlook it just wasn't the same. We used to rhapsodise over the esteemed likes of Henry Cooper, Britain's most charming of all heavyweight boxers, Muhammad Ali, a boxer of world class renown and the most warmly extrovert of them all. We reserved thunderous cheers for Mary Peters, the Irish shot putter who claimed Olympic gold in Munich 1972 and then bowed with reverence at the exploits of Princess Anne, Britain's finest horse rider in both dressage and cross country.

We remember the astonishing feats of Bobby Moore who brought home the World Cup Jules Rimet Trophy to England and just assumed he'd win Sports Personality of the Year. We celebrated Moore's wondrous achievements on that now far distant day of July 1966 with a glass of something sweet. Moore naturally won Sports Personality of the Year in 1966 because he was in the right place and the right time. But then unwisely and now foolishly we thought all of our footballers would win Sports Personality of the Year so when they didn't step up to the plate, we brooded thoughtfully and glowered into our fish and chip suppers moodily. It should have been our divine right to rave about British winners but we never did although they were still our heroes and nobody could deny that.

So we had golf's Rory Mcilroy, who captained Europe in another dramatic and intoxicating Ryder Cup team to victory. You'd have thought they'd have the decency to find a place in their hearts for this TV sporting spectacular. Mcilroy has always played the game of golf as if his life depended on it, a passionate, heartfelt, fiercely driven and committed golfer who drives and putts a golf ball with such delicate and then powerful gusto that you know exactly where the ball may be intended.

There was Katerina Thompson Johnson, a tall, imposing presence full of character and vitality, an athlete of supreme accomplishment and dominant in her field. She is one of our finest athletes of the modern period but did any one performance stand out from the rest? Johnson runs like the wind and does so stylishly and skilfully but in a non Olympic year there seemed little point in rewarding her with the BBC's most coveted trophy. Still, her year may come sooner rather than later.

Stuart Broad, one of cricket's most dangerous and destructive of fast bowlers bowed out of the game on the highest of highs. He promised that he would leave cricket in much the way he first started out in the game. His last ball against Australia in the final Ashes Test match endeared him to the great British public in the way they'd  given such unqualified affection for Ian Botham 42 years ago. He took his wicket, took off his bandana, wiped the floods of sweat from his brows, threw his hands up into the air with unashamed delight and just smiled at his girlfriend and young daughter. This was sport doing what sport does best, smiling and laughing at its own reflection in the mirror. 

The likes of Broad and the legendary Frankie Dettori of course invested sport with a value and credibility that it may have never got in any other year. We will of course raise a toast for winner of this year's Sports Personality of the Year and her name is Mary Earps, the best and most popular of women's football goalkeeper and patriotically English, an England goalkeeper par excellence. It hasn't been a bad year but perhaps next year will shine an even brighter light on sport. It is, after all, Olympic year in Paris next year and who knows Harry Kane may well provide England with their most lustrous silverware in football's Euros conflict. We must hope.

A week to go before Christmas

 A week to go before Christmas

Well, it's exactly a week to go before Christmas and it's beginning to look like Christmas everywhere we go, although not every corner of the globe. For the lovely Jewish population, the lighted candles were finally blown out last Thursday but Chanukah will always fall either a couple of days before Christmas or overlap Christmas Day. Next year the first Chaunkah candles will be lit on Christmas Day. Oh for the joys of the leap year, hey?

Anyway it's seven days to go and around the corner from the family home, some of us witnessed, for the first time, our first sighting of a  Christmas tree. It was all very jolly and festive with a smattering of residents from the local community, some home made mince pies sprinkled with a liberal dusting of sugar on top, mulled wine to warm the cockles of your heart and a splendid singer warmly chanting the familiar Christmas songs to loved ones, families and friends the world over. 

For some people this week represents nothing but darkness, solitude and isolation. These are the voiceless, the helpless ones, those who are despairing. These are the homeless who are destined to throw a warm blanket over themselves but then shiver in the freezing cold of the London streets without a roof over their heads and a place to call their own. We tend to think of the homeless as the people who were neglected, disenfranchised and alienated by those who simply didn't want to know them any more. 

At Christmas time, the homeless are always highlighted in TV advertisements in extensive campaigns because they are so richly deserving of our sympathy. They are the ones whose relationships may have been soured by petty domestic quarrels. Or maybe they just couldn't cope anymore with their own personal demons and travails. So there they are, huddled away in shop doorways, curled up like a ball with nothing more than a cap next to them and a tattered cardboard sign pleading for a couple of pounds just for a cup of tea and lunch.

Now though in the highest of political circles, they are now a helpless victim of circumstances. But since when did politicians ever care for the traumatic plight of the homeless? According to one celebrated member of Rishi Sunak's Tory government, the homeless have made their spartan existence a lifestyle choice. What we now have is a government who are not so much completely out of touch with the real world but are so heartless, callous and patronising that if the roles were reversed you wonder if Cabinet ministers could endure harsh winters with nowhere to go or live.

But once again the tents are now multiplying in London's West End and the scene is so full of contrasts and paradoxes that it is rather like living in two different countries. On the one hand there are those window shopping looking for another affluent bundle of Christmas presents, wandering the streets of Oxford and Regent Street while weighed down with merry merchandise and bags groaning with all of that festive paraphernalia. It is one of the most familiar sights of the year and it does only happen once a year.

Meanwhile for whatever reason- and it may be perfectly understandable- the homeless and poor will continue to pull up their winter coat hoods, hold out their imploring hands and beg for mercy. Their faces are unshaven, totally unkempt, their appearance haggard and weather beaten. Their eyes are bloodshot and sunken, cheeks pinched and red, their clothes  now filthy and there is dirt on every part of their anatomy. It must be both demeaning and degrading for those who can never smile or put on a brave facade. But they must be optimistic because this must be their only salvation.

You are reminded of the lyrical prose of George Orwell in Down and Out in London when the great essayist and novelist recounted the distressing experience of trying to imagine what it must have been like to live the life of a tramp, dossing on park and street benches, fending for himself and realising that it was hell on earth and unbearable to boot.

You begin to wonder what it must be like to just sit there for hour on hour just waiting patiently for  something to keep them going. You admire their hardiness, their forbearance, the suffering, gritty stoicism and their powers of endurance. Morally you find yourself on the horns of a dilemma. Do you kindly drop a couple of pounds in their caps or do you resort to cynicism? Maybe they are feeling sorry for themselves and they should just pick themselves up, get a well paid job in the City and all will be fine and dandy.

But hold on. These are people who may be a homeless because society has turned its back on them vehemently. Maybe they have a mental or physical disability that prevents them from working properly. This could be the truth and something that happened a long time ago. It could be that there are perfectly good reasons as to why they're homeless, extenuating factors in their lives that might have left them in this terrible mess. We jump to easy conclusions, make too many honest assessments about the homeless and we invariably end up with nothing but compassion because that's all we can do.

And in the end we find ourselves back at square one. We look to our politicians for wise words and homespun guidance but then we look at the Tories who don't really seem to give a damn about any of us and when they do so it may be grudgingly because they feel obliged to do so. The image of the Prime Minister serving soups and hot meals to the hungry at roughly this time last year is almost sickening and benevolent at the same time. 

For Rishi Sunak and his Tory colleagues, this is well and truly the season to be jolly. They must be seen to being friendly and accommodating, ready to muck in as and when necessary. Sunak has to be portrayed as a Prime Minister with heart because if he fails in his duty then the snipers and critics are ready and waiting to indulge in character assassination. Outside 10 Downing Street there is a huge and  impressively colourful Christmas tree and yet behind those doors, there must be a man who is privately running scared, terrified that the Tories may take a hammering in next year's General Election and, to all intents and purposes, hung over with amnesia.

Yes folks, Rishi Sunak, at that comprehensive Covid 19 inquiry, has conveniently forgotten all about those important details that he was supposed to be jotting down through the coronavirus. But Sunak pauses for breath, looking both awkward and anguished. He keeps looking down sorrowfully at his notes and has no idea or recollection of what happened from March 20 2020 onwards. It's all a bewildering blur and please could he go home because there are more pressing issues on his mind.

And just a couple of words for the likes of one Boris Johnston, who used to be Prime Minister, Dominic Raab and Matt Hancock. Boris of course should have been a capable pair of hands on the ship's tiller but sadly went missing when it mattered. First it was the confusion and then those embarrassing blunders, the delaying tactics, the ridiculous obfuscation when somebody should have told him to make himself abundantly clear and just the buffoonish incompetence. There was also of course the troubled blond hair which refused to be combed, the scruffy and dishevelled appearance at Downing Street conferences and a stubborn refusal to apologise for his mindless misdemeanours.

Matt Hancock as we all know now, had other thoughts on his mind rather than Covid 19. When Hancock became unforgivably distracted we knew exactly what he thought of the global virus. Then there was Dominic Raab and the bloke who kept driving all the way up to the other end of Britain just to rave the night away with his friends and pretending that one of his parents was unwell. But of course he didn't mean to behave or conduct himself in the most appalling fashion. It just happened or didn't as be it the case.

Then there were the cheese and wine parties at the height of Covid 19, the blatant ignorance of all the rules that shouldn't have been broken but were. There were the incidents and accidents to quote an old Paul Simon song. There was the Boris Jackanory moment when, stuck for words, he resorted to a story about his weekend with his new baby when Peppa Pig suddenly assumed an importance all of its own.

But here we are a week before Christmas and everybody is getting excited. Sadly the old traditions are no longer the ones we used to remember. There are no TV programmes on Christmas Day where Santa Claus dutifully carries a huge sack of presents to young children who may be in hospital. And lest we forget Top of the Pops is certainly not worth watching anymore if indeed it's still on. There were also the TV specials where everything was covered in snow, Wham were No 1 in the charts with Last Christmas and everybody charged their glass with a bottle of port from the cupboard. It was Christmas after all and booze is mandatory.

There is a stillness and feverish anticipation. The shop and supermarket tills are still ringing with the resonance of Jingle Bells and you can't walk anywhere or meet anybody in the street without feeling as though you should also extend seasons greetings to them. The goose is no longer getting fat and the turkeys are being prepared for the great Christmas family gathering. It really shouldn't get any better. Of course the kids love Christmas. They always have done so and why ever not.

Whatever you do just remember to get another consignment of wrapping paper for Uncle Trevor's vast array of new Santa jumpers festooned with all those glorious designs. Oh of course you'll have to hurry up because the Tube trains won't be running their normal service on Christmas Day because they'll be shut and have been for decades. One more thing. Have a brilliant Christmas everybody and don't forget to stick that crepe paper hat on your head and go easy on the chocolates because some of us have cravings for anything associated with chocolates. Have a good one folks.

BBC Question of Sport to end

BBC Question of Sport to end.

After over 50 years of good natured, humorous banter, BBC's Question of Sport is about to be axed, pulled from the broadcasting schedules permanently and never be seen again. For those who were brought up with that compelling fusion of laddish larking and fiercely competitive rivalry at times, then this will come as a huge shock. How we revelled in the laughter, the mirth and merriment, the flirtatious teasing between the late and deeply missed Emlyn Hughes, a Liverpool legend and the Princess Royal (aka Princess Anne) before titles were changed and life was altogether different.

In 1973, TV sporting quiz shows were few and far between if they existed at all. We'd be hitherto entertained by Quiz Ball, a show consisting of two captains and a panel who were equally as famous sports celebrities. Henry Cooper was surely one of the most lovable of all boxing heavyweights and the man who once sucked the breath out of Cassius Clay by toppling him over the ropes in that celebrated heavyweight battle at the old Wembley Stadium. Cooper had also shaken the canvas underneath the same opponent at the old Highbury a couple of years before.

Now though Cooper was the captain of Quiz Ball, a sports quiz show that set the template for that format. Cooper's wit and infectious humour would illuminate those homes who were still watching their sport in black and white. The jokey repartee and razor sharp quick wittedness became a staple of the show. Cooper was confronted by the equally as charismatic Cliff Morgan, a rugby union fly half of nimble feet, deceptively blistering pace and breath taking virtuosity. Morgan would become a polished BBC commentator for his sport. Cooper and Morgan were just glorious fun and the nation could hardly contain their joy.

Then in 1970 another TV sports quiz was born and one that would maintain the highest standards of excellence. David Vine, who became the most recognisable face of Ski Sunday on BBC Two, was the first presenter of a Question of Sport and did so with much distinction for many a year. Cooper and Morgan were the first captains on this new BBC sports fest. They exchanged much chummy goodwill, gentle ribbing, were gracious in defeat but never less than committed. 

After David Vine left for Ski Sunday, Grandstand, BBC One's flagship sports show on a Saturday afternoon was presented by David Coleman. With his comfortable cashmere pullovers, remarkable delivery and a personality that matched the colour of his pullovers, he announced his presence almost immediately. Coleman had covered FA Cup Finals, Olympic Games and a famous interview with the Beatles as the group were arriving back in London after another star spangled tour of America. But Coleman was versatile, multi faceted, a man with a most distinctive voice who took Question of Sport to the most exalted of levels. 

When Coleman died, the programme was left in the most hollow vacuum, a chasm that couldn't, at the time we felt, be filled properly. Coleman's almost understated style had left the most favourable of impressions on Question of Sport. There was the brief outburst of belly laughter when questions were answered correctly and then a slightly sarcastic burst of giggling when Coleman thought the answer merited it. But it was entirely understandable irreverence because the former Grandstand presenter loved sport and communicated that passion for the whole duration of his stint on the programme.

In future years there was Ian Botham and Bill Beaumont, two bustling, buccaneering sportsmen who enjoyed and embraced sport with a lifelong relationship. It was just irrepressible fun from the beginning of the programme to the end. Botham was just the most amiable of party animals and the man who had, seemingly single mindedly guided England to that classical Ashes victory in 1981. Beaumont of course would have bust a gut to drive English rugby union to its giddiest heights, a player who decorated Twickenham with not only that muddiest of shirts but then gave heart and soul to his England team. Both men had the kind of inspirational leadership qualities that were always acknowledged heartily.

And who could ever forget Willy Carson, horse racing's finest of all time, a jockey who was almost permanently chirpy, happy go lucky, unforgettably amusing and surely the most engaging of after dinner speakers. Carson established himself as a household name with his very own funny bones that could probably be heard at Ascot, Epsom or any race course where the Carson cabaret would invariably be welcome. The twinkle in his eye and joyous interventions, when the question was thrown over to whoever his rival captain was, are now vintage memories.

So it is that the nation mourns the loss of a TV institution. A BBC sports quiz, without any question, will now be consigned to the archives of history, a sports quiz show that set the standards of excellence that may never be matched. For those who have been following sport for as long as they care to remember, we were just drawn into the lively but good natured joshing that came to define light entertainment on TV.  Sue Barker, who graced Wimbledon tennis in the early 1970s, became the most recent presenter of the programme and the enjoyment Barker derived from Question of Sport was more than evident.

While most of us are traipsing around our supermarkets for festive fare, we may shed a slight tear for the end of Question of Sport. In an age of rampant consumerism and almost yearly panic and consternation, Christmas without Question of Sport is rather like mince pies and turkey without the tinsel and glamour. We'll wheel around heaving baskets of food and drink and wonder why we'd ever bothered.

Besides, baked beans must be at least a fiver and potatoes will probably set you back a prohibitive tenner. The crisis of living age has now bitten into our financial pockets and the astronomical price of everything has now left us in the darkest lands of austerity and belt tightening. But we'll always remember Question of Sport and all who sailed in her stately galleon. It'll never be forgotten.  

 

National Ice Cream Day

National Ice Cream Day.

The very act of licking your ice cream always transports us back to those early days of childhood when you were always allowed to play out in the fading light of a summer evening and life must have been idyllic but always was anyway in later life for ever. Ice cream always had the capacity to make us feel good about ourselves since it represents some zenith of our early youth. It couldn't get any better because it just seemed that way. Life is indeed sweet.

You remember your first introduction to ice-cream. You were busy scurrying around the back roads of your home almost over enthusiastically because this felt like the perfect liberation after a strenuous and stressful year in school being steeped in academia. Finally mum, who so dotingly cared for you and monitored your welfare from either the comfort of her kitchen or the back garden, looked out of the living room window just to ensure that all was well. Your lime green bike would be dropped onto the pavement like some playful distraction and mum would rush out of the home. 

There were the echoes of laughing, happy go lucky four or five year olds, gleefully abandoning themselves to the joys of school summer holidays rather like chastened kids who had suddenly been told that they could now come out of their bedroom after refusing to tidy up their clothes. Childhood and ice-cream were somehow synonymous with each other rather like bread and butter, inseparable, together for life, permanent reminders of who we were when ice-cream was somehow good for you, the healthiest of all tea time treats and something to be celebrated.

But today folks it's National Ice-Cream Day. Oh wow! You're salivating for an ice cream even though this is the wrong time of the year to be even contemplating this perennial pleasure. You wish you could eat ice-cream for breakfast, lunch or tea, maybe a satisfying snack between tea breaks at work, school or wherever you happen to be when somebody mentions that sweetest of delicacies. It should be compulsory at every meal, something we could devour with  unashamed relish. It's the perfect dessert, nirvana in a cone, oozing with piquant flavours and textures and so simple to eat. 

So there we were on innocent days during our school summer holidays when suddenly a loud nursery rhyme jingle would reverberate around our road and mum knew exactly what that meant.  In a matter of minutes a Rossi's ice cream van would suddenly turn into the road of our Essex home in Ilford and this would be the cue for a stampede for the said ice cream van. Mum would smile warmly and before you could blink there was a momentary apprehension because mum was short of a couple of shillings and pound notes and maybe you'd have to wait for another day. 

The scenario though was a familiar one. Small huddles of loving mothers would slowly make their way to this cream coloured van steadily and uncomplainingly because it was their duty to keep their sons and daughters happy at all times. Besides, they were our parents and they just wanted to us to know they'd always be there in moments of either crisis or adversity. Then mum would dig out her purse and suddenly hundreds of mums would converge on the vehicle, arms folded, purses in one hand and deep affection in their hearts for their precious offspring.

And you'd ask for either an ice cream or its common ally the humble lollipop and particularly the ones with hundreds and thousands and a veritable rainbow of colours. There was the reliable 99, the ingenious creation of somebody who recognised immediately how easy it would be to keep the kids quiet and pre-occupied with something that formed the essential backdrop of your life and was woven into the fabric of your primary school years.

While trawling through your mind for those sugar coated memories you can hardly forget just how important it felt to be a child who craved nothing more than a 99 vanilla ice cream with that famous cone. It was regular as a clockwork and something to savoured pleasantly at your leisure. No matter that the ice cream would invariably start melting as soon as you wrapped your lips around it. Suddenly waterfalls of vanilla ice-cream would race down the cone in some breathless quest to just to reach the bottom of your obsolete cone now on the point of complete disintegration.

Memories of your mum and dad, grandma and grandpa appear in the forefront of your minds. After a hard day's intensive sunbathing at Westcliff in Essex near Southend, you would polish off your lovely grandparents groaning shopping bag of sandwiches and then venture out into the seaweed that completely adorned the shore, waiting patiently for the sea to arrive before anticipating the sea's arrival at roughly lunchtime. Better late than ever.

We all remember those halcyon days of being free to do whatever you liked without caring at all about anything at all. You can remember swimming vigorously in the Essex sea with your wonderful dad and gulping huge quantities of salt and brine at the same time. Then you realised it was Sunday and the weekend was rapidly heading towards its conclusion so regrettably you traipsed wearily back to your parents, dried off with seemingly hundreds of towels and then revelled in the glow of fitness 

It was at this point that we all headed to Rossi's, a restaurant that has been firmly established in the same spot since the beginning of time although that might be a slight exaggeration. And this was the point when you expressed a preference for a 99 with a chocolate flake. Nowadays of course there are so many varieties of ice cream flavours that maybe we've been spoilt for choice. There's coffee, pistachio, rum, chocolate of course, rum and raisin, lime and lemon, orange and a vast selection of the sublime and ridiculous.

There was of course that famous ice cream sketch performed by two of the finest comedians and double acts of all time. It was The Two Ronnies, whose glorious shows on the BBC did so much to leave us in the land of laughter almost indefinitely. So here's the scene. Ronnie Corbett walks into an ice cream parlour quite casually and confronts his hilarious comedy partner Ronnie Barker who was about to launch into quite the most delightful exchange. Corbett simply wants an ordinary vanilla ice cream and nothing more. Barker, in a miraculous feat of memory, starts rolling off a whole sequence of absurd flavours such as bacon and lettuce, cheese and pickle and barbecued flavoured ice creams while Corbett just stands there in shock and stunned amazement. It is magical comedy gold.

And yet where would we have been without ice cream. Your mind also recalls the Arctic Roll, a gorgeous confection of sponge encasing a lovely slab of ice cream in the middle of it. There were the apple pie and ice cream teas that were irresistible as a young kid. There were ice creams that rolled around your tongue seductively like a guilty pleasure, the ones that dripped decoratively down your new T-shirt, the one you had to buy when the summer heat was at its hottest.

 Ice cream relieved the pressure, reinvigorated, soothing fevered brows when temporary anxieties had to be held in check. Ice cream had the most profound of meanings for all of us because they represented an integral part of your childish pleasures. So here's hoping that you've all enjoyed National Ice Cream Day. Nobody deserves it more than you.

Happy Birthday Coronation Street

 Happy Birthday Coronation Street

Tomorrow marks the 63rd anniversary of one of the most long running and successful TV programmes Britain has ever produced. It would revolutionise the landscape of British TV and define its essence. Up until that point TV in Britain had been very staid, stuffy and conservative, a state of affairs which would no longer be the considered norm. It was a programme about people, their private lives, their triumphs and disasters, their gossip, their social class, the sense of upward mobility always the ambition in some cases but not in others.

Coronation Street, only scheduled for a short run by way of an experiment, burst into life on a wintry evening in early December 1960 and TV screens would be spellbound, astonished, hooked in the following years and just emotionally attached to commercial TV's very first foray into the world of soap opera. Nobody knew it at the time but Coronation Street would just go on and on almost indefinitely for the next 63 years because the story lines became so gripping that TV audiences could hardly keep themselves away from its stunningly crafted scenes. It had the kind of well rounded characters that would have kept Shakespeare in gainful employment for a long time.

The show's working title was originally Florizel Street but when the first cast of actors and actresses sat down in Granada's canteen for lunch, one of the canteen staff suggested that Florizel Street didn't quite sound as appealing as Coronation Street so the name stuck and here we are six decades later and still Corrie holds us in thrall, a masterpiece of scriptwriting, a classic at any time and so relevant up to the present day. It makes us cry, laugh, giggle and chuckle in equal measure and taps into our way of life or perhaps the one we used to know but still recognise.

Of course Coronation Street ticks all the right cultural boxes because it knows how we're feeling, thinking, reacting and relating to. It is still drawing in phenomenal viewing figures since it moves with the times. So Coronation Street, named after, quite logically, one of the back streets in Manchester where the programme was made, was born . Soon we'd become acquainted with a superlative group of jobbing thespians who were totally unknown at the time but would become familiar household names. 

Back in Granada studios, its now permanent venue, British TV was about to give birth to a highly acclaimed batch of programmes that would very much include Coronation Street in its debrief to entertain and amuse or just be serious and businesslike. World in Action would emerge as the one of the best and most influential of all news and current affairs programmes. It would be the epitome of investigative journalism at its most probing, topical and polemical, a programme that would delve deeply into the murky world of corrupt companies, the industrial unrest in some parts of Britain and politicians who just kept misbehaving.

But on one evening a couple of weeks before Christmas 1960, families across Britain switched on their TV sets more in fascination than anything else. It had been 10 years since the BBC first ventured into the rarefied world of soap opera with their interpretation of what would also become an art form. The Grove Family was a perfect insight into the austere world of post war Britain. It hardly shook the world to its foundations but was ground breaking and pioneering because nobody believed it could possibly work. The Grove Family, in hindsight, now seems too strait laced, horribly dated perhaps and, quite possibly as wooden as a piece of balsa. Nothing untoward or unsavoury apparently happened, there was nothing sensational about it and, for a while, only a minority seemed to understand it. It was still though 1950s Britain and that must have been terribly grim.

And so on December 9th 1960 the credits rolled and the magic just happened. Cut to a row of rooftops and chimneys pouring smoke, cut to a country that was still in black and white and finally the cat that suddenly took up residence on one of the roofs, curled up contentedly and then Coronation Street. There was a pub in Coronation Street called the Rovers Return, a small but subsequently lively rendezvous for drinking gallons of beer, chatting in the language of small talk and exchanging tittle tattle. It would be shine a light on all of the stereotypes that became an integral part of the programme.

There was the well educated student who was politically active and still living at home with his parents,  the two builders with their own builders yard, the corner shop with the chirpy and friendly assistant, another corner shop that sold everything and anything and then there was Ena Sharples. And that was the starting point for Coronation Street. Dipping its tentative toes into the world of soap, Ena Sharples was the first gossip monger, the woman with the distinctive hair net, a military trenchcoat that probably last saw service in 1942 and characters who were just dripping with personality.

Outside the new Coronation Street a group of young children would play pat a cake or maybe it was hopscotch. An endearing nursery rhyme would be sung quite flawlessly and now the producers, scriptwriters, and directors, always admirably conscientious, could relax or just hope that people would just watch over and over again, telling their work mates or school friends with a detailed running commentary. The programme that may have been intended as a powerful social documentary on the lives of a close knit community in Northern England flourished within six months and those who'd become addicted to its deeply dramatic narratives just gasped with amazement.

For the next 63 years the Rovers Return would become the central hub for all of those characters who suddenly discovered the art of comedy, an innate grasp of all the pressing social issues of the day and were quite happy to share their everyday problems. Within every family in Corrie there was an intimacy about every scene in the programme. Everything was just very cosy, snug and yet unpredictable. There were the blazing arguments between Elsie Tanner and Ena Sharples, the brash directness of Elsie with her troubled family and men in her life. It was a formula that worked like a dream from day one.

In the Rovers Return meanwhile, landlord and landlady Annie and Jack Walker would become firmly established in the public's affections as the ideal matriarch and patriarch. Annie was the model of pomposity and bombast, a snooty and condescending figure who would never tolerate bad language or hoodlums in her pub disrupting the peace. Annie, initially, was both understanding and almost compliant at times, ready to accept the status quo but still dismissive of what she felt to be riff raff.

For years both Jack and Annie were somehow sympathetic but sharply critical of those who they felt didn't properly belong in their class or status. Jack always had a towel wrapped over his arms while Annie just seemed tut tut and sigh with evident displeasure at anybody she regarded as inferior or working class. The Rovers Return must have sold more pints of beer as any high street or village boozer because everybody retired to the Rovers when the piano was playing and there was a party.

But then there was Hilda and Stan Ogden, a couple so devotedly in love that even when they argued- which they frequently did - on a regular basis it was just inoffensive and temporary. Stan was the man in the donkey jacket, a hard bitten, local window cleaner who also did odd jobs for the locals. Stan was target practice for Hilda's biting tongue, a downtrodden and vulnerable character who was always getting in Hilda's way. Stan could never get it right even when he was sure he was. But Hilda and Stan were together beautifully for life, married until Stan died and Hilda also died. The pair had a wonderful chemistry and the relationship, although fraught with complications, survived and so did they.

Meanwhile there was Len Fairclough and Ray Langton, the working class labourers who were always up to the ears with jobs, contracts, invoices and permanently dissatisfied customers. Fairclough was almost a full time resident in the Rovers Return, loud and argumentative, forceful and outspoken, often ruthless and unnecessarily aggressive. Len, quite literally, had an indomitable fighting spirit and nobody messed with him unless of course you were ready and waiting for a punch up.

In the Rovers Return Snug three women would dominate one corner of the pub. Minnie Caldwell, with cat Bobby, would sit very demurely next to Ena Sharples while both would natter confidentially to each other as if everybody was there to be discussed and analysed with forensic detail. Ena would speak in the most insulting terms about people she could barely meet in the street without some sharp stiletto of criticism in their back. And then there was Martha Longhurst who famously died in the Snug slumping over onto the table after a day trip out. Poor Martha.

And then there was Ken Barlow, the inimitable Ken, the clever one, the intellectual who went to university and became a teacher. Ken was the one who wore that thick pullover at his parents dinner table and started to sound like Che Guevara or some radical thinking firebrand who just wanted to change the world overnight. Ken was married to Valerie who, after several years of marital bliss, tragically electrocuted herself with an iron while Ken was knocking back huge quantities of bitter in the Rovers Return.

Finally of course there was a whole gallery of the great and good. Bet Lynch was a brassy barmaid initially employed by Annie Walker and then graduating to landlady after Anne and Jack had passed. Bet was the woman every man in the Rovers must have fantasised about in their dreams, a blonde bombshell who charmed every man she set eyes upon. Who could ever forget Vera and Jack Duckworth? Jack and Vera became the Hilda and Jack of their generation, constantly bickering over the trivial and banal but then exchanging affectionate endearments when love was in the air which was invariably the case. Jack had his pigeons to care for while Vera just hollered and yelled at the top of her voice when something was wrong.

There is something indefinably timeless and magical about Coronation Street that may never die. Of course there have been the fatal train crashes, one of which almost completely demolished the Rovers Return, the frequent punch ups between Len Fairclough and Ken Barlow with Mike Baldwin, the always ambitious but annoying factory manager who hated Ken with a violent passion.  There was Mavis and Rita in the sweet shop- cum corner shop, joking, observing, laughing and always on first name terms with the local clientele. There was Alf Roberts, the hearty, dependable, jolly, cheerful and busy shopkeeper who also occupied the highest seat on the council before becoming mayor of  Weatherfield.

So if you happen to find yourself spiritually drawn to the cobble stoned roads of Coronation Street and the back to back houses that line this famous thoroughfare be sure to remember the history, the old characters who gave Corrie its essential backbone. And just a thought. Thank goodness for Coronation Street rather than Florizel Street which, according to some, sounded ironically like a soap powder. Here's to 63 more years of domestic drama and fun.

TV football deal.

 TV football deal.

A couple of days after the FA Cup third round draw and the Euro 2024 draw in Hamburg, football finds itself in the limelight once again. No, it hasn't done anything wrong and there's no notoriety or scandal in either red top nor broadsheet papers but football is attracting another set of controversial headlines once again. And this time it's about the money. Yes, that old chestnut again. Is it the root of all evil or the road to ruination? Probably neither but it does make the world go around and it does provide a lucrative livelihood for both players and managers so it has to be commended. 

The trouble is though that when football talks about money and vast quantities of it then you do wonder whether money is the sole motivation for playing the game or managing it. Greed and selfishness have always been levelled at football for ages now so this is nothing new. But yesterday the tills were ringing quite loudly, pockets were lined in substantial amounts, vast bank balances were increased a hundred or even thousand fold and there was an air of rampant capitalism. Football and money. They were somehow meant for each other.

On yesterday's negotiating table the Premier League were given a lovely early Christmas present. In a deal worth £6.7 billion to all concerned TV benefitted handsomely. It wasn't always like this though. There used to be a time when football was blissfully content with its lot, a period of time when the likes of Tom Finney, the Preston plumber who used to be one of the most gifted wingers England have ever produced, would take home his wage packet at the end of the week with the princely sum of roughly £7 a week and that would have to tide him over for quite a while. But did Sir Tom ever complain or quibble, squabble, haggle and barter for at least hundreds of pounds a week? Clearly not. Football was sensible. 

Yesterday the game demonstrated the kind of behaviour you'd come to expect of a crooked gambler who squanders all of his money on anything that moves. Football has now feathered its nest once again. Not content with its Arab billionaires and American entrepreneurs with their ties to baseball and American football, football presented its TV platform with a gift it could hardly resist. In a sense £6.7 billion is mere chicken feed in the bigger picture and nothing out of the ordinary. In a fact this is probably the going rate, the market value since football seemed to lose its innocence when Johnny Haynes became the first player to rake in £100 a week.

All things considered it is a deal that probably comes as little surprise to those in the know. When Sky TV were presented with their first mind boggling sum of millions for their broadcasting rights it was so trend setting that in retrospect it hardly comes a shock. Back in the early 1990s football was still recovering from the horrific ravages of the Hillsborough crowd tragedy when 97 football supporters died because complacency had set in. Nobody had thought for a minute that the tight concentration of thousands of football supporters into a confined space would ever lead one day to death and disaster.

In 1992, with all bells and whistles in full spate, cheerleaders and razzamatazz the predominant theme, football abandoned itself gleefully to Sunday lunchtime football, Sunday tea time football, Monday evening football and any random hour of its choice. Footballers were portrayed as highly marketable products, cherished commodities, the superstars of their age and eventually paid extortionate millions just for turning up in their team's dressing room.

At some point during the 1990s, football may have lost its moral compass. Now players were converted into fashion models on the catwalk, tattoos emblazoned garishly over their bodies, jewellery on fingers dripping with affluence and the kind of disposable income that would plant the seeds of jealousy and resentment into every dustman and milkman in their local neighbourhoods. But maybe it didn't and they couldn't be bothered at all since they were the heartbeat of football, the ones who paid the players wages, who rattled through the turnstiles devotedly just to see their team win 4-0 at home.

Then in more recent times another TV outlet expressed an interest in the national game. BT Sport were just fascinated observers then ruthless predators. Their brief was to replicate everything that Sky had tried its luck at and succeeded in achieving. Rivalry would intensify and, now known as TNT Sport, their posh TV executives and directors were sitting comfortably at football's top table yesterday. The financial windfall which football received was another example of its gluttony, its smugness, its vanity project and the relentless quest for greater sums of money that to some of us, seems sickening.

But this morning football and TV are comfortably flushed, enormously prosperous and utterly compatible. We'll still be able to stay up late on a Saturday night to watch Gary Lineker and friends pontificating about high presses, low blocks, VAR and its debatable merits without forgetting of course the Premier League in all of its glory. The BBC's Match of the Day has become a well entrenched national treasure. Admittedly, the highlights do seem to be getting shorter and shorter but that was always its charm anyway. This is football in televisual summary and precis form, the edited version and never the full story. And yet we would never have it any other way.

On ITV and London Weekend some of us were entranced by the Big Match at Sunday lunchtime shortly after the last bite of the roast. Legendary commentator Brian Moore, our delightful font of all footballing knowledge, hosted the show for what seemed like decades. Recent footage of the Big Match has now been thankfully preserved on You Tube and the early black and white editions of the programme are kept in perpetuity. You simply can't keep your eyes away from it.

Moore was charming, dependable, witty and always presentable. Moore covered the London matches while Gerald Sinstadt was often to be seen at Manchester City's old Maine Road, Manchester United's Old Trafford, Everton's Goodison Park, Liverpool's Anfield while also dipping into the lower leagues with Oldham's Boundary Park and Bolton's old Burnden Park. Gerry Harrrison was our man at Ipswich Town and Norwich City, while the incomparable Hugh Johns, just a master of his craft, became a frequent visitor to Plymouth, Portsmouth, Torquay and Exeter although Johns had already become one of the many voices for the 1966 World Cup Final.

But then football seemed to lose its way during the 1980s and after a number of brief industrial strikes between the TV companies the game cried out for its own kind of stability. There were a series of live Premier League games on both the BBC and ITV and some semblance of continuity would hold everything together. But football had now become a toy for the rich kids, a plaything that could be exploited and then quite possibly taken complete advantage of. Soon the Arab sheikhs would announce their intentions and Manchester City, Newcastle United and Chelsea are living proof that if somebody throws millions into your bank account you'd be foolish to turn it down.

Now we have £6.7 billion washing over TV's now rapidly expanding ego. Football was the never conceited type who would stare at itself in the mirror with self admiration. But now that decisions have been made and deals thrashed out we can now continue to be satisfied with our regular diet of football on TV with the added incentive of more and more media and social media alternatives. The day you could watch football on your phone is now a sobering reality but the game still calls the tune, demanding the highest price possible. But most of us have known this to be the case anyway.

Chanukah and Christmas

 Chanukah and Christmas

It is about this time of the year when the temperatures drop, layers of clothes begin to multiply and those familiar mantras begin to make their presence felt. This morning it felt like the coldest day you'd ever experienced and yet it was bracing and delightful. But then we remembered where we were and just turned up the heating full blast. We're not going out again today because it's freezing cold and you'd be well advised to stay indoors, add to your ever expanding collection of Christmas presents to your families and friends and watch the commercial adverts on TV because they're just hilariously topical.

So you do venture out of your home eventually because you've got to get out since nothing will ever be completed if you just start chilling out and loafing about the dining room lethargically. Maybe we're off to our local gym, converging on Costa lot of coffees, skinny lattes and heart warming mugs of hot chocolate topped off with delicious marshmallows and a sprinkling of more chocolate. 

This is the point where we become acutely aware of those two perennial, religious festivals that bring everybody together. Next week Judaism gives us the gift of Chanukah, the festival of lights where the menorah(candlestick holder) and all the lovely Jews devour doughnuts, hundreds of them, thousands of them, latkes(potato cakes) and everything that is full of sugar and excessively savoury. We do it because we love the joys of over indulgence, the freedom to eat everything that would normally be considered bad for you and detrimental to your health. But it only happens once a year so it can't do you any harm.

Across the whole of the Christian community we have our old friend back by the warmly domestic log or electric fire. It returns every year without fail and has done so quite loyally throughout the ages. It's the holiday time of the year but not the one where you rummage through your suitcases for more bottles of sun factor suntan cream that prevents us from burning in the hot sunshine. No, this is the holiday where everybody plants a decorative tree in the corner of the living room, throws tinsel and glitter over it and declares it's Christmas again.

Yes folks. Here we are on December 2nd and, with over three weeks to go before the big day, Christmas becomes overwhelming, all conquering, all embracing and just too much for some. It keeps us totally pre-occupied, consumes our every waking thoughts and generally turns us into quivering wrecks of desperation and panic. In fact Christmas becomes the one festival and celebration-cum holiday that some dread and then fall into a totally unnecessary depression.  Rather than get excited though about a forthcoming event that is supposed to be hugely enjoyable and exhilarating, we just slump in our sofas and just close our eyes.

And yet hundreds and thousands of years after Joseph was born to Jesus and Mary, Christmas dawns rather like that unwelcome impostor at a private party. We're supposed to be overjoyed at the prospect of seeing parents, grandparents, nieces, cousins, uncles, aunts because we haven't seen them for at least a year or was it yesterday, possibly five minutes ago. Even now you can hear the grumbles of dissatisfaction, the ever increasing complaints about a lack of mince pies in the cupboard and no mulled wine for those partial to a drop of festive alcohol.

But the close proximity of Christmas and Chanukah often feels quite ironic because both are dedicated to brightness and visually spectacular colour. Across the road in Finsbury Park, the Christmas tree shop has already opened for business and there's a plenty of fir in the air. In a way both Christmas and Chanukah bear remarkable similarities to each other but only Christmas seems to get preferential treatment when the TV adverts take over the commercial mainstream.

Of course the year is rapidly approaching its end and religion seems to enjoy a heart warming prominence in our daily lives from now onwards. Today probably marks the beginning of that gruelling and punishing journey where we acknowledge that jolly old gentleman with a white beard and red coat. Now we know Santa Claus is probably half way between the Arctic and most of the Nordic countries. We've all heard about Santa's  amazing stamina and longevity, that legendary ho-ho laugh, the celebrated reindeers in Lapland forests and eventually that thrilling tumble down the chimney, directly onto a carpet or laminated floor.

There are notable differences of course such as the Chanukah dreidel( a cute spinning top with letters of the Hebrew alphabet, the arrival of divine doughnuts with jam, custard, chocolate and a light dusting of sugar, the fancy dress parties that our children and grandchildren always get very energetic and animated over. Chanukah is indeed the festival of lights, eight nights of superlative fun, piling on unlimited stones, pounds and calories before generally feeling ever so bloated, full to bursting point and wishing you hadn't because guilty pleasures are just forbidden.

So here we are it's Chanukah and Christmas almost but not quite overlapping with each other. It is time to get cosy and comfortable with our lovely families and our gorgeous grandson. We'll be accompanied by my wonderful brother and wife, their now fast growing children. This is the first weekend countdown to the global, end of year feasting, fressing, carousing and cavorting.We may regret our hearty appetites because the weight will just increase quite distressingly and it'll take for ever to get rid of it.

 Shortly we'll be re-acquainted with our superb board games such as Trivial Pursuit or Monopoly and we'll wonder at the head spinning commercialism, the exorbitant sums of money we've spent on food, drink and then we'll just sleep for a while after the traditional turkey, roast potatoes and vegetables before cramming a Christmas pudding into our mouths. We'll watch the new King Charles the Third's Christmas Day speech and reminisce fondly on the last 12 months. It's been a good one because it always has been the case because we have. We can't  control the obscenities of violent wars and political unrest but we're all we've witnessed history in the making at some point our lives. We've been here before on so many occasions that we knew it would pan out like this.

But its Chanukah and Christmas and some of us can hardly believe how the year has flown away and didn't even pause for breath. Time can march past us so quickly and breathlessly that by the time we get to December it feels like the transitions of the seasons have just left us dumbfounded. So if you do treat yourself to the roast chestnuts from the brazier who regularly turns up outside the British Museum or just wander through the glorious piazzas of Covent Garden, then remember the winter festivals that always meant so much to us. Enjoy everybody. Life is indeed beautiful.