England beat Serbia in opening Euro 2024

England beat Serbia in opening Euro 2024

It should have been much more for England but maybe they should be grateful for small mercies. For much of their opening match of Euro 2024, England were hunting around in packs only to find that their prey were still waiting for them, ready to spring the most unexpected surprise. In fact this match was so ludicrously one sided for the best part of an hour that most of us were beginning to think that England's opponents Serbia would never turn up. This was football laced with caution, patience being a virtue and then a result that could easily have gone against Gareth Southgate's England.

Watching England at any international tournament can often leave blood pressures soaring and nerves in tatters. Latterly, England fans congregate in their pub gardens, drinking enormous quantities of lager and then wastefully spraying gallons of the amber nectar in an explosion of communal joy. In both Russia and Qatar World Cups, it was a case of what might have been had scenarios panned out in the right way. Then, three years ago in their own Wembley backyard, England met Italy in the Euro 2020 Final only to find that back doors had been left open and the second half was converted into a blue landscape of Neapolitan celebration probably matched only in London's vast communities of pizza parlours and spaghetti houses.

But last night, England approached the challenge as if their life depended on it. They built their attacks with all the meticulous attention to detail that would have been unthinkable during the 1970s. When Sir Alf Ramsey and Don Revie were in charge, it almost felt as if England had just discarded the finer points of the game where hard nosed pragmatism took precedence to the more technical refinements of the game. The passing game became totally anathema to both men and it's only now that England have been able to smell the coffee, wine and roses under England's present manager Gareth Southgate.

Poor Sir Alf had already sampled his day in the sun when his England lifted the 1966 World Cup and probably couldn't wait to put his feet up in his garden on retirement. Revie, for his part, quite literally betrayed his nation for Saudi riches with only a failure to reach the 1978 World Cup in Argentina to show for his efforts. Revie's style never really curried favour with the purists and only the likes of Gerry Francis had something exotic in his repertoire that reminded you of the likes of Brazil, Germany, France, Spain or Italy at their most polished. 

In their opening group game, England spent the best part of an hour just tapping out morse code on Gelsenkirchen's lush green acres, passing and passing and then passing the ball amongst themselves in some conspiratorial approach that suggested that some secretive and clandestine plot would now be revealed. For at least half an hour you began to lose count of the multitude of passes that Gareth Southgate's men had accumulated. On the half way line, at least, Declan Rice, Phil Foden and Jude Bellingham simply chose to play keep ball and such was its constancy and repetitive nature that you'd have been forgiven for thinking that they were simply conducting some bizarre experiment with the ball.

And yet this was the way we've always dreamed that the England national team would play. True, it almost looked as if Gareth Southgate's men were just creating some bold and innovative work of art that nobody had ever seen before. Over and over again the ball would be recycled in some remarkable display of ball rotation that had to be seen to be believed. You were reminded of those classic Hollywood films where the revolving door would only stop once the joke had now passed its sell by date.

Admittedly, England had already taken the lead by the time the passing routine had exhausted itself. Jude Bellingham, surely the poster boy and England's most classical talent of the modern generation, met Bukayo Saka's well judged cross with a bullet of a header that rippled in the back of the net before most of us had had time to tuck into our bucket of popcorn. It was a beautifully constructed movement involving several white England shirts and suddenly we were looking at an England who'd formed an almost intimate relationship with a football. 

This was no longer an England side who simply despised the ball, desperate to release it into some far distant stratosphere where none would ever find it again. This was an England who'd found a kindred spirit with a ball, common ground and, quite literally, a moving rapport with it. It felt as if an entire generation of English footballers had received the right education, taken notice of the guidance and advice and shrewdly executed everything they'd been taught.

The irony was of course that the spine of England's defence had an air of fragility about it that might have caused so many more problems than was good for them. Both John Stones and Kyle Walker are no longer spring chickens anymore and there was a nervous foreboding that things wouldn't go exactly according to plan. But Stones has another Premier League title winning medal in his locker with Manchester City and Walker, too, can boast the same achievement. The dependability of Stones and Walker has something of the Terry Butcher and Dave Watson about it; formidable barriers who bear just a little resemblance to nightclub bouncers and just stare menacingly at forwards. 

In England's midfield, Gareth Southgate gambled admirably on Liverpool's Trent Alexander Arnold teaming up with Declan Rice in front of England's defence, shielding, covering and carefully scrutinising every Serbian shirt with a vigilance that restored your faith in Gareth Southgate. With Marc Guehi at the back, guarding then intercepting the ball in vital areas, Jude Bellingham and then Phil Foden who also flaunted his Premier League winning credentials, controlled everything in front of them. 

At times it probably felt as if England were just imitating the template set down by Argentina, Brazil, Spain, Brazil and France throughout the decades. But then the second half began and with England a goal ahead somebody must have forgotten to tell Gareth Southgate that Serbia could only get better after a listless first half. They did indeed come out of the shell with Filip Kostic, Dusan Tadic and Alexsander Mitrovic proving a worrying handful for the English defence. Suddenly, Serbia grew into the game and their passing was far more commendable and progressive than in a turgid first half.

Throughout, Serbia inched their way painstakingly into the game and could have equalised at any moment given the shock to England's system. England were now swaying on their tightrope, pushed back almost dramatically by the sheer force of will and character of the Serbians. Serbia were back in the game and repeatedly broke through the centre of England's now panic stricken defence. It seemed only a matter of time before Serbia would be on level terms such was the intensity of their pressing game and the more assertive side to their attacking prowess.

Sadly though, this was not their night and the old Yugoslavia were left to reflect on the agonising near misses that now littered their game. In the bad old days of Tito, Yugoslavia used to be a force to be reckoned with at international level without ever seriously bothering the bigger boys in the playground. But Serbia eventually found all the right attacking connections and when the final whistle went, Gareth Southgate's England men were just relieved to be on the right side of a battle. Even Harry Kane, the captain, who headed against the bar from substitute Jarrod Bowen's cross, could only smile wryly. If this had been debut night for Euro 2024 for England then Denmark, in their second group stage game, could prove a much bigger obstacle. Oh to be an England fan.

Scotland beaten out of sight by a ruthless Germany.

 Scotland beaten out of sight by a ruthless Germany.

Firstly, there was the opening ceremony. Then there was the understated pomp and ceremony. The Germans always know how to do these big occasions. It was the first night of Euro 2024 and, as is the tradition now, there are always nervous twitches, panic attacks and a good deal of excited anticipation. But this theatrical production turned into a hellish nightmare for Scottish football. This wasn't supposed to happen to Scotland. They should have known what was about to take place and there were no contingency measures but none of us were either deeply shocked or surprised. 

When the curtain went up for Scotland on this starriest of nights, Scotland blinked in the dazzling headlights and almost vanished without trace. By the half hour, Scotland were clinging onto the ropes, wobbling and swaying on their feet and about to collapse. Yes indeed, a boxing referee would almost certainly have thrown in the towel of surrender. Scotland were heading for the massacre of Munich and this one was almost unbearably painful.

 After all, you can only take so many punches to the head and this was a relentless onslaught. In fact this was, quite possibly, one of the greatest mismatches of all time, a one sided contest that could have been predicted when the Euro 2024 draw was made. On the half hour, Scotland were reeling, dazed and bewildered, not quite sure what had hit them. This defeat had the destructive force of a bulldozer but then we knew what was in store for us. Scotland were just searching for damage limitation.

Your mind wound back 50 years ago to Scotland's first World Cup for the first time in ages. In 1974, the Scots were heavily backed as overwhelming favourites to beat little Zaire. It would be a genuine David and Goliath confrontation with the African minnows there to be knocked down like bowling skittles. Of course, cricket or rugby scores were confidently predicted but then Scotland had an attack of cold feet. Goals from a Peter Lorimer thunderbolt and Joe Jordan's glancing header from a Billy Bremner free kick put Scotland clearly on the international football map. But the pundits were expecting much more from a Scotland side allegedly the superior side by quite some distance.

Ironically, this was the World Cup of 1974 in the old West Germany and the coincidence was that the game was also played on a Friday night. But then Willy Ormond's brave, redoubtable Scottish side could only manage just the two and, at the time, it felt as though the Scots had grossly underperformed. When the old Yugoslavia demolished Zaire 9-0 and Brazil comfortably eased past the same opposition with a 3-0 win, we knew Scotland would eventually struggle to get any further than they did. 

But last night, the whisky distilleries and folk clubs of Scotland must have been spluttering into their alcoholic beverages. During yesterday afternoon the cheerful and philosophical folk of Scotland were jigging around Munich's main squares, high on life and drinking the good health of their national side. Then there was a horrible realisation that Scotland's opponents were Germany, serial winners of both World Cups and European Championships.

And yet Scotland being Scotland were just pleased to be at Euro 2024 and the rest was just a welcome bonus. Sadly, they were now on the end of a horrific hiding. By half time, Scotland were buried in the mire, up to their ears in dirt, muck and bullets. They had been beaten out of sight and the Germans must have thought they'd never had an easier day. The Germans were three goals to the good and many an English fan must have been giggling up their collective sleeves.

The defensive quartet of the otherwise immaculate and admirable Andy Robertson, Kieran Tierney, who did shine for Arsenal, Jack Hendry who must have been looking for a hole after last night's display and the unfortunate Ryan Porteus, who was sent off after a reckless challenge, never really looked surviving yesterday evening's traumatic ordeal.

In midfield the tireless and industrious Aston Villa John Mcginn, the immensely reassuring and cultured Scott McTominay of Manchester United and Callum Mcgregor had nothing to offer by way of retaliation to a remorselessly accomplished German side who were swarming all over Scotland. This was such an act of cruelty and savagery to Steve Clarke's Scotsmen that Hungary and Switzerland can't possibly come quickly enough for them. Their two remaining matches should be a clear guide as to how far Scotland can go in Euro 2024.

Now a confident and composed Germany just passed the ball amongst themselves with all the ease of men opening up a packet of sweets. The ball was treated with all the love and affection that has almost characterised German sides throughout the ages. There were those mathematical, short, concise passes that left the Scots running after a train they were never likely to catch. Then there were deceptive angles,  tantalising triangles and neat interchanges that sent the Scots into a world of dizzy confusion.

Suddenly the Germans went into overdrive. The immense authority of Manchester City's Ilkay Gundogan, the evergreen and influential Toni Kroos, the leadership of Antonio Rudiger, the refined class of Jonathan Tah and the controlling presence of Joshua Kimmich and then Floriana Wirtz and Kai Havertz up front, all unbridled aggression and raw power. 

After a delightful piece of approach work, Germany soon took the lead. A splendid crossfield ball left open acres of space in Scotland's defence and Floriana Wirtz took the ball in full stride before smashing the ball forcefully into the back of the net. Minutes later, the Germans had tightened their hold on this match when, after another bewitching sequence of passes, Gundogan smartly cut the ball back and threaded a lovely through  ball for John Musiala who cracked the ball home thunderously, leaving the ball shaking with disbelief in the back of the net.

Just before half time, yet more measured and cleverly executed passes sent Havertz into the Scottish penalty area. Following a collision of bodies, Harvertz saw his opening, bundling forward and then caught by a trailing leg from Ryan Porteus. Porteus reckless challenge not only ended in a red card sending off offence but also led to a penalty. Havertz, stepped up, hesitated and then crashed home the German third. This game was all over bar the shouting. Niclas Fullkrug made absolutely sure with a stunning third goal for Germany.

The second half now became the formality that the Scots must have privately dreaded.The Germans were in full swagger almost bathing in their arrogance and haughtiness, a side now liberated from the ghastly disappointments of recent World Cups. Scotland were now breathing hot air and there was no way back for Steve Clarke's woeful team. Gundogan, once again, broke clear of his markers and  Fullkrug  again drove the ball into the back of the net with such fearsome ferocity that once again the net seemed to be pleading for forgiveness. In injury time the athletic Emre Can rubbed salt into Scottish wounds with a fifth. Antonio Rudiger's headed own goal for Scotland left the Germans ever so slightly embarrassed but now nobody really cared that much.

And so it is that Scotland head off their next assignment in the embryonic stages of this Euro 2024. This was never going to be the easiest journey for Scotland and we knew that anyway. Hungary and Switzerland have undoubted pedigree and stature at international football although both are winnable games for Scotland. The trouble is that when the quietly spoken figure of manager Steve Clarke sits down with his players, he might find it almost impossible to come up with the appropriate words to shake up this demoralised Scottish team. We wish them well.

Shavuot and Jewish food at functions

 Shavuot.

It's the most fascinating Jewish festival and we love it. We can't get enough of it because it's a celebration of food and that's what the global Jewish community simply adore. It is that time of the year when we get out all of our pots and pans in the kitchen, and whip up cheesecakes. Yes folks, today is Shavuot and it's a day of wanton indulgence, extravagant living and completely forgetting that diet you always hoped would keep the weight off permanently.

Today we recite another reading of the Ten Commandments and just cook up the sweetest feast of them all, apart from all of our other wonderful days of rejoicing and song. Shavuot is the day every Jew across the world devours cheesecakes as if they were going out of fashion. All of those dairy products we may have assumed were always there for our delectation, are back on the culinary agenda if only for a couple of days or so. 

Whereas Chanukah gives us doughnuts and Pesach gives us matza, Shavuot does it stylishly with cheesecake. There is something inherently satisfying about any cake regardless of its derivation but cheesecake is just the most guilty pleasure of them all. We know we shouldn't eat things that are designed to pile on the pounds but cheesecake. That's different. There are the traditional plain cheesecakes, strawberry and chocolate flavoured cheesecakes and then there are the cheesecakes that just melt in your mouth. Sometimes you can have too much of a good thing and cheesecake never lets you down.

From a personal point of view, cheesecake stirs up all kinds of pleasant memories. My wonderful and lovely late mum Sybil insisted on New York Cheesecake in the last months of her life. It was the one cake that probably reminded her of what life was like when she was a child. Now, any clear recollection of my mum's passion for cheesecake is blurred by time but it must have been the one dessert or sweet treat that transported my mum right back to the end of the Second World War when she was a child.

But today marks a day of traditional cheesecake eating, fressing, increasing those calories by the lorryload and disregarding the consequences to our waist line.And yet whenever did that bother my lovely Jewish friends and families? At weddings, barmitzvahs and batmitzvahs, we descend on groaning tables of excessive cholesterol, fish balls by the thousand, beigels containing smoked salmon and cream cheese, while egg mayonnaise and tuna beigels are noshed down ravenously.

Then, shortly before the main meal, we're tempted with an endless supply of vol au vents, viennas( Jewish sausages, mushroom flavoured vol au vents crust pastries and then the most irresistible cakes, biscuits and crisps that seem to be available for most of the late afternoon. And that's before the main meal itself. What then happens is that elegantly attired waiters and waitresses float out of the kitchen with all the grace of ballet dancers. With tray in hand, bowls of  lokshen chicken soup balanced precariously in both hands and a modicum of good humour always at their disposal, the said wedding or barmitzvah or batmitzvah would get underway with dancing to follow.

You remember vividly now a family wedding from your childhood with some affection. Before the biggest meal of all time our friendly waiters and waitresses would weave their way in and out of the assembled guests. Here were pots of tea and coffee accompanied by a vast array of sandwiches, biscuits, cakes and the inevitable Black Forest Gateau, a staple of the 1970s sweet trolley. There were thick layers of chocolate, cream oozing from every crevice, jam and, quite possibly scones, if we'd politely asked for them.

By now, we were full to bursting point and not really looking forward to our meal since our insatiable appetites were still demanding more. Now of course these lavish meals of chicken soup followed by liver, egg and onion, beef, lamb or chicken, chicken schnitzel, would be served with roast potatoes and yet more dozens of baby potatoes and vegetables that just kept delivering. Could we fit in the pudding afterwards? Of course we could. Undoubtedly so. There was always room for apple pie and cream, apple strudel, chocolate pudding, fruit salad and- guess what- more mouth watering cakes. If you could find a place in your stomach for cheese and biscuits then you had to be admired.

Today though, is Shavuot, the cheese cake fest, the days of Marie Antoinette cake eating and perhaps several plates of choc chip biscuits, fruit flans, blackcurrant cheesecakes, sponges, blintzes and multi flavoured deserts that take the breath away. So Ladies and Gentleman, don't hold back because you deserve those days of incessant cheesecake eating, the gastronomic self gratification that sends the loveliest taste into our mouths. Oh don't forget the innumerable cups of tea, Earl Grey tea perhaps or that coffee and hot chocolate that make Shavuot the most joyous of days. Enjoy everybody. 

National Making Life Beautiful Day.

 National Making Life Beautiful Day.

When all is said and done, life is stunningly beautiful. All around us things look as though they may be spiralling out of control and all we seem to be subjected to is a constant bombardment of tragedy, disaster, suffering and pain. It may be within us to stop the rot at some point because there has to be a moment in our lives when there have to be redeeming features, light at the end of the tunnel and just breathtaking beauty wherever we look.

The trouble is, of course, that most of us have become more or less conditioned to bleak news, grave tidings, fatal accidents, maudlin news that doesn't promise anything at all. We take it for granted that the day will pass with some incident that is just tinged with sadness and misery. But then we look outside and our perceptions of life around us may change according to the kind of day we've just had. Nobody should underestimate the importance of remaining cheerful, happy and upbeat. In adversity there has to be light at the end of the tunnel. It stands to reason.

Throughout the day, we've always experienced those contrasting moods which can shape our whole outlook on life. Outside, summer is trying hard to make up its mind since both rain and sunshine are dominating our agenda. We're in the second week of June and we should be packing our suitcases for a well deserved holiday in the sun or looking forward with enormous anticipation to a whole sequence of outdoor music festivals, football's Euro 2024, the emotionally calming summer games of cricket and tennis while absorbing everything in life that is simply beautiful.

Yes folks, it's National Making Life Beautiful Day. You knew that all along because we'd consulted social media and they'd confirmed something that we might have privately known anyway. Out there in the big world you're convinced that things will always be perfect and flawless. Besides, look at those astonishing parks, recreation grounds, gardens, spectacular waterfalls, lakes, ponds and rivers, the beauty and divine diversity of the flora and fauna, the fecundity of plant life, fabulous flowers, the perpetual prettiness of the English countryside and those overlapping folds of blissful greenery that look exactly like the postcards we normally see in souvenir shops.

There is so much to admire about the beauty of life. In those cosy, spiritually rewarding villages the size of a chocolate box, vicars still cycle around meandering and twisting country roads and farmers still protect their cows, sheep and lambs with an affectionate yell of encouragement. We look out across the majestic trees that have been there for as long as anybody can remember, their foliage of leaves and branches, gently waving in delicate time with the rest of nature. 

And over there in the distance are the neatly drawn thatched cottages and the electricity pylons that look like those fine, upstanding guards who stand sentry at Buckingham Palace every day of the year. Then, there are the now familiar wind turbines which just seem to whirl around indefinitely by busy motorways, oblivious to humanity. In a way though, they look as though they belong to both Britain and the rest of the world. You can't help but think that at some point some visionary road planner had that light bulb moment when wind turbines would be thought the most appropriate feature to catch your eye on a long journey.

Summer, it goes without saying, can always be guaranteed to give us the biggest lift to our spirits when wintry darkness just left us feeling both grim and pessimistic. The first rosebuds and those wondrous revelations of cherry and apple blossom may already have come and gone. Spring spends a brief holiday before bowing deferentially to a long summer vacation. And then everything bursts into life, the peacock plumage of begonias, laburnums, nasturtiums and petunias unfolding their multi coloured delights.

Then we open up our door to our gardens, digging out the secateurs and lawnmowers, pruning the white and red roses displaying their gorgeous grandeur and mowing the grass lovingly. Then we disappear back into our sheds to check up on the welfare of long forgotten packets of seeds, bags of compost and manure hiding away discreetly in the corner of the shed before taking their place in the vast outdoors. 

It is at this point that we suddenly discover the forks, spades and shovels that have to be employed, for allotment sites may have felt sadly neglected during the winter. So there you have it. National Making Life Beautiful Day. It has lot to commend it. This is the ultimate recommendation to those of you looking for the simple joys of life. It's there you know. If you keep looking you'll find it.

We must not forget of course the birds, regularly and constantly serenading us with the sweetest melodies. Around here we have our natural wetlands, an outstanding haven of grebes, Canadian geese, energetic ducks and the most glorious swans one of whom gave birth recently in our local wetland paradise. It is all too easy to dwell on the business like earnestness of our lives when a day's work has to be completed in order to pay the bills. There are the trains and buses that have to be caught, deadlines that have to be urgently reached, children to be doted on and nurtured, educated at some length, shops to be visited and shopping transactions to keep us alive and well. So let's hear it for National Making Life Beautiful Day. Seize it now. Savour and relish it. It's there for you in all its magical magnificence. Enjoy it. It'll always be sweet.   

Iceland beat England at Wembley

 Iceland beat England at Wembley.

This was a case of history repeating itself and yet how did this come to pass? We were expecting so much more after all that had taken place against Bosnia, but once again England struggled to keep their feet against Iceland and paid the penalty for cocky complacency and foolhardy presumptuousness. Sometimes England never know whether to stick or twist against any opposition. In the bigger picture, this was not the end of the world. Once again Iceland, who used to be be regarded as whipping boys at football's international top table, shocked and surprised everybody yet again.

By the end of last night's friendly, England were looking quizzically at themselves again and wondering why Iceland have suddenly become their bogey team, a nuisance value who just keep coming back to haunt England. Iceland beat England 1-0 yesterday evening and there was something very wounding about England's defeat that sent a nervous shiver down the spines of England's hardy, loyal fans. There was a palpable anxiety in the air, a sense that there are still alarming deficiencies in Gareth Southgate's England team. 

True, England were without their central playmaker Jude Bellingham but the angst and apprehension could be felt as soon as Jon Dugar Thornsteinsson had given Iceland the lead with barely ten minutes gone. From that point onwards, England just seemed to be tying themselves into increasingly complex circles. Their football, admittedly, was still refreshing, invigorating, attractive and all beautifully designed. The passes were short, instinctive, proactive and hearteningly progressive but then the avenues of opportunity were completely closed down and England reminded you of men looking for front door keys.

In 2016, of course, Roy Hodgson, then England manager, took the national side to Nice in France and spent most of their group match against Iceland like labourers on a building site thrashing away at lumps of concrete, smashing down part of a brick wall and then encountering yet more problems. In the end though, a frustrated England seemed to get down to the last sediment and then just surrendered because they simply couldn't get any further.

Goals from Ragnar Sigurdsson and Kolbein Sigthorssen, after a terrible blunder by England goalkeeper Joe Hart, reduced England to a quivering wreck. The sight of thousands of elated Iceland fans celebrating like Viking boatmen, still leaves some English supporters feeling ever so queasy when they come to reflect on the repercussions of that unnerving night for the England national team. It may be a long time though, before we forget last night's latest terrible debacle but for now, it's best not to dwell.

England, last night, were a team who looked bloated and ragged, correct and cultured but there was very little left in the tank and, in the end, all of the pretty bows and ribbons of their approach work simply unravelled as soon as they reached the edge of the Icelandic penalty area. It was probably just as well that this was merely a friendly since, had this been the real thing, then the England crowd may not have been quite as sympathetic.

For manager Gareth Southgate, this is now beginning to look like the end of his personal road. Should England come unstuck and then just flop disastrously in Germany, then Southgate may need to pick up his coat and belongings and leave FA headquarters in Soho Square in London's West End. The last ten years have all been about evolution, revolution, those developmental stages in England's now carefully prepared team, a much healthier place than it once was under Don Revie who just promptly upped sticks and left for Saudi Arabia, simply forgetting about the national team.

And yet this still feels like the right time for England to hit the oil gusher. In the World Cup of Qatar two years ago, England were just unlucky to come up against a France team who just treated the game like pavement artists who finally end up in an art exhibition. The French are now seasoned tournament winners but then reached a World Cup Final against Argentina where a landscape painter named Lionel Messi richly deserved his first, if elusive World Cup winners medal.

Last night though, England found themselves up against a blue barbed wire fence of Icelandic shirts, constantly shadowing and hounding down the likes of Kobbie Manoo of Manchester United, Anthony Gordon of Newcastle, Arsenal's Declan Rice, Phil Foden of Manchester City and Cole Palmer of Chelsea. This was not the way it was meant to be for England and yet it was. You remembered though that, on another day and a far more important one, England will adopt an entirely different mentality. Iceland will, presumably, not be Serbia in England's opening group stage match in Euro 2024.

But Manoo, Gordon, Palmer, Foden and Rice, although shuttling the ball amongst themselves too patiently and cautiously, simply couldn't find their way through their Nordic opposition. Gordon did look like the genuine article, an old fashioned winger who protects the ball rather like a young father cradling his new born baby with endearing tenderness. Gordon shuffled the ball for a while, drew his defender towards him teasingly, cuts back onto his favoured foot before sprinting for the by line and delivering low and high crosses. But this was not Gordon's night.

For Kobbie Manoo, still on a high after scoring Manchester United's second and decisive goal in the FA Cup Final against Manchester City, this was another competent and highly impressive display but it remains to be seen whether Gareth Southgate has given Manoo another thought. Phil Foden has to be considered for England's opening game against Serbia because he's just a pleasure to watch when things are going well for Manchester City, exciting, energetic, his awareness of his colleagues around him, second to none.

With John Stones and Kyle Walker now advancing into those twilit years, the England defence began to creak at the hinges at times. Walker is still as fast as an Olympic athlete while Stones just oozes streetwise intelligence. But we are now at the point where England have to lock up at the back without fearing that there are too many rough edges. Declan Rice of Arsenal still carries the ball with all the stateliness of a Moore or Beckenbauer and there is a feeling that Euro 2024 could be his tournament.

And yet we return to last night's setback for England. When Jon Dagur Thornsteinsson darted inside his defender after some clever exchanges of passes between the blue shirts of Iceland, the striker did what all strikers do. Thornsteinsson moved inside the England defence and sent a low, powerfully struck shot that beat Aaron Ramsdale, England's keeper for the night, all ends up. For the rest of the game, Iceland just made it physically impossible for England with defensive chains that just kept the home side away from them throughout the game.

So it is that the attention turns to Euro 2024 and Germany. For English fans, we all have idyllic scenarios since some of us would love nothing better than to repeat the memorable World Cup Final exploits of 1966 when everything just seemed to slot into place perfectly. Sure, this is not the World Cup and Harold Wilson had yet to find the right pipe to smoke for the occasion. 58 years have come and gone but now, more than ever, it just feels as though fate may be on England's side. The mantra is painfully familiar but the sight of Harry Kane lifting the Euro trophy may be more than just a fantasy.  

England beat Bosnia Herzegovina in friendly

 England beat Bosnia Herzegovina in friendly.

Last night England got it absolutely right but only just. They did what they were supposed to do but it all felt very downbeat and none of us could explain why this was the case. For some unfathomable reason England were not entirely convincing and by the time the final whistle went, we were all scratching our heads convinced that the whole night had fallen flat on its face. This was all a shuddering anti climax and there was a sense here that although the margin of victory had been comfortable, the manner of England's 3-0 friendly victory here against a very poor Bosnia Herzegovina side was just not good enough.

The hairline cracks and faults are there, the cutting edge and penetration up front was missing and the killer touch had deserted Gareth Southgate's England and Euro 2024 in Germany is just weeks away now. Of course, England had been sufficiently prepared for last night's friendly but another gruelling Premier League season had taken its toll yet again and England were just pretending to be something they're quite clearly not. Judging the England football team is almost an impossible job because every time they come out of the tunnel for any match, the microscope will always find something that doesn't seem quite right.

And so it was that Gareth Southgate emerged from the St James Park tunnel and the passionate fans of Newcastle United were ready to celebrate the national side on their latest provincial tour of England. Most of us had thought we'd seen the last of these fun filled friendlies at football's regional grounds. When the new Wembley was being built, England had to find temporary accommodation. But the new Wembley arch has now become the most familiar aspect of football's modern architecture. So we settled down and just admired the scenery in another city and another set of circumstances.

England eventually came, saw and conquered against Bosnia with enormous difficulty but they did get the result they were looking for. Dress rehearsals can be so nerve racking and the main protagonists can freeze on the big night. For a while England were doing everything right, the fundamentals of the game were being carried out efficiently and everything looked both smooth and streamlined. Their passing was precise, aesthetically pleasing and a simple delight to the eye. But then the vital connections faltered and too many attacking movements just came unstuck. England were overcooking everything, well intentioned but far too over elaborate and perhaps trying desperately hard to make a credible impression.

For well over an hour, England moved the ball around so effortlessly it felt as if this was destined to turn into the most one sided international contest since the beginning of time. But Bosnia were not the Turkey and Luxembourg who visited the old Wembley during the 1970s just to be battered and demolished with eight or nine goal hammerings. This was the first time England had ever met Bosnia so perhaps it was unfair to dismiss the game as just one of those chastening experiences where the opposition just sit back and take their punishment. Bosnia were not only at Wembley on a flying visit but here to provide England with a much stiffer test of their resolve than they might have been expecting.

In the end, it didn't really matter. England beat Bosnia quite easily in the end but the critics will always find faults. England were far too pretty, fussy and fastidious, determined to create a masterpiece rather than just establishing a template that needed no tweaking. You felt sure that when Da Vinci or Matisse were applying the final touches to their art work there would be no need to add unnecessary details that were somehow inappropriate. Perhaps England simply needed to tune into their inner Lowry where matchstick men and dogs were the only requirement next to industrial factory gates.

There was a somehow relaxed early summer feel to last night's game that must have been quite reassuring for Gareth Southgate's well organised England team. There was no necessity for big, bold strokes, no sense of urgency and yet it all felt as though England were looking for jigsaw pieces in the puzzle that didn't really fit properly. The air of experimentation was very much in evidence, players simply undergoing severe examination and maybe unsure of what Southgate has in mind, come the Euros in Germany.

Most of us have been here for England so many times that we've lost count. You do more than enough to complete qualifying games for both the Euros and the World Cup only to come a cropper when it matters most. For much of the game last night, England passed the ball amongst themselves as if this was some private business discussion that should never have been aired in public. Occasionally it was reminiscent of a France or Germany at their most unbeatable but perhaps a France or Germany who may well have beaten their opponents much more decisively.

And yet England were singularly unable to break down the seemingly intractable defensive barrier that their Bosnian opponents were so hellbent on erecting. While Lewis Dunk, Marc Guehi, the superb Trent Alexander Arnold and the ever dependable Kieran Trippier were never less than secure and almost unchallenged, England seemed to take an age to cross the half way line at times, venturing forward patiently if too deliberately at times. 

True, Chelsea's Conor Gallagher, Crystal Palace's Ebere Eze and the frequently threatening Cole Palmer found common ground with cute geometric angles and passing patterns at their most syncopated. But there was something lacking in the end product. Maybe it was that fiendish, devilish element in England's play that should have taken this game well beyond Bosnia's reach sooner rather than later. Eze, in particular, set off on one mazy, sinuous and startling run at his defenders that drew foul after foul. For much of the first half hour, Eze could hardly be held back, dribbling purposefully with the ball and drifting past players as if they weren't there. 

While the players went off for half time goal-less, we began to wonder whether England could find the technical resources to break down a stubborn Bosnian defence. But once Jack Grealish came on as a sub, England found their bearings again. From a driven corner floated deceptively into the six yard box, players collided into each other and Ezri Konsa's shirt was tugged back illegally. Cole Palmer, with all the unfazed aplomb of a 20 year old colt, stepped up to tuck home England's opening goal on the night from the penalty spot.

Now Palmer began to assert his presence on the game with all the confidence in the world. You began to wonder why Pep Guardiola, Palmer's previous manager at Manchester City, dispensed with his services. Palmer looks the genuine article with his hunger and appetite for goal at every opportunity. Suddenly things were clicking into place for England, the pulleys and levers operating at full strength.

With momentum building for England, a second goal eventually gave Gareth Southgate's men the perfect platform for inflicting further damage on brave Bosnia. Gallagher, Eze, Jarrod Bowen and Arnold were stringing passes together like runner beans and England's attacking machinery began to hum contentedly. From a short ball to feet, Grealish sent over an immaculately weighted ball that flew over the visitors heads and the ball fell at Trent Alexander Arnold  who, on the volley, drove the ball home low and impressively across the Bosnia goalkeeper. A second goal gave England the comfortable cushion they were almost hoping they'd get.

And then Harry Kane, who always knows that his remarkable goal scoring prowess for his country sets him apart from the rest, came on as a substitute. Immediately, England had a more of a focal point to their attack. Kane's consistency for England has never been questioned and that adept holding up of the ball, which brings most of his colleagues into so many dangerous positions, once again gave England's attack another important dimension.

From another inswinging corner, the ball plunged into the six yard box and after Bowen of West Ham and Grealish had tentatively jabbed at the ball in front of goal, Kane confirmed the third goal of the night. Peace of mind had been restored and the victory was England's to cherish even though the England fans were just distinctly underwhelmed by it all.

At the far end of Wembley Stadium, the electronic scoreboard put all of our lives into a very humble perspective. The sad passing of legendary rugby league legend Rob Burrow was observed with perfect reverence and moments of silence, sombre reflection. Sport sometimes gets in the way of  far more significant events around us. Last night, though, it struck exactly the right note. 

Happy Birthday, Thomas Hardy.

 Happy Birthday, Thomas Hardy

Where do the years go? Time seems to fly when you're having fun. It hardly seems possible but today Thomas Hardy is the ripe old age of 184. Now, this is incredible, unbelievable and you don't look a day over 100, Thomas. The mischievous glint in your eye is still there, twinkling away as if you'd never been away from the public domain. One moment you're the most distinguished author in Victorian times and the next you're in the great coffee houses of the West End of London, rubbing shoulders with Charles Dickens and, allegedly, not seeing eye to eye with him and never really on amicable, buddy, buddy terms.

Yes everybody, Thomas Hardy celebrates another birthday today but sadly, the master literary craftsman who grew up in the rural idyll of Dorset on England's shining South Coast Riviera, won't be present at his own birthday party. Hardy died in 1928 so therefore he'll be conspicuous by his absence but his legacy will remain indelible. If some of us had it our way, Thomas Hardy would have been a knight of the realm and appropriately proclaimed as Sir Thomas Hardy with all whistles blowing and bells ringing.

Time was, when everybody in England and Great Britain would have been acknowledging Hardy's birthday with dancing in the streets and hogging social media triumphantly in recognition of one of England's most poetic of all novelists and short story writers. Of course, Hardy wrote love poems with a beautiful command of the English language and he illuminated Victorian literary salons with words, sentences and paragraphs that did much to influence your thinking on your writing. Hardy made his grammar sing and chant, an author with the kind of descriptive prose that will never be forgotten.

And yet some of us were shocked to hear about the dark shadows that hovered over Hardy's life and that tragedy followed his illustrious career. My lovely wife Bev and I paid a brief visit to the house where Hardy lived with his estranged wife Emma about ten years ago. The memories were horribly overshadowed by a marriage that was never on the same page from a matrimonial point of view, so to speak. Hardy and Emma Hardy were just incompatible.

On our tour, we were taken upstairs to Emma's bedroom where, much to our surprise, we discovered a woman who, we were told, was almost permanently sick. Next to her bed was a jug of water accompanied by a hairbrush and an ornate mirror on her dressing table. The room looked both spartan and soulless, a hollow reminder of a marriage that may have been doomed from the start. And yet because Hardy was the incurable romantic poet, some of us might have assumed that everything was sweetness and light, wine and roses around the thatched cottages that decorated the English countryside and still do so.

But downstairs we saw all the incriminating evidence of a loveless relationship. There were glass cases holding now well preserved, if ancient, yellowing letters written by Emma. It became abundantly clear that Emma never really loved Thomas and the feelings were mutual. Emma was confined to bed, incapacitated almost constantly while Thomas would slouch around the house in his pyjamas for part of the day.

We were told that Thomas Hardy would wake in the morning bright and early, ready to write, pen and ink poised with perhaps a reverential homage to the quill on his table. Then he would sit at his desk and,  in the coldest of winter mornings, would throw on his night gown before embarking on one of those magnificent writing marathons that would culminate in Tess of the D'Urbervilles, Far From the Madding Crowd, Jude the Obscure, Return of the Native, the Woodlanders, A Laodicean, the Woodlanders  and the Trumpet Major. 

For some of us though, Hardy described his Dorset countryside with vivid, illustrative prose, purple prose, painting perfect word pictures that suited the landscape so accurately. He became immersed in his characters, lived their lives, breathed their every breath, ate their meals and drunk their ale and mead with a hearty relish. He rubbed shoulders with both Dickens, Anthony Trollope and, quite possibly HG Wells, fraternising with the great and good of these stately scholars of the written word.

You remember your first introduction with four of the novels as mentioned above with well over a thousand pages that left you mesmerised. In the frontispiece of the book, a neatly drawn map of both Wessex, Dorset and Dorchester gave you a picturesque illustration of all of Hardy's farmlands, pubs, cottages and homely homes. Here Hardy must have been at its happiest. Here was a man who knew exactly what he was both writing and then talking about to all of his loyal followers and enthusiasts.

You could close your eyes and almost see Hardy's wondrous images: the waving sunflowers, horses lumbering up and down rows of wheat and barley, meticulously preserved grass lands, carefully nurtured cornfields, farmers in cloth caps and wearing tight braces, girls and boys chasing each other in and out of sun kissed shadows. And then there were chapters of hope, loss, grief, desolation and blissful optimism. There were Hardy's tales of a Dorset so far removed from London's metropolitan hustle and bustle that you find it hard to believe that Hardy could find so much tranquillity amid all the obvious chaos.

But he did and today we celebrate the anniversary of a man and writer who elevated English literature to its highest Empyrean plateau. You can still remember the transformative effect Thomas Hardy had on your style of writing and could only have dreamt of emulating the great man. But then you could only laugh at your foolhardiness since nobody did it better than Hardy. 

You remember the elegant turn of the phrase, the technical wizardry of Hardy's grammar,  descriptions that became a dream sequence in your mind. You remember being transported to a world where the summers used to last a lifetime, a time and place where the imagery and symbolism could be almost smelt, felt and touched. Above all, you remember the man himself, who, for all of us rustic sensitivity, never held back on all the raw human emotions and fiercely criticised those who attacked him. Happy 184th birthday Thomas Hardy. Enjoy the celebrations. Some of us will always lavish you with compliments.