Liverpool move into the fourth round of the FA Cup.

 Liverpool move into the fourth round of the FA Cup.

Given their recent form it would have been perfectly understandable had Arsenal approached this FA Cup third round tie against Liverpool with both terror and trepidation. Two successive Premier League defeats at home to West Ham and away at Fulham had reinforced doubts and anxieties that none of us could have anticipated. But now Arsenal faced their first real contest of the New Year against a Liverpool side boasting a commendable crop of youngsters who would have had no knowledge of previous meetings between the two. The names of Kevin Keegan, John Toshack, Peter Cormack, Ian Callaghan and Brian Hall may just as well have been some historic throwback to them. Perhaps their parents might have informed them about their legendary exploits in detailed fashion.

The very mention of Arsenal - Liverpool has evocative echoes of three FA Cup Finals from yesteryear. In 1950 Tom Whittaker guided Arsenal to the FA Cup where they defeated a Liverpool side featuring Bob Paisley who was still a player learning his apprenticeship at Anfield. Then 21 years later Arsenal, under the quiet and studious Bertie Mee, who had been a well respected physiotherapist at the club, managed Arsenal to the first half of what would prove to be a momentous Double.

When Charlie George drilled a low drive past Ray Clemence with the crucial winning goal, Arsenal knew they had won one of the most entertaining of FA Cup Finals in injury time. The legendary Bill Shankly would enjoy more prosperous days with Liverpool with old First Division championships by the dozen but Arsenal had made one of their first conquests over a team whose attacking philosophies they would share from that point on. Allegedly Eddie Kelly was attributed with Arsenal's opening goal but the ball seemed to have a mind of its own and ended up crawling into the net. Steve Heighway, Liverpool's university educated winger, equalised Arsenal's opening goal but then George scored and then collapsed onto his back, hands outstretched to accept the congratulations of his Arsenal colleagues.

And finally 23 years ago Michael Owen, a young, coltish and energetic striker with all the trademarks of a typical Liverpool striker, scored the winning goal for the Anfield side after Arsenal striker Thierry Henry, Patrick Vieira and company had threatened to run away with the 2001 FA Cup Final at the Millennium Stadium in the Welsh capital of Cardiff. So football collisions between both Arsenal and Liverpool have always had a history and emotional resonance that went much deeper than met the eye.

Yesterday evening Arsenal once again lined up against Liverpool, primed and prepared for their latest battle of wits, an epic confrontation that almost had a classical feel to it. This time the whole appearance of both sets of teams would have led you to believe that both sides had just returned from a fancy dress party. Arsenal, in a  homage to the latest and most disturbing knife attacks in London, wore white shirts while Liverpool, for reasons best known to themselves, wore a brighter shade of purple. Sadly, both sides seemed to be at a loss to know why both the first half and second half had  followed completely different patterns, cases of mistaken identity perhaps or reversal of roles.

For much of the first half William Saliba, Declan Rice, Ben White and the unfortunate Jakub Kiowior had learnt the same lines, memorised them and then struck up the most idyllic of relationships at the back for Arsenal, defenders of immense authority and immaculate statesmanship. In the centre of midfield Martin Odegaard was proving once again to be one of the cleverest and most intuitive of all midfield playmakers, sewing together Arsenal's most impressive passing movements with poise and balance before smacking the crossbar with an early attempt at goal.

Then both Odegaard, Martinelli, Jorginho began to weave their own pretty tapestries with sharp, magisterial short passes in and around the Liverpool penalty area. But at some point it all became utterly predictable, beautiful to watch but somehow over elaborate. Arsenal built and then rebuilt gloriously constructed passing spiders webs around Liverpool but slowly and surely seemed to be achieving nothing of any substance. Kai Havertz should surely have been more decisive with his finishing when through on goal but contrived only to be hesitant when it mattered most.

As the match progressed it became more and more apparent that Arsenal, for all their pretty embellishments and silky one and two touch passes, were just heading down anonymous cul de sacs. To those who had seen West Ham erecting a monumental defensive barricade last week, shifting their battalions from one side of the 18 yard box to another, perhaps Arsenal would have been better served with the long, diagonal pass that splits defences and leads to panic. But you had to sympathise because fundamentally, Arsenal were playing the game the right way, expressing themselves with freewheeling fluency and abandon, a team with the perfect collective ethos.

Liverpool have been here before on so many occasions but have remarkably been on the wrong end of defeats to Arsenal on so many occasions that we may have run out of fingers. Joe Gomez and Trent Alexander Arnold were beefing up the flanks with stirring overlaps that, from time to time, sent shock waves through the Arsenal defence. Ryan Gravenberch, Curtis Jones, Conor Bradley and the dynamic Harvey Elliott, full of running and industrious headlong charges at goal, were all offering attractive and decorative touches and delicately skilful approach work in and out of possession.

With the sands of time running out for Arsenal and their powers of invention simply ebbing away, Liverpool grabbed hold of the attacking initiative and just took control. From a superb Alexander Arnold corner the ball was floated brilliantly into the heart of Arsenal's flummoxed defence who failed to pick up any Liverpool player before the hapless Gunners defender Jakub Kiowior stuck out his leg and deflected the ball into his own net. It was the beginning of the end for the home side.

 Then, after one of many lightning fast counter attacks, both Darwen Nunez and the ever influential Diogo Jota swapped two shrewdly executed passes on the half way line before Jota hurtled towards goal and then released the simplest of passes to Luis Diaz, now fully recovered after that horrific family incident involving his father, who simply took aim and fired home Liverpool's second and winning goal from close range.

So Liverpool are through to the fourth round of the FA Cup on a weekend which saw the Kentish orchards yield the ripest of plums when non League Maidstone beat Stevenage. The FA Cup has come a long way since those formative years of the public schools and universities. The names of Royal Engineers and Old Carthusians sound like ancient artefacts on an archaeological site but the FA Cup bandwagon rolls on relentlessly into its 21st century high tech age. Its magic will remain permanent.

FA Cup third round weekend.

 FA Cup third round weekend.

You do know what day it is tomorrow or, in a much broader context, the whole weekend if truth be told. Nowadays football has no specific time frame or any reference point. It could happen on the traditional, first week of the New Year and also on a Saturday afternoon. But that would just be an easy assumption since football, in recent times, now holds no recognisable kick off moment on our sporting itinerary. At some point all football supporters will have to rush through their breakfast of tea, toast or cereal and just be content with whatever their team are capable of producing on this day of days - the earlier the better.

Ladies and Gentlemen. It's the third round of the FA Cup and this is signpost territory for every professional team across Britain. From here football finds itself in completely alien territory, excited and perhaps even excitable since football has always aroused fierce passions. It is a day when the giant killers from the non League pyramid hunt down in packs and breathe down the necks of their supposedly loftier and superior brethren. Sometimes it has that wonderful capacity for shocking us, silencing us, leaving us dumbfounded and then leaving us mesmerised by its arbitrariness, the magical sense of the unexpected and then gasping with delight.

Because let's face it when was the last time the FA Cup had followed its original route and just stuck to custom and convention? Eventually the minnows and non Leaguers do accept their station in life and slip almost reluctantly out of the competition. But the FA Cup does know how to surprise us because the proletariat should always know their place. The little guys should just stick to their day job and never challenge the status quo since the Premier League monarchy always end up with a diamond encrusted crown on their heads.

But tomorrow the carpenters, builders, labourers, hod carriers, supermarket shelf stackers, post men and women, milk men and milk women, plumbers, mechanics and park keepers, combine their collective talents and just believe in the improbable and, often, impossible. They clock off from their factory gates, take off their boiler suits and knuckle down to the task in hand. They will know their place in the hierarchy because the FA Cup does occasionally get too big for its boots and sneers disdainfully at the part-timers, the tradesmen and women, the ones who always get up at the crack of dawn and just graft away industriously.

We all know by now about those well documented FA Cup giant killers, the minnows who boycotted the odds and refused to listen to all the alleged pomposity of the Premier League. But we love the Premier League and we stump up second mortgages for season tickets at Liverpool, Manchester City and United, Arsenal, Spurs, Chelsea and all of those aristocratic socialites who always think they know better than the rest.

So we'll all get up tomorrow morning and just scan the sports pages of our newspapers in case we've missed the latest developments in the transfer window. Then we'll notice that a vast majority of its coverage is devoted to those painters and decorators, the landscape gardeners and electricians who are the very lifeblood of football's heart, lungs, kidneys and blood cells. They're the ones who just want to be in the bag for the fourth round of the FA Cup and never hog the limelight because nobody notices them anyway.

But we know all about the magical and romantic nature of the FA Cup because those are the perennial themes every time the FA Cup comes calling and rolls into town, city and market stall around England. Of course there are no candle lit dinners to be awarded to any of the players whose wives, girlfriends or female companions fancy an early Valentines Day present. There is always a comfortable sense of democracy among football and the FA Cup. The fans, devoted supporters and lifelong loyalists are an essential part of this whole weekend's landscape because without them the game would be played in some haunting vacuum. 

So strap up for the great emotional roller coaster ride  that is invariably generated by the FA Cup. Its enduring air of mystique and mythology are now safely embedded in its rich history. Nobody feels left out when the FA Cup turns up on the doorstep of some lovely recreation ground next to a an allotment site or some non League outpost that just sits happily on the peripheries of the game. And yet they'll always feel warmly included  and embraced on third round day because the FA Cup is football's level playing field, their day, their place and their time.

Many of us will recall  the little clubs and their wondrous achievements when everybody had written them off as no hopers. There was Sutton, now a League Two side but back in 1987 they toppled Coventry City from their FA Cup perch. Coventry, of course, were a top flight team at the time but Sutton laid lethal gloves on their high society betters and knocked out the Sky Blues with the most clinical of punches. In 1948, Yeovil, guided by the cheerful and always upbeat Alec Stock, stunned the football world by beating old First Division Sunderland, a major force at the time. In 1973 Sunderland's Bob Stokoe galloped onto the old Wembley pitch overjoyed at his old Second Division team overcoming another formidable foe in Leeds United who were flying high in the top flight with Don Revie.

Wherever you go this weekend for your feast of FA Cup football be sure to take with you a plentiful supply of idealism, optimism and just a thought for those who may think Wembley is just a North London suburb with an arch and nothing more. But you never know. The FA Cup plays strange and mysterious tricks with your imagination and by the end of this weekend this could be a day to remember for eternity. It may be your team's memorable season. We're about to find out.

Wonderkid Luke Littler

 Wonderkid Luke Littler

In all of the diverse fields of art, culture, science and politics there are thousands and millions of talented people with a natural aptitude for excelling at what they do best. Every year the Nobel Prize bestows the highest award to the one person who simply stands out and is highly regarded for being a world class performer whose achievements should be recognised as the finest. In other words they are just outstanding and have to be respected.

Within the last couple of days a Cheshire born 16 year old darts player by the name of Luke Littler has blown away the opposition at the PDC World Championships at Alexander Palace, North London. He did so against a backdrop of stunned astonishment and wide eyed disbelief. The exuberance of youth is well and truly alive and the latest sporting prodigy has emerged from seemingly nowhere. In a world dominated by Instagram, Tik Tok, X or Twitter and Facebook, Littler belongs to a generation of fresh faced youth and a figure who carries his responsibilities around him like a mature and seasoned professional.

Back in the early 2000s another 16 year old made his winning Premier League debut and little did he know at the time that he would emerge as one of the most phenomenal of goal scorers for club and country. Wayne Rooney was a child of nature, hungry and ambitious, focussed and driven, ferociously committed to the cause and scorer of  goals that none will ever forget at Everton. Goodison Park would always remember the great ones such as Dixie Dean, Joe Royle, Graham Sharp and Gary Lineker, players capable of causing absolute wreckage and consternation among opposing defences.

During the 1980s a German tennis machine by the name of Boris Becker treated all of his opponents with all the destructive contempt that he felt they deserved. Becker was a 17 year old tearaway teenager who, on one memorable day in a Wimbledon Final, charged and lunged at every drop shot and cross court volley. Then there were the rasping drives down the tramlines against the esteemed likes of John Mcenroe. It was one of the greatest and most riveting of all Grand Slam tournament Finals that many had ever seen. In the end a rapt Wimbledon crowd had been spellbound by what they had seen and Becker had narrowly defied the odds with victory.

And then you remembered Luke Littler and wondered where you'd seen it all before. The critics and traditional cynics have always dismissed darts as just a pub game once engulfed by white cigarette smoke and then washed down with several breweries of lager. For decades now darts has tried desperately to escape the snide, malicious comments, the jokey wisecracks about its dubious claims to sporting excellence. In fact there are those who believe that darts is about as physically demanding and athletically competitive as bingo, dominoes or shove ha'penny and that's after only one game.

But with that bristly chin and a coltish adolescence on his side, it hardly seemed possible that a kid from Cheshire who looks as though he might have stepped out of a sixth form high school prom had just given his all at perhaps the most high profile and biggest tournament in the world of darts. Maybe he had just shaved and spruced up for the big occasion. Sometimes we can only sit back and admire those who dare to challenge the experienced, the mighty fallen by the little known.

Darts though has confounded all the doubters, the sceptics, the comedians who just sneer and giggle at its preposterous silliness, its boozy followers and general foolhardiness. There are far more compelling spectacles than darts and besides how does the throwing of tungsten arrows at a board with numbers around it constitute sport in any of its myriad forms? Anybody can chuck at a dart at a board. It isn't rocket science and there can be no intellectual and artistic pleasure to be gained from a game played in an alcoholic establishment. But hold on there are enormous amounts of money to be made from darts.

When the late Eric Bristow and Jocky Wilson strolled onto the oche in a vast hall or leisure centre in a major darts tournament it was commonly assumed that most of their supporters were just blotto, drunk out of their skulls and intoxicated by its alluring charms. Both Bristow and Wilson were excellent exponents of their trade, fingers beautifully poised, eyes like hawks, pictures of intense concentration and deeply hooked on their favourite pastime, sport or game. 

And then there was Luke Littler who has taken darts by the scruff of its neck and shaken it to its core. He had done so at the birthplace of TV broadcasting, the home of TV's very first black and white flickering images. Alexandra Palace, although a grand and venerable building, may find it hard to believe that somebody so young has stared directly into the eyes of history and remained undaunted.

Tonight Luke Littler finds himself on the brink of a truly remarkable achievement, a semi final against Rob Cross. Alexandra Palace will be at its most animated, excited in the extreme and barely able to contain itself for a night of raucous cheering, vocal encouragement ratcheted up to the highest level and ready to acclaim its youngest hero. The glasses will tinkle, high energy drinks swallowed by the many, packets of crisps doubtless consumed in huge quantities and infectious good humour will reverberate around this famous London venue.

Of course darts will have the snarling sceptics and those who continue to bombard it with relentless mockery and barely concealed derision. Darts should never be considered as a sport or so they tell us and belongs very firmly in the bars and old fashioned saloons of the world. It should always be accompanied by the green baize table of snooker and that's where it should remain. 

But tonight a 16 year old Cheshire teenager will endeavour to reach the final of the PDC World Championships of darts and we shall remember Eric and Jocky while still celebrating the breath taking accuracy of Phil the Power Taylor. For some of us the jury will continue to be out on darts continuing relevance as a sport if indeed that be the case anyway. But Luke Littler will don his purple silk shirt, grin and smile rather like the youngster who has just passed his driving test and then discovered that the world is his oyster. Best wishes Luke Littler. This is your moment.

New Year's Eve

 New Year's Eve

So here we are. It's the last day of the old year and a New Year beckons. The slates have been wiped clean, the doors will be shut and then open again for business when Big Ben in London strikes as resoundingly as it always has done for as long as any of us can remember. Of course there was that lengthy five year of silence in Westminster when time quite literally seemed to stand still for reasons that have now been painfully documented and have now been consigned to some medieval bin of history never to rear its head again.

All across the world champagne bottles will be popped, toasts will be raised and then the yearly pyrotechnical extravaganza will burst into the sky. The now stunningly colourful fireworks display by the Embankment on New Year's Eve has become an almost permanent fixture in the calendar. There were two years when there was neither sight nor sound of a Catherine Wheel, rocket or sparkler since the coronavirus had brought the whole of Mother Earth to a grinding halt and nobody was allowed to do anything celebratory of any description.

But here we are on the verge of 2024 and we're all being tactile and affectionate, cheerful and optimistic, clearly aware that nothing should be taken for granted. The huge crowds will gather in their enthusiastic multitudes huddling together as kindred spirits, pulling up the hoods on our coats, rubbing our hands together and wondering whether peace and goodwill will ever break out in the New Year. Sometimes it really does feel as though we may be whistling in the wind and just breaking our New Year's resolutions as soon as Big Ben has rung twelve times so dramatically.

For some of us the diagnosis of Autism was something of a mystery in 1962.Throughout your youth  you muddled your way through all of the festivities and joyous parties that were going on all around you. There was never any sense of detachment or isolation because, quite frankly, you had no idea what was going on inside your head nor had your consciousness been heightened by anything out of the ordinary. Of course in hindsight your behaviour was totally irrational, embarrassingly immature and just anti social in every possible way. 

As a young male, teenage years and adolescence were about to become so traumatic, problematic and challenging that it hardly seems possible that it could have happened but did. Your lovely mum and dad would prepare themselves for their yearly dinner and dance on New Year's Eve and nobody really questioned the status quo least of all me. You wished them the most enjoyable and satisfying of evenings and just got on with the traditional duty of looking after my brother who was six years younger than me.

So after seeing off my parents and wishing them a happy and healthy New Year, my mum would polish off the sweetest snowball, an alcoholic drink that seemed so relevant to the times. It was either that or a Tia Maria and that heralded the beginning of another year. My responsibility was to baby sit my brother and make sure that everything would run smoothly and uneventfully. So we sat down to watch the TV and while kids of my age and generation were abandoning ourselves to boozy bacchanalia and carefree enjoyment, my evening consisted of nothing of any consequence. There were no friends of my own age, nothing even resembling partying or dancing the night away and the evening just disappeared in a puff of smoke.

Suddenly you found yourself trapped in a no man's land where everything that should have been happening was just one missed opportunity after another. You didn't know it at the time but the realisation became obvious that the social network you should have established had become totally oblivious to you and nobody knew of your existence. Sadly the early 1980s were just a desolate hinterland with nobody to trip the light fantastic with me and share hilarious jokes and pleasantries with.

Now it was that you were introduced to Ilford B'nai Brith, a Jewish, vastly influential and global charitable organisation with charming and hospitable people who gave me that warm sense of belonging that will never ever be forgotten. It was a life changing moment that turned my life inside out and for much the better. By Christmas 1983 you had now become totally accepted as part of the family and it may have been that same New Year's Eve when you were invited to a party that was conveniently situated around the corner from where you used to live. These would become lifelong friends and your cup of gratitude would overflow.

You can still see yourself at first slightly wary and nervous at first, reluctant to make any kind of small talk or conversation with anybody. But once introduced you began to feel at home and comfortable. We would turn on Capital Radio, a London based pop music station, and all around me were people sitting on the floor, drink and food in one hand while those who preferred to simply stand, just stood around casually chatting and exchanging humorous observations about anything and everybody. 

It would be a while before you found yourself drawn into a world that had been so feared and ignored. Shortly, small private discussions would flow and the inhibitions began to fall away. My interest in writing had yet to be fully ignited properly and a cheesy poem about Summer would be the harbinger for greater literary efforts in years to come. But that was the year that changed your life, giving it shape and purpose, a body and framework, hope and structure. Where before you had struggled to cobble anything in the way of a coherent sentence or a purposeful paragraph, now there was clarity and creativity.

And so it is that along with my lovely wife Bev, always loving, glorious family, my rock and wonderfully supportive we'll be quietly celebrating New Year's Eve with several bags of crisps, a drink or several and just all the warmth and love you could possibly wish for. We must wish for a year that can guarantee peace, good health, happiness and just being open to all channels of communication because without that valuable resource, war may always be the insuperable obstacle that may never be overcome. So wherever you are tonight on New Year's Eve enjoy the company of the people around you and let's be good to each other.  A Happy, Healthy, Peaceful and Sweet New Year to you all. Oh of course welcome to the world our first grandson Arthur. We love you deeply little man. And the same to you King Arthur.

General Election next year

 General Election next year

As the old year draws to a close it's time to look forward to the New Year. Once the resolutions have been broken within hours of the first day in January it'll be time to analyse next year's General Election prospects which, if you were to listen to some of the experts and pundits, could be as early as next May. But this is not the time for hasty forecasts since no-one can possibly predict anything with any certainty. The fluctuating fortunes of the Tory party have become more or less a standing joke in recent times and still the nation awaits some credible opposition from the Labour party.

It could be said that Labour are simply putting their feelers out there, dipping their toes tentatively into the raging current of British politics. For the last couple of years we have endured the trials and tribulations of a Conservative government who have simply stumbled and staggered towards nowhere in particular. It didn't help when they were confronted by one of the deadliest global viruses ever to visit any of us. But then again none of us could have anticipated such an endless succession of grave announcements, death and heartache, suffering and grief on such a monumental scale.

But now we have the year of 2024 within our sights and politics is about to undergo the most gruelling session of arguments and counter arguments you're ever likely to witness. We'll have one yah boo sucks discussion after another as both the Tories and the Labour party engage in the grubbiest game of mud slinging and recriminations in the recent history of British politics. Maybe this has always been the case anyway but the fact remains that the government would seem to be heading for the most comprehensive drubbing of all time and even the market research polls that will be compiled in the months leading up to the General Election won't be able to save the Tories.

Within the next couple of months of 2024 they'll be going at it hammer and tongs, threatening, promising, guaranteeing, reassuring and then determined to do their utmost to ensure their party will lead Britain to everlasting glory and prosperity. It is without any doubt the biggest con of all time because we've heard it all before. Wool will be thrown across our eyes and quite frankly we'll fall into all the usual traps. We'll all be subjected to tedious conversations and impassioned rants about how much damage will be done if you vote for them rather than us.

So far Rishi Sunak, our helpless Prime Minister, is so convinced of victory in the General Election that a terrible complacency will set in and the air of presumption will just turn into outrageous arrogance. At the moment Sunak looks rather like somebody on a high wire trapeze circus act balanced precariously and knowing that he'll just breeze through it all to the other end of the wire. To some extent this is one battle the Tories may find it impossible to win since the country has had enough of double dealing, deceit, Punch and Judy shows, tomfoolery, hypocrisy, betrayal, smart alec talk, bolshy rhetoric and manifesto proposals that are bound to end up with people revealing egg on their faces.

So within the next month all three mainstream parties consisting of the Tories, Labour and Lib Dems will set out their stall and just whole heartedly canvass the public for their votes. At times it may just become so repetitive and boring that some of us will just turn down the volume, switch off and ignore them because this is their customary behaviour and things will never change. The result of the General Election will not be the one we were hoping for, since we were duped, sold down the river, and tricked into believing all the wrong type of hype. 

For the next couple of months, politicians of all parties will be pounding the pavements of our local neighbourhoods, knocking on doors, becoming soppy and sentimental because it's surely time for a new government and besides you have to trust us because you know you'll get to love us in time. All of those well intentioned and respected constituency members will take out their clip boards and note pads, smile simperingly at the Great British public and hope that deliberate brainwashing works.

It can't be denied that Rishi Sunak's Tory government have been put through the traumatic mill ever since 2019. When Boris Johnson was elected as Prime Minister some of us probably thought he was worth persevering with. He could hardly have done any more or less damage than his predecessors and besides Margaret Thatcher went through hell in her last years at 10 Downing Street. So this was just the accepted norm before every General Election. But this has been more than a long and winding road. It has been quite the bumpiest of thoroughfares for the Tories with so many pot holes and dreadful bungling that it could get ugly and unsightly for Sunak.

Already Sunak has been at the centre of one domestic row after another. He was entrusted with the responsibility of sending those fleeing persecution from war back to their own country. The whole migration issue has now become a full time pre-occupation for the Tories and before you know it, they may run out of boats and that'll be an even greater source of frustration. Then there's the crisis of living narrative where those in poverty may have to struggle even more desperately to feed themselves. Surely we haven't got to such a critical point but this is the reality we have before us.

It does seem that everything the Tories have got up their sleeve will just either fizzle out or just blow up in their faces. Every Christmas highlights the parlous plight of the homeless and those who are destitute, isolated, broken hearted and despairing. The sight of cardboard signs imploring enough money for a cup of tea and those dirty blankets, paint a picture of a London that tries to acknowledge their presence but then just can't think of any long term solution. The General Election may though prove the Tories ultimate undoing.

So here we are at the end of 2023 and who on earth in their right minds would want to become a politician with the right ideals and visions? Sir Keir Starmer, Labour's flag bearer supreme, will be hoping that his brand of confident and progressive sounding politics will just be too good for the  Conservatives. But then we remember the late Michael Foot and then we look at what happened to poor Neil Kinnock. Foot was just a scruffy, dishevelled figure who wore the wrong kind of duffel coats at Remembrance Day services and Kinnock presented the image of some King Canute figure who tried to hold back the tide along side his now sadly late wife Glenys and then just tripped over his own feet.

You find yourself wondering whether Labour can ever once again achieve a complete reinvention within the space of perhaps six months. All of those years of posturing in the wind and grand, rousing Socialist speeches never looked that impressive. Tony Blair did find a resurrection in 1997 when Labour romped home to victory but after a decade or so in power the shine lost its lustre and Blair quit. He did though leave a favourable legacy where education uttered three times did seem to benefit.

These are intriguing times and we love a good political thriller. After 13 years of Tory management or mismanagement whatever your angle may be, something has to give and probably will. Most of us are totally disenchanted with any one party in power because once they've been in power for about a month, everybody just gangs up on them somewhat amusingly and tells them that they're useless and their uncle and auntie could do a better job at 10 Downing Street.

What we have now is a familiar scenario that precedes every General Election year. Do we stick or twist? Do we continue to have faith and confidence in a party that thinks it knows best but quite clearly struggles to string a coherent sentence together that we may have heard a thousand times before anyway. Do we have to listen to the constant blathering, the orange crate speeches from our so called MPs who get so excited that none can either hear them properly or wish they hadn't bothered in the first place? 2024 could be the year when Labour finds its bearings again and charges triumphantly towards the finishing post or we just turn on the Tories in exasperation when things go wrong. This is a hard one to call but some of us privately know the outcome of the next General Election or at least we think we do. May the best party win next year.

National Leftovers Day.

 National Leftovers Day.

So there you are. It's that interim period between the end of Christmas Day and the New Year. The front room is in complete disarray, your friends and family have gone back to their own domestic hearth and it'll take ages to clear up the mess on the carpet or laminate flooring. It looks like a battleground of torn wrapping paper, ribbons, hundreds of pieces of string, burst balloons and plastic toys that the dog or cat has completely devoured. 

There is carnage wherever you look, the remnants of glorious revelry, empty soft drink cans, an abundance of bottles of now sour lager and just the traditional conviviality that normally lingers around your home. Meanwhile a couple of relatives are still polishing off that last bottle of whisky and gin before swigging back that last remaining can of cider.

This whole period is all about recovery, relief, festive jubilation and regret with just a hint of remorse. But we were happy to be among loved ones because without them we'd have felt as if Christmas wouldn't have been the same. We're hungover, the hair of the dog sensation is still making us feel awful, we're bleary eyed and bewildered and the sense of a shuddering anti climax has well and truly set in. If only we hadn't eaten and drunk too much and besides we should have been more grateful for the presents from relatives we'd always had time for.

But now is the time to survey your living room and just stare at the damage, detritus, the pines and needles strewn all over the chairs and tables, armchairs and staircases. There is food scattered all over mantelpieces, bits and pieces of Christmas crackers torn to shreds by our friendly dog and just the wreckage of another festive knees up.  How did that happen?  So we throw off the sleeping blankets, plump up the cushions now crumpled and crushed beyond recognition and just acknowledge that Christmas did happen. This wasn't a figment of our imagination since it just materialises at the end of the year and there's nothing we could do about it.

And so today Ladies and Gentlemen today is National Leftovers Day and where do we start? We'll probably raid the fridge later on in the hope of finding the crusts of bread loaves which used to be turkey and cranberry sauce sandwiches but have now been reduced to something that is just not edible any more. There are half drunk bottles of milk which are now beginning to curdle and could be mistaken for yoghurt while empty cans of Iron Bru, Coca Cola, Fanta and Red Bull just clutter everything up. They should have been destined for the wastepaper basket immediately but were never discarded because we just couldn't be bothered to chuck them.

The whole living space is just one claustrophobic muddle of rubbish, gallons of alcohol consumed with relish and then just left there to mould and rot. National Leftovers Day is a day for finishing off the remains of sausage rolls we would normally have gobbled down with the turkey on Christmas Day. But now they just sit there in the corner of your lounge just feeling sorry for themselves. They look forlorn, shocked, stunned, wishing they could be swept up properly and never seen again. Then there are the pork pies and bacon butties Uncle Jim just couldn't stomach and left hanging on the edge of a table waiting patiently for a vaccum cleaner to relieve his conscience.

Over there, there are piles of TV listings magazines stained irreparably with coffee stains, fag ashes from a thousand cigarettes and mobile phones ringing with a symphony of ringtones ranging from Mozart to the new single from Ed Sheeran. There is an air of stunned amazement as if somebody is half expecting the neighbours to call the police. The kids are still as hyper energetic and noisier than they've ever been before and there are petty arguments about whose turn it is to do the washing up. We mustn't forget those endless discussions about the complete lack of anything on the TV that was actually worth watching. Voices are raised and the volume has been cranked up dramatically. Will you stop making a raucous racket?

There is now an air of decay and decadence about this whole Christmas period. What began innocently as a warm family gathering has now degenerated into bedlam. We can no longer realise what it was like to live our normal lives when everything seemed to be in its right and proper place. Suddenly the last week in December had reached a crisis point, a scene of complete disorder and devastation, not exactly a bomb site but just not the home we thought we knew. We have reached the end of our tether with our relatives and wishing they would have just gone home when we told them to.

Personally some of us embraced Christmas with the loveliest of hugs. My lovely father in law celebrated his 92nd birthday with all his doting family around him. He was born on Christmas Eve so that was an easy one to remember. On Christmas Day a neighbour was invited up to our flat to snap some Christmas crackers and to be honest it was very jolly, jovial, humorous, upbeat and extremely pleasant. We had a magnificent time with people we loved and respected so Christmas had been both successful and rewarding. 

But hey what on earth are we going to do with those brand new socks and shoes that are just lying there on the floor and simply don't fit us? Now those brand new trousers and shirts look very stylish and we're glad you came for Christmas because your company has been more than welcome. But once again we look around us and find the leftovers of everything we thought had been consumed both on Boxing Day and Christmas Day. There are half eaten boxes of Celebrations and Quality Street chocolates that are now mouldering away, sweet wrappers in places we never thought they would turn up and just conspicuous consumption. 

Now more than ever we feel very blessed for everybody who made the last couple of days so special. Who cares about the leftovers because we'll leave those for New Year's Eve? Then we can do the same thing all over again by way of repetition. But hold on. Do we really have to go through that tiresome rigmarole of tidying up and just clearing up on New Year's Day. This is too traumatic ordeal for any of us to contemplate. But hey everyone it's National Leftovers Day and we'll take it home to give to our gorgeous dog. He or she will just eat it all up in a matter of seconds. It's a perfect day and we wouldn't have it any other way.

Christmas Day

 Christmas Day.

Across the dining rooms and kitchens of the world there is a breathless excitement. There is a suspended animation in the air, a real sense that everything has to be done properly and thoroughly. Besides, we've always done this every year without fail. But the familiarity of this day has always brought nothing but unalloyed pleasure. We plan for this day, organise it meticulously and then breathe a sigh of relief when it all comes together. Maybe we should do this day every day because everybody is happy, overwhelmingly so, delighted to be in the same company and it's unmistakably brilliant.

Yes folks. It's Christmas Day, a day of unashamed family unity and harmony, a day for smiling and laughing uninhibitedly, back slapping our parents, grandparents, cousins, aunties, uncles, friends and neighbours with the heartiest guffaws and a liberal sprinkling of giggles. We love Christmas Day because when we look out of our windows, the world has ground to a shuddering halt, the roads are more or less empty and if you do happen to spot a car on your travels, it feels like a major discovery.

In every house, flat, bungalow, cottage and maisonette, the good people of the world are waking up to rainbow coloured lights on their Christmas trees, tiny, winking bulbs that never fail to enchant, tinsel and glitter everywhere, huge boxes of presents and gifts and lively children. This is the essence of Christmas, our raison d'etre for everything we normally do on this day of all days, drinking and eating to our hearts content and then slumping into a contented, drunken stupor on our sofas. There can be no other explanation or justification for the way we just abandon ourselves to complete enjoyment. Go on let yourself go. 

Every year we survey the leftovers of turkey, roast potatoes and brussel sprouts and vow never to do it again because it's tiresome, tiring, labour intensive, stressful, a pain in the neck and time consuming. We cut up thousands of potatoes, basting the turkey until you can see your face in all of that vegetable oil and any other garnish you can get your hands on. At times it's all a bit messy and chaotic. All you want to do is to just slip  that hilarious Christmas hat made out of crepe, blow your party whistles and just watch the kids jumping up and down on the floor before then chasing each other gleefully upstairs and downstairs. It's a time honoured ritual and why should it ever change? It is, after all, Christmas.

For some of us though Christmas has always had nostalgic connotations for those who look fondly back to a time when TV had only three channels, colour TV was regarded as something of a novelty and the world never stopped fighting and going to war over petty things like territory and historical grudges. Now some things never change but it almost seems as though a peaceful truce had been negotiated so that all of us could just kick off our shoes, chuck our inhibitions in the waste paper bin and just enjoy Christmas.

Sadly, man will continue to be aggressive and violent because there can never be any room for compromise or an amicable settlement. The Middle East war and the raging conflicts in the Ukraine are more or less the common norm since this is humanity at its worst and the rest of us have to analyse the evil motives that lead to war. Perhaps we do our utmost to avoid confrontation and unforgivable murder and then reach a half way agreement or just a soothing reconciliation because the human race is slowly dwindling away and there can be no shaking of hands. Surely though we're better than that though.

But surely Christmas is a time for healing the bleeding wounds, speaking to each other in the same language with harmonious intent rather than blasting  each other to kingdom come. Christmas is a time for coming together, a binding force for the positive rather than bad and the foundation stone for goodwill. Of course it is a time for families but you probably know that anyway, for gathering around those who mean so much and telling them that tomorrow will be unforgettable. Rest assured there will be no petty bickering and quarrelling, no spite or malice and just watching loads of  festive TV movies featuring snow, Father Christmas and sleigh bells ringing throughout the globe.

Christmas films on the TV are just infused with sugar sweet sentimentality, happy ever after families who just grin at each other infectiously and then settle down for a full on session of present unwrapping without any hint of sarcasm or cynicism. The kids come bounding into their rooms full of the joys of winter with their latest electronic gadgets. We then indulge in all of those lovely old gluttonous habits, filling up our plates with mountains of turkey, stuffing, vegetables of your choice and just remember the days when Christmases from long ago were also triumphant, victorious, reasons to be permanently cheerful.

Sadly, some of us can't help but yearn wistfully for the TV staple masterpieces that we'll probably never see again. During the 1970s Morecambe and Wise represented the most exquisite entertainment any of us had ever seen. In those far off days we had very few alternatives when it came to light hearted comedy. Until 1982 Britain had only limited opportunities to express their innermost feelings. We had three channels and nothing else but then we pondered on the stunning genius of Morecambe and Wise.

Every Christmas both Morecambe and Wise accompanied by the Two Ronnies, Ronnie Corbett and Ronnie Barker were compulsive almost mandatory watching over the Christmas period. Eric and Ernie, for those of us who couldn't get enough of them, monopolised the Christmas Day evening spot because the kids were on school holiday and besides everybody loved Morecambe and Wise. They were hilarious, side splittingly funny, joyously compatible and rather like extended families. They made fun of the world, mocked its inequalities, the class divisions and then delighted in the tomfoolery and slapstick that came so naturally to them.

Some of would wake up as children and become transfixed by those early morning cartoons, the live programmes that seemed to be situated by sick children's hospital bedsides. It was a time for giving, loving and sharing, allowing us into a world where those who were less fortunate were still  highlighted on TV. Then jolly old Santa Claus would drag his cumbersome sack of presents over his shoulders and a nation of ill children would light up. By now the identity of the celebrity would be revealed and we would just feel cosy and uplifted by the benevolent human spirit that still existed. 

Back in the 1960s we can vaguely recall the Christmas Day Billy Smart's circus, an event so inappropriate and politically incorrect now that we could hardly bring ourselves to ever watch it again. Huge lions and elephants would be brazenly paraded around the ring in front of children who were just enthralled by the wondrous spectacle. The circus would invariably be preceded by the obligatory James Bond film and beforehand our deeply loved and much missed late Queen.

And then there was a programme so musically stimulating that you had to watch it in case you might have missed something important. Top of the Pops, a pop music confection of all the latest hit singles of the year, was hosted by all of those immensely popular DJs. The said DJs would always be surrounded by floating balloons, streamers, whistles and teenagers smiling and dancing almost simultaneously. By now we knew the music of the day would be encapsulated by an hour of the very cheesiest in pop.

By now we should be acquainted with Slade's So Here It is Merry Christmas. It's been well documented that the Christmas classic by Slade was recorded on the hottest day of the summer in American recording studio. But the sound is just quintessentially Noddy Holder's pride and joy, a song that would radically transform the mood of a Britain in the depths of industrial despair, a country riven by trade union division, powercuts, no electricity when you came home from school and a general miserable malaise that led to depression and unrest. Still, we got through it all and we survived.

In recent years we've been treated to a archetypal selection of Christmas songs. There was Bing Crosby's White Christmas, a warmly uplifting and redemptive song that lifted the world purposefully from Post War gloom and doom. They were songs that had a real message to those who just wanted the lighter and brighter side of life to be conveyed to the countries of the world. They reminded us of the point in our lives when the year had to come to end, that there was much to celebrate and much to be proud of. 

There followed your personal favourite Chris Rea's 1986 Christmas anthem Driving Home for Christmas, a song so beautiful and evocative of everything Christmas is supposed to be about that you wondered at its sheer simplicity. The video shows a car whose windscreens are permanently being swept by small birthday cakes of snow, winding its way along a motorway or American freeway before pulling into what can only be described as a goods depot. It is the perfect illustration of what Christmas should be about, the long journey through snow capped forests and the ultimate destination.

Then there's Jona Lewie's Stop the Cavalry, a song so anti War that you can't help but feel that it should really occupy the Number One spot in the charts every Christmas. Lewie spends most of the video pondering on the grievous losses of soldiers during the First World War. Lewie then laments the death of his fellow soldiers who were brutally shot and died in his arms. Around him are the fallen and dying before Lewie realises that his sweetheart and wife at home will always be at home ready to dance with him again, our Jona sitting in his armchair and just gazing longingly at a photo of his lovely and patient wife.

Sir Elton John's Step into Christmas and Roy Wood's seminal I Wish it Could Be Christmas Every Day are now treasured Christmas favourites, sing along karaoke tunes that most of us can hum and never forget in our sleep. And then Paul McCartney's classical Pipes of Peace, a song so magical and illustrative, poetic and descriptive that it just sends the proverbial tingle down your spine every time you hear it on the radio or see it on TV.  And this year the Pogues with the now late Shane Mcgowan and Kirsty McColl both assume an even more heartfelt poignancy  Fairytale of New York is simple and emotionally uplifting so much so that you're drawn into the melody and profundity of the words. It is a song that goes much deeper into the spirit of Christmas.

But above all we will sit down with our kith and kin with all those traditional Christmas themes humming those captivating carols and the tunes we've always sung since time immemorial. We will be at home with our loved ones because the shops are shut and the only exercise you'll get is a long walk in the park with our dogs. We'll exchange hearty goodwill, warm pleasantries around the table, snap some festive crackers, play those addictive board games after the turkey and just go with the flow. It will be a walk so exhilarating and healthy that you may forget all about the TV and decide to do something unconventional such as finishing a jigsaw puzzle or just reflecting on the year.

So here we are again on Christmas Day and King Charles the Third will make his  speech from the palatial splendour of Buckingham Palace or just delivering homespun tales of wisdom. This is an environmentally friendly King, a King with a genuine concern about the planet, the welfare of the world, the plants and wildlife and a man who always be forthright on any subject quite unapologetically. He is a King who cares for those who may be afflicted and in much the way that his dear, beloved mother did without any compunction.

There are the endless TV advertising campaigns so wonderfully pitched at every demographic that conceivable. There are the supermarket Christmas specials where Tesco, Sainsbury's, Morrison, Aldi where budgets are broken and merchandise is the name of the game. There are the beautifully decorated turkeys, bottles of wine, boxes of chocolates with heart warming visual effects and people just singing the praises of brussel sprouts, biscuits, wine, lager and everything that adverts pride themselves on.

Christmas films have always been defined by those apt commentaries on Christmases of the past. Dickens Christmas Carol starring the magnificent Albert Finney as Scrooge in his pyjamas and Anton Rodgers, is by far the greatest homage to Christmas. There's  James Stewart's It's a Wonderful Life, surely the ultimate in Christmas weepies. It's A Wonderful Life initially met with a hostile reception when it first opened but gradually insinuated itself into our affections.

The scene, showing a desperate James Stewart running through the snowy streets of America before being reunited with the family he thought he'd lost, is so moving that you feel compelled to cry every time you watch it. It's a Wonderful Life is not only my wife's favourite Christmas film of all time but widely loved and respected by those who just believe in happy ever after to be their recipe for a perfect end to a film.

Traditionalists always insist that Bing Crosby's White Christmas is very much in contention for a place at the top of the Christmas leadership board. His gentle piano driven scene in the film where Crosby softly croons the Irving Berlin masterpiece is yet another salutary example of what can be done if you match up a Hollywood legend with a film that heavily references Christmas in every scene. Somehow it epitomises the joy and celebration of the entire festival.

So there you have it. This is Christmas Day, the day football once boasted a full fixture list of matches in Britain, where the trains and buses ran used to run quite regularly and the streets fell silent. It is a time when churches boast a full attendance although weekly members of the community would probably tell you that church going has never been so phenomenally popular. Last night's Christmas Eve must have attracted as many parishioners as it probably does at any time of the year.

We shall sit done at our heaving Christmas tables and make sure that everybody is in a good mood. The chances are that uncles everywhere will be given the same after shave lotion they used to get 50 years ago, aunties will have the most strikingly knitted scarves and pullovers to give the rest of her family, dad will get another box of cigars and that cousin who lives hundreds of miles from where you live will probably get you another set of shirts with cuff links and don't forget the gift vouchers for the kids.

Ladies and Gentlemen. Christmas is here and may it always arrive every year at this time and on this day. You suspect that some might get withdrawal symptoms if Christmas were banned permanently. We'd probably take to the streets in riot gear with protests and loud, vociferous demonstrations. It might even go to the High Court or the Royal Courts of Justice so vehemently will people express their outrage. But oh no even though you're probably Jewish, Christmas is here to stay and none should object to its presence at the end of the calendar year. Anybody for another mince pie? Some of us would really like to eat several boxes of them.