Happy Birthday.

 Happy Birthday

Ah yes. It's another birthday to yours truly. With the passing of time and the whole ageing process, you begin to find gratitude for good mental and physical health much easier to accept. There is no longer the desire for birthday cards, validation or approval, that constant craving for presents or planning elaborate parties where friends and family come flocking from all the points of the geographical compass. 

You settle for what you have, recognising humbly that another year has been flown by and you are no longer the child of nature you used to be or the awkward teenage adolescent for whom birthdays probably meant something important on the day but never more than some inevitable occurrence. So you privately smiled and congratulated and just got on with the business of the day, deeply proud of your achievements thus far but no longer the kid who insisted on jelly and ice cream, Pass the Parcel or Musical Chairs games and parties with your friends and family. 

The transition of childhood into fully fledged adult life with partners, boys to men and girls to women,  is almost old as time itself. Childhood is all about the development of bones, muscles, brain capacity, mobility and cultural moments in your early lives. There is also the wondrous realisation of religion, discovering much more about being Jewish, understanding the finer nuances of life, those cherished hours, months, weeks and years where we simply want to stop, take stock and become reflective and enormously appreciative. 

The cliche of course that, when we were kids, life was the most exciting journey that would last forever and that remains very much the case today. An aura of immortality, untouchable impregnability and a real sense of indestructibility and invincibility always floods all over us because, as children, the world is, quite literally, our oyster. You can be the greatest mathematician and engineer, the most remarkable inventor and scientist who ever lived. There is so much time, potential, so many encouraging omens, a time to grasp the nettle. So you wake up on your birthday morning and open up the cards from family and friends and just feel good about yourself. 

This is your 63rd birthday and you feel as you should do no younger and no older than you thought you might. There are no more twinges, aches and pains than would ordinarily be the case. You are now the grandfather of two stunning grandchildren and this feels so satisfying. If anybody had told you over 32 years ago that you would have a wonderfully loving and supportive wife and two gorgeous children, then you would probably have thought they were mad. But here you are 63 years later and the panorama is still stunning. 

Of course the bones are not nearly as flexible as they were when you were 15 or 20 because back then you were at the height of your athleticism, running for miles, oozing with boundless stamina if perhaps at the time, painfully shy, lonely, remote, detached and totally confused. But as they often tell us, age is in the mind, a psychological obstacle, a state of mind perhaps and of course they're right. But although the body may be willing, the mind would much rather do nothing on your birthday. 

So there you are on the anniversary of your birth. Do you loosen and fling away all of your inhibitions with a luxurious bath, book into the swankiest five star hotel on Park Lane in London's West End or perhaps glide down the River Thames with family and friends while consuming the most delicious afternoon tea and being surrounded with unconditional love? Or perhaps you could re-capture your childhood spirit with a visit to a kids fairground or just jump onto a park swing and spend all the day there. 

Personally memories of childhood birthdays are far too vague and indistinct for any clear recollection. Your mum once told you that you were invited to the second birthday party of the lad who used to live around the corner to us. The two year old son David had a father who was both a superb upholsterer by trade and a magician in his spare time. He was also a football referee because Uncle Roy, as you called him, was the best and most qualified. Their family had a mum Janet who was always amiable and welcoming. But then it suddenly occurred to you that you were lavished with birthday presents as a child. It all returns to the surface of  your mind and fills you with delight. At the time it was so sufficiently thrilling an experience, that you can hardly believe that it happened. 

It could have been any childhood year, be it fifth, sixth, seventh or eighth, maybe ninth because, at some point, it all becomes blurred by time. But you can still remember sprawling all over your mum and dad's carpet and dad just being there for you, his adoring first son. It was a Hornby railway train set and the images are unforgettable. Lovely dad began the whole wonderful task by grabbing hold of a set of rails and then carefully fixing every rail together and then attaching the carriages and brown wagons to each other. It all seems the most glorious of all days but it is now just a distant misty period of our lives but how wonderful it felt and still does all those years later.

And then as the years progressed, birthdays became less important, occasions of noteworthy interest. Mum was always there for a card, a complex but beautiful Lego plastic brick set that you spent hours simply clipping together, assembling something, then dismantling it as if it were some dream home that you'd just built. Birthdays were then just briefly acknowledged, perhaps celebrated in a small way but never made a real fuss of. There was something called an Etch a Sketch, a drawing machine that a Smart Phone, Tablet would have been today's equivalent or something that used to be called Photo shopping now but the Etch a Sketch was a major source of fascination. 

It was 50 years ago today - or a week before your birthday- that you were called up to sing and chant your Torah piece for your barmitzvah. The occasion still has an air of clarity to it. It was a synagogue hall in Gants Hill, Essex and was then known as the Beehive Lane shul. Dressed in the fashionable ruffed purple shirt and bow tie of the time with the cleanest white shirt, tie or, quite possibly, bow tie, flared trousers that were synonymous with the 1970s and platform shoes as high as Paddington railway station. 

But here is where it gets very amusing. On the occasion of your rites of passage adolescence, your barmitzvah, you were piled high with fountain pens, and the brand new calculators which had just become very marketable and cut out all the scribbling of maths equations, sums and percentages. Calculators were supposed to be the future and, to this day, are still widely available. They had small keyboard numbers with a flashing green light on the calculator  and the tiniest of numbers on the smallest of screens. 

Oh yes and before you forget there were all the hundreds of cheques and cheque books, cheques with goodness knows how much money they had given you. But you didn't care because you were remarkably wealthy at the tender age of 13 and besides, you'd always wanted to open up an ISA account as a teenager or just take out shares in a spectacularly affluent oil company. So it is we now arrive at the piece de resistance, the much coveted present of all presents, the kind of gift that sent you into a trance of bewilderment. 

Finally, there was the ultimate in all birthday or barmitzvahs gifts. For some inexplicable reason, your guests on the day felt it the most opportune moment to give you clothes valets just in case your wardrobe was in dire need for what looked more like glorified clothes hangers. At the time you were perhaps grateful and appreciative but it all felt unwanted and superfluous to any requirement. You can remember feeling quite underwhelmed with clothes valets and faintly insulted since you were never a follower of any fashion at the time. But hey it was good to be 13 and besides, by the age of 14, you'd have been pleasantly surprised by another novelty birthday present.

Still, here you are on your 63rd birthday and not really caring for such fripperies as balloons, whistles, cakes, birthday cakes with lashings of chocolate cream, the party clown or magician and last but not least, the jelly and ice cream. We look back to our childhood birthdays and imagine them in some rose tinted isolation, some golden halo of time when, back in the 1960s, you could leave your door open, leave your kids on their bikes during the school summer holiday and just enjoy the fruits of the day itself. 

Today is your birthday, my birthday, the anniversary of my birth, the day my lovely mum and dad gingerly descended the steps of the Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel and thought their life was complete. And indeed it was. It was 1962 and a boy band from Liverpool were about to create history and become a pop music sensation, a phenomenon, a universal revelation that took the whole world by storm. They were called the Beatles and for the rest of the decade they would become the greatest musicians, lyricists, record breakers of all time. They would release a multitude of singles, number ones that rolled off endless conveyor belts, best selling albums, gold and platinum records by the lorry load and then push back every conceivable boundary.  

Now of course there was quite finally the one BBC programme that had most kids of that age cowering fearfully behind their sofas and settees. On the day of my first birthday Dr Who began what would turn into a national treasure, a science fiction TV series that blew everybody away quite literally. It was, perhaps, not as revolutionary as some might have thought at the time because, during the 1950s a BBC classic called Quatermass had frightened the lives out of us. 

But today 62 years ago today, one William Hartnell became established as the first of the Doctors, a strangely dressed, professorial type who was transported through hundreds of time journeys. In a police box that had now been converted into something called a Tardis, Dr Who showed considerable foresight because you suspected he must have known a baby in his cot was vaguely aware that something astonishing and appropriate was about to happen on our black and white TV set.

 And still Dr Who has survived the ages to the present day. It was scary science fiction that may have inadvertently traumatised, albeit briefly, the children who just happened to be watching. But then it was safe to come out from behind the chairs and tables. So it's a very humble, unfussy and modest birthday to yourself. It's time to indulge in just a hint or maybe an abundance of chocolate. Go on treat yourself. You deserve it.  

The Ashes Down Under.

 The Ashes - Down Under.

We knew it was going to be pretty tasty and spicy and indeed it was. This is the battle royale, the ultimate confrontation, the fiercest rivalry, the biggest sporting grudge match of them all. And if we didn't know it before we certainly do now. Because the fuse has been lit, the fires of antagonism are burning brightly and wouldn't you know it, it's here again, back in the sporting spotlight, the greatest meeting of them all where personal hatred takes centre stage, all bets are off and this means business, no holds barred. You better believe it.

Yes folks it's the Ashes, that legendary cricketing contest between England in the red, white and blue corner against the yellow of Australia. For decades and centuries, England against Australia has become one of the most spiteful, vindictive, combustible, incendiary and explosive of all matches. It does what it says on the tin. It can often be bloodthirsty, vengeful, villainous, almost borderline barbaric- well not quite but you know where we're coming from. 

For as long as any of us can remember, Australia and England have been sworn enemies both off the field and quite literally in the pavilion. The great John Arlott, one of the wisest and most erudite of all cricket commentators, must have thought it was his birthday. There were so many metaphors, adjectives and similes that he could have used about the Ashes that at times he must have felt quite spoilt for riches. 

Back in the 1930s, there was that defining Ashes tour that became known as Bodyline Tour when murderous bouncers were bowled by England and the Aussies did nothing but complain and quite often feared for their lives. This has not made for pleasant viewing and the repercussions can still be felt 100 years later when you thought the dust may have settled. But cricket always lent itself to Arlott's poetry and this was one match where the pigeons at mid wicket always took cover and the Barmy Army, England's most loyal fans abroad, would always make their boisterous voices heard.

Just after the Second World War one Australian gentleman stood head and shoulders above the rest. Sir Don Bradman, as he rightly became known, was the most princely, regal, imperious and graceful batsman who ever existed. Bradman was born to play cricket, a man blessed with nature's finest gifts, pulling nobly on the back and front foot, hooking for fun, blasting all comers into submission and just wiping the floor with England's most fearsome bowlers. Bradman has now been ordained into cricket's Hall of Fame and even now England can still hear his mighty shots echoing across the ages. 

But in more recent times the Ashes has always been about certain individuals. In 1981, one Sir Ian Botham or Beefy, as he was affectionately known, singlehandedly transformed an Ashes series when it looked for all the world as if Australia were just coasting home to victory and the Ashes was going back to Brisbane, Perth and Adelaide. So it was that Botham came charging in to bowl at Headingley and within a couple of days completely turned the game on its head. 

The former Somerset quickie and terrifyingly fast bowler skittled out the Australian attack when it seemed as though the Aussies were far too complacent for their own good. So what happened next? England, with Mike Brearley as captain, studied the opposition, as Brearley always did, with an almost effortless air and, accompanied by the unforgettable Bob Willis at the other end, looked danger in the eye. Now England just became defiant, stubborn, cavalier and flamboyant in a way that none of us could have expected. England regained the Ashes after what must have seemed a lifetime. 

And so we find ourselves back in Perth for the first test between England and Australia at the Waca where England have always found themselves on the end of a hiding over the years. In fact this has never been a successful hunting ground for English cricket because they invariably lose and that must stick in the craw and hurt. This time it really does feel spine tingling, ferociously competitive, an Ashes to remember that may never be forgotten. But then it always was and always will be. 

Yesterday the captains Steve Smith of Australia and Ben Stokes of England, stood in the warm sunshine of an Australian winter or maybe summer depending on which side of the world you happen to be living. In between them was the much coveted Ashes urn, quite the most improbable reward for a victorious sporting team and then finally glanced at each other, shook hands politely if perhaps reluctantly and rolled up their sleeves for the humourists, may feel like war but we know as sport's most metaphorical of sporting punch ups. 

At the moment it feels as though there is nothing between Australia and England. Yesterday, Steve Smith's hungry, marauding, almost carnivorous of bowling attacks, roared into the lion's den and sliced open England's helpless batsmen. By the time both lunch and tea had been taken, England were like wounded animals, bowled out for a meagre and pitiful 172. For a while it felt like 1981 all over again. But then England knew this was never going to be a picnic so they forgot their hamper and were promptly devoured by Aussie fast bowler Mitchell Starc. Starc quite literally looked like a man possessed, flaring at the nostrils and creating havoc every time the arm and hands unfolded and the lethal ball was released.  

Now the Waca almost exploded with joy and licked their lips with a kind of sadistic air about them. If Australian cricket hadn't experienced this same scenario a thousand times, they'd have savoured the moment time after time. Soon England were reeling and rocking, wobbling and then toppling over like a thousand set of dominoes. The castle had been broken into and the Australians were looting, plundering and ransacking the England batsmen like men who just love to laugh at the misfortune of those they can barely stand or abide. 

Sport can often be ruthless, cruel and heartless at times. Australia were probably looking forward to an early victory in the Ashes and just putting the contest to bed as quickly as possible. Joe Root had been out for a duck, Harry Brook had offered a briefly promising 52 and captain fantastic Ben Stokes could only manage a tearful six. Oh how much worse could this one get. Ben Duckett, Zak Crawley and Ollie Pope from whom much may have been expected, were also out cheaply. 

But now Australia are in for their first innings and, quite frankly, this could go to the wire because the Aussies have been slipshod, careless, weak and equally as pathetic but you must never call an Australian that because that's a brutally abusive and pejorative term and you know how that winds them up. They have lost wickets fairly rapidly and will probably be all out in double quick time. So Australia you can put that in your cheroot cigar and smoke it. 

Here in Britain it's the penultimate week of November. In the old days, young children would sneak their transistor radios into their bed and covertly listen to the Ashes because mum and dad thought you were fast asleep. Thanks to the wonders of satellite TV, the highly regarded Sky can also accompany you through the night as you shuffle your score card about and drink as many cups of coffee as you possibly can. It is time for the Ashes, cricket's liveliest of encounters, a controversy waiting to happen and a match nobody really wins because both England and Australia both deserve the spoils.

The green baggy caps are ready and waiting and the red, white and blue of England is snarling, sneering and sniggering like giggly primary school children at assembly, contemptuously and now furiously. They'll be waiting for each other just to prove who's the fittest and strongest. Come on England or if you're reading this in Australia let's settle our differences over several tinnies of lager. Hold on, it's only a game of cricket and indeed it is.

Happy Mickey Mouse Day and Disney.

 Happy Mickey Mouse Day and Disney.

Oh come on surely not. You'd be forgiven for thinking that this one had been literally a cartoon with a speech bubble attached to it. So today is National Mickey Mouse Day and you're still in the land of dreams, safely cocooned in your own childhood and this is happening. It's surely a national day that belongs in the realms of the ridiculous and just preposterous? But it really is a good idea because everything seems possible in the best possible world. 

Some of us of course were the legend who is Mickey Mouse since he was the cartoon character who sent us into wild paroxysms of laughter, giggling, chuckling and then blowing out yet more expressions of happiness and delirium. Mickey Mouse belonged to the Walt Disney childhood factory, a place where all the conveyor belts and machinery seemed to be always working and never stopping. Everywhere, that now familiar back story of Walt Disney, controversial as it might have been, always remained faithful to the concept of childish fantasy, never let up for a minute in his quest to produce some of the greatest cartoons ever conceived and executed on the movie silver screen. 

Even now in hindsight whatever you may have thought of the man who was Disney, there can never be denying his phenomenal impact as a film maker, producer and director. When Disney settled down in front of his vast collections of drawing boards, pens and pencils, you knew that there was something pretty special on his feverishly fertile mind. Walt Disney was, of course, an artistic genius, unparalleled cartoonist of the highest quality and a man with a veritable stable of fun kids characters and a huge repertoire of animal sketches that suddenly turned into glorious technicolour on the cinema screen. 

But let's concentrate on Mickey Mouse. Now, as you may or may not know, Mickey Mouse, originally started out his life as a work in progress. Before he became Mickey, he was formerly known as Mortimer Mouse. The USA was still in the grip of the Great Depression and there were soup kitchens in the streets of New York, California, Los Angeles, Hollywood, Detroit and every American city trapped in a downward spiral of poverty and economic depression.  

So who do you think waved a wand and made America feel so much better about themselves. Al Jolson, who had just revolutionised the world of movies with the first talkies movie called the Jazz Singer, found himself up in fierce competition with a remarkable man with a wonderfully prophetic vision of the future. Walt Disney had now given us Steamboat Willie, then a black and white revelation that underwent an astonishing metamorphosis that changed us overnight from hard bitten scepticism into lifelong converts who had to believe in miracles.

From those heady and early days of Disney's development, Walt Disney knew he had something when Mickey Mouse started clowning around in that remarkable sequence of fun loving tomfoolery, knockabout antics that had kids rolling in the aisles. Mickey spoke with a distinctive high pitched voice, squeaky clean at all times and determined to play with the rest of Disney's lovable friends such as Donald Duck, Pluto, Daffy Duck and then there was epic movie era which underlined Disney's pre-eminence and cinema domination.

Before long we had Jumbo, the stunningly impressive Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, followed by yours truly was introduced to Rudyard Kipling's Jungle Book and that endearing deer known as Bambi. But the magnitude of Disney's achievements can never be truly measured because the man was so prolific and constant. 

During the 1960s author Pam Travers had already written the superlative Mary Poppins, the nanny who was entrusted with the welfare of two children who just happened to have an umbrella which took her flying over a thousand smoky rooftops. But a recent film about Travers cast a much darker shadow over Disney's now questionable reputation. Travers believed that the Mary Poppins character had been completely undermined and then destroyed by Disney's insistence on reducing Poppins to some comic pastiche of the one Travers had in mind. 

But we are still on the subject of Mickey Mouse because, it is, after all, his day. His female counterpart Minny Mouse probably feels like a little hard done by, completely overlooked. Mickey Mouse may well be wandering around those flourishing and spectacular theme parks, walking around jauntily with that black and white suit and those big ears which can hear about the latest news in Mississippi, Colorado or Alabama. He'll be recalling those far off days when Mickey held our beautiful children in thrall when lining up for Mickey Mouse's autograph just before breakfast. Mickey was Florida and Florida was Mickey. 

So for those who still remember the TV kids programmes the Mickey Mouse club, this is your day. We may not know that much about Mickey Mouse but thanks to the marvels of cinematography, we are considerably more enlightened about this wondrous Disney creation. Mickey Mouse is the leader of his cartoon gang, a world exclusive to children, unreal of course but very much alive in the world of our children and their grandchildren in perpetuity. 

There he goes as jolly and upbeat as always, shaking the hands of everybody sociably and never less than friendly. He'll wave at the crowds, dancing and moving with a rhythmic beat, constantly understanding kids because that friendship will never go away. Mickey Mouse has spanned a whole multitude of generations, a cult figure in both Florida and Paris. And that's the way it should always be.     

Harry Redknapp and the loveliest cruise

 Harry Redknapp

There are moments during our lives when the heroes we've idolised from a far seem to become more distant with every day. Sometimes those same legendary names pass almost modestly and unobtrusively through our lives, always lifted onto the highest plateau and never really recognised for who they really are. It is quite often the case they suddenly appear on the front or back of our books, the finest print of our newspapers and then just plastered all over the front covers of your favourite magazine.

You never really think for a minute that you'll ever bump into the aforesaid idol or those you may have admired quite extensively whose image would suddenly turn into real life. And then you meet one man who ticks all of those boxes and then walks into your fondest dreams rather like Roy of the Rovers or Dan Dare. For a minute or two, you had to stop and wonder if indeed you were fantasising which of course you weren't. He was there in the flesh, never a cartoon or caricature because that would have been an insult to the man's reputation. Redknapp is the epitome of a statesmanlike figure, an exemplary ambassador for his sport. 

That man, of course, is Harry Redknapp. Harry Redknapp, undoubtedly one of the most charming, urbane, chattiest, most chipper of all footballing legends, had made it all seemed possible. From the moment my lovely wife Bev and I walked onto our cruise vessel the Sky Princess, Harry Redknapp was the most delightful company you'd ever hoped he would be. Redknapp always had the gift of the gab, a priceless story teller, the most outstanding bon viveur and the funniest raconteur of them all. It almost felt as though everything we'd heard and seen about the man was so completely true that of course he was a natural in the field of public relations. 

We were walking along our cabin corridor when suddenly the Prince of Poplar in London's East End appeared and immediately acknowledged your immediate overtures. Yes Harry, West Ham had indeed won their first home match of the Premier League season and Newcastle had been well and truly beaten. After a couple of friendly words of introduction you felt just blown away and just as overawed as you'd been when Sir Geoff Hurst had signed your book as part of a memorable wedding anniversary present from our daughter Rachel. 

Then the following day we once again crossed paths with this most eminent and distinguished of all footballing men, a man so modest and self effacing and self deprecating that you almost felt that even though he has now reached the pinnacle of his career, Redknapp remains grounded, firmly rooted. Here was a man without any airs or graces, cosmetic falsehoods, not even the remotest hint of arrogance. There are no signs of the pretentious posturing or showbiz affectations that you would normally associate with any major celebrity. 

He is singularly charming, excellent company, bubbly, always positive, never despondent and always extolling the virtues of the Beautiful Game. There is nothing of the prima donna about him, no pomposity whatsoever and a former manager and player who could probably talk about the game to anybody well into the wee small hours of the morning. My wife and even had a private audience with him and here was a man of genuine small talk, cheerful and witty badinage, admirable honesty and authenticity. 

After spending most of his playing career at his beloved hometown team West Ham, Redknapp moved into management almost seamlessly. Beside the salubrious seaside, Redknapp gave dedication to the cause at Bournemouth. His most significant achievement and high point at the Vitality Stadium was a standout FA Cup third round victory over Ron Atkinson's Manchester United. Giant killing had visited Bournemouth for one splendid afternoon over 40 years ago and Harry was carried shoulder high. 

Ten years later the club whose shirt he'd always graced came calling. When Billy Bonds needed an assistant at West Ham he didn't need to look any further than Harry Redknapp. After Bonds had left the club, West Ham turned to Redknapp to don the managerial track suit. Redknapp obliged with magnificent and triumphant days at the old Upton Park. He guided them into European football and guided the club to one of its highest positions in Europe. 

Sadly, after an unfortunate behind the scenes argument with club director Peter Storrie, Redknapp departed the club in what seemed like acrimonious circumstances. And yet, as we now know, the man with claret and blue running through his veins had always had the best and most vested interests of the club at heart and left almost reluctantly. 

In the early 2000s, Portsmouth inquired about the former West Ham legend and the rest is well documented history. In 2008 Portsmouth won the FA Cup in the most remarkable of circumstances. The Pompey chimes resounded around Wembley and opponents on the day Cardiff City could hardly have believed that they too were sharing a magical moment with Harry Redknapp. Fratton Park has since sadly encountered life in the lower divisions and are now trying to recapture those halcyon days once again. 

Then there were the Spurs years for our and your Harry Redknapp, an irresistible force. It was hard to imagine that Redknapp could even contemplate joining West Ham's so called London rivals Spurs but Redknapp arrived at the old White Hart Lane like a fire fighter called out while the flames were still licking and slowly demolishing Tottenham. At this time several years ago, Spurs were in a desperate state of disarray, languishing near the bottom of the Premier League with a miserly two points. By the end of an extraordinary season of evolution and revolution, Redknapp had waved the metaphorical magic wand and taken Spurs into Europe. It was a season that defied description and belief.

There followed the TV pundit days, of pulling up outside football grounds on transfer window day and then informing the rest of the captive Sky TV audience that Redknapp was about to do business, engaging in those classic headline making transactions, winding down his car window and neither denying nor admitting to speculation. Harry was and will always remain down to earth, amiable to anybody who just wanted to thank him and full of humbling humility, never fazed by setbacks and determined to achieve whatever challenge and objective may have come his way. 

And so for the rest of our relaxing cruise in both Portugal and the Canaries. For the first two days or so we were greeted by wild rain squalls on the main desk. Madeira had been a pleasant and easy going in the Botanical Gardens and the most gruelling of climbs up steep slopes that were reminiscent of a mini Mount Everest. By mid day, we were puffing and panting for breath and beginning to wonder whether it had been  worth it. But it had been because we were in this one together for this had been good exercise and ultimately rewarding. 

Onwards we moved out to three days out at sea. For the first couple of days, hardy and intrepid passengers on the main deck were tugging at blue blankets to keep out the wind and chill. Now there followed a collective determination to keep warm. At one point it looked as if everybody was competing to see who could lift up the said blankets to the top of their necks. But then the warm sunshine came out as we approached the Canaries, Lanzarote and Tenerife, all flying visits but nonetheless immensely enjoyable. 

In the distance there were the dormant volcanoes and conical shaped mountains that provided the most dramatic backdrop to these glistening islands in the sea. The combination of ash and grey concrete on the ground may have been slightly disconcerting to some but here was a landscape to be preserved for posterity on a million Smart Phones. We saw, came and conquered and were never disappointed. 

So it was that we headed for home, three more days at sea, at times unnerving and turbulent but somehow a joy to the soul. We will never forget those permanently majestic marble pillars inside the ship, floors and statues in marble, endless lines of five star restaurants, luxurious living, musicians tenderly manipulating delicate violins and double basses and cellos, tea dance music that still inhabit Park Lane hotels, pianos that are evocative of any era in modern times and the jazz vibe at the Take Five stage. Then there were the hilarious quizzes, huge bundles of fun wrapped up in frivolity. 

But just to make the whole cruising experience such a unique one we witnessed the most eye catching sight of them all. The art gallery was just a kaleidoscope of colour, paintings that caressed the eye and made you think of the most profound of thoughts. There were famous American artists as well as global practitioners who seem to use their canvas as one blissful release of creativity. And so my wife and I sailed back towards Southampton and home full of presents for our beautiful grandchildren, full of appreciation for the finer things in life and love for both our family and the world. Of course life is sweet.   

The FA Cup first round.

 The FA Cup first round.

It's that magical weekend of the football calendar. Yes folks. For all its critics and cynics in recent years the FA Cup always comes up smelling of roses, chocolate and the  most vintage wine. The FA Cup belongs in some far off ancestral corner of our sporting imagination but always bursts into life at this time of the year. At its formation in 1872, it was a game played predominantly in universities and public schools, recreation fields next to billowing industrial chimneys, guzzling gasworks, the Oval, Crystal Palace, Stamford Bridge and then, ultimately, the old Wembley Stadium. 

This weekend though the FA Cup returns in its current incarnation, today's iteration, the way it is now and was and always should be in the future. It rolls into town like those rooting tooting Wild West cowboys on horseback, reckless and adventurous, unblemished by time, hardly touched by the ravages of modernity and high tech, brazen sponsorship, millions of pounds of investment by a thousand TV and radio stations, every conceivable football magazine and, for the locals, a full page spread in the regional newspapers. 

The FA Cup used to be about traditional values, the highest moral standards, giant killing of the most monumental order, the flights of fantasy winging their way through the land of fairy tales and the shock, horror stories where the FA Cup's most romantic liaisons always melted our hearts. The back page headline makers would always strut their stuff and then jump into the communal bath after a game, swigging back innumerable bottles of milk and champagne. 

This weekend, the FA Cup first rounds unfurls its finest tapestry with some of the most decorative stitches still intact. Maybe the FA Cup should be engraved on a special shield for posterity and regularly celebrated by all those little teams who play their matches before three dogs and a cat. For that is essentially the FA Cup, its essence, the foundation stone from where the first cement and brick was first laid. It is the recreation ground next to sylvan parkland, where the Sunday pub eleven trot out of tiny huts and smaller dressing rooms. The FA Cup was all about level playing grounds, the shining light of amateurism. 

The FA Cup belongs to the working classes, the dedicated part time players who strike the right balance between the work and fun conundrum with such effortless ease. They start their working day schedule at the crack of dawn, filling up supermarket shelves or clocking on at those manufacturing factories where steel and iron can still be heard. They post letters or trundle past chocolate box terraced houses with rattling milk floats. They spend interminable hours hunched over office desks in front of flickering screens. And then they will play football because that represents a welcome relief from the toil and intensity of hard graft.

So who would care to step up to the plate first. In the fair city of Bristol, Weston - Super- Mare will meet Aldershot, a game that conjures up all of the symbolism and imagery of a typical Cup tie. There will be little fuss and commotion at the end of this one. Then there's Salford City for whom several Old Trafford alumni will have vested interests in this year's FA Cup. Salford City will meet Lincoln City, perhaps completely unnoticed by TV or radio but embraced by social media.  

There's Bedfordshire's finest Luton Town who will play green, environmentally friendly Forest Green Rovers, both of whom may have to content themselves to the bread and butter of the Football League pyramid. The lovely county of Essex will be preparing itself for the visit of Milton Keynes Dons who for their part, will probably have to negotiate several roundabouts. Colchester, home of those famous military barracks, will be hoping to down the Dons and what could be better than that. 

Meanwhile, Tranmere Rovers, not a million miles away from the allegedly superior Merseyside neighbours of both Liverpool and Everton, will meet Stockport County which is more or less a local case of bragging rights in that part of the Wirral. Wigan, who memorably won the FA Cup in 2013 against the all conquering and mighty Manchester City, will be up against Hemel Hempstead Town and that maybe the end for the gallant folk of Hemel Hempstead. 

And then the Welsh wizards of Newport County will face those fine and able representatives from the Garden of England in Kent where Gillingham will be hoping to adorn their day with the most fragrant bouquet of roses. Cheltenham, in deepest gymkhana and horse loving Gloucestershire, take on the ruthless but stylish Yorkshiremen of Bradford City while those other illustrious Yorkshire folk Barnsley engage in another local derby against York City. 

So let's wrap up this gentle synopsis of FA Cup goodies. There's the War of the Roses showdown between Bolton Wanderers against Huddersfield which has the ring and resonance of a 1920s Cup tie. Farnham, of  Surrey stockbroker belt territory, will meet eyeball to eyeball either Sutton United or Telford United. Back on the Essex Riviera, there sounds like a cracking, exhilarating local derby between Chelmsford City and Braintree Town. 

Wherever you may be over the weekend it would be advisable to carry around you a box of handkerchiefs, some nutritious beef and onion pies and a flask of tea or coffee because the FA Cup is bound to get emotional. Tomorrow marks the first day of November and some of us get very sentimental when those happy strugglers of the non League try to upstage their so called betters of the Football League pyramid. The FA Cup, by its very presence, is still good for the soul, unforgettable and a constant source of reassurance to those who may think football lost its soul ages ago. It's time to strap yourself in tightly for the great roller coaster that is the FA Cup. Of course it matters. 

Winter wonderland

 Winter wonderland.

It is normally the time of the year when most of us withdraw into deep reflection and contemplation of the year as it wends its way slowly towards its close. Then, for reasons that may seem obvious and not quite so understandable, we become withdrawn, reclusive, comfortable, warm and cosy. An overwhelming air of sad, sullen moroseness quite obviously hangs heavy on the homeless, neglected, the marginalised classes whose voices are never heard, the ones who sleep on street or park benches alone. We will never be able to know what may be going through their heads. 

And then we probably feel sorry for ourselves because it is indeed winter and all of those vibrant summer parties and family barbecues are nothing but yesterday's chip paper. We retreat into ourselves, switch the heating on, pull a blanket or two over ourselves in front of the TV and just feel tired, reflective, completely lacking in any desire or ambition. Of course we've got the perfect job or car, a family unit we'll always cherish. But then we'll look at the all enveloping darkness outside our windows at five o clock in the evening and wish summer had never even considered leaving us with its glorious warmth. 

Last Sunday morning we suddenly discovered that the clocks had gone back and we were not in the least surprised. It's something we've grown accustomed to for as long as we can remember, the transitional period of the year when summer makes way for autumn and then winter. Our body clocks should be used to this yearly occurrence and yet, as a kid, you took it for granted that when you woke up for school in the morning, it was both dark, foggy and misty, the milk floats were rattling and the postman or woman was up at the crack of dawn. 

But that failed to disguised the awkward realisation that seven o'clock in the morning still felt like midnight and you simply didn't abandon yourselves to the joys of academic life at roughly the time the owls make that familiar nocturnal hooting noise outside your bedroom window. And yet you went to school in the dark and invariably came home as the fading light of tea time made way for an early night. It almost felt as though daylight had somehow become rationed and you'd had no time to enjoy the remnants of the winter sunshine. 

It was always thus. And then we were regaled with that same old urban myths or maybe the truths. We may have been told repeatedly that the clocks only went back at the end of October because Scottish farmers insisted that the cows had to be milked at a certain time. Those self same cows were never consulted for their considered opinion on daylight and night time. Can you imagine a herd of Friesian cows debating the merits and demerits of waking up when they were told to?

Anyway here we are again and shortly the rampant cash tills of commercialism will be ringing fiercely and furiously as thousands of supermarket trolleys are taken for a paso doble around vast food and drink emporiums. In a couple of days it'll be Halloween, the season when energetic kids will be running around the roads and streets of Britain, knocking on doors quite enthusiastically and then expecting a wad of money for their sterling endeavours. 

Then we'll look up at the dark wintry sky and pretend we can see huge communities of witches on their broomsticks flying around at the rate of knots. Meanwhile, back at home, families across the country will be sipping warm bowls of pumpkin soup. Those same children will be carving eyes and ears out of the pumpkins and lighting candles inside them. It is all rather strange, pagan, mysterious, fun in a roundabout kind of way but baffling because it's hard to see the point of it all. Still, maybe you've reached an age where you don't really care anyway. 

And then next week another ritualistic event makes its yearly appearance. Guy Fawkes Night is almost as old as time, a night of loud, deafening, boisterous, noisy fireworks. We do this every year without questioning it. Then we're almost resigned to its perennial soundtrack of bang, crash, scream and laugh before intensifying its volume a million fold. Suddenly the sparklers will be whizzed around with much hilarity and dad will tell his children to stand well back before the Ferris wheels and rockets are launched to their highest altitude. 

The organised fireworks party was always a wheeze, the funniest of all revelations, confirmation of your childhood and never disappointing. But as a grandfather now, Guy Fawkes night is no longer the source of fascination it might have been when you were five or six. But you're grandson and grandchildren will shortly be introduced to the delights of fireworks, that riotous round of pyrotechnics that soar into the night sky before spinning cartwheels and then spluttering into a damp squib. 

Shortly, November will be with us again and November just seems to race away into the distance because by now most of us will be inundated with the Christmas spirit. Oh yes that festival. We mustn't forget Christmas because we've always remembered and never forgotten it. It just seems to creep insidiously into our imagination like a ghost that suddenly haunts a medieval castle. And yet here we are at the end of October and the weeks, months and the whole year has just gone far too quickly. 

Then we'll huddle around the TV and watch the always glamorous Strictly Come Dancing because that's a must, a necessity because the it's colourful, spectacular, glitzy and sparkly. It is that chandelier light in our living rooms when outside it looks as if a huge chunk of charcoal has arrived outside on our doorsteps. The street lights are on at full amber, the gorgeous reflections of rain water can be seen for miles and the atmosphere out there has radically changed for the better. 

Of course this may be debatable but you can't help but think that you're cosy and healthy, protected from the cascades of rain that pour in Biblical torrents for much of the season. Rain is soothing to the ear, comforting if sleep isn't immediately forthcoming. Rain is good for the crops for those in the agricultural industry, it was an outstanding short story written by Somerset Maugham many decades ago and yes folks it's time to embrace the beauties of the passing seasons and just smile for the camera. Enjoy, folks. 

The news agenda

 The news agenda

Sometimes the news agenda and the daily itinerary of our lives can get totally mixed up in our minds so much so that by the end of the day we can never be sure how certain events are connected and whether there's any logic, rhyme or reason to whatever may have been heard or seen. Horrendous wars in far off countries can often leave us with the impression that the world has gone to hell in a handcart but then you discover that our Royal Family are in the Vatican. And both news stories just seem the most ludicrous sequence of events that came from left field and bore no relation to each other whatsoever. 

On the one hand, thank goodness, the Middle East conflict between beautiful Israel and Hamas, the most evil of all terrorist networks, does seem to have stopped. A ceasefire has been declared and a peace agreement seems to be holding. But there remains an air of uneasy volatility which we can only pray will vanish immediately. Oh for peace in perpetuity and no more bloodshed, historical antagonism, death, pain and suffering. Some of us have just had enough because this is one war that seemed to go on indefinitely. 

Then, in another theatre of war not a million miles away from the Middle East, is the Russia- Ukraine war of words and the most bitter of confrontations. At the moment, President Trump has once again been called into action to bash heads together and looks like a man who thought peace negotiations were something people engaged in at a business conference where deals are made and hefty prices are quoted. Trump would probably give anything just to be in charge of a lucrative financial settlement where he gets at least another million added to his vast bank account. 

And so we park everything we know about Trump in one place and just observe the rest of the world and the stuff that smacks of sleazy gossip and unsavoury goings on.  For instance there is one other vitally important global concern that has to be addressed and even now we'll never quite know why. It could have been consigned to the dustbin of history in a rather shame faced fashion but it's been lingering like a bad smell and we can't get rid of it. It's the Prince Andrew scandal.    

Yesterday though, King Charles the Third, accompanied by his wife Queen Camilla, returned to the public spotlight. They are now in the Vatican city for an audience with the Pope. Now so rare is this meeting of royalty and religion that some of us thought we'd never see anything quite like it again. Charles and Camilla looked properly respectful and full of admiration for the first American Pope in many hundreds of years. There was the pomp and ceremony that we always take for granted on such holy and sacred occasions. 

But then we began to think of all those domestic news revelations that most of us have come to acknowledge as somehow peripheral in our field of vision. The Labour Party in government are still lurching from one catastrophe to another, still dropping one clanger after another, still looking ill equipped for the task in hand. If it isn't the handling of male grooming gangs committing all manner of egregious crimes, then it's the perilous state of the housing market or even youth employment and the lack of opportunities. Then we hear rumblings of discontent about the codes of morality that are never observed by government ministers. It's all very familiar and common so why are we surprised?

There's no point in worrying about apocalyptic wars raging around the world or dystopian scenes of bloodshed and destruction. Surely we should be far more pre-occupied with the repulsive behaviour of Prince Andrew. Much of the news agenda has been devoted to the one member of the Royal Family that her late and much beloved Queen Elizabeth simply adored as her favourite. But then it all came out in the wash, the totally inappropriate relationship with a nasty piece of work known as Jeffrey Epstein, a notorious paedophile, sex pest and revolting human being. 

And yet this story hardly seemed worthy of mention and would have comfortably slipped under the radar and vanished into obscurity had it not been Prince Andrew. Andrew and shady, salacious tittle tattle seem to be going hand in hand with each other. But for those with the highest regard for the Royal Family, this has left a filthy, dirty stain on a hitherto flawless, unblemished reputation. To an outside onlooker, the Royal Family have always endeavoured to present a favourable image to the outside world but not always with the right results. And you were always deeply impressed with that family togetherness, the unity in troubled times and the frequent appearances on the Buckingham Palace balcony.

But amid all the slanderous accusations, the family bust ups, the frosty stares and that sense of detachment from the real world, Prince Andrew is still a disgrace, the naughty maverick who chose to fraternise with the bad sort, the spivs, the chancers, the hardened criminals, the ones who always got away with it. We throw our hands up in horror because we were convinced that, finally, there were no rotten apples in the bag. 

Sadly we now discover that, apart from being ostracised from his immediate family, Prince Andrew may have nowhere to live shortly. The royal duties have been stripped from him and he may have to chase up some reputable estate agents for another desirable property. The lavish mansion in which he thought he could live in for the rest of his life, is now no longer his or so it would seem. It could though have turned out so differently for Andrew had he taken the advice of his wonderful mother. 

Still, we love the Royals or maybe we can't stand them. We still elevate them to the highest of plateaus because, for all the privilege and obscene wealth that follows them everywhere, they still uphold the loftiest of standards. The Prince of Wales William enjoys the most delightful of marriages with the Princess of Wales Catherine, her face always wreathed in radiant smiles and duty to country always uppermost on her mind. Personally the Royals can do no wrong in your eyes and that has to be a good thing.  

We must not forget of course the Duke of Edinburgh Prince Edward with Sophie the Duchess of Edinburgh. At times, it almost feels as if  Edward and Sophie have just retired to some exotic desert island. Modest and shy of any grand fanfare of publicity, they convey an image of both purity, integrity and marital devotion. It is a loyalty to each other that is utterly commendable and never truly appreciated. They go about their business with an unwavering industry and admirable commitment to any cause. 

But here we are again at the end of October on a Friday evening and wondering where the year has gone. Way back in the mists of history, Fridays were all about Crackerjack, that funny and frivolous TV children's programme on BBC One at five o'clock. You had to watch Crackerjack because this was the summit of the week, a delicious piece of childhood marzipan cake to finish off your tea. Crackerjack had crazy slapstick humour, kids balancing cabbages in their hands and a whole pile of random household products. Your reward for winning these games was a pencil and, in hindsight, it must have felt like an insult. But did anybody care or complain at the time? You suspect not. 

And next week it'll be Halloween, all witchcraft and pumpkins followed by Guy Fawkes fireworks night on November the fifth. Time quite possibly passes us by without so much a pause for breath and our perspectives on the year approaching its end will remain much the way they've always been. Before you know it, the Lord Mayor of London will be paraded around the streets of the City of London in a gold carriage and of course it'll be Chanukah and Christmas. We are now rapidly seeing out the concluding months of 2025. Hasn't life been wonderful and sweet as sugar? It has indeed and always will be.