The great Brian Glanville dies at 93.

The great Brian Glanville dies at 93.

Brian Glanville, who has died at the age of 93, was one of the most learned and scholarly football journalists the Beautiful Game has ever known. By way of a coincidence, Glanville's passing has fallen on the day of today's FA Cup Final, one of the many prestigious occasions Glanville frequently graced us with his presence. 

From his early days at Charterhouse public school to one of the many innumerable World Cup Finals attended as a distinguished football writer, Glanville was a giant of cultured football journalism and the most prolific of novelists. In a world of powerful masculinity and often hot headed, tempestuous times during the 1970s, Glanville was a cool, calm, often graceful figure, a writer of measured but controversial prose, a football encyclopaedia who often challenged the establishment and questioned the often authoritative men in charge of UEFA and FIFA.

In 1960, Glanville joined the Sunday Times as chief football correspondent and would establish an enduring relationship with readers of a newspaper that always set the highest standards. His columns were both lyrically entertaining, powerfully descriptive, almost allegorical in their use of the English language, frequently laced with Latin references but always accurate, informative and brilliantly observational. 

At roughly the same time, Glanville became a regular contributor to the still popular World Soccer magazine and his articles were both profound, sharp and acerbic, honest and impeccably researched. He was a fastidious stickler for detail and accuracy, earning him global admiration in the football community and the unwavering respect of his contemporaries. There was the admirable back catalogue of FA Cup, World Cup, League Cup Finals, football throughout the old four divisions of the Football League, football at every level of the game.

And then there were the hard-hitting interviews, occasional criticism of his own team Arsenal, the forthright but balanced journalism. There was an edgy and confrontational nature about Glanville's interviewing style, an insistence on getting it absolutely right and then writing with an integrity that left most of his colleagues breathless with praise. 

The young Glanville was something of a precocious child, completing his first book on the life and times of Cliff Bastin, the Arsenal full back, at the tender age of 16, the precursor to an illustrious career which included a fund of memorable stories about the man. There was the incident when Glanville, travelling back with the England squad from a game abroad, collared then grilled the then FIFA president Joao Havelange, verbally attacking the Italian official on the dreadful handling of some now long forgotten match. Glanville was fiercely critical, relentlessly investigative and always had his finger on the pulse of the game.

His observations on the 1966 World Cup Final in England were often enlightening and thought provoking. He tells the story about the moment when West Germany equalised for the second time. After the messiest of goal mouth scrambles, it was Wolfgang Weber who got the final touch for the West Germans to take the game into extra time. England would, of course win the World Cup with a handsome 4-2 victory. 

But Brian Glanville, remembering the day as if it were yesterday, said that the equaliser seemed to go in via slow motion and none of the eminent Press scribes who were present on that famous day knew who had scored the goal. You feel sure though that Glanville felt himself to be a privileged witness to one of the most glorious days in English sporting history. 

In the years that followed, Glanville would continue to work diligently for the Saturday matches, always an influential presence in football ground Press boxes, his words now precious and beautiful, his reports from the old Highbury, Upton Park, White Hart Lane and then Old Trafford, Anfield and St James Park both witty, humorous, but invariably expressive and elegant. 

Throughout the early 1960s, Glanville would move to Italy before settling and living there, enthusiastically embracing the Italian defensive catenaccio, Torino, AC and Inter Milan, Fiorentina and Napoli. He then mastered Italian and could speak it with spellbinding clarity. He wrote splendidly for Gazzetta Dello Sport with a charm and insight that had few equals.

His literary career had now installed him a rightful place in the history of the Beautiful Game. His definitive account on the Story of the World Cup was a breathtaking work of art, a masterpiece that flowed effortlessly from his typewriter and recorded every single match, player, manager, fact and statistic with meticulous attention to detail. There was an early novel called the Olympian, Goalkeepers Are Different and a whole compendium of player profiles, brilliant and awful matches and managers who were either unpredictable, perfect gentlemen, annoying, irascible but always delightful company.

In a world where football now operates in an online world and football can be processed and analysed via I Phones, Tablets and Smart Phones, Glanville may now seem very traditionalist and  conservative. But he always had a mischievous twinkle, a perceptive eye for a juicy story and was never disapproving of the modern age. 

Some of us will deeply miss Brian Glanville because he somehow epitomised the true spirit of football, a man with an  always inquisitive mind, perhaps something of an ardent perfectionist but always true to himself and his readers. Glanville it was who loved that superlative turn of phrase or bon mots, a wordsmith extraordinaire and one of the game's finest craftsmen.  Brian Glanville we salute you. You were and will always be regarded as the best in the business. Fleet Street will never forget you. 

FA Cup Final day.

 FA Cup Final day. 

It used to be one of the best days in the football calendar. It was one of the most emotional days for both the respective teams and  the feverish fans who could barely hold back their excitement. There was an indefinable anticipation that none of us could quite understand because we weren't there to witness the occasion live in all its technicolour glory. There was the pomp and pageantry of it all, the wonderment, the exhilaration of winning and then in complete contrast, the earth shattering dejection and the debilitating anguish of losing. 

FA Cup Final day was rather like watching the most spectacular West End of London musical, old fashioned music hall vaudeville from long ago. The truth of course is that football shouldn't allow itself to be carried away by the one game of the season that holds so much importance and could so decisively make or break their teams season. And yet it shouldn't be like this because there are far weightier matters of note to consider, events in our lives that should take precedence to every other consideration. It is not the end of the world if we lose the Cup Final because there are far more pressing priorities. 

But tomorrow morning, Crystal Palace and Manchester City will be walking out at Wembley for the FA Cup Final and, for both, the fickle finger of fate will be pointing in one direction. We will be watching with impartiality because a vast majority of the nation will be doing the Saturday shopping, taking the dog for a lengthy walk in the park, gazing longingly into department stores in the hope of nabbing a bargain or, quite possibly, watching a game of village green cricket. But, for the FA Cup Final, both the fans of Palace or City, this will be their royal command performance at the Palladium in London's West End.

Now for the traditionalists among us, the FA Cup Final normally started in earnest just after breakfast time when the cereals had been devoured and the toast with jam routine had been successfully completed. The truth is, of course, that the whole day was dominated by the Beautiful Game. In the days before remote control and only three channels, there was something very rudimentary about the whole spectacle. You could watch the game in complete comfort and luxury from your sofa and pretend that you too were travelling to the game on the team coaches, cracking jokes and witticisms with your pals and actually taking part in the FA Cup Final. 

Sadly and yet quite upliftingly though you were following every pass, tackle and shot from a distance, utterly detached from the all consuming drama of the day, the absorbing passion of one afternoon in our lives that we could hardly believe we were witnessing. It was the fulfilment of our dreams, our dreams bearing fruit in front of our discerning eyes since every football fan is knowledgeable.

We sat spellbound and transfixed by this compelling spectacle rather like kids at the seaside who simply abandoned themselves to arduous sandcastle building before running into the sea and being gripped with an enjoyment that seemed to last for ever. The FA Cup Final on TV was compulsive viewing, something that had to be experienced since you could never put it any one specific category. It was inexplicably wonderful, a joyously entertaining match regardless of who you supported. 

On London Weekend TV, ITV's commercial channel, we had the late and the always immaculate Dickie Davies accompanied by Brian Moore, surely one of the greatest and most resonant voice in football, a man of stature, enormously revered and respected by his contemporaries. And on the BBC there were the poetic and lyrical voices of either John Motson and Barry Davies, consummate professionals and men who could have recited the old telephone directory and still invested the occasion with a style and authority that won your endless admiration. 

But FA Cup Final day is invariably all about the fans, the supporters who have sacrificed everything just to be among the heaving, seething, bristling Wembley terraces and seats. They're the ones who have followed their clubs in all weathers, shivering in the cold in the third round of the FA Cup in January and then travelling the length and breadth of the country in the hope that this year could be theirs. 

And tomorrow afternoon, we will be hoping to reach the summit flag proudly planted at the top and by 5pm in the afternoon, that famous old Cup will be paraded around Wembley Stadium. There can be no doubt that our team will be drinking the champagne, our conquering heroes who will be dancing in the dressing room because the street parties have been planned and prepared with meticulous attention to detail. Make no mistake. We've deserved this moment in the sun and we're not going to waste it for a minute.

So it was that we immersed ourselves in the jollity and frivolity of the day itself, gazing around the old Wembley with its huge acres of outlandish banners and flags, the amusing if rude slogans and a vocal congregation that bore a striking resemblance to a Sunday morning church service. We were never at Wembley but we were definitely there in spirit willing on our teams, recalling the players we were told about by our grandparents, the day we rhapsodised over because they were the finest and, ultimately victorious ones who would walk up the old 39 steps to receive the Cup from royalty. 

It  is a day we develop a sentimental attachment to, a day borrowed from the warmest archives of nostalgia. It is a day that takes us right back to the day when our grandparents brought out the most exquisite cutlery and crockery for the most rousing of parties. We'll never forget Cup Final day because maybe it was a rites of passage day when we finally discovered the joys and thrills the game could still serve up for our delectation.

Cup Final days used to be synonymous with colourful rosettes on our shirts and those delightful rattles that never failed to entertain us. It was about the players walking across the Wembley pitch, comparing fashionable suits and shirts followed swiftly by the pre match preamble, 'Abide With Me' conducted with incredible enthusiasm by a gentleman wearing a patriotic Union Jack waistcoat. 

Now of course coverage doesn't even come anywhere near the saturation point where every word, sentence and paragraph about football and the FA Cup becomes like an infectious song we simply can't get out of our heads. It's constant, repetitive, mind blowing, perhaps wearisome and tiresome but it keeps going on and on until the conclusion, the thrilling denouement whereby the winning skipper and the players of your team celebrates on grand open top bus parades in local shopping centres. Then you notice more buses and cars, wending their way around the bakeries, cafes, chemists and butchers as if this triumph was somehow fated to happen on this day of all days. It is a day designed for football's vast and ecstatic democracy.

Tomorrow, those same jubilant players and supporters will share a common bond, a kindred spirit and a genuine rapport with each other that only sport can offer. Crystal Palace, who have never won anything but have been Cup Final runners up twice now, are once again the underdogs against a Manchester City side who have had quite the most appalling season in the Premier League, relinquishing their hold limply on another title winning trophy. Liverpool ran away with this season's Premier League, fully deserving of all the back slapping plaudits and rightful praise, a trophy won at a canter in the end. 

Some of us may still yearn for the days when the game was untouched by rampant commercialism, sponsorship from every prestigious company, all of those brash and ambitious businessmen and entrepreneurs from Saudi Arabia with an alleged vested interest in the game. Back in those far off decades, football was relatable, fun, accessible, astonishingly cheap and just plain, good old fashioned fun. There was no VAR, there were no draught excluders at free kicks, no elements of contentious doubt about the scoring of goals. We felt an essential part of the occasion even if we couldn't quite make it to Wembley Park and Wembley Way. 

So whatever you're doing tomorrow be sure to remember that the FA Cup will woo us with its romantic sweet nothings, lavishing us with affectionate good wishes. It's history and heritage will never fade from our rheumy eyed sights. Although your club are not directly involved in the Final itself,  you will be rooting for those who you think could be seriously underestimated. So Crystal Palace and Manchester City. You know what to do. 

National Public Gardens Week

 National Public Gardens Week

So here we are deep into the springtime elixir of our lives when everybody feels as though everything is good, invigorating, refreshing, uplifting, satisfying and life is at its sweetest. We, of course, know life is indeed precious and something to enjoy whole heartedly. In fact for most of Britain, it's warm, sunny, the sky is cerulean blue and the world is full of the joys of spring. Nature is flourishing and blooming, trees dancing and swaying in gentle breezes and humanity has to embrace the weather to its bosom because if it does rain later on in the day, we may feel disappointed and let down. But it's almost summer folks. Glorious! 

Now here is where we are in the world. The kitchen doors are open, the industrial fans are on at full blast and your garden is just stunningly pretty. You've left it during the winter in solitary hibernation, fast asleep, dormant, neglected, sad, forlorn and probably feeling sorry for itself. The garden shed has just stood there at the bottom of the garden rather like some very lonely, shy child who all the kids simply ignored on his first day at school. 

But now spring has sprung and everything looks so much more pleasing to the eye. The trees have re-discovered their summer clothes and the green leaves are in joyously hospitable mood. They wave at you cordially, acknowledging every single person with a warm amiability. It is so easy to be lyrical about May because not only is it merry, it's positively thrilled and delighted to be among us. Besides, May is invariably promising, auspicious, a dress rehearsal for the rest of summer. 

Today, the weather forecast has once again informed us that although most of the day will turn into a temporary heatwave, tea time might be the moment when the dark clouds will gather and suddenly, thunder and lightning will cut through the sweltering heat. And yet once more we will remain undaunted, fearless, completely free from any anxiety. Our garden will welcome a downpour of rain anyway because we haven't had any rain for well over a month and, although not in drought territory, this may be disconcerting to some. But who cares?

And our thoughts turn to the recent abomination and tragedy of the Sycamore Gap tree near Hadrian's Wall in England. Earlier on this year, a group of violent criminals demolished this most gorgeous of natural sights. They thought it would be a jolly good idea and a hilarious laugh. Besides, it was a very old tree, almost ancient history and why would there be any vehement objections to cutting down a tree whose branches and foliage were decaying and, quite, possibly dead? 

However, little did these cruel reprobates know what they were doing. This was an act of vandalism, callous aggression and showed up all the worst in human behaviour. Our tree hating thugs have now apparently been sentenced to ten years in jail which seems a more than fitting punishment for this disgraceful assault on our wonderful trees. We have nothing but unwavering admiration for the courtroom judge who meted out the suitable punishment for this heartbreaking murder.

Meanwhile, back in the garden the likes of legendary TV presenters Alan Titchmarsh and Monty Donn, will be pulling on their gloves, digging out the pruning secateurs, wheeling out the lawnmower and gaining enormous pleasure from the flora and fauna in front of their eyes. They will be surveying their beds of yellow and red roses with an almost paternal tenderness and their eyes will light up at the jovial japonica, the lovely laburnum, the breathtaking begonias, the prim primroses, delectable daisies, the spellbinding tulips and all manner of flowers and plants.

This week is National Public Gardens week folks. It's time to venture out into our gardens and encounter something of a horticultural revival. We crouch down with our spades, forks, innumerable seeds and some will renew acquaintance with our allotment sites. Now allotment site lovers are the salt of the earth types, devoted gardeners who adore the earth, growing acres of strawberries, tomatoes, apples, celery, rhubarb and a wide variety of things to eat at breakfast, tea, lunch and supper. They work their allotment sites unquestioningly in all weathers and never forget about the new life in the ground. 

But the gardens of course in the capital city of London are somehow synonymous with everything that is colourful and astonishing to behold by millions of tourists. Hyde and Regents Park are some of our biggest, brightest, most aesthetically mesmerising parks, combining as they do the whole rainbow spectrum of plants, flowers, shrubberies and commanding trees who protect us with endless love.

Still, whether you're green fingered not, this is one time of the year to lavish as much care, compassion and solicitude as you can muster on your garden, your oasis of calm, the place you visit because it helps you to unwind and de-stress, a therapeutic sanctuary where you can relax in the open air or just potter around in.

Public gardens are both attractive and delightfully natural havens where peace can reign for as long as you want them to be. Mentally, our senses burst into life, stimulated and exhilarated because of their capacity to change our mood and boost our spirits. They reveal a peacock plumage of colours that maintain our happy hormones and just make us smile. Who can fail to be uplifted by the first daffodil of the year, the hydrangea that nestles comfortably in either your front or back garden? It is like a guard of honour, decorative and almost ceremonial, a rich feast for the eyes, a balm to your soul.

The forthcoming Chelsea Flower Show will be a typical example of how gardens can soothe a savage breast. Every year, this outstanding social and cultural event attracts thousands of tourists to London. From Japanese rock gardens with trickling streams to the usual assortment of nasturtiums, verbenas, chrysanthemums, patios, pergolas and even the most ornate decking, gardens are almost part of our extended family, never judgmental nor critical.

So to all seasoned gardeners enjoy National Public Gardens Week because you deserve this recognition and the chance to shine. You'll come home from work tonight, slump into your favourite chair in your garden or just wander around the pansies and the petunias for the umpteenth time because you're so immensely proud of them. You'll grab a can of lager or pour yourself yet another glass of Pimms or even a vintage glug of red wine. Look at nature, it's such a beautiful world out there. Let's cherish life. It's sweet as sugar. 

 

VE Day and Pope Leo the 14th

VE Day and Pope Leo the 14th

Across the villages, towns, cities, sleepy hamlets and babbling brooks of England, the citizens of its noble, upstanding folk will reminisce sadly on the events that shook and then traumatised the whole of the world. Today we celebrate the 80th anniversary of the end of the Second World War, a day heavy with poignancy, sombre reflection and lingering thoughts of tragic loss, death and destruction. In May 1945, we celebrated deep into the night as Victory in Europe Day was officially declared. 

Now though 80 years later we lament the passing of those gentlemen and women who sacrificed everything, putting their lives on line and showing enduring dedication to the cause, valour of the highest order and bravery that knew no limit. But there was also a gritty determination to overcome all the odds in the face of adversity, an uplifting stoicism and sheer, no nonsense bravado about us that will never be forgotten. 

For some of the soldiers and troops who always believed that victory would be theirs, today means something very special. Suddenly, on this day in 1945, the air raid sirens stopped wailing, tin helmets thrown into the air with enormous relish, army and navy uniform proudly demonstrated to the world and khaki dispensed with for ever. We all went back to the land of rationality, normality and joyous communication with each other, the memories of the previous six years now receding into a misty distance. 

No more would the world be subjected to a constant bombardment of destructive bombs, crippling damage to its buildings, shops and homes, the millions of innocent people who spent six years of his life tormented by the Nazis, the murderous barbarians wearing evil swastikas on their disgusting uniforms and those who simply wanted to inflict pain, suffering and purgatory on our shores and the world around us. 

But on that final day as peace beckoned and they all gathered around their radio sets to hear Winston Churchill deliver that memorable speech, they too could feel freedom and liberation. It was the day they thought they'd never see but then saw through miraculous eyes. The lights went on at Piccadilly Circus, they did the conga around Trafalgar Square and we danced, sang and partied the night away because they could and they did. Celebrations continued and inhibitions were blown away like a million feathers. 

And now 80 years later we stand undaunted, unscathed, tougher and stronger than ever before and enjoying the kind of luxuries and privileges that none thought possible. We are this generation, the grandchildren of those who can be grateful for life, energy and enthusiasm. We are responsible for setting the standards, morals and values of the 21st century, this is our state of independence, our world to embrace, richly savour and then cherish with all our heart and soul.

Finally we have rid ourselves of those oppressive restrictions, the nightmarish rationing of everyday food and drink, the endless blackouts and every night spent in draughty underground Tube stations. The bombs kept dropping but London remained an oasis of calm, imperturbability and utter defiance. London kept playing old family favourites on the pub piano, singing 'We'll Meet Again' for the thousandth time and London knew that someday the frightening apocalypse would one day end. 

So we thank our heroic veterans, the now centenarians who battled and struggled, fought to the bitter end and would not be beaten. They are the ones who deservedly won the right to show their medals and kept smiling, joking and laughing because Adolf  Hitler had to be crushed into the ground. On the 8th of May 2025 we salute their men and women who went beyond the call of duty, who never gave up or surrendered to the heinous enemy. 

Meanwhile in another part of the world yesterday, we welcomed to the stage a man we frequently acknowledge and deeply revere. In the Vatican, Pope Leo 14th was ordained in a puff of white smoke from the Sistine Chapel. Robert Prevost became the first American to hold down such an honourable position and some of the more cynical of conspiracy theorists wondered if a certain Donald Trump might have had some significant influence on this appointment. 

Now the chances are that nobody has heard of Robert Prevost since few of our Popes from history ever make a fuss or commotion of who they are. But for those who prefer to read between the lines, an American Pope does sound very much like the work of one man. But then we giggle privately and convince ourselves that this couldn't possibly be true. The fact remains that Robert Prevost is the new Pope and as he stepped out onto the balcony and spoke admirably fluent Italian, we wished the establishment that is the Roman Catholic church well. 

In recent years most of us have taken to religion when things looked as though they'd hit rock bottom. Covid 19 lasted for so long and claimed so many lives that most of us asked deep, thought provoking theological questions. It was a hard and challenging world, almost unbearable at times but we rallied together, kept the faith and always knew that the power of prayer would see us through. And so it is that Robert Prevost steps into a world fraught, fractured and horribly divided, a Roman Catholic church that keeps searching for answers but only finds indecipherable puzzles and ever present complications. 

But yesterday evening an American gentleman in a richly ornate cassock, took the appropriate vows and promised to offer a better world free from war and conflict, free from constant argument and what might seem permanent disagreement. You remembered a Polish Pope from yesteryear by the name of St John Paul the second who came to London during the 1980s, travelled around the capital in his Pope mobile, kissed the tarmac at Heathrow airport and generally spread the gospel of peace, health and prosperity to one and all. 

Today, in a still troubled global population, we must hope that Robert Prevost will perform the same acts of kindness, generosity and love that we have come to expect of Popes throughout the centuries. It might be considered a task that would defeat most of us. But yesterday there was something very reassuring about the presence of a religious leader who thinks nothing of spreading happiness wherever goes. Somehow we know he's going to succeed. 

Nigel Farage- a force for good?

 Nigel Farage- a force for good?

He seemed to come from nowhere and the British political landscape may never seem the same again. He is a genuine candidate for elevation to the highest position in the hallowed corridors of Westminster and the House of Commons will now have to accept him as one of the most recognisable figures in British politics. If we didn't know who he was before, we certainly do now. He is the new kid on the block, blunt, outspoken, reactionary, controversial and dedicated to duty. He will never suffer fools gladly and he speaks his mind categorically. He could change our stereotypical perceptions of the British politician.

For the last couple of days or so, Nigel Farage has been moving among the movers and shakers of Westminster's finest, grinning endlessly, congratulating those who appointed him as the leader of the Reform UK party and delighted to be in the public limelight for all the right reasons. At some point, the realisation will dawn on Farage that his is a name to be reckoned with and taken deeply seriously. We thought we'd seen everything at 10 Downing Street during recent years but this almost felt like the most definitive moment.

But this could be a life changing week for the Cabinet and Shadow Cabinet ministers who had thus far felt as if their authority could never be challenged, that the status quo was here to stay and never to be shifted so dramatically. Suddenly though, an imposter has appeared on the scene, a gate crasher at a party who some may regard as unwelcome but then again a valuable asset who could influence the direction in which the political gravy train takes us in the next four years or so. 

Last July, the Labour party headed by the estimable Sir Keir Starmer, won the General Election and Starmer became Britain's latest Prime Minister. It all seemed very normal and ever so slightly exciting. Britain had decided that they'd had enough of the Tory party and gave Rishi Sunak the sack. Once again the British public had spoken forcefully, decisively and critically. And yet here we are in the merry month of May 2025 and the natives are restless, furious, truly exasperated and demanding the head of Starmer.

And this is where a certain Nigel Farage came in from the cold. For a number of years now, Farage has portrayed himself as an honest, respectable, working class man of the people, the Guinness drinking and cigarette smoking bloke who would love to have a proper conversation with the builders, architects, engineers and postmen and women of the world, a non judgmental figure who simply wants the best for his country. 

Recently, the salubrious Essex seaside resort of Clacton elected him as their constituency leader of the party much to the annoyance of those who hate him and a blessed relief as somebody who they thought was a breath of fresh air, a radical speechmaker and a man with the potential to break ranks with everything we'd been accustomed to hearing. Farage is now influential, unashamedly on the side of English patriotism and determined to stand up for English workers and their rights. 

When he emerged from a meeting during voting day at the General Election, Farage was pelted with a milkshake but far from being humiliated. He smiled stoically, got on with the business of whipping his adoring followers into a frenzy and fervently believed that Brexit had been done and dusted. He then presumably went on a long walk to clear his head before remembering that this was the most momentous day of his life. Farage had won over the sceptics and established his presence as a politician with a mind of his own and one with opinions and well defined ideologies. 

But above the hubbub and noise, Farage has promised that the Reform UK party could threaten the two party system in England and, quite possibly, become a bona fide Prime Minister one day. The Reform Party, hey. Now where did they come from, like a bolt from the blue, a flash of lightning, a clap of thunder? It must feel that the House of Commons will undergo its most dramatic transformation within a year or so. The Reform Party sounds like some revolutionary band of men and women who will take to the streets with large, visible banners and then storm the barricades. Is a modern day Reformation about to crash into British society in quite the most unprecedented fashion or are we just imagining all this? 

And yet the mood music does seem to be changing for good or bad. Your mind is taken back to the beginning of the 1980s when the esteemed likes of Shirley Williams, Dr David Owen and Roy Jenkins formed one of the most innovative of all political parties. The Social Democrat Party announced themselves quite forcibly on an unsuspecting nation, surely one of the most intriguing movements in British politics. Sadly the Social Democrats proved a temporary if quirky measure, honourable and well intentioned but completely lacking any real influence, clout or prestige. Nobody would take them seriously and it was all very short lived. 

Last week though could be that crucial, pivotal point in our lives when a new political party shake off the cobwebs of complacency that might be dragging down both the Tories, the Labour party and LibDems. When Sir Keir Starmer hits the pillow tonight and drifts off to sleep he might like to know that there are serious intruders hunting him down. At the moment he may rest easy but the fact is that both Labour and the Conservative parties were severely wounded in the local elections. The opposition are lying in wait and will not  be taken lightly or dismissed as just a passing fad. Beware the Reform UK Party.  

May Day.

 May Day.

Today promises to be the hottest day of the year so far. Britain will wake up to yet another day of glorious, unbroken sunshine, unprecedented warmth and heat and it almost feels we might be bracing ourselves for a magnificent summer of heatwaves, droughts, hosepipe bans, ice cream van jingles sweetening our ear drums and office workers wandering around streets and parks wearing their most casual shirts and suits.

But hold on we're still on the first day of May Day and it may be time to err on the side of caution because we're still in the infant days of only May, the spring robins and cuckoos are still at their most melodious, the tulips and daffodils are flaunting their prettiest finery and Easter is still recent history. It is at this point that we should all be looking for the first buds of optimism and hope that the rest of May, June and July will be a joyous parade of mouth watering picnics in the great outdoors, the familiar array of church village fetes and swimming lidos jammed solid with excitable children, teenagers and families. 

May Day normally provides the trade unions with their most perfect platform to march across Central London and sound off their grievances. Shortly, large flags and banners representing their company or organisation will express themselves vehemently in no uncertain terms. The local political party elections will polarise and unite the nation in a way that has now become, for some at least, a loathsome spectacle. 

In the middle of the countryside, hundreds of quaint market towns and vibrant villages will gather by the maypole, strap tiny bells to their ankles before indulging in the first maypole dances of the year. Men and women in jolly high spirits will spill out onto their blissfully idyllic country lanes and merrily cavort the day away with perhaps a bottle of lager and cider in their hands and love in their hearts. May has indeed come out to play, life is indeed at its most delightful, delectable, free spirited and the best feeling in the world. But then it always was and always will be.

Today we flung open our blinds and curtains and discovered handsome blue skies, deeply pleasant reminders of what could happen in June, July and August and not a cloud in that sky. The cynics will claim that this is too good to be true and that it can't possibly last because we've been here before with the English summer climate. The climate warming voices will be convinced that they were right all along and today's heatwave was somehow destined to take place on the first day of May. 

Even now the lunchtime workers will be spreading their blankets of food and drink over acres of thick green and gorgeous grass, wiping the sweat from hard pressed and fraught foreheads, worrying about the cost of living crisis perhaps. But then they're relieved to just be among the stunning cherry blossom on the trees and the mellifluous birds serenading us with a constant rendition of their favourite tweets and songs. It is England enjoying the freedoms and luxuries of everyday living.

Next Thursday of course England will have even more genuine reasons to be grateful, humble and blessed. On the 8th of May, the world will mark the 80th anniversary of the end of the Second World War when the agonising burdens of pain, suffering and trauma threatened our liberty and rendered life unbearable. Six years of war, tragedy and heartache brought death and devastation to not only England but the whole world. London was reduced to a broken, charred ruin, ravaged and savaged by Adolf Hitler's terrible and tyrannical murder machine. At the time it was thought England would bounce back and make a most miraculous recovery because we were renowned for our resilience.

And yet 80 years after the most horrendous conflict of all time, our generation will be bowing our heads with the utmost reverence. We are now the grandchildren who can barely grasp the ugly magnitude of what happened from 1939 to 1949. The archive footage and documentary evidence still leaves you cold and disgusted. You can still hear the buzz bombs, the V2 rockets, the fire bombed houses in their thousands, the burning buildings, the East End of London blitzed and yet undaunted and the morale of the nation seemingly at its lowest. And yet not. The bulldog spirit remained intact. 

But of course today on this first day of May, it's time to look out across those placid and peaceful cornfields, the majestic meadows, babbling brooks, resounding rivers rippling across gently waving Weeping Willows, beautiful rosebeds  in perfect shades of pink, yellow, red and purple. It is time to look out across wide, hugely expansive fields of the most astounding beauty all the while absorbing the sounds of dramatic, cascading waterfalls, grazing sheep and similarly deep thinking, contemplative cows.

It is time to look forward to another cricket and tennis season and welcome both sports with radiant smiles and an invigorating relish. Close your eyes and ears and you can now visualise the village green game of Sunday cricket where men or women now strap their pads to their ankles, stretch every limb in their body, squat on their haunches and wave their solid, varnished bat resolutely. Then they clatter down the pavilion steps for another day at the crease in front of three or four inquisitive farmers, a couple of blacksmiths and a smattering of folk from the local butchers, bakers and post office.

Suddenly the crack of red ball on the willow of the bat sounds like the first bottle of beer or cider being popped triumphantly next to a timber beamed pub called the Royal Oak. Then there is the gentle applause from the boundary trickling across the ground rather like the stream and tributary next to third man. An umpire stands patiently waiting for the first ball of the day rather like a man waiting for the 9.30 train to arrive from a distant London railway station. He flicks a coin, pulls a pencil from his pocket and the world has never been happier. Oh and before I forget our beautiful grandson Arthur and his baby sister Rosie will be here for the loveliest family party and of course the sun will shine. Have a great May Day everybody. 

Crystal Palace reach the FA Cup Final, beating Aston Villa in the FA Cup semi final.

 Crystal Palace reach the FA Cup Final, beating Aston Villa in the FA Cup semi final.

Crystal Palace were rewarded for their perseverance and the FA Cup once again remembered that it still has a romantic soft spot. For all the world, it did look as if Manchester City had taken out proprietorial rights on all of England's available trophies, sweeping aside all comers and forgetting that football's beating heart was still throbbing away in a private corner. There is still a corner of England that is forever unfashionable, discreetly hidden away from the public eye. Now we can easily recognise one of its more modest inhabitants, a team who have never won anything and might, finally, win the FA Cup.

Yesterday, Crystal Palace were in the most astonishing form of their lives, a team sprinkled with stardust, criminally unfancied and never hogging the back page headlines. Crystal Palace are in the 2025 FA Cup Final. Now how good does that sound. They've made several visits to a Wembley FA Cup Final and never quite been able to thrust themselves over the finishing line. It often seems that the underdog will always be underestimated but Palace will return to the FA Cup Final in a couple of weeks time. 

In 1990, Palace were eventually overwhelmed by Sir Alex Ferguson's swaggering Manchester United side, a United sniffing the rarefied air of success for the first time before greater achievements awaited in future years. Palace were crushed underfoot by the likes of Mark Hughes and company in an FA Cup Final replay after Ian Wright, who first came to prominence with Palace, had made an immediate impact for the Eagles in both the first game and then a replay which would go against Palace.

But 35 years later and Palace are back in the glamorous bright lights of Wembley Stadium and an FA Cup Final is theirs for the taking should they want it. Either Nottingham Forest or Manchester City will be their opposition although Palace will have no preference because they must understand better than most that the middle classes of the Premier League are always content with their station in life. City will be going flat out to prove that they can still win trophies even though the Premier League has now escaped them this season. Forest are just desperate to win the FA Cup for the first time in their history. 

Once again an FA Cup semi final did live up to all its traditional expectations. For those who recall the enchantment of a visit to either Villa Park or Hillsborough, the choice of Wembley Stadium as the now yearly venue for both FA Cup semi finals does have an air of inappropriateness about it. And yet the practical value of taking the game to the national stadium does make some sense. For Crystal Palace there was an earthy air of authenticity about the Cup's magic. Palace could feel it and reach out for it. 

There were those FA Cup semi finals when the alleged minnows almost proved everybody wrong. Plymouth Argyle were once 90 minutes from an FA Cup Final before Graham Taylor's Watford spoilt their party. Then there was Chesterfield who could hardly believe that they were a match away from the pomp and pageantry of an FA Cup Final. Then Middlesbrough dumped them unceremoniously out of the competition in the semi final. It almost felt too good to be true for the men from Derbyshire. For Crystal Palace, this was their big chance and they embraced it for all its worth.

But Palace will always be associated with those flamboyant days of both Malcolm Allison and Terry Venables. Quite how Palace came to be acknowledged as the Team of the Eighties beggars belief. True they did have that classical, dashing and exciting winger Vince Hilaire in their ranks. They had the Hinshelwood brothers, Jerry Murphy, Peter Taylor scurrying up and down the flanks as well, all deceptive trickery and dropping shoulders. Dave Swindlehurst led the line admirably and consistently but Palace were distinctly lacking in regal grandeur and never more than run of the mill. 

On a Saturday springtime evening though Palace beat an Aston Villa whose season has sadly run out of steam. After their gallant exertions against Lyon in the Champions League and defeat to the French team, Villa are in the hunt for another place in next year's Champions League. But Villa simply fell short against Palace and, for all their eye catching passing movements, there was a stale rustiness about yesterday's display. The claret and blue had a sour taste about it rather than a vintage one. 

At the back Marc Guehi has a shining England potential about him and Palace will need to hold onto Guehi if they are ever to harbour any realistic hopes of Premier League survival or much beyond. Both Maxence Lacroix and Daniel Munoz gave the Palace defence an immaculate authority without ever flinching any challenge. With Chris Richards looking stern, unyielding and oozing the security at the back Palace were hoping for, the Eagles were a well oiled machine. Tyrick Mitchell was full of the exuberance of youth while Ebereche Eze is a sensational talent and should be wrapped in cotton wool for England's latest attempt to finally win the World Cup again next year. Ishmaila Sarr was all magnificent suppleness, athleticism and devastating pace, an energetic livewire who broke any Villa resistance. 

It wasn't long before Palace were in cruise control and firmly in charge of proceedings. They took the lead with their first sustained attack of the game, a gem of a goal and so richly deserved. Sarr, always involved in all the good things that Palace had to offer, ran purposefully forward at the Villa defence, shrugging off claret and blue shirts as if they were simply invisible. Sarr found Eze, laying the ball square across the edge of the penalty area and Eze thumped the ball low past Martinez, the Villa keeper, with bludgeoning force.

Villa had no answer to Palace's conveyor belt of attacking prowess and the likes of John Mcginn, Boubacar Kamara, Ezri Konsa, Lucas Digne, Morgan Rogers and Ollie Watkins were struggling to come to terms with a Palace attacking juggernaut that simply rolled along both smoothly and forcefully without ever being challenged by anything Villa had in their repertoire. 

For Palace, the contribution of Adam Wharton was simply a magnificent masterclass. Wharton was full of bite, doggedness and tenacity, his interceptions as smooth as syrup and tackling a joy to behold. Palace extended their lead thanks to Wharton's bullishness and bravery. Wharton won the ball courageously outside the Villa penalty box, prodding the ball into space and Sarr glided into space before drilling the most powerful of shots past Martinez.

It seemed that Palace had been completely unruffled by the penalty miss from Jean Phillipe Mateta. Villa at the time must have feared the worst but Mateta's spot kick was both feeble and sloppy. Briefly, Villa rallied but were then pinned back into their own half by a Palace side now showing both a verve and panache that couldn't be held back. 

In the second half, quite notably, Palace's Eze and Mateta up front, were in the most breathtaking form, Eze now sliding and slipping past Villa players with a sense of entitlement and class. Eze was both stylish and authoritative, a quality midfield attacking player whose positional awareness of his colleagues was almost instinctive. Palace were now flying and as the match ebbed away from Villa, it became increasingly apparent that the claret and blue shirts were now drained and devoid of any ideas.

Palace could afford the luxury of bringing on the former Arsenal forward Eddie Nketiah without disturbing their flow. Nketiah, sensing that Villa were holding onto the metaphorical ropes, sent a outrageously perceptive, drilled through ball past a tiring Villa defence. The portcullis then opened up, Sarr gobbling up the acres of grass before moving onto the pass and blasting home Palace's third goal, the icing on the cake. 

High up on the Wembley terraces and seats, there were vast walls of red, white and navy banners and flags. Palace's fans, some of the loudest and proudest in the Premier League, made themselves conspicuous by their presence. They sung resoundingly, chanted vociferously and then abandoned themselves to rapturous cheering. Saturday evening must have been their most unforgettable experience, when all those years of agonising failure became a joyous drunken stupor. None could deny them their moment in the sun. Even Oliver Glasner, Palace's boss could afford himself a pat on the back. Let those Eagles fly high.