West Ham through to the quarter finals of the Europa League

 West Ham through to the quarter finals of the Europa League

Football has a strange habit of drawing you into its inner circle, its private conversations, its fascinating emotional contrasts, the ups and downs of the game clearly encapsulated in 90 minutes of certainty and then uncertainty. It veers from the sublime to the ridiculous but we know everything there is to know about those swinging pendulums, those intriguing sub plots, the suspension of belief and then the wild vicissitudes where the game just seems to adopt a mind of its own. It's unpredictable and gloriously exciting and we wouldn't have it any other way. The result can never be predicted and that's how it should be.

Last night your claret and blue team from the East End of London wandered into alien territory and found themselves lost in a world of triumphant elation that can never be measured and assessed in the heat of the moment. We thought we may have been imagining this unfolding scenario where football does indeed become a theatrical production where tension and drama merge into one and the leading actors love to keep you guessing.

West Ham United reached their third consecutive quarter finals of a major and highly prestigious European competition and some of us were simply pinching ourselves in case it was just an illusion or some phantom event that never really happened. Last Sunday West Ham could only salvage a point from their Premier League fixture against relegation haunted Burnley who are now stuck in a rut and rapidly going nowhere. They're now basement dwellers at the bottom of the Premier League who should be enjoying a much healthier season back in the top flight but are now consigned to a grisly fate that even they couldn't have anticipated.

Four days though after a London Stadium painstaking struggle, West Ham were back on home ground again and after trailing to a first leg goal in Germany last week, the Hammers were almost electrified, transformed, revived and re-energised. It almost felt as if somebody had flicked a switch and sparked them back into life again. Sometimes following West Ham can often seem like Chinese water torture, an unbearable ordeal that has to be negotiated and endured because this is just their default mechanism. 

What we saw from West Ham was a side who had forgotten who they were last week, determined to prove to hardened cynics that their powers of resilience hadn't deserted them in their moment of need. Against the Germans of Freiberg the London Stadium team hit back strongly at their opponents as if a thousand wasps had stung them and there was a natural obligation to give their supporters a night to remember. Within the space of an opening 45 minutes, Freiberg were blown away, wiped out, completely overwhelmed.

This season the home team had veered from the awful and mediocre, to joyously entertaining and thrillingly fluent. This is not to suggest that a split personality should be the diagnosis but there has been an air of a team stumbling around in the dark before emerging into the clear light of day. You almost feel as if West Ham should be rudely disturbed from their sleep at the beginning of any game. At some point they are shaken from their torpor and somebody reminds of them where they are in the context of a season.

The severe and ruthless 6-0 mauling by Arsenal at the London Stadium a couple of weeks ago left even the most devoted West Ham fan dumbfounded and speechless. Then Nottingham Forest rubbed salt into festering wounds with a 2-0 victory over the East London side at the City Ground. By then things had become fairly toxic in the East End of London and the natives were restless. Thankfully West Ham have now put safe distance from the normally impending threat of relegation so there was no need for panic stations. But last night seemed to mark another pivotal point in West Ham's season of volatility for a while and then sheer exhilaration in the next breath.

Once again the central defensive pairing of Kurt Zouma and Konstotinas Mavropanos buttressed their home side's defence with stubborn resistance on the rare occasion that Freiberg threatened West Ham's equilibrium, figures of reassuring balance and poise. From the moment the referee blew the whistle at the start of the game, West Ham came flying out of the blocks like men on a mission. The tall and imposing midfield assurance of Tomas Soucek and Edson Alvarez joined forces with positivity and streetwise intelligence while the powerful attacking trio of Michal Antonio, the ever improving Jarred Bowen and the classical bravado of Mohammed Kudus ensured the game was up for Freiberg after half an hour.

West Ham were quick witted, fleet footed, sharper in the transitions between defence and attack and economical in their choice of passing. This may not have been the kind of football that West Ham supporters would have taken to their heart and might have been accustomed to under John Lyall and Ron Greenwood over 40 years ago but the same kind of narratives could now convert the fans. Arsenal, who joined West Ham in their advancement to the quarter final of a European competition with a last eight place in the Champions League, have set a most exquisite template with their delectable one touch football. But then again West Ham will always be West Ham and familiarity could work in their favour.

Brazilian midfield magician Lucas Paqueta, who would be substituted in the second half much to his annoyance, popped up at the far post to prod home West Ham's first and equalising corner  and then the goals flowed like dripping honey for West Ham. Aaron Cresswell, now a long serving stalwart at the London Stadium, finished off a stunning break and exchange of passes with a low, firmly struck shot from just outside the penalty area. A third goal had now put the game well beyond the Germans reach and then there emerged the goal of the night.

Muhammed Kudus, quite the most inspired signing West Ham manager David Moyes has ever made from Ajax, scored the most sensational goal ever seen at the London Stadium. He picked up the ball on the centre circle and then just glided beautifully past a whole series of Freiberg's legs, dribbling the ball past opponent after opponent as if they were just apparitions, slotting the ball into the net as if he'd performed that amusing party piece wherever he'd gone.

And so it is that some of us began to believe in the impossible. It is almost a year after West Ham's by now celebrated victory in the Euro Conference League Final in Prague and although you may be inclined towards wishful thinking, there remains a possibility that the once famous underachievers in world football may now be within only two matches away from another European Final. The chances are that the highly esteemed likes of Liverpool, Roma, Benfica and Marseille may have something to say about that. But for at least one night in the middle of March, hope could spring eternal. Watch this space even if sober perspective has to be kept at all times.

Rain

 Rain

If you've woken up in parts of England this morning you've probably noticed something. It does make frequent and, from time to time, fleeting visits to Blighty. Usually it comes in the form of heavy showers then develops into torrential downpours. Ladies and Gentlemen it's raining and, at the moment, it looks as though it's here for the day. But who cares? Let's just go with the flow.

Rain is like a charming old uncle, cousin or auntie who invariably jokes and laughs their way through the day at incompetent politicians or Hollywood celebrities who insist on having plastic surgery just to preserve their ego. We can never escape from any conversation relating to the British weather and then when we do we become obsessed with it, continually complaining about its inevitability and wondering whether it'll ever stop because we've just put the washing out on the line or clothes horse while then questioning the necessity to take out an umbrella to the theatre or open air concert. It has to be done otherwise we'll get soaked, saturated and we're bound to get a cold or some mysterious illness nobody has ever heard of. 

Rain though is British, quintessentially British, as synonymous with the United Kingdom as the Last Night of the Proms, red post boxes, lager and warm beer or so we're led to believe. Rain has been celebrated and immortalised in song and poetry, mordant humour, that agonising moment during a cricket Test match when the dark clouds subside and of course it stops play for goodness knows how long. But hey ho. No long lasting damage and harm has come our way and we can still get out the chess board  or Scrabble. Salvation is on its way.

We're still living and breathing, walking and talking and it has yet to have a detrimental impact on either our mental or physical health. It hasn't ruined our day because the likelihood is that in a couple of months, hot sunshine will burst through the clouds and we'll all feel infinitely better than we might have been because we knew it would brighten up quite noticeably. You'll see. It will. We know it does and judging by the meteorological patterns established over the last century or so the chances are that the rain will stop since it always has and always will. No need to panic.

You're reminded of the classical authors from the 20th century who simply couldn't get enough of the rain. William Somerset Maugham once wrote a beautiful short story about the rain and it was so poetic and simple that you were convinced even he knew when it was going to rain. George Orwell, Britain's greatest political commentator, social observer, essayist, novelist and controversial writer on the Spanish Civil War, referred to the fact that 'it always seemed to rain in Norway', which could never be proved conclusively because very few people could  measure its quantity during the Second World War. There were far more urgent issues to address.

But here in Britain we love to dwell on the frustrations that some of us may have to endure as a result of the rain. When are we going to get in the car  complete with picnic and hamper, laying out a sheet on a soft field of fresh green grass heated by the mid-day sun? So we stare out of the living room window mournfully and desperately, cursing under our breath quite audibly and then just watching the raindrops trickling down from the heavens as if it's definitely somebody's else fault and never ours. This evolves into a pointless blame game. You knew it was going to rain didn't you? You saw it on the weather forecast yesterday. Don't deny it.

So we all look up at the skies and rain becomes that self fulfilling prophecy. We knew it would rain and so it has. Then we resign ourselves to our fate. We simply throw up our hands in horror and spend the rest of the day fuming and seething. What's the point in going for a run or going for a long walk in the country with thick raincoats and hoods over our heads? It doesn't matter though. We've still got our health.

It then occurs to you that this whole gloom and doom narrative, this inherent pessimism which grips us whenever we see dark, glowering rain clouds, is just an excuse to tell us something we've known about for ages. It wasn't entirely unexpected. We are, after all, on the threshold of spring and you know what that means in April. We'll all be inundated with the wet staff. We can see it sweeping in from the Atlantic, thick clusters of mushroom coloured clouds with huge bands of rain about to crash down onto our pavements, veritable monsoons of rain that have just now taken up permanent residence in our neighbourhood.

But hold on. This is no end of the world scenario. This is not reminiscent of a scene of a disaster movie where the world and civilisation does quite literally come to an end. Rain is a temporary manifestation that will eventually pass sooner rather than later. We will keep Singing in the Rain because Gene Kelly, with that cute hat and umbrella, told us not to worry. The Move, a 1960s hippie, rock band sung about Flowers in the Rain almost welcoming the rain in all its glory and splendour. So of course rain has its redeeming features. 

So let's keep smiling and just be grateful for the rain because as somebody once reminded you rain is good for farmers agricultural harvest of crops. And of course most of us laughed uncontrollably whenever it used to rain heavily at Glastonbury, the yearly pop music concert venue in the middle of a field in Somerset. Years ago plucky and fearless Glastonbury concert regulars would turn up in their thousands, wellington boots and galoshes on their feet and acres of mud engulfing them right up to their ankles. Thick mud would accompany them every time they went out to buy food and drink and then growing in thick clumps inside their tightly secured tents.

It's time to just adjust our mindset and just recognise that rain is here for our foreseeable future and isn't about to go away anytime shortly. Winter, spring, summer and autumn will always witness varying amounts of rain in a quite arbitrary fashion whenever the mood takes it. So Ladies and Gentleman let's give rain the benefit of the doubt. Rain is our closest friend even if we don't think it is. We breathe a sigh of relief when a long, hot summer of droughts and hosepipes is broken by a good, old fashioned rainstorm complete with thunder and lightning. So let's hear it for the rain. It's good for the soul.

Anthony Joshua retains heavyweight boxing title

 Anthony Joshua retains heavyweight boxing title

In a matter of minutes the lights had gone out on Francis Ngannou of Cameroon and the world of heavyweight boxing once again acknowledged and then reminded us of the brilliance of Britain's most fearsome heavyweight boxer Anthony Joshua. Boxing had reached the desert dunes of Riyadh in Saudi Arabia and for a while we were rubbing our eyes with stunned bewilderment. This was probably the most improbable location for a boxing match of any description but then it hardly seemed to matter.

Amid a remarkably colourful backdrop of Arab sheikhs sitting almost dutifully in the front row, it almost felt as if TE Lawrence would have been welcomed as a special guest. This was not Lawrence of Arabia territory but in the fiercely competitive world of  pugilism this was as good as it gets. And yet the strange brevity of this contest meant this was all over before most of boxing's most discerning faithful had had time to take their seats.

Any kind of sporting mismatch is normally dismissed out of hand as some freak show, a farcical caricature of a boxing match where you can almost sense that something just isn't right. This was not entirely anybody's fault since the organisers and promoters of last night's battle royale must have known what they were getting into months before hand. But when Joshua skipped and bounced up and down into the ring last night the body language became patently obvious. The arrogance is perfectly understandable since Joshua could only have dealt with what had been placed in front of him. He knew he'd win easily and decisively and this became the easiest formality of them all. Just turn up and beat your opponent. Now.

Joshua's record is now well documented, a model of extraordinary muscularity, machismo, flashy postures and moves and well honed athleticism. There is a clear air of brazen triumphalism and effortless grace about Joshua that borders on balletic elegance. The shoulders look like boulders, the upper body chest and rib cage, a glowing tribute to hours, weeks and months spent sparring in the gym and incessant road running at the crack of dawn. The stomach resembles an ironing board, the legs and thighs like stone ridges and walls, bulging with energy and ruggedness.

But Joshua is beginning to knock on the door of potential all time greatness, an amalgam of ruthless punching power and earthy savagery reminding us of how lucky Britain is to have somebody like Joshua in its midst. Of course the ego is functioning with frightening efficiency because boxers love to think of themselves as the best in the business. There is though something hearteningly grounded about Joshua since he knows where he came from and he knew where he was going and would never be beaten by anybody.

Last night in Saudi Arabia, we witnessed Joshua at his most devastating, destructive, conclusive and concussive. From the moment he stepped into the ring you knew that he was just desperate for an early night and had no intention of being detained for any length of time. Besides there is the small matter of Tyson Fury to be addressed as quickly as possible if Joshua has anything to do with it. Boxing adores its cocky protagonists, those ridiculously over confident exhibitionists who dance around boxing rings as if they own them.

And then the bell rang for the first round. Repeatedly Joshua sent out ominous warnings about the distance this bout would take. In fact he must have set his very own stopwatch since Ngannou just toppled to the canvas like a precious porcelain vase that falls helplessly from a mantelpiece. Several times Joshua said good night to his opponent and it was the only intervention of a merciful referee in the second round that sent the Cameroonian off to sleep.

It did seem a shame that this contest was so grotesquely one sided because, to the impartial observer, it really does seem as if  Joshua is being confronted with a whole sequence of rag dolls. From the ring of the first round bell, Joshua went straight for his opponent's head and midriff, with tentative jabs and rights that left Ngannou gasping for breath. But then the rights to the Cameroonian's head just left him wobbling and precariously protected. Then the blows came raining in hard and fast, occasional upper cuts that left us wondering what on earth possessed the promoters to even contemplate matching up these two. By the second round it was all over. Joshua had won by a country mile emphatically.

During the first round Ngannou spent more time lying flat out on the canvas than he did upright. Joshua waded in with almost barbaric ferocity, a man now intent on finishing this one off in time for an early night. With wild, swinging arms and hostile blows that would have been the envy of the likes of Chris Eubank, Joshua was in mood to compromise, clubbing his short hooks painfully into his opponent's body and crashing in wonderfully accurate knock out punches with rapid intensity. Eubank knew a thing or two about lightning quick conclusions to fights and you suspect he might have been an exemplary role model to Joshua.

But now Joshua finds himself with the ultimate challenge of Tyson Fury. There has been unashamed, open malice and animosity between the two. Neither had made no secret of harbouring outright hatred. They will continue to throw verbal grenades at each other, taunting and chastising, threatening in no uncertain terms to administer the lethal knock out punch in no time at all. 

Modern day boxing of course is still the box office commodity it's always been. The legendary Muhammad Ali, George Foreman, Rocky Marciano and Joe Frazer always lent the sport a unique place in the sporting pantheon. But then again we always knew it would. Of course there is a gruesome fascination about watching one man or woman trying desperately to send either into an Accident and Emergency hospital ward. And that's when the health and safety objections grow louder by the week.

At some point Joshua will find himself in the privileged position of being possibly the greatest British boxer of all time. Henry Cooper always fancied he'd be the one to be anointed with heavyweight belts. Then there was Joe Bugner who everybody seriously underestimated and laughed at because he may have been wasting his time. In more recent times the admirably lovable and engaging Frank Bruno had all the physical resources before somebody called Mike Tyson squared up to Tyson and that signalled the end of Bruno's career. But then Britain now has another splendidly ambitious fighter by the name of Anthony Joshua and the future of British boxing remains in safe and capable hands.

National Book Day

National Book Day

Back in the days of pen, quill and ink, writing was the one activity we always associated with Victorian authors who would spend countless hours hunched over their davenport desk, carefully inscribing their pearls of wisdom and insight onto pristine pieces of paper and thinking nothing of eventually producing classical masterpieces that would last for ever. Thus, we now have World Book Day. Logical thinking really when you think about it. Today we recognise the sterling efforts of all those eminent letter writers, novelists, short story writers and above all the people who entertained us with memorable pieces of literature that can never be forgotten.

World Book Day is a fully deserved homage to all of those bookish and learned types who love nothing better than the first feel of pages, the leather binding, the fragrant smell of a book and the hypnotic fascination that a book can induce on picking it up from either your local library or a grand old bookshop that has probably been in the same place and the same position on your high street since time immemorial.

Books are our complete escapism into a magical world if you're a child and you just want to stop climbing trees or gallivanting about on your bike which are perfectly acceptable alternatives to reading. But the truth is that books can open up all kinds of mystical worlds that just intrigue and enchant us. When you were a child reading was somehow anathema, a horrible and totally disagreeable pastime from which no good would ever come.

Libraries of course are our first ports of call, marvellously educational and intellectually stimulating buildings where silence is demanded and respect taken for granted. Besides how often are we told to keep quiet at all times because there are people reading important documents, heavy reference books on whatever subject and then perhaps writing down notes or even chapters of their own book? Needless to say they are places of quiet contemplation, thinking and mulling over private thoughts about the world around us, homework for school children perhaps or just browsing curiously the hundreds of shelves in the library itself.

For some of us though reading became something of an infuriating chore, your mum desperately imploring you to go to the library and reading as much as you could because it was good for you, beneficial to your developing mind and all knowledge was vital. Books had compelling stories, tales of derring do, adventure, happy ever tales that would send you off to sleep with a warm glow. Books transported you some fabulous palace where rich emperors lived, romantic lands where parakeets sung from tropical and exotic hibiscus bushes and where jasmine scented corners of stunning gardens could be found far away.

And yet it seemed to take ages to acknowledge the importance of reading if only because as kids we have the kind of boredom threshold that leads to mind wander over all the place. We know it's good to read words and sentences since of course they are our essential passport into locations where reality can be suspended harmlessly and the imagination given full rein. If only we'd listened to the shrewd advice of our parents then surely we'd be grateful. But we did eventually so perhaps it was a case of better late than never.

After emerging from secondary school with nothing to equip myself for the outside world you found yourself at a complete loss. You knew that English at school had always been your favourite subject and even then you thought you were pretty much a dab hand at it. It was the spoken and written word that held you enthralled from an early age. We used to read Thomas Hardy's love poems as a class and the Lord of the Flies as a class. At the time it just felt as if part of the lesson's standard procedures. By hearing and listening to other kids reading from the book, we too could learn about the pleasures of reading for fun.

It was only by chance that you found yourself to my local library in Ilford, Essex. At first tentatively you quietly went about your business of looking at the classics, sport and history sections. You flicked through the pages desultorily, wondering what on earth you were doing. Then, as if in idle curiosity, you pulled out a thick volume of works by the great author Thomas Mann who had written the celebrated Death in Venice, a novel that would make the easy transition to the cinema screen.

Having finished Thomas Mann you became entranced by the descriptive words on the page, the quality of the writing, the development of complex plots, dialogue, nouns, pronouns, verbs and adverbs. You marvelled at the inimitable Charles Dickens, the greatest novelist and story teller of all time and the way Dickens classic tomes would occupy almost the entire length of a shelf. It was the finest learning curve you could ever have hoped for.

In years to come you would discover the conventional rags to riches story that had underpinned Dicken's rise to literary greatness. You were told that Dickens father John had been sent to prison, that his son Charles had bailed him out of prison, that as a very early writer, Dickens would walk the streets of Covent Garden at midnight, absorbing the flavours, the aromas, the sights and sounds of London. He would notice the last of the costermongers and barrow boys yelling across to their mates. He would note quirks, mannerisms, changes of mood and weather, the people shuffling and then running back to home for a quick hot toddy drink and then sleep.

Dickens taught me subconsciously how to write but not to write to like him. You knew you could never  aspire to emulate his brilliant prose, the warmly lyrical stories and characters that just seemed to reach the surface of his mind before spilling out onto the written page quite organically. But the novels seeped into my head and the images would multiply prolifically. Eventually you would complete most of the big novels such as David Copperfield, the Pickwick Papers, Dombey and Son, Martin Chuzzlewit, a Tale Of Two Cities, Oliver Twist, Hard Times and Barnaby Rudge. It was one of your most exciting journeys to the Olympic heights of literary excellence.

And then there was Thomas Hardy. Now Thomas Hardy was a life changing moment for yours truly, a wondrous, a beautifully descriptive wordsmith who would conjure up some of the most glorious illustrations of the English countryside, painting pictures with words which sung quite melodiously, the contours of his native Dorset farmland, the tragedies and hardships of those people for whom everyday was a continuous struggle to put food and drink on the table.

For somebody who had little or nothing of any academic value or significance to show any prospective employer this did feel like a constructive way of spending huge swathes of unemployed time. You immersed yourself in Charles Dickens and Thomas Hardy, Franz Kafka and Joseph Conrad, Marcel Proust, Leo Tolstoy, Henry James, CS Forrester's Hornblower, George Orwell and DH Lawrence, William Faulkner, Ernest Hemingway, Mark Twain, Alistair Mclean, Anthony Trollope's political novels, HG Wells and too many others to mention that may escape me for the moment.

In recent years you have caught with F. Scott Fitzgerald and GK Chesterton and of course the innumerable sports books that remain an enduring interest. You have suddenly begun to realise that although reading may not be essential for some, it can still grip your attention, it can still be thought provoking and you can become emotionally involved in stories you wouldn't normally have expected to find or hear about in your everyday life. So go on pick up a book. It may just be just your hour or two, an opportunity to explore some nuggets of information that might make you laugh, smile or giggle. Happy World Book Day everybody.

National Sons Day

 National Sons Day.

It is one of those days in your lives when you remember just how good it felt to be the adoring son who always looked up to his father and just stood there, filled with love and admiration for his dad. You couldn't have been anymore than roughly seven or eight and I can recall it as if it were yesterday. It was one of those moments of discovery and revelation that I can hardly describe but know will live with me forever. My dad was and will always remain the best. He was kind, affectionate, unconditionally loving, warm hearted and a man with an immense generosity of spirit that I will certainly never forget.

Ladies and Gentlemen. This is National Sons Day, a day we reserve for fond recollections of my wonderfully loving, kind and compassionate dad. In the USA sons play baseball in the yard, kitting themselves out in huge, protective  American helmets,  and throwing the ball huge distances in a way that here in Britain we may understand but still regard as essentially  American football, something America does exceptionally well at.

But during the childhood my dad would always invite me up to watch something that may have seemed perfectly normal but something I couldn't properly understand since I was far too young to appreciate it.This was my first introduction to male grooming, a time honoured ritual that remains firmly secure in my book of family reminiscences. It was something my dad did on a daily basis but just seemed incomprehensible at the time but it now feels like the right and accepted norm for a growing son.

Shaving belonged in a world of rugged masculinity, a fascinating routine that to this day always resonates me with since I'd never seen anything like it before. And that's where the first seeds of a father and son relationship are initially planted because this was something I would have to do everyday in later life. At some point in my adolescence I would become aware of a bristly stubble on my chin that I couldn't explain or describe properly because when you're that age, you know very little about the big, wide world. 

But every evening my dad would come home from his job as a wonderfully accomplished menswear salesman, sit down for the family evening meal, fall back into our sofa and watch that evening's TV entertainment. He would reluctantly take off his smart and elegant jacket, shirt and tie because my dad loved to look at his best on all occasions. He would then spend the next four or perhaps more hours watching our indefatigable TV that just kept going on and on tirelessly for years and years before abandoning himself to the joyous Tommy Cooper, delirious laughter echoing throughout the family home.

But shaving was the one activity that only males re-enacted every time they came from their work. As a family we would gather in our kitchen for supper before my dad got ready for his brush up and shave. Sons and fathers always look for some identifiable theme, a kindred spirit, common ground, a chemistry if you like. For years my lovely dad would walk upstairs to our beautiful bathroom and toilet and engage in what looked like a very delicate operation.

There was something very emotional, deep seated and poignant about that first interaction with my dad that of course can never be erased from your consciousness or memory. It isn't a rites of passage moment just the realisation that here was a man who loved not only his first son but the family around him and those who just wanted to reach out for him when he wasn't well. Let me make it abundantly clear. My dad was the greatest, loveliest and finest gentleman in the world. He sacrificed his mental health just to make sure that his doting sons would be happy, healthy and just care for him.

Sons of course always take a passionate interest in their dad's hobbies and interests. They can hardly wait to pass their driving test and then invest in that first memorable car that, after a number of years,  finds itself with too many miles on the clock, the worse for wear at times and slightly faded looking. You then open up that crucial discussion and ask how the chassis is, the carburettor is shaping up and, above all the engine. You should be full of enthusiasm and counting the days down until that first stylish piece of engineering officially becomes your property.

You drive said car out of the showroom and into the big, wide world and just marvel at the impeccable bodywork, the upholstery, the always comfortable seats and then you set off.  You take it on a quick spin around the local neighbourhood before venturing out into that rarefied world of motorways, hard shoulders, junctions, traffic lights, intolerable traffic and motorways that seemingly go on forever. You think you're a fully grown up adult which indeed you are. As a son you look to your dad and thank him profusely for just being there when you needed a shoulder to cry or just there for jocular banter, a laugh that could quite easily be heard in another part of Essex.

Regrettably though this is the story of the first son that, although idyllic for that embryonic part of your childhood, just lost its way. Of course my dad was in a class of its own, an exemplary role model. He was the one who would suddenly appear at the bottom of our road with a cigarette in his mouth and delight in his heart. His day of toil and drudgery seemed to written all over his face. It was a face of exhaustion, relief to be at home, a man just happy to relax and immerse himself in that comforting sanctuary of TV and family, the ultimate escapism from an often troubled world.

But as a son at the time I can simply recall those shaving moments. Painstakingly, he would smother his cheeks and forehead with white foam, spreading it quite carefully all over his face. Then the shaving stick would be produced, much to my amazement and then he would thoroughly scrape all the shaving cream from his face with the sharpest blade. Soon his face and chin would be a mass of red blood oozing wildly from every pore of his skin. And yet my lovely dad never panicked and from nowhere, or so it seemed, small tissues of paper would be cautiously applied to bloodied stains by now on the way to his neck before proceeding to the sink and washing away the remnants of hairs on his face.

Then finally there was that glorious moment when the first son received one of his first birthday presents. Now this was the first moment when my gorgeous mum knew she had to take a back seat just for a while. So here I was excitement pumping through my childish veins as mum and dad handed over a train set but not some ordinary train set. This was a Hornby's train set, a highly reputable model that even now sends an unforgettable tingle down your spine and gives you goose bumps whenever I think about.

There was my dad and I trying to connect fragile looking pieces of railway track and sprawled out on the carpet and just revelling in the simple joys of being the best dad in the world. For hours we would wind up both the tiny trains and launch them on their now familiar journey in ever increasing circles. Occasionally they would fly away into some mysterious corner of our living room before then returning back to the main platform which was somewhere in close proximity of our oval shaped glass dining room table.

But for all the sons out there and there are million upon millions of you scattered around the globe, your dad is your first male buddy, somebody you can confide in quite happily without fear of being snubbed or told to go back out of the house and play with your friends. He was your confidant, your friend in perpetuity, the one who told you that despite all the cuts and bruises of your burgeoning years as a child, the man who told you that one day you'd occupy the same role and how right he was. He tucked you up into bed with your beautiful mum and sent out powerful messages of reassurance. He was always there for you and never disappointed. So everybody it's National Sons Day so make sure that you'll never stop loving him and you'll always be available for a sympathetic hug when you need it. Thanks dad. Nobody did it better and I'm proud to call you my dad. And of course mum. I'll always love you both.

Chelsea knock out Leeds in FA Cup five goal thriller.

 Chelsea knock out Leeds in FA Cup five goal thriller

In the mind's eye, you can still see Ian Hutchinson's long throw soaring into a congested Leeds United penalty box. And then from another corner of your vision you could see David Webb waiting for the missile to be launched into the danger zone. Suddenly Chelsea would reach a seventh heaven. The trajectory of the ball was such that Webb found himself  leaping up at the far post before heading Chelsea's late winner against Leeds United in the 1970 FA Cup Final replay at Old Trafford.

At the time both Chelsea and Leeds United were situated at the centre of football's universe, gripping our attention with the kind of free flowing and expansive football that would take another 50 years to come to full fruition in the modern day Premier League. Back then football had a dull functionalism, a dreary dependence on the long ball from full back to centre forward. It was one dimensional at times, predictable but could be, when the mood took it, immensely entertaining. 

But at the beginning of the 1970s, Chelsea were at the artistic cutting edge of the game, avant garde, swish, swashbuckling, always a compulsive watch and far from being boring. There was Peter Osgood, Hutchinson himself, Charlie Cooke, Ron Harris, Peter Houseman, Peter Bonetti and of course Dave Webb, a towering influence on the Chelsea of the 1970s. Chelsea were carefree and expressive showmen, full of wit and instinct, fluency from back to front and totally without inhibition.

Then there were the lean, bleak and traumatic years when the club found itself perilously perched on the precipice, clinging on to the metaphorical cliff face. Had it not been for their former chairman and colourful character in his own right Ken Bates then Chelsea would have folded like a pack of cards. Poised on the trapdoor of the old Third Division, Chelsea mercifully hauled themselves back into contention for another chance again. Bates invested one pound into the coffers and  most of the late 1970s and early 80s were spent fighting off insolvency and bankruptcy.

There was the glowering sight of bulldozers and diligent builders demolishing the remnants of the old Shed and rebuilding the most ambitious project of all time. Stamford Bridge had come back to life with a vengeance and eventually it all came right for the West London club. It wasn't long before the late and much missed Ray Wilkins matured into one of the club's classiest and most creative midfield players and Wilkins became symbolic of the club's renaissance.

It wasn't long before Chelsea were rubbing shoulders with both the old and new aristocracy. Millionaire Russian businessman Roman Abramovich quite literally resuscitated the club in the early 21st century. Soon the acquisition of Frank Lampard from West Ham would become the central axis from which strikers like Didier Drogba and defender John Terry would become the main source of the club's inspiration. Then in a dramatic change of fortune, Chelsea won two successive Premier League titles and then, astonishingly, the Champions League winning trophy. The mission had been accomplished. Chelsea were the complete article.

On Wednesday evening though it was the current incarnation of Chelsea who were on parade for a Chelsea crowd who may have become spoilt by the club's recent successes. This season has become extremely uncomfortable, cumbersome, awkward, inconsistent certainly but their 4-2 victory against Leeds in the FA Cup fifth round was a pleasant throwback to Premier League wine and roses. Some of their football on the night was easy on the eye, poetically symmetrical and gorgeously extrovert at times. The passes were short, sharp, well co-ordinated and highly intelligent. Their movements on and off the ball were almost programmed to perfection. The intricate triangles, circles and rectangles of smooth passing from defence to attack reminded you of Chelsea at their very best.

Under the midweek floodlights Stamford Bridge still had a palatial air of the five star hotel with plenty of restaurants, clubs and bars within walking distance of the ground. The harbour and village are now flourishing and the immense affluence that has been rapidly generated from souvenirs and merchandise are the club's shining financial salvation. But against Leeds the fans were back in voice, good humoured and boisterous, loud and proud. Their Premier League season hasn't really taken off and the chances are that they may have to be content with a European Conference League place for their efforts.

Still, when the likes of Enzo Fernandez, Levi Colwell, a young and hungry Englishman named Alfie Gilchrist, Malo Gusto, the always lively and fleet and fast feet of Raheem Sterling and Nicolas Jackson beat defenders for fun, Chelsea were irresistible, cavalier, full of themselves, oozing brazen confidence, at times bordering on arrogance when the time was right.

Then Moises Caceido gave Chelsea their exotic and cosmopolitan look, simply stylish and always looking for the delicious through ball. Both Noni Madueke and Alex Disai were models of sophistication and joie de vivre while Mykhailo Mudryk was perhaps the most outstanding player on the night, swerving past defenders with effortless ease and then darting in and out of Leeds defensive low block with old fashioned wing play before cutting inside his opponent to explode into action.

Soon Chelsea had opened the scoring. After a delightful exchange of passes that was almost spellbinding, Niklas Jackson, now a Stamford Bridge poster boy, fired home low into the Leeds net as if he'd studied the Peter Osgood manual of the centre forward's art. Then Matheo Joseph, who had looked so impressive for Leeds up until then, promptly equalised when Chelsea got themselves into a terrible tangle at the back. The slow, deliberate build up from the back now rebounded on them. Joseph hurtled into the Chelsea penalty area like a man who finds that the children's game of Pass the Parcel had worked in his favour. Joseph scored quite gleefully and Leeds were level pegging.

Shortly afterwards though Chelsea discovered another treasure trove of quick, quick, slow slow staccato passes. Caseido found Raheem Sterling picked up the ball again, ran dangerously into space and his low cut back found Mykahalo Mudryk who stepped up to the plate with a firmly drilled shot that beat Leeds keeper Ilian Meslier who was nowhere near the ball.

But Leeds were far from out and beaten. Their football had now achieved a much higher plateau and their equally as eye catching passing suggested that they were far from out of this game. It was fluid and intuitive with Cysci Summerville, Ethan Mpadu, busy and industrious, Joe Rondon bristling with energy and invention and Connor Roberts shutting up Chelsea's forward momentum. Archie Gray of course comes from the best family pedigree while Eddie looked on with righteous admiration. 

Once again Leeds sprung forward like greyhounds out of the trap, players swarming forward in unison like an orchestra responding to the conductor instantly. From the loveliest of crossfield passes and the classic diagonal overload, a high, steepling cross from Jaidon Anthony landed conveniently at the feet at the lethal Joseph who did the same trick with a marvellous poacher's goal. Leeds were level.

In a fascinating climax to this game, Chelsea found their most assertive attacking edge once again. It was a second wind that maybe they hadn't thought they were capable of producing. A superbly measured through ball from Chelsea's now resourceful midfield, sent through substitute Conor Gallagher who latched onto the ball, running confidently into the Leeds penalty area and confidently slotting home Chelsea's late, late winner.

For the departing Leeds fans this may well have reminded them of the way things used to be. Under Marco Bielsa it was all very gung ho, reckless and gallantly adventurous with no consideration for defensive duties. Leeds are fighting back from the Championship but this was not the Leeds of Billy Bremner, Peter Lorimer, Mick Bates, Mick Jones, Norman Hunter or Jack Charlton. Besides, Don Revie would have had kittens had he seen this Leeds defence on Wednesday evening. So it's Chelsea who are through to the last eight of the FA Cup and Leeds who return to domestic toil in the Championship. Football is just scintillating and never disappointing.

General Election year and the Tories are rapidly disappearing.

 General Election year and the Tories are rapidly disappearing.

After 14 years of character assassination, blatant betrayal, lies, double dealing and a good deal of mischievous giggling in the face of hardship, the Conservative party finds itself at a crossroads. In fact the truth is the Tories are in a right old state, in a hole of their own making, burdened by a dire predicament and more or less in tatters. Nobody should jump to any rash conclusions but it does appear that they're doomed, condemned to a life outside 10 Downing Street and feeble opposition to what would seem like a Labour government sometime this year. But then again anything can happen and miracles are possible.

We should have known of course that eventually they'd run out of time or were just treading water desperately. This looks like the most dishevelled mess, a party now torn apart, riven by internal divisions, conflicts of interest, bickering and quarrelling among themselves and wishing that someone would put them out of their misery. Somewhere over the horizon there is a Tory party heading into a grey wilderness.  It almost feels as though the Conservative party are now resigned to defeat in this year's General Election- whenever that is.

Yes folks it's General Election year and, as is normally the case, most of us will be constantly reminded that our vote counts and Second World War soldiers made the ultimate sacrifices with their lives for the right to put our cross on our ballot box piece of paper. But the inescapable fact is that none of us know with any certainty why we are voting, who we're supposed to be voting for and whether it's worth all of that effort and exertion if only because there seems little point.

At the moment Rishi Sunak, the UK Prime Minister, is compiling a dossier of facts, statistics, information, a little humour and convincing evidence which will corroborate his defence of the obvious. Of course the Tories will bring Britain back into the land of honey and gold, enduring prosperity, excellent health, better educated, wiser, happier and entirely satisfied with everything the Tories may have to offer. If you vote for the Conservatives the country will thrive, succeed and hit all the right economic targets. 

If you vote for the Tories you will certainly be able to afford a new house and mortgage, make a decent life for yourselves and just get on with the business of living. The cost of living crisis will become ancient history, the rate of inflation will be kept down to an acceptable level, the NHS will get a huge injection of money while junior and senior doctors will get a fortune. Wages at all levels will, at long last, become commensurate with the rest of the working world and we'll all be living in the lap of luxury.

Britain's long term future will be at its healthiest with greener than ever environmental issues imminently addressed as soon as Sunak returns to 10 Downing Street. Carbon fuel will transform the country's landscape in a way that may take all of us by surprise. And we should never forget the whole tenure of Prime Minister which is sure to come under the closest scrutiny. This is where the fiercest spotlight will fall on any incoming Prime Minister.

When Boris Johnson swept to power as Prime Minister at the end of 2019, most of us were hoping against hope that here would be the man who would ultimately be the answer to our dreams. Sadly though, no sooner than Johnson got his feet under the table then a globally catastrophic virus would ruin his moment of glory. It all seemed to go according to plan but by the end of January 2020, stories emerging from a cruise vessel began to spiral out of  control. People were suffering from some mysterious illness that would turn our lives upside down for the next two and a half years. 

By March, Johnson was huffing and puffing, issuing urgent instructions to the great British public and wondering what on earth was going on around him. It almost felt like a wartime scenario but with several notable differences. Now it was that Covid 19 had been coined as the new term to what would become a fatal illness in the months and years to come. But this was no war because there were no terrorists, and no destruction of property nor human beings by gunfire, bombs or bullets. Johnson was now facing a major health issue and for the most of 2020, looked as though he'd seen a ghost.

Thankfully two years later and two prime ministers down the line Britain now finds itself fathoming the current incumbent Rishi Sunak. The bottom line here is that the Tories have been the government  in residence for 14 years and are now may have passed their sell by date. So perhaps we should all just give them a sharp jab in the ribs and tell them in no uncertain terms that they're surplus to requirements and should just leave by the tradesman's entrance but this time exit immediately. Sunak now looks like one of the last business leaders to leave the conference room, slightly embarrassed and just reduced to tiresome soundbites and pathetic platitudes we must have heard a thousand times.

Sadly most of the collateral damage had been done in the wake of Boris Johnson's departure from 10 Downing Street. After what must have been several lifetimes, Johnson left office amid a whole barrage of scathing and personal criticism. He'd blundered around the whole of Covid 19 unforgivably, grasped at coherent sentences about matters of crucial importance and finally ended up quoting passages from a children's book Peppa The Pig when influential entrepreneurs were gathered to listen to his every word.

Shortly after leaving the premises there was a brief hiatus as busy and diligent ministers all rushed around doing their utmost to make matters considerably worse than they already were. There was scandal after scandal, cheese and wine parties that should have been forbidden at source when Covid 19 had said that such riotous revelry was out of the question and boozy ensembles were at their height in Westminster.

And then there was Liz Truss. Now to say Truss was the worst and most temporary Prime Minister would be a gross understatement. Truss, in one of the most bizarre and amateurish acts of miscalculation and financial mismanagement, announced a proposal that would have probably led to street riots and violent demonstrations had she carried through with it. Within 45 days Truss had gone without so much as a whimper. Truss had left the building and the country just looked at the people who were entrusted with the responsibility of running the UK. Eyes were rubbed in stunned amazement.

Following another period of hostile bloodletting among the Tories, there were raging arguments and counter arguments, serious reflection and a realisation that something had to give. And it did. There was head scratching, a sense of genuine shock and a lengthy session of papering over the cracks. For a while the candidates for Prime Minister were multiplying by the hour and day. So they tossed a coin quite probably, played rock, paper and scissors or just drew lots since none of us knew about the competence and suitability of any replacement for Liz Truss.

There was the terrible disaster who was Theresa May as PM, who was almost destined to fall flat on her face after tearfully accepting her fate when Brexit hadn't quite lived up to her deluded expectations. Of course she was proudly patriotic but most of the nation considered May just wasn't up to the practicalities of dealing with Brexit and she had to leave office quite swiftly. So once again it was that door Theresa. She'd wanted her country back but not on the terms and conditions as stipulated by her colleagues and the public alike.

So here we are months away from a General Election although no date has been fixed as yet. We could be here quite a while and we are now gearing up for the great and earnest debates about Gaza, the Ukraine, the economy, the environment and the dodginess of politicians when asked simple questions. But some of us couldn't possibly comment and impartiality is our current stance. We'll be bombarded with party political broadcasts, carefully engineered campaigns on behalf of all parties and then the door knocking in every community, town, city and village throughout the country. They'll be asking your vote please because that's what it says on our trustworthy manifesto. Of course you can trust them. 

As the days and weeks fly past the cynics and disgruntled radio phone in callers will become more vociferous and controversial. Shortly Sunak and Sir Keir Starmer leader of the Labour party and Ed Davy, the Liberal Democrats leader. Then the lesser known political parties will throw their philosophies into the circus ring. Some of us are hoping that the Monster Ravin Loony party will be at their most articulate and sensible because they quite clearly have the finger on the pulse of the nation.

And finally within a week or two of the General Election, Sunak, Starmer and Davy will be summoned before the TV cameras for a good old fashioned dust up and argy bargy confrontation. It'll be one of the most objectionable, horribly tedious and insufferable spectacle you're ever likely to see.

 They'll spend a wasted evening pointing fingers at each other, accusing of each other of gross incompetence and just talking over the other as you normally would in a civilised world or maybe not. There will be incessant point scoring, facetious comments, childish and insulting comments by the dozen and general unpleasantness. But then again you'd hardly expect anything else from politicians. So buckle up folks and prepare for the General Election. Some of us believe there can only be one result but then again none of us really know. It should be a very interesting year for British politics.