One day before America vote for the next President of the United States. Hilary or Donald. It just seems like a puzzle rather than an Presidential election.

The Hilary and Donald show-  one day to go and a nation awaits with bated breath.

It is increasingly more difficult to find anything nice to say about Hilary and Donald. You remember Hilary and Donald. They're the couple who suddenly came into our life when the European Union discussion slipped off the front pages and into the dusty archives. Hilary and Donald live in our neighbourhood or maybe they're just noisy neighbours who deliberately turn up the music just to annoy us and then have a barbecue in the middle of winter.

What more is there to say about Hilary and Don? At frequent points during this whole horrible fiasco Hilary and Don have come very close to killing each other. You get the impression that if somebody gave them a gun, rifle, flintlock or blunderbuss they would quite happily blow each other's brains out. .There has been hatred, loathing, resentment and hostility and that was only on one warm afternoon in the middle of August. Feelings are running dangerously high and it could turn into a bloodbath. It is hard to know why American politics has descended to the levels of the gutter but there's one day to go before the Americans vote for their next President and some of America is just closing its eyes.

It is tempting to think that most of the nation would rather vote for Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck or David Letterman as the next President rather than Hilary and Don. They could hardly do any worse so the consensus goes. It's at times like this when America romantically harks back to those good old days of Ronald Regan when the Americans fell deeply in love with the former matinee film star with the handsome looks.

It is now that the Americans must think back wistfully to those hazy, crazy days when George Burns and Gracie Allen represented everything that was gentle and apple pie about America. George would light up his 85th cigar and then whisper sweet nothings into Gracie's ear. Burns and Allen gave the Americans re-assurance and stability, a message of hope rather than pessimism.

Which is probably where Hilary and Don came in. Tomorrow the entire population of the USA step out of their homes and decide who their  choice of next President will be. In a sense it is perhaps the worst choice the country will ever face. In front of the Americans lies a contest that can hardly be called one. Here are two people who have such sharply divided opinions on anything and everything that perhaps the whole thing should be called off and postponed until two credible and plausible candidates can be found. Much rather this than two characters who, in the eyes of many, look as though they've been chosen from the Adams family.

But.for better or probably worse this is the predicament America may find itself in. Do they just pretend that this just a dream, an illusion or some horrendous nightmare that may just go away and never come back or do they roll the dice and see what happens? Of course the Americans have known disasters and setbacks. Now though is the day of Judgment and perhaps  this is the moment that will get progressively better. At the time the Wall Street crash and the Great Depression may have been regarded as America's darkest days but even then the country pulled together and dug deep into its strength of character bouncing back from adversity. 9/11 still seems like the worst tragedy the country has ever known but the whole of America drew admirably on their celebrated resilience. Sure it was tough and hard and tearful but the US united in a way that hardly seems possible. They did though and how good that must have felt.

Over the years, decades and centuries America has had so much to boast about: boldness, vision, ambition, determination to be the best, utter flamboyance, five star comedians, actors, actresses, singers, songwriters, skyscrapers, bewildering speed and frantic hullabaloo. America never stops to take breath, even to pause for a single moment. It has visibility, prominence, stubbornness, overflowing exuberance, a natural flair for self promotion, huge hotels the size of the country, the outspoken and argumentative and those who just want to shout out their views with a considerable voice.

Now though America has a different kind of problem. How to solve a dilemma like Hilary and Don?. Where did they come from and how did they get here in the first place. Donald stands proudly on his stage rather like one of those rabid, rampant trade unionists Britain used to have. Donald rants and raves at the top of his voice and keeps using that silly gesture with his fingers. He sounds like one of those fanatical speakers more usually associated with Speakers Corner. The speech keeps getting louder and more incomprehensible by the second with nothing rational in between.

It's hard to tell whether Donald Trump fully grasps the fundamentals of world politics. Perhaps beneath all the bluster and bravado there is indeed a calm inner voice of sanity. When he finally decides to get off his rather sizable soap box perhaps there does lie sanity. But for all his impassioned words about nothing in particular the feeling persists that poor Donald may just be heading for the last train to Clarksville. Nobody can be sure how a man with such worryingly extremist opinions could possibly fancy himself as the next President.

So what about Hilary Clinton? What about Hilary Clinton. On the last day before America votes in its next commander in chief, Hilary is trying desperately to keep a straight face. Even Hilary can hardly believe how close she is to becoming the next President of the United States. Yes Hilary it is true, Donald Trump is your rival and this is not some big budget Hollywood film. And yet Hilary is beginning to bite her fingernails because Donald is trying to find some dirty material  on your past.

According to the latest newswires, Donald is really doing his utmost to dig up scandal after scandal. Donald believes that even if he loses the race to the White House he'll still take to her court and generally make life hell for her. The problem is that Hilary isn't quiet as whiter than white as she seems. She's being totally dishonest, secretive, sneaky and perhaps dabbling in the supernatural. Hilary, according to Donald is selling America short, breaking all the rules, stealing documents and betraying the country. In other words Hilary should just stand aside and let good old Donald sink his teeth into the job of President of the United States with as much conviction as he can. It all looks like a recipe for the most monumental disaster that America has ever endured.

And there was I thinking that America was the country that once gave us The Virginians, Peyton Place, Bonanza, Mark Spitz, Jessie Owens, Ed Sullivan, Johnny Carson, New York, Florida, California, Hollywood and Clint Eastwood. America will always have that devil may care dynamism and unquestionable focus. But tomorrow the country has to decide whether it's Hilary Clinton, the suave and confident wife of ex President Bill or a man who would allegedly sell you a rusty Cadillac without so much as a second thought. It is at times like this when you think back to those golden days of George Burns and Gracie Allen. America must be praying for good days ahead rather than the slapstick comedy it may get.  

The FA Cup - certainly England's finest treasur

Anyway here we are on Guy Fawkes night, a night of noisy fireworks and gorgeous colours in the early evening darkening skies. It remains one of Britain's most enduring spectacles and one of its most boisterous of all traditions. Families, and particularly, children gather together in eager expectation of bangers, sparklers, catherine wheels and a remarkable sight. It is a yearly event which never ceases to either amaze and astonish, a visual feast to suit all tastes.In many years football and fireworks are just as explosive as each other.

It's the beginning of the FA Cup, English football's most cherished of all prizes. It's a chilly November night, the bonfires are crackling and the smell of Guy Fawkes is richly evocative of Novembers gone by. The FA Cup has now reached the first round, the beginning of the sentence, the start of a new chapter, a non League club fantasy, an exciting adventure into the unknown for Westfields, Harrow Borough, Eeastleigh and that team who play down the road from Uncle Sid.

The FA Cup is all about the dreamers, the fantasists, perhaps the delusional and a competition that, realistically can only be won by those who live in the grandest of stately homes. The FA Cup pits the aristocracy against the working class proletariat. Suddenly the arrival of the FA Cup matches up the have against the have nots, the rich against the humble. and the monied against those with the most threadbare budgets.

In recent years the burnished gold of the FA Cup has been unforgivably devalued by those who refuse to take the competition seriously. It is now more stainless steel rather than the precious diamond it used to be. The FA Cup is still the most thrilling, roller coaster, helter skelter competition that continues to provide the most captivatingly intriguing hold on our emotions.

At the old Wembley Stadium the FA Cup was the loveliest, most democratic and memorable of all sporting days. The FA Cup, in the historic past tense, used to kick off at 3pm, The FA Cup used to dominate the TV schedules on both BBC and ITV because there was little of any significance or value on the other channels. The alternatives were few or far between.

There was the annual build up to the Cup Final with both teams followed almost devotedly from early morning breakfast until that magical afternoon when both the players and managers strolled around the old Wembley Stadium rather like visitors at a Royal Garden Party. Then there was  the magic, excitement, the drama and melodrama which gripped hundreds and thousands of both the most impartial, partisan or objective.

Contrary to popular belief. the FA Cup is not the epitome of romance. It is not a romantic adventure because there can be no love interest or marriage proposals. Nor are there are any palpitating hearts and a Parisian rendezvous in the heart of the Champs Elysses. There are no candle lit dinners, holding of  tender hands nor are there any sentimental violins or passionate alliances on the Danube.

The FA Cup is not a smouldering Mills and Boon book nor is it a splendid paragraph from a Jane Austen or Charlotte Bronte classic. Of course there are raging passions and tempestuous tear jerkers but there are no Pride and Prejudice moments or Mr Darcy in all his splendour. There are no bottles of champagnes. mouth watering boxes of chocolates nor are there any references to Valentines Day.

Put simply the FA Cup is about those glorious memories. It is about non League Yeovil conquering all of the odds against the powerful giants of Sunderland, then a post wartime force in the old First Division. Yeovil bathed in the most luminous of all FA Cup glories that distant afternoon and the smile on Yeovil manager Alec Stock could not be removed.

The FA Cup was that special afternoon when Sunderland almost seemed to gain some measure of revenge for the disaster that had taken place over 30 years before. When the final whistle went for  the 1973 FA Cup Final Sunderland, of the old Second Division had beaten, quite heroically, the great Leeds United side of Lorimer, Bremner, Giles, Jones and the normally lethal Alan Clarke were bowed and well and truly beaten. Ian Porterfield, trapping the ball beautifully on his knee, then proceeded to hook home the only winning goal with his devastating feet. Bob Stokoe, that most extrovert of managers, charged onto the Wembley turf and embraced his players in a flurry of coats and hats.

So it is that we settle down on this most colourful nights. The FA Cup has set out on the first leg of its joyous journey, children all over the world will watch their fascinating show of fire and brimstone and Guy Fawkes will join forces with the FA Cup. Somehow they were meant for each other.

 

It's very quiet around here.

Now is the season of mellow mists and fruitfulness. The parks and gardens suddenly look very yellow and forlorn. The bushes and trees have gradually lost their familiar clothing of leaves and greenery and around here all of the wildlife has now, whether for better or worse, flown off to warmer or even colder shores.

The kingfishers and herons have sadly departed for different climates. They are shrewd and forward thinking birds because here in the leafy suburbs of London, the temperature, albeit very gradually and gracefully, is beginning to drop. But the fact is that the the vaguely drawn outlines of winter are much clearer than they were in the middle of September and the beginning of October.

During the summer there was a sharp and blue clarity to life. The birds dance across the sky  in majestic and united formation. It was rather like watching a beautiful curtain, silky drapes swaying across the sky before diving headlong onto chimney tops. Then they seem to scratch themselves for the briefest of moments before posing and preening themselves unashamedly.

Autumn has settled in for the duration and the early morning frosts are sharp. This autumn is perhaps one of the warmest in years. You take your rubbish out to the bin and you're suddenly joined by large communities of grey squirrels. Now squirrels are our almost permanent residents and they'll do anything for an early morning breakfast. Squirrels follow you throughout the year with a relentless persistence and one day they'll pick a different neighbourhood.

Still there isn't a great deal you can do about squirrels. This is not to say that they're annoying or intrusive but they will kip in our bins. I'm not sure whether they'll find anything in there. It seems to me that our bin has become their very own Premier Inn. But there are so many things missing and all of the essential facilities are missing. It's a wonder that squirrels don't catch pneumonia. How on earth do they keep warm at night? They're delightful creatures and maybe they think they deserve something better than a pile of rotting human rubbish and broken boxes. Still it doesn't seem to bother them at all so it's best to leave things as they are.

For instance there are no beds, bedsheets, mattresses and comfortable pillows in the bin. There are a distinct lack of toothbrushes, nothing that even remotely resembles a pillow and no crisp bed sheets whatsover. What does a squirrel do when he can no longer rely on the blissful sanctuary of a warm and cosy bed? It seems that a huge bin of rubbish does nothing to deter a squirrel from getting its head down at night.

But day after day the grey squirrels pop their heads out of  the bin to greet me. In no time at all they just sprint away from the bin rather like Usain Bolt in training. They move with spectacular speed and swiftly vanish into the undergrowth, briefly petrified but then comforted by the knowledge that their day can only get better.

These squirrels are very daring creatures without fear and completely lacking in shame. They fix you with the most inquisitive stares before rising up, nibbling adorably on a nut or two and then disappearing again. Nobody knows what squirrels do during the day nor their neighbouring rivals who call themselves foxes.

Now foxes are occasional animals who sporadically appear at the bottom of our communal garden with an almost brazen chutzpah. Rather like the squirrels they must have their day mapped out for them. When you do see them it does come as a pleasant surprise because nobody sends them an invitation into our garden. They just prowl very carefully and stealthily through the bushes rather like cunning burglars and last summer one very audacious brown fox came right up to me in our communal garden with nothing in the way of a formal announcement or introduction.

I was happily reading a book and suddenly it was there, bold as brass. For a moment I was stunned and gripped by a slight uneasiness. But this little fox or vixen came strolling and swaggering its way into my sight without a hint of self consciousness. Wide eyed and perhaps bemused, it behaved with all the decorum and discretion you'd expect of a fox. Or maybe it was just keeping its emotions to itself. It was hard to tell and my anxieties were allayed when the fox made a quick exit. In the blink of an eye it was off to lunch at the Savoy. Perhaps.

Throughout the years the wildlife in London is something we probably take for granted but whether they be fox, squirrel, or pigeon they do provide us with a fascinating backdrop to our lives. Oh yes I mustn't forget the pigeons because they stubbornly refuse to give up on their fruitless quest for food. You get the feeling that pigeons just live for their daily intake of grub and will do everything they can to find anything they can to scoff their faces with. Maybe they think they'll find a works canteen down here with a choice of toast, cereal and eggs benedict. Maybe they think they're going to be served by polite waiters in smart uniforms. But your admiration for the pigeon is heightened by the minute as they strut around our local bakeries with an almost ridiculous presumptuousness. Generally though there is very little though in the way of an incentive so they may have to look elsewhere for their sustenance.

There are times though when the pigeons around here get exactly what they're looking for. On more than one occasion whole families of pigeons gather around in well organised groups. There is a deliberate strategy and calculation about their body language. They seem to  huddle around each other expectantly rather like Premier League footballers before a game. Then they just dive headlong into a rugby style ruck for huge loaves of bread. They eat huge loaves of bread with all the desperation of the desperate, pecking, grabbing, pinching, stealing, dragging and then engaging in a huge bust up when their appetites have yet to be satisfied.

And now the dark winter evenings become earlier and earlier and the wildlife around here is alive and well, functioning as actively as it always has. Those kingfishers and herons can smell breakfast again. Could somebody pass the marmalade please.    

The old music and the new music.

In the old days our parents told us that you could never understand the lyrics in old songs. It was all terribly muddled, totally incoherent and quite frankly a load of rubbish. My late dad, did once though shower praise on that legendary Welshman Sir Tom Jones. Jones, he said, had the most extraordinary voice, a voice so powerful that it almost echoed around the Welsh valleys and then carried resonantly across the Pennines. It soared melodiously across the lakes and rivers of Britain's fair and green land and then stayed in the British consciousness rather like some classical piece of art.

Our parents believed that the big band wartime sound  of Glen Miller, Tommy Dorsey, Duke Ellington, Joe Loss, Count Basie and all the greats of that era were the greatest, most striking and stunning of all sounds. They played the kind of music that brought people much closer together and lifted the spirits of the world with a definitive style and flourish. Dad spent most of the war in the Hammersmith Palais jiving, cavorting and carousing and then romantically smooching with his dancing partners before gloriously finding my mum 20 years later.

When I came along in 1962, the Beatles arrived with a phenomenal flourish. It was Love Me Do, Hey Jude, Strawberry Fields, Sergeant Peppers, the remarkable Yesterday and a whole repertoire of experimental and epic compositions. The Beatles were one of the most gifted musicians and songwriters that the world would ever produce. Their music spanned the generations and frequently pushed back the cultural and musical boundaries. The Beatles were exquisitely inventive, good looking, smartly dressed and played music that had genius and lyricism written all over it.

And then the good old or bad old days came along and spoilt it all in some loud, crashing, thumping, pounding, unbearably loud mess. It was horribly noisy and excessively stentorian. It was as if you were ears being attacked by some wild and uncontrollable force of nature. It was the glam rock era of David Bowie, T- Rex, Sweet, Mud followed by the edgy and anarchic rebelliousness of late Seventies punk with the Sex Pistols, the Clash, Blondie, the Undertones and the Jam, groups with a sharp identity and growling, snarling defiance.

 And then there was Eric Clapton with his faithful and magical guitar, a guitar that had its own voice, its own very unique expression and a fundamentally important message.  Then there was Gerry Rafferty, a marvellous wordsmith with poetry in his soul, a genuinely warm melody in his head and Baker Street, a brilliant piece of artwork that brought the 1970s to a memorable conclusion.

Listening to BBC Radio 2's the Sounds of the Seventies introduced by the supremely professional Johnny Walker, it suddenly occurred to me another generational gap has once again appeared. The music that I'd listened to during the 1970s no longer bore the same kind of relevance, no longer mattered to today's 21st century movers and shakers, no longer seemed applicable to anybody in particular. It was music that was as far removed from today's Spotify and I- Tunes era as it was possible to be.

When Walker played Wings Listen to What the Man Said I began to think that I'd got terribly stuck in some stifling time warp. Listen to What the Man Said was released just over 40 years ago and although splendidly pleasing to the ear no longer felt musically appropriate. It may well just have been some medieval throwback or  17th century choral piece.

Then Walker featured Free and then Bad Compay. But most of us can still remember what seemed like the hard aggression of Meat Loaf, Led Zeppelin, the deeply imaginative and occasionally mystical Pink Floyd, wonderful remnants of the 1960s. And then by the contrast, mainstream music gave us  the smooth Stylistics, the teasing Temptations, the permanently stylish Detroit Spinners and the cultured  Four Tops, grouips who'd regularly decorated both the American and British charts with a gentle gloss of sophistication during the 1960s.


Now of course 2016 has thrown up yet another lively musical palette of both the sublime and the ridiculous. Groups such as Coldplay, Radiohead and Snow Patrol monopolise the music scene with an almost flawless control. Adele, Ellie Goulding, Beyonce, Lady Ga Ga, Michael Buble, Ed Sheeran and the very latest reality TV products are almost a million miles away from the golden grandeur of Glenn Miller and all of those wartime virtuosos. It was a world where trumpets and trombones and uplifting pianos were all thrown into one delightful mix of big band harmonies and instantly identifiable show tunes.

So there you have it. The heady, dizzy days of Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby, Tony Bennett, Sammy Davis Junior, have now sadly departed to some jazz club in heaven. Their legacies and memories will  never be forgotten, cultivated crooners with honey in their voices. You Tube though will always provide me with Tavares, Al Jarreau, the Whispers, Kool and the Gang, Shakatak and a whole gallery of the great and good. To quote Louis Armstrong. What a Wonderful World.      

Strictly Come Dancing- Saturday nights on the BBC.

The Strictly Come Dancing Age.


It's Saturday evening, an autumnal darkness has set in, the central heating has been turned up full blast, the wintry tomato soups are ready to consume and the dog needs his or her daily exercise. What could be more comforting and relaxing? It is a domestic scene that perfectly captures the mood of the nation.

This past summer has given us nothing but the European Union, politicians spouting forth at great and repetitive length on Britain's political position- or now lack of it- on Europe and the number of pints Nigel Farage has drunk in the last five minutes. Out there in the big, wide world some of us are wholly indifferent and somehow pleading for an alternative discourse. The theme is the same, the voices are much the same and the narrative is enough to drive you crazy.

But fear not because Strictly Come Dancing has come to our rescue. Yes folks. Strictly Come Dancing, perhaps the one and only TV programme to provide us with light relief, an antidote to the horrors of daytime TV and a reason to cheer eccentricity and mediocrity.

At Saturday tea- time the BBC, in its best Saturday evening glad rags, gets all energetic and silly.  It is a long time since the BBC has ever been able to boast with some pride a flagship programme that is both inspirational and hugely enjoyable. Strictly Come Dancing ticks all the boxes because it's pure escapism, cheesy perhaps but nonetheless riveting. It looks tremendous fun and reminds you of those halcyon days when dad got up at a family gathering and danced because he felt like it and didn't care what others thought.

Strictly Dancing is wonderfully accessible, inclusive and restores your faith in TV entertainment. It's all about men and women in glittering, sparkling clothes that look as though they've been borrowed from the wardrobe of a major West End musical. Strictly has a brilliant dance band with brilliant singers, scenery that resembles a West End musical and the kind of judges whose comments are both sharply honest  and riotously amusing.

Roll back the years to 1976 and the BBC Saturday evening schedule gave us Bruce Forsyth's wonderful Generation Game, a glorious celebration of the game show at its very best. It was the kind of game show where anything and everything was acceptable - within reason-  and everybody just fell about laughing on their sofas.

It was the one day of the week where Britain could kick off its shoes, throw aside its inhibitions and just become totally absorbed in something that took them away from their working world. The Generation Game had nothing but laughter, silliness, absurdity and the most perfect relationship with its watching public.

It had Sir Bruce Forsyth, that most polished of entetainers, introducing, indulging and engaging with his contestants from a card. Bruce made polite conversation, asked them what they did for a living and then creased up with more laughter and hilarity. Then he told them that the game they were about to take part in would involve loads of clay.

It was time for the Potters Wheel, flower arranging, painting landscapes in a matter of seconds or just pretending they were all in some posh and classy West End play. They would reel off their lines, forget those lines and then act alongside the great actors and soap opera celebrities of the day.

It was all splendidly nonsensical and just what the nation needed. At the time some regarded the Generation Game as somehow demeaning. But the Gen Game was just gentle and inoffensive. It was never intellectually stimulating because that was left to the likes of Mastermind, University Challenge and Brain of Britain.

But for what seemed ages, the Generation Game ticked all of the right boxes. It had corny gags, audience participation, irresistible tomfoolery and achingly funny games. At the end a couple from a quaint English village won through to the conveyor belt and just looked totally shocked. The wobbly doors would open and the couple were suddenly transported into another world.

Now they too could win cuddly teddy bears, a frying pan, an alarm clock, kitchen utensils, a bar of chocolate and some very useful table cloths- or maybe that might have been a slight exaggeration. Then the couple would be required to remember exactly what they'd seen and name as many of the star prizes as they could. Then Bruce in his checked jacket and tie would tell the whole of Britain that life could be just as exciting if you played the Generation Game.

Meanwhile back in 2016 Labour politician Ed Balls changed all of the TV dynamics and changed the complexion of early evening telly. Ed Balls, it has to be said, is the most wondrous dancer in the whole world. If truth is told and even by his own admission he may be wondrous but dancing may not be his calling in life.

Ed Balls wears loud and garish yellow jackets, prances around a BBC dance floor with all the co-ordination of a Max Wall and then stomps about the floor with an almost misplaced enthusiasm. Ed Balls would probably happily admit that he can't dance for toffee. But week after week he provides the nation with a golden opportunity to throw aside our inhibitions.

So there you have it. Strictly Come Dancing is back where it should be. For those who remember the original Come Dancing  Strictly Come Dancing may just be a stunning variation on a theme. But for one marvellous evening Saturday TV on the BBC has once again come to life. We thank the BBC. We thank the BBC immensely.

The Donald and Hilary show

The Don and Hilary show

In a couple of weeks the United States of America will be asked to vote for the new President of their country. It is perhaps the most unenviable choice the United States has ever faced. In one corner we have Hilary Clinton, allegedly one of the most unreliable and corrupt politicians the Americans have ever had.

Clinton is, according to some ardent American observers, one of the most scheming, deceitful and conniving politicians America have ever had. To all outward appearances she looks respectable and trustworthy but dig into her recent CV and the skeletons continue to rattle in her cupboard.

There are the missing e-mails, the shady business deals behind the scenes and that rather disturbing air of cloak and dagger secrecy. There are the ever present hidden agendas and embarrassing flaws in Clinton's character. Above all the wife of the now notorious Bill, has yet to win the hearts and minds of the American public.

There are rumblings of discontent and worrying signs that all is not as it should be in the Clinton camp. Of course our Hilary looks glamorous and presentable but for all her on screen assurance and all of the positive noises, there can be little doubt that Clinton will have to mount the most astonishing charm offensive to win the Presidency.

Her opponent is of course one Donald Trump. Now this is where all sensible politics and intelligent thinking shuffles off the stage and giggles uncontrollably. Trump, it has to be the most ridiculous and  comical figure ever to appear on any political stage. The statements, to date, are hilarious and his behaviour borders on the laughably outrageous.

At this moment you're reminded of the 1980s American soap opera Dallas where JR, that evil manipulator sniggered under his breath and revelled in others misfortune. Comparisons can often be misleading but when Trump walks onto the stage and opens his mouth, any resemblance to Larry Hagman may well be merely coincidental.

Donald Trump has done his utmost best to upset both women and anybody that either moves or speaks. Allegedly he is the most sexist, racist and most revolting man any of us can ever recall, He's antagonised women, Mexicans and most of the universe. But then again he may well be the most adorable and engaging human being ever to walk the Earth. Perhaps he's the most exemplary family man, a decent and honourable alpha male, a pillar of the community and a credit to both his wife, children and his surrounding entourage. But for all the world this is the not the way it seems to be.

Still he sneers, snarls, pouts and generally gives the impression of a  the man who thinks he knows it all. To even the most impartial on looker he may be the most tactless and recklessly opinionated man ever to darken the corridors of American politics. Trump, his critics may tell you, talks unadulterated twaddle and the air of potty mouthed ignorance may just drag the American people down to the lowest of all depths.

Still America still has Hilary to fall back on by way of a consolation prize. Hilary Clinton, although probably the best of the most appalling bunch, waits in the wings for what seems the inevitable Novemeber victory. It's at times like this that the memory goes back to Nixon and Kennedy, Ford and Carter, Reagan and Bush senior and junior and finally Barak Obama. Rarely has America needed a greater sense of direction and leadership. Rarely has America needed a miracle. It is hard to know whether either Trump or Clinton will answer their country's prayers.


Feel free to leave your comments on any of my Blogs.


Thanks


Joe Morris

My first children's book

My first children's book.


I'm not sure why it hasn't occurred to me before. This whole wonderful business of writing can spark off so may ideas, thoughts and images that to quote Forest Gump. You never know what you're going to get!

My three books have given me a healthy appetite for the written word, the descriptive phrase and a whole confection of sweet sentences. I've written three books that have taken me by complete surprise but were nonetheless wonderfully therapeutic, liberating and good for the soul.

Now though I face my latest challenge. In a sense it's probably the easiest assignment I've ever presented myself with. I'm going to write a children's book and it is in theory not only the most rewarding of challenges but one that reminds me of how much pleasure it was to bring up our two wonderful children.

All being well my children's book will be both amusing and heart- warming. It is my guilty pleasure and at the moment I'd like to keep it under wraps. But I hope you'll like it's gentle flow and rhythms, its sweet innocence, its feelgood factor, and its re-assuring light heartedness.

I can still remember reading one of JK Rowling's Harry Potter's classics to our son as a child and wondering at the time whether I could ever aspire to reaching that very exalted level of literature. I can't rightly remember which Harry Potter book it was. But subconsciously I think it must have resonated with me, galvanising me into getting something down on our PC.

It's hard to believe how dramatically different my childhood was compared to that of our daughter and son. I come from the pen, pencil, A4 paper, ink blotter age where school desks were completely defaced by smudges and pen stained desk lids.

My childhood was dominated by Enid Blyton's Famous Five, Kenneth Graham's Wind in the Willows, Rudyard Kipling's charming Jungle Book and a whole variety of schoolboy and girl adventure stories. If you'd told me what a children's book would look like in the 21st century I would have roared with laughter and scepticism.

What was a Kindle? What was an E-book? Childhood literature couldn't possibly translate into the modern electronic age. How could you possibly read Enid Blyton on a Tablet or an I- Pad. And yet it does look an attractive proposition. I'm probably an old fashioned fuddy duddy who cherishes the good old days but hey why not? All books are there to be remembered and never forgotten.


So it is that, very slowly and surely that I piece together my first childrens's story. It is like a jig saw puzzle but a perfectly straightforward jig saw puzzle, In a way I feel like the child who excitedly rips open the wrapping of his birthday present and finding something that will bring an enduring smile.