England sweep up the Ashes of defeat.
Under a salmon coloured Adelaide sky, the English cricket team stared at well over 100 years of history between these two sworn sporting enemies and glowered at the Adelaide Oval as if it had committed some heinous crime. Those Aussies had got one over us again when it all looked like an English recovery from the jaws of defeat seemed a distinct possibility. But the air was sucked from England and Australia had won the Second Ashes Test match by 120 runs which for those among the Barmy Army really did hurt and felt vaguely like an insult.
So far this Ashes series has conformed to all of those familiar stereotypes. The English love nothing better than a good old fashioned Sunday roast in the local public house and Australia love thrashing England at cricket with just a pint of Foster's best to wash things down. Whenever these two nations lock horns with each other there is more than a hint of bullish belligerence in the air. In fact you can almost smell the smoke and cordite such is the hatred and antipathy between Australia and England.
A couple of years ago England brought back the Ashes to Blighty and all in the world seemed fitting and right. That little urn belongs in England and here at Lords, cricket's spiritual home, that little urn seemed so snug and justifiably ours. Now two years later and it all looks as though the balance of power has swung back to the Antipodes. How on earth are we going to stand the gloating, boasting and self righteousness of the Aussies if they actually grab back the Ashes this winter. We shall probably stop drinking their Foster's lager, stop watching those TV programmes about wombats and kangaroos and, quite possibly sulk. But that would be childish so we won't do that.
Even so the bare facts are that England were well and truly beaten, hammered into the ground, thumped and just a little humiliated in the hot winter sunshine of an Adelaide evening. This was one of the first night and day cricketing Tests, a new fangled innovation, the brainchild of somebody who obviously felt the game of cricket needed a bit of spicing up. The floodlights were blazing and England began to melt under those intense lights.
Australia beat England by 120 runs and the whole Ashes series hangs by the tenderest thread. Can England show the traditional fighting spirit they've always shown or will the Aussies give us another severe battering? It is some time since England were allowed bragging rights in this most personal of grudge matches and Australia may be licking their lips at the prospect at yet another whitewash Down Under.
Still there were major plusses and consolation points to be derived from England's second successive defeat. Jimmy Anderson sliced open the Australian batting attack with the most delicious five wicket plunder, a quickie supreme who must have been baying for Australian blood. Sadly, this will never be considered as cold comfort because once again England were left high and dry without a friend to call on.
Steve Smith, an Australian batsman of cruel and destructive batting power, slogged, hooked and pulled his shots to all sides of Adelaide and some of his shots were straight out of the classical repertoire. By the time Smith had notched up his century, England were wilting like one of Dame Edna Everage's gladioli. Some of Smith's big hits may well have cleared Adelaide completely and reached Sydney harbour.
It is at time like this that an English cricketing fan turns to the past and a trip down memory lane. Jimmy Anderson's five wicket haul could, quite reasonably be compared to one Sir Ian Botham for whom 1981 was the one year some of us will never ever forget. Botham terrorised, taunted, mocked and seemingly lampooned Australian cricket. Throughout the whole of that 1981 epic Botham seemed to take an almost sadistic pleasure in the Aussie downfall.
In fact some of us were positively spellbound by the one man bowling who drove a powerful stake into the heart of Australian cricket. Who could possibly have forgotten Botham at his breathtaking best, a whirling dervish, a bearded, thick thighed swashbuckling hero of the hour. All of us will remember this bloodthirsty, brave, hungry, merciless man who swung the ball both ways, dug the ball deep into the respective rib cages of helpless Aussie batsman and roared with delight when the wickets went flying.
Botham had perfect line and length, seething with boundless anger and hostility, not quite possessed but the fire in his eyes burnt through his Australian counterparts. At the end of a Botham over there was something of the wide eyed sadist about him. At the end of an over Botham would spend the best part of five minutes fist pumping in celebration, face grinning with ecstasy and privately sticking the proverbial two fingers up at the Aussies.
It was at Headingley, home of Yorkshire cricket club where England salvaged a sinking ship and launched the greatest sporting comeback since the last sporting comeback. It was 36 years ago when England stood on the precipice of certain defeat once again. Australia were poised to stab a red hot poker into the back of English cricket. England were staring over the cliff face and another Ashes defeat when a Somerset tornado whipped through an Australian batting attack including one Alan Border, Rodney Marsh a wicket keeper par excellence with a striking moustache, Rick McCosker and Trevor Chappell.
England of course were not exactly short of their all conquering battlers and toilers, seasoned troopers with a scent of victory under their noses. There was the professorial and deep thinking England captain Mike Brearley, a Middlesex man through and through, a wily strategist, plotter and planner who almost seemed to read the minds of the Aussie batsman. Brearley was an inspirational cricketer and captain, a cricketer of foresight and vision, splendidly idealistic and forever in deep discussion with Botham or the rest of the England team.
Then there was David Gower, brilliantly adventurous with the bat but prone to a recklessness outside off stump that almost certainly marked him as an Australian favourite. Gower was forever wafting his bat in the air at shots that were simply not intended to be hit. But Gower hooked quite immaculately and many was the four and six that would invariably land in either the Lords Tavern or the Oval gas holder.
And then there was English cricket's favourite cover point fielder and batsman of the highest order Derek Randall. Randall had the longest legs in English cricket and was never happier than when he was loping across a cricket ground, picking up that red ball with uplifting efficiency and then throwing the ball back quite promptly to the hankie fluttering wicket keeper Alan Knott. Knott of course propped up many a creaking England innings with the most valuable of half century or indeed century.
So it is that we return to that unforgettable heady Headingley Ashes Test. With the match all but sewn up Botham came striding out to bat. For what seemed an interminable length of time, Botham now took up his position at the crease, sneering contemptuously at the Aussies and challenging his adversaries to the kind of dashing swordplay that even D'Artagnan would have envied. Bat swinging wildly and seriously, a face of beetroot red and a body bursting at the seams with raw aggression, Botham blasted the Aussie front line quickies of Dennis Lillee and Terry Alderman into another English county.
Botham hooked, drove and pulled quite magnificently and daringly. From the pit of despair Botham carved his name into English cricketing history. The century came in an almost royal procession, big hitting Botham smashing and lofting the ball over every English cricket pavilion in the land. Botham was an irresistible force of nature, looting and pillaging Lillee and Alderman's bowling before anybody could bat an eye lid.
But the one memory that always live with me personally was the sterling contribution of one Bob Willis. Now here was a man who would have been more than content to give blood, sweat and tears to the national cause. Bob Willis played his club cricket for Warwickshire and he did so quite conscientiously but when selected for his country Willis was devotion to duty. There was something about Willis that summer that was determined to make a point.
At Headingley Willis, afro hair flying hectically in the wind, charged down towards the batting crease rather like the Flying Scotsman. Shirt and pullover heavy with sweat, Willis, face twisted and grimacing, wound himself like a clock and hurled a cricket ball at a batsman like the naughtiest kid at the back of the class with a catapult. But there was one part of the Willis dress code that always seemed unusual.
For whatever reason the flapping and billowing Willis shirt would also have a vest as well. Many a hundred an over Willis would wear the most sartorially correct of stringed vests. Willis was wearing quite possibly a Marks and Spencer stringed vest, beads of sweat clinging to his chest and hair bouncing on his head with a life form of its own. But I take my cricketing hat off to Bob Willis because he was whole hearted, lion hearted, gritty, determined, direct and dogged.
When Willis bowled one of the last decisive overs in that Headingley humdinger, Willis seemed to take off rather like the swiftest of planes. Arms flailing all over the place, the Willis did a very passable impersonation of an Easy Jet plane. Then both he and Botham suddenly remembered the magnitude of their achievement. Both Botham and Willis pulled up the stumps rapidly and in no time at all were next seen sprinting back to their dressing rooms as if slightly wary of being trampled on by jubilant fans. England had snatched back the Ashes for the first time in what seemed like ages.
Now of course though the pulse of Australian cricket is throbbing quite powerfully and there is another Aussie resurgence in the air. England, at the moment at least, haven't got quite the hang of this winter touring lark Down Under. True they did beat their famous Antipodean rivals a couple of winters ago in the land of Oz but for now these two furious foes will have to be held back.
After another tiring day in the field for Joe Root we were once again witnesses to that legendary, almost life long resentment and bitterness between England and Australia. Root was seen, quite noticeably, exchanging what looked like some very salty words with the Aussies. The conversation seemed to be far from amiable and it was safe to assume that Root wasn't swapping e-mail addresses with the Aussies. The stares and glares told their very own body language.
So there you have it. Another Ashes battle royale has passed into the history and this promises to be another another blood and thunder contest simply not designed for the faint hearted. But we wouldn't really have it any other way. England are two down with the third Test boiling away on the stove like the hottest of soups. Sporting contests do not come any fiercer than an Ashes ding dong. It was always tough for England Down Under and it may get considerably tougher. Strap yourself in everybody. It could be a deeply emotional roller coaster. Hold on tight.
Wednesday, 6 December 2017
Monday, 4 December 2017
Blue Planet two- a BBC classic
Blue Planet two- a BBC classic
You must have seen it last night or maybe you watching something entirely different which is a shame because I think you would have loved it. Every so often TV throws up the kind of programme that is simply unmissable and you have to watch it over and over again. Well, this one hit the mark perfectly. There are TV programmes and there are classic masterpieces that leave you dumbfounded by their sheer artistic merit, their technical brilliance and their stunning photography.
How often have we swooned at the sheer, unblemished genius of David Attenborough. In one of the last of a superlative series of natural life programmes, Attenborough once again gave us a tour de force. Blue Planet two was an astonishing and totally absorbing documentary on the mysterious world of the mammal and fish community. Not for the first time Attenborough gave us beautifully delivered commentaries on Mother Nature at her most tempestuous and turbulent. But this was Mother Nature described in that wonderfully descriptive and multi layered fashion that David Attenborough knows so well and conveys with such crisp clarity.
Last night Attenborough went deep to the bottom of the sea and explored its deepest and most complex of networks, families and, of course, its breathtaking beauty. With the most advanced underwater cameras and vital equipment, he told us about those wonderful underwater creatures in all their sparkling tapestry of colours, their private lifestyles, their very unique habits and idiosyncrasies while never forgetting their never ending search for survival in adversity.
Attenborough gave us huge and careful red crabs who seemed to live most of their lives delicately plodding across sharp rocks and then hiding swiftly when they felt deeply exposed and in danger. There were thick, grey eels that slithered in and out of the rocks, always on the look out for food and always ravenous. But once again here was a programme that clearly underlined our constant quest for self preservation when all the odds are against us.
Throughout Blue Planet two we were given a powerful and revealing insight into the way our sea mammals and birds are just as protective and possessive when it comes to the small matter of staying alive. We saw whole colonies of crabs on a beach just getting on with the simple business of living and trying desperately to find somewhere to go, slowly but surely plodding across acres of sandy beach but always remaining in tightly knit groups.
Then we had my personal favourite. Yes folks I give you the king penguins and puffins, surely the finest of all looking birds and, it has to be said, remarkably amusing. Now, the king penguins and puffins had to be the stand out moments of last night's programme. Of course Blue Planet two had given us both the glories and splendours of mammal and bird life but it also gave us those lovely penguins and puffins, surely Mother Nature's most endearing of all creatures.
In one magnificent scene we were treated to a spectacular exhibition of penguins. But this was no ordinary display of penguins. These were tall, upstanding penguins with an air of nobility about them. These were high ranking, ambassadorial penguins with an air of snobbery and superciliousness about them that you couldn't help but fall in love with. They were penguins with a haughty distinction about them that suggested that they felt their whole environment was too deeply degrading for their liking and that they were mixing in the wrong company. Everything was beneath them so to speak.
There went the king penguins marching confidently onto a beach full of large, blubbery walruses and sea lions, gingerly stepping between the walruses as if terrified of upsetting the walruses. Here we had that terrifically funny moment when TV gets it absolutely right. In the last David Attenborough programme he gave us those fabulous pink flamingos all racing along together in almost impeccably executed formation, whole families of flamingos striding out with thin, stork like legs and never for a moment feeling self conscious.
Once again then the penguins waddled from side to side in an amazingly choreographed act that made me almost weep with laughter. In all innocence small huddles of penguins quickly and discreetly side-stepped the walruses and the walruses reacted in much the way we might have expected with walruses. It was one of those magical TV images that you could hardly write into any sitcom script.
They grumbled and snorted objectionably and then lashed out furiously in a bumping, highly indignant fashion. How the Beatles came to write a song about them doesn't bear thinking about but walruses do have very deeply felt emotions and you daren't disturb them if all they want is a couple of quiet hours or two. But these were severely offended walruses and it would have been as well for those penguins if they'd kept a respectful distance from them. They were forever rolling about from one side to the other clearly upset and incensed at this persistent intrusion into their privacy.
Then there were the puffins, cute and independent but very family oriented birds where young babies wait patiently for their next bite to eat. Last night dad was sent on a mission to find food for their young one. Now we saw both mum and dad debating the merits of fish and chips for that night's feast. Mum engaged in the briefest of chats with dad and before you knew it, dad was off to some far off destination where fishes can be found in abundance but the chips are never cooked.
Dad kept on flying and flying. soaring majestically through the air with effortless ease, dipping and then diving, fully concentrated in its quest for food for its off spring. There then followed the most gripping chase scene ever seen in any TV classic. Forget those car chases in cop films, this was an absolute treasure. One big old bird hurtles towards our friend the puffin, surrounding him threateningly, scenting both blood and a major kill. Our puffin knows exactly what to do, clinging tenaciously for dear life. Amazingly it reaches home without a scratch and everybody cheers loudly.
And then there was the BBC photography, quite the most exceptional photographic imagery ever seen. The BBC captured something that may never ever be repeated in such startlingly vivid detail. This was the mountainous splendour of our mighty oceans, those crashing, storming, monumentally dramatic seas. It was Nature at her boldest and bravest, white foamy crests of water rising up and falling rather like a chapter from a Joseph Conrad sea faring novel. It was stupendous and highly informative TV that may never be equalled.
In the final sequences we witnessed the most incredible array of small black sharks floating together in unison always hunting, always on the move and never less than inquisitive. If there has ever been a more enlightening piece of TV recently then I've yet to see it. On a dark winter's evening it was the most fitting of illuminations. Sunday evenings were meant for programmes like this. Blue Planet two deserves the richest of honours at any future awards ceremony. Auntie Beeb have cracked it again. It's time for Sir David Attenborough to accept yet more lavish praise, more plaudits and more pats on the back. Thankyou Mr Attenborough. A truly delightful piece of telly.
You must have seen it last night or maybe you watching something entirely different which is a shame because I think you would have loved it. Every so often TV throws up the kind of programme that is simply unmissable and you have to watch it over and over again. Well, this one hit the mark perfectly. There are TV programmes and there are classic masterpieces that leave you dumbfounded by their sheer artistic merit, their technical brilliance and their stunning photography.
How often have we swooned at the sheer, unblemished genius of David Attenborough. In one of the last of a superlative series of natural life programmes, Attenborough once again gave us a tour de force. Blue Planet two was an astonishing and totally absorbing documentary on the mysterious world of the mammal and fish community. Not for the first time Attenborough gave us beautifully delivered commentaries on Mother Nature at her most tempestuous and turbulent. But this was Mother Nature described in that wonderfully descriptive and multi layered fashion that David Attenborough knows so well and conveys with such crisp clarity.
Last night Attenborough went deep to the bottom of the sea and explored its deepest and most complex of networks, families and, of course, its breathtaking beauty. With the most advanced underwater cameras and vital equipment, he told us about those wonderful underwater creatures in all their sparkling tapestry of colours, their private lifestyles, their very unique habits and idiosyncrasies while never forgetting their never ending search for survival in adversity.
Attenborough gave us huge and careful red crabs who seemed to live most of their lives delicately plodding across sharp rocks and then hiding swiftly when they felt deeply exposed and in danger. There were thick, grey eels that slithered in and out of the rocks, always on the look out for food and always ravenous. But once again here was a programme that clearly underlined our constant quest for self preservation when all the odds are against us.
Throughout Blue Planet two we were given a powerful and revealing insight into the way our sea mammals and birds are just as protective and possessive when it comes to the small matter of staying alive. We saw whole colonies of crabs on a beach just getting on with the simple business of living and trying desperately to find somewhere to go, slowly but surely plodding across acres of sandy beach but always remaining in tightly knit groups.
Then we had my personal favourite. Yes folks I give you the king penguins and puffins, surely the finest of all looking birds and, it has to be said, remarkably amusing. Now, the king penguins and puffins had to be the stand out moments of last night's programme. Of course Blue Planet two had given us both the glories and splendours of mammal and bird life but it also gave us those lovely penguins and puffins, surely Mother Nature's most endearing of all creatures.
In one magnificent scene we were treated to a spectacular exhibition of penguins. But this was no ordinary display of penguins. These were tall, upstanding penguins with an air of nobility about them. These were high ranking, ambassadorial penguins with an air of snobbery and superciliousness about them that you couldn't help but fall in love with. They were penguins with a haughty distinction about them that suggested that they felt their whole environment was too deeply degrading for their liking and that they were mixing in the wrong company. Everything was beneath them so to speak.
There went the king penguins marching confidently onto a beach full of large, blubbery walruses and sea lions, gingerly stepping between the walruses as if terrified of upsetting the walruses. Here we had that terrifically funny moment when TV gets it absolutely right. In the last David Attenborough programme he gave us those fabulous pink flamingos all racing along together in almost impeccably executed formation, whole families of flamingos striding out with thin, stork like legs and never for a moment feeling self conscious.
Once again then the penguins waddled from side to side in an amazingly choreographed act that made me almost weep with laughter. In all innocence small huddles of penguins quickly and discreetly side-stepped the walruses and the walruses reacted in much the way we might have expected with walruses. It was one of those magical TV images that you could hardly write into any sitcom script.
They grumbled and snorted objectionably and then lashed out furiously in a bumping, highly indignant fashion. How the Beatles came to write a song about them doesn't bear thinking about but walruses do have very deeply felt emotions and you daren't disturb them if all they want is a couple of quiet hours or two. But these were severely offended walruses and it would have been as well for those penguins if they'd kept a respectful distance from them. They were forever rolling about from one side to the other clearly upset and incensed at this persistent intrusion into their privacy.
Then there were the puffins, cute and independent but very family oriented birds where young babies wait patiently for their next bite to eat. Last night dad was sent on a mission to find food for their young one. Now we saw both mum and dad debating the merits of fish and chips for that night's feast. Mum engaged in the briefest of chats with dad and before you knew it, dad was off to some far off destination where fishes can be found in abundance but the chips are never cooked.
Dad kept on flying and flying. soaring majestically through the air with effortless ease, dipping and then diving, fully concentrated in its quest for food for its off spring. There then followed the most gripping chase scene ever seen in any TV classic. Forget those car chases in cop films, this was an absolute treasure. One big old bird hurtles towards our friend the puffin, surrounding him threateningly, scenting both blood and a major kill. Our puffin knows exactly what to do, clinging tenaciously for dear life. Amazingly it reaches home without a scratch and everybody cheers loudly.
And then there was the BBC photography, quite the most exceptional photographic imagery ever seen. The BBC captured something that may never ever be repeated in such startlingly vivid detail. This was the mountainous splendour of our mighty oceans, those crashing, storming, monumentally dramatic seas. It was Nature at her boldest and bravest, white foamy crests of water rising up and falling rather like a chapter from a Joseph Conrad sea faring novel. It was stupendous and highly informative TV that may never be equalled.
In the final sequences we witnessed the most incredible array of small black sharks floating together in unison always hunting, always on the move and never less than inquisitive. If there has ever been a more enlightening piece of TV recently then I've yet to see it. On a dark winter's evening it was the most fitting of illuminations. Sunday evenings were meant for programmes like this. Blue Planet two deserves the richest of honours at any future awards ceremony. Auntie Beeb have cracked it again. It's time for Sir David Attenborough to accept yet more lavish praise, more plaudits and more pats on the back. Thankyou Mr Attenborough. A truly delightful piece of telly.
Friday, 1 December 2017
My You Tube videos and the World Cup draw in the Kremlin.
My You Tube videos and the World Cup draw in the Kremlin.
What did you think then? This afternoon, in the very formal surroundings of the Kremlin in Moscow, the fate of 32 World Cup international teams was sealed and everything seemed to be going famously for the England football team under the very cool and urbane Gareth Southgate. Everything went exactly to plan and things could hardly be any better in the English rose garden.
In one of the world's stateliest of buildings England pulled out several plums and will hope that come next June there are no stones in those plums. The Kremlin was hardly the most inspiring choice for a World Cup draw but then you have to go with what you're given. The political grandeur of the Kremlin is undoubtedly self evident but most of us associate the Kremlin and anything Russian with grim faced Presidents, thick coated soldiers on parade in Red Square, Communist ideologies, military might, snow, Bolsheviks and Mensheviks,the Crimean War and more bloody revolutions than quite possibly any other nation in the history of the world.
Still there were one or two redeeming features in deepest Moscow this afternoon. The Kremlin looked particularly striking, an architectural stunner that has definitely stood the test of time. It may seem official and officious, some would say cold, soulless and a place for those very important governmental discussions, where the politicians of the day thrash out the latest price of vodka perhaps. If the Kremlin could talk it could tell you a thousand stories about Communist uprisings, heated disagreements about nothing of any real significance and those railway station chandeliers.
This afternoon though gave us the World Cup ceremony live from a Kremlin that genuinely believes that the people of Russia can give us more than annoying red tape, stifling bureaucracy and the ever present threat of deplorable drug taking, dope scandals throughout the World Cup and a constant air of cloak and dagger suspicion. The Russians have always carried around with them the weightiest of baggages and few Olympic Games and World Cups have passed without at least one or two Russian scandals.
For England of course this was just the World Cup draw they could have wished for although given their problematic and chequered history in the competition the countries England have drawn may be equally as troublesome. In the World Cup of 2014 England fell flat on their face when, firstly, Italy simply closed off all attacking avenues, while Uruguay, with the assistance of Luis Suarez, seemed to outwit them both tactically and technically. By the time England met Costa Rica most of England had more or less lost interest in football. It was the most sobering and distressing of World Cups for England although none of us were, in any sense of the word, either shocked or surprised.
So England will meet Belgium, Tunisia and Panama which does sound very mouth wateringly appetising at first glance but on closer examination could still provide a hidden banana skin. Belgium were very much the dark horses to win Euro 2016 and can still boast a hard core of immensely gifted individuals which is probably England's strongest suit. Chelsea's Eden Hazard has to be one of the classiest of all attacking players in the Premier League, Manchester City's Kevin De Bruyne is an outstanding player and Romelu Lukaku at Manchester United could set the whole World Cup tournament alight next summer.
Memories of England - Belgium evoke some decidedly unpleasant and nasty images for both sides. In the European Championships of 1980 in Italy the game was marred by unsavoury scenes when tear gas flares were thrown onto the pitch. The match itself was overshadowed by crowd trouble although the game itself was moderately entertaining .But Italy 1980 will never go down in European Championship history as one of the best of tournaments.
Then in the 1990 World Cup, ironically held in Italy once again, England met Belgium in a crucial second round match. With the game drifting towards a shapeless and haphazard draw the ever impish and mischievous Paul Gascoigne suddenly discovered that there was a vital World Cup game to be won. In the last seconds of the game. a well flighted free kick was swung dangerously into the Belgian penalty area and David Platt, a pleasingly skilful midfield player. allowed the ball to fall over his shoulder before wrapping his foot around the ball and hooking the ball into the net for England's very late winner.
Tunisia of course were England's first opponents in the 1998 World Cup held in France. A firmly directed header from Alan Shearer and a classical shot from Paul Scholes were enough to silence the noisy Tunisian supporters. England's 2-0 victory that day now seems like many generations ago given England's fortunes in recent World Cup and European Championship opening games.
And as for Panama? Well who knows at this stage? In theory there should be too many canals in class between England and Panama. Maybe there is a case here for wearing the right kind of hat but you'll have forgive my Friday witticisms because that's as far as I can take football related humour for one day. Of course we're in unknown territory here because this is Panama's first ever World Cup and we must wish them well.
In Group A the hosts Russia have been drawn in a group heavily scented with a Middle Eastern flavour. Egypt and Saudi Arabia sounds potentially explosive and Uruguay should never be discounted in any World Cup. But 1930 and 1950 does seem far distant in time and besides there are no Juan Schiaffinos leading the Uruguyan attack and Uruguay can be very moody and bolshy under provocation. Just ask Scotland in the 1986 World Cup when the Scots seemed to be kicked to pieces in a drab 1-1 draw..
The other eye catching groups were World Cup holders Germany who must face Mexico, Sweden and South Korea, a wonderful and globally diverse concoction of nations. Mexico never really trouble the World Cup football establishment as such but they do have Javier Hernandez playing in a West Ham team who seemed to be giving a convincing impersonation of Apocalypse Now at the moment. Mexico, of course, were on the wrong end of Bobby Charlton's destructive shooting power in the 1966 World Cup. And South Korea are South Korea, romantic sounding and mystical but likewise a side who may give the Germans a couple of sleepless nights without the attendant nightmares.
The Brazilians are, as we all know historically breathtaking, sublime and oozing with originality. In the 2014 World Cup in Brazil the Brazilians imploded and exploded in the same tournament. Their football simply subsided and disintegrated like an old, derelict building brick by brick. When the Germans destroyed Brazil 7-1 in the World Cup semi finals an entire nation went into hiding and the soul of Brazilian football was torn asunder like a yellow sheet that's been left for too long in the washing machine. Switzerland, in theory, should be easily beatable while Serbia shouldn't really bring the Brazilians out in a cold sweat. Costa Rica will probably buzz around the Brazilians with menacing intent but Brazilian progress into the next round of the World Cup should be a formality.
In Group B the tastiest and meatiest of matches has to be that of Spain and Portugal. Both have been paired together in the same group and there can be no conceivable love lost between these countries. It may be regarded as a local derby if only because the geographical distance between the two is so close. There is a considerable amount of needle and animosity here so be prepared for some Iberian fireworks. The other teams are Morocco who add their own helping of pepper, oregano and paprika to the group. Oh for the wonders of the Far East. Then there's Iran, the country who once reduced Scotland boss Ally Mcleod to tears and hair scratching when Scotland were held by Iran.
Finally there is Argentina, who, rather like Brazil, bring their own glamour and drama to any World Cup competition. It often seems like Argentina's very own drama queens or maybe that should be kings are perhaps just too hot headed for our liking but still compulsively watchable. Argentina are melodramatic, genuinely brilliant on their day but temperamental in the extreme when there's clearly no need for such unseemly behaviour. The tango seems to suit the whole nation as they swagger around the world stage with all the arrogance of the supposedly superior country.
Argentina have for company in their group Iceland which is very much where England came in at Euro 2016, theoretically ready to be beaten quite comprehensively and Croatia who always seem to give a respectable account of themselves in World Cups without ever threatening to win it. Once again Croatia are a team of individual star makers but never really on the same level of their much bigger and better footballing brethren. Nigeria will always be a pleasure to watch if only because the African nations love to play the game right away without ever matching the technical excellence of their European counterparts.
So there you have it folks. The runners and riders for next year's World Cup have been matched up in their respective groups and Russia and Vladimir Putin will spend the rest of his Friday evening savouring a refreshing cup of tea from his samovar and then swallowing another glass of vodka with a satisfied gulp. There are political rumblings of discontent in Russia and warmongering bullies gathering their forces. But as long as Gareth Southgate wears that very smart navy waistcoat and remains modesty personified then England can sleep easily tonight. Russia may be some way off now but this could be the time to keep the faith. Its time to support the England football team. It's time to live in hope. There can be nothing wrong with that.
Oh before I forget. Here's another pointer in the direction of my book promotion for No Joe Bloggs and Victorian Madness Lyrics. You may want to check out my You Tube videos for both my book No Joe Bloggs where I tell you about my life story and two Victorian Madness Lyrics You Tube videos which are I think deliberately hilarious. If you click on to both these You Tube videos I think both of these books could be considered as humble Christmas treats. One Victorian Madness Lyrics lyric is Embarrassment - aka Humiliation and House of Fun - Establishment of Amusement. I hope you'll like both No Joe Bloggs and Victorian Madness Lyrics in my cosy corner of You Tube. They're a great festive read. Thanks everybody.
Incidentally No Joe Bloggs is currently available at Amazon, Amazon Kindle, Waterstones online market place and Books-A-Million online while Victorian Madness Lyrics is available at Feed- A- Read.com.
What did you think then? This afternoon, in the very formal surroundings of the Kremlin in Moscow, the fate of 32 World Cup international teams was sealed and everything seemed to be going famously for the England football team under the very cool and urbane Gareth Southgate. Everything went exactly to plan and things could hardly be any better in the English rose garden.
In one of the world's stateliest of buildings England pulled out several plums and will hope that come next June there are no stones in those plums. The Kremlin was hardly the most inspiring choice for a World Cup draw but then you have to go with what you're given. The political grandeur of the Kremlin is undoubtedly self evident but most of us associate the Kremlin and anything Russian with grim faced Presidents, thick coated soldiers on parade in Red Square, Communist ideologies, military might, snow, Bolsheviks and Mensheviks,the Crimean War and more bloody revolutions than quite possibly any other nation in the history of the world.
Still there were one or two redeeming features in deepest Moscow this afternoon. The Kremlin looked particularly striking, an architectural stunner that has definitely stood the test of time. It may seem official and officious, some would say cold, soulless and a place for those very important governmental discussions, where the politicians of the day thrash out the latest price of vodka perhaps. If the Kremlin could talk it could tell you a thousand stories about Communist uprisings, heated disagreements about nothing of any real significance and those railway station chandeliers.
This afternoon though gave us the World Cup ceremony live from a Kremlin that genuinely believes that the people of Russia can give us more than annoying red tape, stifling bureaucracy and the ever present threat of deplorable drug taking, dope scandals throughout the World Cup and a constant air of cloak and dagger suspicion. The Russians have always carried around with them the weightiest of baggages and few Olympic Games and World Cups have passed without at least one or two Russian scandals.
For England of course this was just the World Cup draw they could have wished for although given their problematic and chequered history in the competition the countries England have drawn may be equally as troublesome. In the World Cup of 2014 England fell flat on their face when, firstly, Italy simply closed off all attacking avenues, while Uruguay, with the assistance of Luis Suarez, seemed to outwit them both tactically and technically. By the time England met Costa Rica most of England had more or less lost interest in football. It was the most sobering and distressing of World Cups for England although none of us were, in any sense of the word, either shocked or surprised.
So England will meet Belgium, Tunisia and Panama which does sound very mouth wateringly appetising at first glance but on closer examination could still provide a hidden banana skin. Belgium were very much the dark horses to win Euro 2016 and can still boast a hard core of immensely gifted individuals which is probably England's strongest suit. Chelsea's Eden Hazard has to be one of the classiest of all attacking players in the Premier League, Manchester City's Kevin De Bruyne is an outstanding player and Romelu Lukaku at Manchester United could set the whole World Cup tournament alight next summer.
Memories of England - Belgium evoke some decidedly unpleasant and nasty images for both sides. In the European Championships of 1980 in Italy the game was marred by unsavoury scenes when tear gas flares were thrown onto the pitch. The match itself was overshadowed by crowd trouble although the game itself was moderately entertaining .But Italy 1980 will never go down in European Championship history as one of the best of tournaments.
Then in the 1990 World Cup, ironically held in Italy once again, England met Belgium in a crucial second round match. With the game drifting towards a shapeless and haphazard draw the ever impish and mischievous Paul Gascoigne suddenly discovered that there was a vital World Cup game to be won. In the last seconds of the game. a well flighted free kick was swung dangerously into the Belgian penalty area and David Platt, a pleasingly skilful midfield player. allowed the ball to fall over his shoulder before wrapping his foot around the ball and hooking the ball into the net for England's very late winner.
Tunisia of course were England's first opponents in the 1998 World Cup held in France. A firmly directed header from Alan Shearer and a classical shot from Paul Scholes were enough to silence the noisy Tunisian supporters. England's 2-0 victory that day now seems like many generations ago given England's fortunes in recent World Cup and European Championship opening games.
And as for Panama? Well who knows at this stage? In theory there should be too many canals in class between England and Panama. Maybe there is a case here for wearing the right kind of hat but you'll have forgive my Friday witticisms because that's as far as I can take football related humour for one day. Of course we're in unknown territory here because this is Panama's first ever World Cup and we must wish them well.
In Group A the hosts Russia have been drawn in a group heavily scented with a Middle Eastern flavour. Egypt and Saudi Arabia sounds potentially explosive and Uruguay should never be discounted in any World Cup. But 1930 and 1950 does seem far distant in time and besides there are no Juan Schiaffinos leading the Uruguyan attack and Uruguay can be very moody and bolshy under provocation. Just ask Scotland in the 1986 World Cup when the Scots seemed to be kicked to pieces in a drab 1-1 draw..
The other eye catching groups were World Cup holders Germany who must face Mexico, Sweden and South Korea, a wonderful and globally diverse concoction of nations. Mexico never really trouble the World Cup football establishment as such but they do have Javier Hernandez playing in a West Ham team who seemed to be giving a convincing impersonation of Apocalypse Now at the moment. Mexico, of course, were on the wrong end of Bobby Charlton's destructive shooting power in the 1966 World Cup. And South Korea are South Korea, romantic sounding and mystical but likewise a side who may give the Germans a couple of sleepless nights without the attendant nightmares.
The Brazilians are, as we all know historically breathtaking, sublime and oozing with originality. In the 2014 World Cup in Brazil the Brazilians imploded and exploded in the same tournament. Their football simply subsided and disintegrated like an old, derelict building brick by brick. When the Germans destroyed Brazil 7-1 in the World Cup semi finals an entire nation went into hiding and the soul of Brazilian football was torn asunder like a yellow sheet that's been left for too long in the washing machine. Switzerland, in theory, should be easily beatable while Serbia shouldn't really bring the Brazilians out in a cold sweat. Costa Rica will probably buzz around the Brazilians with menacing intent but Brazilian progress into the next round of the World Cup should be a formality.
In Group B the tastiest and meatiest of matches has to be that of Spain and Portugal. Both have been paired together in the same group and there can be no conceivable love lost between these countries. It may be regarded as a local derby if only because the geographical distance between the two is so close. There is a considerable amount of needle and animosity here so be prepared for some Iberian fireworks. The other teams are Morocco who add their own helping of pepper, oregano and paprika to the group. Oh for the wonders of the Far East. Then there's Iran, the country who once reduced Scotland boss Ally Mcleod to tears and hair scratching when Scotland were held by Iran.
Finally there is Argentina, who, rather like Brazil, bring their own glamour and drama to any World Cup competition. It often seems like Argentina's very own drama queens or maybe that should be kings are perhaps just too hot headed for our liking but still compulsively watchable. Argentina are melodramatic, genuinely brilliant on their day but temperamental in the extreme when there's clearly no need for such unseemly behaviour. The tango seems to suit the whole nation as they swagger around the world stage with all the arrogance of the supposedly superior country.
Argentina have for company in their group Iceland which is very much where England came in at Euro 2016, theoretically ready to be beaten quite comprehensively and Croatia who always seem to give a respectable account of themselves in World Cups without ever threatening to win it. Once again Croatia are a team of individual star makers but never really on the same level of their much bigger and better footballing brethren. Nigeria will always be a pleasure to watch if only because the African nations love to play the game right away without ever matching the technical excellence of their European counterparts.
So there you have it folks. The runners and riders for next year's World Cup have been matched up in their respective groups and Russia and Vladimir Putin will spend the rest of his Friday evening savouring a refreshing cup of tea from his samovar and then swallowing another glass of vodka with a satisfied gulp. There are political rumblings of discontent in Russia and warmongering bullies gathering their forces. But as long as Gareth Southgate wears that very smart navy waistcoat and remains modesty personified then England can sleep easily tonight. Russia may be some way off now but this could be the time to keep the faith. Its time to support the England football team. It's time to live in hope. There can be nothing wrong with that.
Oh before I forget. Here's another pointer in the direction of my book promotion for No Joe Bloggs and Victorian Madness Lyrics. You may want to check out my You Tube videos for both my book No Joe Bloggs where I tell you about my life story and two Victorian Madness Lyrics You Tube videos which are I think deliberately hilarious. If you click on to both these You Tube videos I think both of these books could be considered as humble Christmas treats. One Victorian Madness Lyrics lyric is Embarrassment - aka Humiliation and House of Fun - Establishment of Amusement. I hope you'll like both No Joe Bloggs and Victorian Madness Lyrics in my cosy corner of You Tube. They're a great festive read. Thanks everybody.
Incidentally No Joe Bloggs is currently available at Amazon, Amazon Kindle, Waterstones online market place and Books-A-Million online while Victorian Madness Lyrics is available at Feed- A- Read.com.
Thursday, 30 November 2017
West Ham chewed up by hungry Everton toffees.
West Ham chewed up by hungry Everton toffees.
For the small contingent of West Ham supporters at Goodison Park last night this was one of the occasions where you simply wanted to close your eyes, look at the ground and think of more pressing issues. Most of the claret and blue huddle on Merseyside must have been cursing their decision to jump onto a train or into a car and make that nightmarishly long journey from East London to Merseyside to support their struggling, angst ridden team.
But they did make it in the end and such loyalty and devotion to the cause was almost rashly overlooked by a West Ham team who, quite clearly, seem to be going nowhere fast and sinking deeper into the quicksand of relegation. For some of us this is such a familiar story that some of us already know how the book ends. We may hope that everybody lives happily ever after but the suspicion is that it'll end in tears, tantrums and boardroom upheaval is too well founded
What we had at Goodison was a spicy reunion of one former player with his old club, a manager who had now returned to his former stomping ground and a manager in waiting who used to be charge of last opponents. Football loves its coincidences and quirky back stories but this was too much to take in the space of 90 minutes of football.
In the blue Everton corner there was David Unsworth, formerly a tall, strapping central defender for West Ham for whom opposing forwards feared to tread. Last night Unsworth was back on his hometown guiding Everton in a caretaker capacity. By the end of this game Unsworth could lock up the gates, drop the keys into his pocket and then store away the bucket and mop. His job had been done and none could have asked anymore of him. This caretaker manager malarkey isn't that bad and he could probably could get used to it but Everton had other ideas.
In the claret and blue corner there was David Moyes, formerly the consistently and impressively successful manager of Everton. Moyes was back at Goodison cobbling together the broken pieces of a West Ham side who at the moment look like a team in sharp decline, accidentally slipping down some stairs but trying to avoid the bumping and rolling towards the ground floor.
After three Premier League matches in charge Moyes is beginning to look almost as haunted as he was with Sunderland and nobody could stop them from relegation to the Championship.When Sir Alex Ferguson recommended Moyes as his replacement at Manchester United the whole footballing community must have thought Fergie had been reading too many fairy stories. But as usual Ferguson always know best or at least thinks he does.
Once everything went disastrously wrong for Moyes at United it was widely felt that Moyes would never ever be employed by any football club again. The fit was entirely wrong at United and the former Preston boss was too wet behind the ears for professional football management. United were a big, plush, wealthy and world renowned football team for whom Moyes was not the man to take them to an even more exalted level than they already were.
And then there is Sam Allardyce. Now the movements of Sam Allardyce are a fascinating study into the mindset of a modern day football manager. For years Allardyce took Bolton Wanderers to such rarefied heights that even Nat Lofthouse would have been deeply envious. But Allardyce was never a footballing purist and that was the point when Allardyce was told to leave by the back door and told to shut it in no uncertain terms.The presence of Jay Jay Ockocha at Bolton still sounds like some weirdly incongruous chapter in the club's history but it did happen.
On a freezing cold night by the Mersey it was thought Everton would be permanently anchored on the docks such was the prevailing mood of pessimism. After they were thumped by Southampton at St. Mary's some of the Everton fans must have been tempted to throw a lifeboat at the players. These are stressful and worrying times at Goodison and after the departure of Ronald Koeman the ranks of disgruntled blue were about to throw their team overboard.
Last night was another demonstration of football at its most unpredictable and capricious. Everton and West Ham were stuck firmly in the Premier League relegation mud and muck. It can never be easy when your team suddenly find themselves trapped in a corner they simply can't escape from no matter how hard they tried.
Finally though the defensive rock of Ashley Williams, blended effectively with Jonjoe Kenny, Mason Holgate and Idrissa Gueye. Finally Everton had finally managed to tune into the same wavelength as each other without any interference from know all foreign owners. It was interesting to note though that Everton had one Farhad Moshiri looking down quizzically from the director's box. Oh for the days when football chairmen wore bowler hats, waistcoats and were the principal owners of local timber merchants.
Next to Moshiri was Bill Kenwright who knows a good deal more about smoking chimneys and cobbled streets on Coronation Street which gives him a perfect insight into football's industrial past. Then there was Sam Allardyce, once heavily criticised and maligned by the football boo boys who insist that football should have a strong hint of caviar rather than steak and kidney pie pragmatism.
Recently Allardyce began to develop a reputation for collecting football clubs rather than the most hardened coin operator. In no time to all Allardyce paid a flying visit to West Ham, Sunderland and Crystal Palace in quick succession before finally landing up with the England job. We all know what happened there. Allardyce, whose childhood dream was to be the boss of the England football team was cunningly drawn into a honey trap from which there was no way out.
In a secret hotel bar, Allardyce was the victim of the ultimate of stings, the victim of circumstances and a man whose integrity was fatally undermined by hush hush taped interviews and what seemed like financial jiggery pokery. Poor Sam. He may have been sadly naive and gullible but that almost seems to come with the football management manual at times.
Anyway Allardyce 's new Everton team did much to endear him to the Goodison sceptics. For the first time in what seems like ages Everton looked a completely different side to the one the locals had seen undressed by Arsenal, sliced open and then stuffed like a taxidermist's proudest creation. Everton were smashed to pieces by Arsenal with the most one sided 5-2 victory the Everton faithful had ever seen by the away side.
Everton had a refreshing vibrancy and lethal attacking efficiency that had almost been embarrassingly deficient from the game until the visit of West Ham. There was a liveliness and vitality about their football that some believed may have deserted them for ever. Their football had that vital spark of imagination and cohesion that simply blew West Ham aside in no time at all. There was a comfortable togetherness and unity about Everton that none of their fans had bargained on seeing again.
Then the veteran Aaron Lennon who rose to prominence at Spurs and played some of his best football, joined forces with Tom Davies, the beautifully proportioned Iceland international Gylfi Sigurdsson and the rapidly blossoming Dominic Calvert Lewin. Suddenly Everton were firing on all cylinders, the passes were fluent, foot loose and fancy free, the angles were splendidly measured and those in a blue shirt were finally discovering a new found karma. Occasionally there were howls of anguish and then Everton found a renewed poise and direction
After only 10 minutes Everton opened the scoring. The prodigal son Wayne Rooney stroked home a penalty at the second attempt after a blue tide surged into the penalty area. Joe Hart fell at the feet of Calvert Lewin and hauled down the Everton forward like the proverbial sack of potatoes. Now West Ham were scrambling for possession and balance. For next half an hour or so West Ham looked as though somebody had deliberately given them the wrong instructions. Once again the feebleness and nervousness that had almost swallowed them up against both Leicester and Watford had now taken root in their game once again. Claret and blue men went missing and the SOS signals were more or less ignored.
When Rooney swept through the defence like the most gentle of breezes to joyously steer the ball home for Everton's second, the game looked absolutely up for the visitors. Not for the first time this season, Joe Hart's cardboard cut out of a defence folded in front like a deck of cards. Hart is still one of the more reliable of goalkeepers when the mood suits him. But Hart is now shipping more goals than he could have possibly imagined at Manchester City. Everton of course were naturally in cruise control and Everton reminded you of a graceful liner floating serenely towards the sunset.
Come the second half and Everton eased back on the throttle and fell into a state of sleepy complacency. Now those grumpy voices in the Everton crowd were expressing yet more disenchantment. West Ham's excellent and continually inventive Argentine midfield play maker Manuel Lanzini had finally come out to play. He was picking up the ball in all the most crucial areas of the pitch and either running gingerly towards the Everton goal or getting up to all manner of scheming and plotting before carving open a now alarmed Everton defence.
Suddenly there was life in an otherwise lifeless West Ham defence. The bleary eyed indifference was now replaced with a much more determined and purposeful team. Claret and blue shirts were now finding each other confidently and substitute striker Diafro Sakho came on, ran strongly into the penalty area and then was carelessly bundled over for a West Ham penalty.West Ham had already seen an Aaron Cresswell shot snap a cross bar and Lanzini volunteered for the spot kick. In retrospect he may be regretting that on the spur of the moment decision. The Argentinian stepped up, clipped the ball almost too softly for words and Everton keeper Jordan Pickford must have thought all of his birthdays had come at once with an excellent save with both hands.
Everton, as if reprieved, were now revitalised by this single moment of good fortune. Half way through there occurred one of those glorious moments in a football match when something unique happens which simply distinguishes it from the run of the mill and ennobles it to a much higher plateau.
Several seasons Wayne Rooney scored a spectacular goal from the half way line for Manchester United against West Ham. Last night Rooney uncannily memorised that goal and performed the same function. Once again it was quite the most astonishing goal, a classic fusion of perception, clever thinking and brilliant intuition. West Ham keeper Joe Hart must have thought the moment of danger had passed but he hadn't accounted for the quick witted genius of Rooney at his goal-scoring best. It was quite the most incredible goal of any season and although far from the consistent goal scorer he was at Manchester United this was still a state of the art display from Rooney.
By the time Ashley Williams had added a fourth with a glancing header from yet another Everton corner West Ham were much more concerned with the coach journey home. This was another flat, disjointed and totally asymmetrical performance from the visitors. The brief signs of productive football they'd shown at home to Leicester had now vanished into the winter Mersey mist. There were flashes of co-ordinated passing across the whole length and breadth of the pitch but then it all fizzled out rather pathetically on the edge of the 18 yard area.
Pedro Obiang looked positive and energetic in the middle of West Ham's midfield and Chekyou Kouyate tried to impose himself on the game without ever really knowing what he was supposed to be doing. Kouyate does look polished on the ball but seems to going backwards rather than forwards at times. Aaron Cresswell ventured forward into promising crossing positions but it all seemed very hurried and under rehearsed. And last but not least there is a man called Marko Arnautovic. This is a man who seemingly defies description and belief.
Last season Arnautovic scored goals by the dozen and almost unstoppably at Stoke City. Now the torrent has turned into a complete drought. The Austrian forward must be longing for a hole in the ground to disappear as lolloping runs on the flank just peter out lethargically. For a man who cost West Ham £25 million this may not be the right time to write Arnautovic off as both liability or a waste of money.
It had been a long, hard and depressing night for those with a claret and blue loyalty. Yet another dreadful and meekly submissive evening for West Ham had dragged the club into those stormy waters of another relegation battle against the odds. David Moyes really did look as though he'd been waiting for a bus in some country shelter and with forthcoming games against leaders Manchester City at the Etihad Stadium followed by Chelsea and Arsenal another helter skelter of a season for West Ham could find its way into the darkest tunnel. It is indeed hard to know whether to laugh or cry at Moyes dilemma. If only he could recall those blue blooded years at Everton. Oh to be a Premier League manager.
For the small contingent of West Ham supporters at Goodison Park last night this was one of the occasions where you simply wanted to close your eyes, look at the ground and think of more pressing issues. Most of the claret and blue huddle on Merseyside must have been cursing their decision to jump onto a train or into a car and make that nightmarishly long journey from East London to Merseyside to support their struggling, angst ridden team.
But they did make it in the end and such loyalty and devotion to the cause was almost rashly overlooked by a West Ham team who, quite clearly, seem to be going nowhere fast and sinking deeper into the quicksand of relegation. For some of us this is such a familiar story that some of us already know how the book ends. We may hope that everybody lives happily ever after but the suspicion is that it'll end in tears, tantrums and boardroom upheaval is too well founded
What we had at Goodison was a spicy reunion of one former player with his old club, a manager who had now returned to his former stomping ground and a manager in waiting who used to be charge of last opponents. Football loves its coincidences and quirky back stories but this was too much to take in the space of 90 minutes of football.
In the blue Everton corner there was David Unsworth, formerly a tall, strapping central defender for West Ham for whom opposing forwards feared to tread. Last night Unsworth was back on his hometown guiding Everton in a caretaker capacity. By the end of this game Unsworth could lock up the gates, drop the keys into his pocket and then store away the bucket and mop. His job had been done and none could have asked anymore of him. This caretaker manager malarkey isn't that bad and he could probably could get used to it but Everton had other ideas.
In the claret and blue corner there was David Moyes, formerly the consistently and impressively successful manager of Everton. Moyes was back at Goodison cobbling together the broken pieces of a West Ham side who at the moment look like a team in sharp decline, accidentally slipping down some stairs but trying to avoid the bumping and rolling towards the ground floor.
After three Premier League matches in charge Moyes is beginning to look almost as haunted as he was with Sunderland and nobody could stop them from relegation to the Championship.When Sir Alex Ferguson recommended Moyes as his replacement at Manchester United the whole footballing community must have thought Fergie had been reading too many fairy stories. But as usual Ferguson always know best or at least thinks he does.
Once everything went disastrously wrong for Moyes at United it was widely felt that Moyes would never ever be employed by any football club again. The fit was entirely wrong at United and the former Preston boss was too wet behind the ears for professional football management. United were a big, plush, wealthy and world renowned football team for whom Moyes was not the man to take them to an even more exalted level than they already were.
And then there is Sam Allardyce. Now the movements of Sam Allardyce are a fascinating study into the mindset of a modern day football manager. For years Allardyce took Bolton Wanderers to such rarefied heights that even Nat Lofthouse would have been deeply envious. But Allardyce was never a footballing purist and that was the point when Allardyce was told to leave by the back door and told to shut it in no uncertain terms.The presence of Jay Jay Ockocha at Bolton still sounds like some weirdly incongruous chapter in the club's history but it did happen.
On a freezing cold night by the Mersey it was thought Everton would be permanently anchored on the docks such was the prevailing mood of pessimism. After they were thumped by Southampton at St. Mary's some of the Everton fans must have been tempted to throw a lifeboat at the players. These are stressful and worrying times at Goodison and after the departure of Ronald Koeman the ranks of disgruntled blue were about to throw their team overboard.
Last night was another demonstration of football at its most unpredictable and capricious. Everton and West Ham were stuck firmly in the Premier League relegation mud and muck. It can never be easy when your team suddenly find themselves trapped in a corner they simply can't escape from no matter how hard they tried.
Finally though the defensive rock of Ashley Williams, blended effectively with Jonjoe Kenny, Mason Holgate and Idrissa Gueye. Finally Everton had finally managed to tune into the same wavelength as each other without any interference from know all foreign owners. It was interesting to note though that Everton had one Farhad Moshiri looking down quizzically from the director's box. Oh for the days when football chairmen wore bowler hats, waistcoats and were the principal owners of local timber merchants.
Next to Moshiri was Bill Kenwright who knows a good deal more about smoking chimneys and cobbled streets on Coronation Street which gives him a perfect insight into football's industrial past. Then there was Sam Allardyce, once heavily criticised and maligned by the football boo boys who insist that football should have a strong hint of caviar rather than steak and kidney pie pragmatism.
Recently Allardyce began to develop a reputation for collecting football clubs rather than the most hardened coin operator. In no time to all Allardyce paid a flying visit to West Ham, Sunderland and Crystal Palace in quick succession before finally landing up with the England job. We all know what happened there. Allardyce, whose childhood dream was to be the boss of the England football team was cunningly drawn into a honey trap from which there was no way out.
In a secret hotel bar, Allardyce was the victim of the ultimate of stings, the victim of circumstances and a man whose integrity was fatally undermined by hush hush taped interviews and what seemed like financial jiggery pokery. Poor Sam. He may have been sadly naive and gullible but that almost seems to come with the football management manual at times.
Anyway Allardyce 's new Everton team did much to endear him to the Goodison sceptics. For the first time in what seems like ages Everton looked a completely different side to the one the locals had seen undressed by Arsenal, sliced open and then stuffed like a taxidermist's proudest creation. Everton were smashed to pieces by Arsenal with the most one sided 5-2 victory the Everton faithful had ever seen by the away side.
Everton had a refreshing vibrancy and lethal attacking efficiency that had almost been embarrassingly deficient from the game until the visit of West Ham. There was a liveliness and vitality about their football that some believed may have deserted them for ever. Their football had that vital spark of imagination and cohesion that simply blew West Ham aside in no time at all. There was a comfortable togetherness and unity about Everton that none of their fans had bargained on seeing again.
Then the veteran Aaron Lennon who rose to prominence at Spurs and played some of his best football, joined forces with Tom Davies, the beautifully proportioned Iceland international Gylfi Sigurdsson and the rapidly blossoming Dominic Calvert Lewin. Suddenly Everton were firing on all cylinders, the passes were fluent, foot loose and fancy free, the angles were splendidly measured and those in a blue shirt were finally discovering a new found karma. Occasionally there were howls of anguish and then Everton found a renewed poise and direction
After only 10 minutes Everton opened the scoring. The prodigal son Wayne Rooney stroked home a penalty at the second attempt after a blue tide surged into the penalty area. Joe Hart fell at the feet of Calvert Lewin and hauled down the Everton forward like the proverbial sack of potatoes. Now West Ham were scrambling for possession and balance. For next half an hour or so West Ham looked as though somebody had deliberately given them the wrong instructions. Once again the feebleness and nervousness that had almost swallowed them up against both Leicester and Watford had now taken root in their game once again. Claret and blue men went missing and the SOS signals were more or less ignored.
When Rooney swept through the defence like the most gentle of breezes to joyously steer the ball home for Everton's second, the game looked absolutely up for the visitors. Not for the first time this season, Joe Hart's cardboard cut out of a defence folded in front like a deck of cards. Hart is still one of the more reliable of goalkeepers when the mood suits him. But Hart is now shipping more goals than he could have possibly imagined at Manchester City. Everton of course were naturally in cruise control and Everton reminded you of a graceful liner floating serenely towards the sunset.
Come the second half and Everton eased back on the throttle and fell into a state of sleepy complacency. Now those grumpy voices in the Everton crowd were expressing yet more disenchantment. West Ham's excellent and continually inventive Argentine midfield play maker Manuel Lanzini had finally come out to play. He was picking up the ball in all the most crucial areas of the pitch and either running gingerly towards the Everton goal or getting up to all manner of scheming and plotting before carving open a now alarmed Everton defence.
Suddenly there was life in an otherwise lifeless West Ham defence. The bleary eyed indifference was now replaced with a much more determined and purposeful team. Claret and blue shirts were now finding each other confidently and substitute striker Diafro Sakho came on, ran strongly into the penalty area and then was carelessly bundled over for a West Ham penalty.West Ham had already seen an Aaron Cresswell shot snap a cross bar and Lanzini volunteered for the spot kick. In retrospect he may be regretting that on the spur of the moment decision. The Argentinian stepped up, clipped the ball almost too softly for words and Everton keeper Jordan Pickford must have thought all of his birthdays had come at once with an excellent save with both hands.
Everton, as if reprieved, were now revitalised by this single moment of good fortune. Half way through there occurred one of those glorious moments in a football match when something unique happens which simply distinguishes it from the run of the mill and ennobles it to a much higher plateau.
Several seasons Wayne Rooney scored a spectacular goal from the half way line for Manchester United against West Ham. Last night Rooney uncannily memorised that goal and performed the same function. Once again it was quite the most astonishing goal, a classic fusion of perception, clever thinking and brilliant intuition. West Ham keeper Joe Hart must have thought the moment of danger had passed but he hadn't accounted for the quick witted genius of Rooney at his goal-scoring best. It was quite the most incredible goal of any season and although far from the consistent goal scorer he was at Manchester United this was still a state of the art display from Rooney.
By the time Ashley Williams had added a fourth with a glancing header from yet another Everton corner West Ham were much more concerned with the coach journey home. This was another flat, disjointed and totally asymmetrical performance from the visitors. The brief signs of productive football they'd shown at home to Leicester had now vanished into the winter Mersey mist. There were flashes of co-ordinated passing across the whole length and breadth of the pitch but then it all fizzled out rather pathetically on the edge of the 18 yard area.
Pedro Obiang looked positive and energetic in the middle of West Ham's midfield and Chekyou Kouyate tried to impose himself on the game without ever really knowing what he was supposed to be doing. Kouyate does look polished on the ball but seems to going backwards rather than forwards at times. Aaron Cresswell ventured forward into promising crossing positions but it all seemed very hurried and under rehearsed. And last but not least there is a man called Marko Arnautovic. This is a man who seemingly defies description and belief.
Last season Arnautovic scored goals by the dozen and almost unstoppably at Stoke City. Now the torrent has turned into a complete drought. The Austrian forward must be longing for a hole in the ground to disappear as lolloping runs on the flank just peter out lethargically. For a man who cost West Ham £25 million this may not be the right time to write Arnautovic off as both liability or a waste of money.
It had been a long, hard and depressing night for those with a claret and blue loyalty. Yet another dreadful and meekly submissive evening for West Ham had dragged the club into those stormy waters of another relegation battle against the odds. David Moyes really did look as though he'd been waiting for a bus in some country shelter and with forthcoming games against leaders Manchester City at the Etihad Stadium followed by Chelsea and Arsenal another helter skelter of a season for West Ham could find its way into the darkest tunnel. It is indeed hard to know whether to laugh or cry at Moyes dilemma. If only he could recall those blue blooded years at Everton. Oh to be a Premier League manager.
Tuesday, 28 November 2017
Congrats Meghan and Prince Harry- a right royal romance. Good news at last.
Congrats Meghan and Prince Harry- a right royal romance. Good news at last.
Oh my goodness me. A good piece of news at long last. I didn't think the day would ever come. How long is it now? A whole year, perhaps a decade, maybe six months or so. It's certainly been one of those years hasn't it? Wherever you've looked if it hasn't been one thing it's been another. Quite frankly it's been sickeningly depressing until yesterday.
Oh yes it had to happen. We've heard it on the grapevine and we knew it was much more than a rumour because we just had that sixth sense, a premonition that there was something good in the air. We could sense it. We could almost hear it. And it almost seemed like the worst kept secret. But yesterday the incurable romantics and royalists among us had suddenly found that our dreams had come true.
For yesterday the engagement of Prince Harry, son of Prince Charles and the deeply missed Princess Diana, to American actress Meghan Markle was announced triumphantly to a world that must have despaired at times throughout the year. Wow, at long last something to get excited about, something to look forward to, clutch to its breast in wondrous anticipation. Another royal wedding will shortly be with us and the nation holds its breath. It's next spring so time to pencil this very royal do clearly into our consciousness because it's about time something nice happened.
For those who are emotionally torn about the Royals and the monarchy it has to be said that a good, old fashioned wedding somehow lifts the entire mood of the nation. The unfortunate story of the Royal Family marriages has now been extensively documented and maybe conveniently forgotten for obvious reasons. We all now know every detail, fact, reason, trauma and tragedy which is now sadly associated with each of Her Majesty's children.
But this is not the time to be heavily critical and judgmental on delicate issues which are still so raw in the minds. Personally I'm a strong, staunch royalist who believes quite fervently that Her Majesty the Queen has done a remarkable job in the line of duty and service to both Britain, the Commonwealth and the world. It would be easy to say that Her Majesty hasn't really had it easy throughout her noble and distinguished reign as Queen. In fact that may be considered as one of the greatest understatements I've ever made.
It's undeniably true to say though that all of the Royal Family continue to provide the United Kingdom with its most identifiable figurehead, models of stability and continuity in an otherwise volatile and troubled world. Her Majesty is a warm, understanding, humane, compassionate and benevolent woman with the most human touches, an exemplary Queen with the most stunning of smiles, an ever present sense of humour and an intimate understanding of society, technology and the latest developments of the day.
And now Her Majesty is about to see her grandson tying the marital knot. A marriage is in the air and ding dong the bells are going to chime. For some time we've seen Prince Harry develop into an intelligent, charming and extremely eloquent man. The gossip mongers of course have picked up on all of Harry's so called wild child antics, the rebellious streak, the late nights at tempting wine bars and the hundreds of female admirers who just want to be seen with royalty.
Throughout Harry's eventful youth there were of course the flirtations, the smouldering dalliances, the dates with girls that were no more than flings and then painting the town an even deeper shade of red. A young man's attentions are often turned to female flesh and Harry seemed to revel in the giddy moments of fun and the adulation of those who may have thought he was jolly good company.
Of course there were the nights of booze, drink and unashamed indulgence, the relentless partying, the late night enjoyments of high society, the recognition of his peers, the aristocrats, the high fliers, the businessmen and women, the artists, the sculptors and the writers who follow him around the country in a determined attempt to be one of the crowd.
There is though much more about Harry than the son of the future King because this is not the way he would prefer to be recognised. Harry is much more than the popular perception of those who see him as nothing more than some party loving prince, a man rather of humanity, heart, substance and distinction, a hard working, thoughtful man who just wants to get on with the business of living his life in the way he wants it to be lived.
Once again this summer Prince Harry presented his brainchild, a project closest to his heart and a cause he feels a very personal connection with, an idea he wanted to tell the rest of the world about it. The Invictus Games was once again held this year, an event that came to fruition as a result of Harry's personal dedication to those in the Armed Forces who had now become permanently disabled.
Harry's future wife Meghan Markle is an American actress whose CV consisted of a couple of commercials, a sprinkling of appearances in American TV films and perhaps one or two Hollywood star turns. To all outward appearances Meghan Markle is pretty, photogenic, slightly star struck, bewildered at the speed of events but very feminine and charmingly demure. She flutters her eye lashes, holds the hand of her husband to be with a protective charm and effusive love in her heart.
So there you have it. Britain can now brace itself for another bombardment of glitzy, glamorous celebs sending their heartfelt congratulations to the royal couple. Here in Manor House we'd like to say mazzeltov and wish Meghan and Harry a healthy and happy future together. Earlier a flock of gulls circled over Green Lanes as if paying their personal homage to Meghan and Harry. For a minute it looked as if they'd lost their way but on they went, swooping low then soaring into the crisp, bright, end of November blue sky. There was a brief moment of squawking and then spinning around in ever increasing circles. At last it was a good news day and not before time.
Oh my goodness me. A good piece of news at long last. I didn't think the day would ever come. How long is it now? A whole year, perhaps a decade, maybe six months or so. It's certainly been one of those years hasn't it? Wherever you've looked if it hasn't been one thing it's been another. Quite frankly it's been sickeningly depressing until yesterday.
Oh yes it had to happen. We've heard it on the grapevine and we knew it was much more than a rumour because we just had that sixth sense, a premonition that there was something good in the air. We could sense it. We could almost hear it. And it almost seemed like the worst kept secret. But yesterday the incurable romantics and royalists among us had suddenly found that our dreams had come true.
For yesterday the engagement of Prince Harry, son of Prince Charles and the deeply missed Princess Diana, to American actress Meghan Markle was announced triumphantly to a world that must have despaired at times throughout the year. Wow, at long last something to get excited about, something to look forward to, clutch to its breast in wondrous anticipation. Another royal wedding will shortly be with us and the nation holds its breath. It's next spring so time to pencil this very royal do clearly into our consciousness because it's about time something nice happened.
For those who are emotionally torn about the Royals and the monarchy it has to be said that a good, old fashioned wedding somehow lifts the entire mood of the nation. The unfortunate story of the Royal Family marriages has now been extensively documented and maybe conveniently forgotten for obvious reasons. We all now know every detail, fact, reason, trauma and tragedy which is now sadly associated with each of Her Majesty's children.
But this is not the time to be heavily critical and judgmental on delicate issues which are still so raw in the minds. Personally I'm a strong, staunch royalist who believes quite fervently that Her Majesty the Queen has done a remarkable job in the line of duty and service to both Britain, the Commonwealth and the world. It would be easy to say that Her Majesty hasn't really had it easy throughout her noble and distinguished reign as Queen. In fact that may be considered as one of the greatest understatements I've ever made.
It's undeniably true to say though that all of the Royal Family continue to provide the United Kingdom with its most identifiable figurehead, models of stability and continuity in an otherwise volatile and troubled world. Her Majesty is a warm, understanding, humane, compassionate and benevolent woman with the most human touches, an exemplary Queen with the most stunning of smiles, an ever present sense of humour and an intimate understanding of society, technology and the latest developments of the day.
And now Her Majesty is about to see her grandson tying the marital knot. A marriage is in the air and ding dong the bells are going to chime. For some time we've seen Prince Harry develop into an intelligent, charming and extremely eloquent man. The gossip mongers of course have picked up on all of Harry's so called wild child antics, the rebellious streak, the late nights at tempting wine bars and the hundreds of female admirers who just want to be seen with royalty.
Throughout Harry's eventful youth there were of course the flirtations, the smouldering dalliances, the dates with girls that were no more than flings and then painting the town an even deeper shade of red. A young man's attentions are often turned to female flesh and Harry seemed to revel in the giddy moments of fun and the adulation of those who may have thought he was jolly good company.
Of course there were the nights of booze, drink and unashamed indulgence, the relentless partying, the late night enjoyments of high society, the recognition of his peers, the aristocrats, the high fliers, the businessmen and women, the artists, the sculptors and the writers who follow him around the country in a determined attempt to be one of the crowd.
There is though much more about Harry than the son of the future King because this is not the way he would prefer to be recognised. Harry is much more than the popular perception of those who see him as nothing more than some party loving prince, a man rather of humanity, heart, substance and distinction, a hard working, thoughtful man who just wants to get on with the business of living his life in the way he wants it to be lived.
Once again this summer Prince Harry presented his brainchild, a project closest to his heart and a cause he feels a very personal connection with, an idea he wanted to tell the rest of the world about it. The Invictus Games was once again held this year, an event that came to fruition as a result of Harry's personal dedication to those in the Armed Forces who had now become permanently disabled.
Harry's future wife Meghan Markle is an American actress whose CV consisted of a couple of commercials, a sprinkling of appearances in American TV films and perhaps one or two Hollywood star turns. To all outward appearances Meghan Markle is pretty, photogenic, slightly star struck, bewildered at the speed of events but very feminine and charmingly demure. She flutters her eye lashes, holds the hand of her husband to be with a protective charm and effusive love in her heart.
So there you have it. Britain can now brace itself for another bombardment of glitzy, glamorous celebs sending their heartfelt congratulations to the royal couple. Here in Manor House we'd like to say mazzeltov and wish Meghan and Harry a healthy and happy future together. Earlier a flock of gulls circled over Green Lanes as if paying their personal homage to Meghan and Harry. For a minute it looked as if they'd lost their way but on they went, swooping low then soaring into the crisp, bright, end of November blue sky. There was a brief moment of squawking and then spinning around in ever increasing circles. At last it was a good news day and not before time.
Sunday, 26 November 2017
Football on Christmas Eve.
A case of history repeating itself.
It almost seems like a case of history repeating itself. Many decades ago football matches were played on both Christmas Day, Boxing Day and New Year's Day. Now, in their infinite wisdom, the FA have done it again. As if the football fixture list wasn't congested enough as it is football, or so the rumour has it, has taken upon itself to stipulate that football be played on Christmas Eve and if the FA gets its way, then football would probably be played on each of the 12 Christmas days without so much as a break for mulled wine or a cracker.
What on earth happened to that festive spirit of goodwill when the footballers of the Premier League were spared their taxing duties over Christmas? Surely this is the time of the year when a football is locked away in a cupboard, football's families don a festive paper hat and cracker, told quite firmly to don the red coat, the white beard and then go tumbling down a chimney because mum is still cooking the turkey and the roast potatoes have to be in the oven as soon as possible.
But there are no concessions or sacrifices to be made for our lithe, athletic Premier League players because they're the ones who have to forsake the pleasures of Christmas and run themselves into the ground and deliver three valuable points for their relegation threatened team. Football over Christmas was designed for Boxing Day and essentially it was the game we played before the Christmas pantomime and usually in the morning quite inexplicably.
Then there were the Boxing Day afternoon matches which were normally light hearted affairs where local derbies between bitter rivals would be slugged out remorselessly with heavy stomachs and the leftovers of the previous day's mince pies. The winters were harder and colder, snow engulfing the touchlines, making football more or less impossible.
But the kids had fun and that's all that seemed to matter and groundsmen across the country diligently cleared the white stuff with huge shovels while the players wore natty leggings, gloves, long sleeves and shivered bravely in the freezing cold. On the terraces the fans, in admirably good humoured form, would jump up and down to keep warm while playfully chucking snowballs at each other. The game though had to go on and it was only when conditions became desperately treacherous that matches would be called off.
Here we are though again and this time the FA have announced their latest piece of inspired thinking and forward planning. How about playing a Premier League fixture list on Christmas Eve when most of Britain are planning their Mass visit at mid- night or stocking up on those last minute presents. Crazy but true. What were the FA thinking of at the time if indeed they were thinking at all? Surely it must have occurred to somebody that a team at one end of the country would have to trundle all the way across admittedly empty motorways and play football on Christmas Eve. It seems too absurd for words.
This though is yet another example of the FA's complete disregard for both the players and fans who, whether they like it or not, must travel the length and breadth of the country on the most religious and holiest of holiday periods. Still it could be worse but not that much . Isn't it bad enough that our precious and brilliant players have to go through an entire winter without so much as coming up for air or pausing for breath?
In Britain the almost deafening cry and clamour for a proper winter break has become an almost a boisterous din. We now know that in both France, Germany, Spain and most of the teams who will be adorning next year's World Cup in Russia will be safely tucked up in the warm sanctuary of their homes celebrating the Yuletide with their kith and kin and relishing the resumption of their season sometime in the middle of January or perhaps later.
Maybe this is an opportune time to recall that bizarre, surreal Boxing Day football fixture list in the winter of 1963. In isolation the whole day itself must have made little or no sense to anybody but it happened. Appropriately pantomimes were about to be released on the British public but nobody could have foreseen that Aladdin would be wearing a football shirt. By the end of that day Jack and His Beanstalk must have been totally flummoxed.
Now what took place that day could never be fully explained or summarised to those with the driest of humour. It can only be assumed that most of the players who took to their muddy pitches that day had to be under the strongest influence of a few mischievous glasses of alcohol too many. In total, 66 goals were scored in the old First Division that amazing Boxing Day and you can only imagine that some of the defences that day must have had their minds on a some desert island where the palm trees wave and the sun beats down.
By the River Thames, Fulham met Ipswich Town and nobody had the slightest inkling of the astonishing events that would follow at Craven Cottage. Fulham promptly beat Ipswich 10-1. 10-1! Fulham rattled home 10 goals in a Boxing Day footballing banquet. The Fulham of Bobby Robson, Jimmy Hill and 'Tosh' Chamberlain feasted insatiably on 10 golden goals on a Boxing Day that the fans at the Cottage must have thought they were imagining it all. But on a day of complete footballing madness and bedlam everything that seemed normal on the outside world had been rendered abnormal on the First Division pitches of that day.
My team of course had to become deeply and emotionally involved in the weird sense of unreality that had now made a mockery of all of those pundits who think they can predict any result. West Ham met Blackburn Rovers at the old Upton Park on Boxing Day and must have wondered whether they should have stayed in bed. Some of us are faced with the most challenging of decisions and most of them are right. This was not the case for West Ham on a day of unrelenting nightmares.
Before the Hammers had had time to launch their first attack of the game Blackburn were opening up West Ham's ultimately helpless and fragile defence rather like the child who rips open the paper of their Christmas present. Goals were peppering the West Ham net as if an overnight deluge had flooded Upton Park. West Ham were beaten 8-2 at Upton Park and for those who were still in their cot that day it is a result that somehow defies belief and if any consolation was to be found in this dizzying East End disaster then the chances are that it may never happen again. Well, hopefully not.
The point is though that now in 2017 the Premier League is about to undergo it's first taste of Christmas tomfoolery and silliness. My father in law tells me that there was a full Christmas Day fixture list back in the mists of time. Back in the 1950s and 60s, the underground Tube trains would run and football was played against a suitably festive backdrop of well decorated Christmas trees, mistletoe and holiday time hilarity.
For whatever reason football fans probably didn't care when the game was played but not on the one day when families would gather together from all over the country with no other thought than a Christmas knees up. Then the voice of commonsense was heard and what had hitherto been some stupidly demanding schedule had now been an altogether more sensible arrangement. Football would only be played on Boxing Day and possibly New Year's Day. Still the prospect of three or four games within such a confined space of time smacks of complete madness but then again where would we be without our forward thinking and visionary FA?
But football on Christmas Eve is the proposition to be put before British football fans. One day the FA will come to its senses with a bold announcement of a complete winter break for the game. With the World Cup now within our sights we know that it has to be enforced sooner or later because without that football free zone English football may have to suffer the inevitable consequences. Once again we may have to face another World Cup in a state of mental and emotional meltdown.
Next week the draw for next summer's World Cup in Russia will be held in the Kremlin which does conjure up some splendid images but comment may have to be reserved. Most of England will be hoping that England are joined in their group by those world beaters Panama, Australia and Egypt. The truth is though that most of world football has become a level playing field and the nations who would be customarily dismissed and underestimated before a World Cup are now ready and waiting and champing at the bit.
Still, we'll all be ready and waiting for the big Kremlin hoe down where tight lipped and straight faced Russian football officials will be doing everything by the book. Holding a football World Cup draw in the Kremlin still seems the unlikeliest location for any sporting occasion. Even now there are cynical voices who will insist that the whole draw will be rigged, the KGB will muscle their way into the hall with the direct result that a major international incident will happen in Red Square.
It is at times like this that you wonder what may be going through the mind of a man called Vladimir Putin or maybe his illustrious predecessors for that matter. Leonid Brezhnev never looked the happiest of souls but a football World Cup might have brought a wry smile to his wizened eyes. Boris Yeltsin, another former Russian president was renowned for his love of a cheap vodka or two and conducting orchestras did provide him with a welcome diversion but it's hard to imagine how he would have fitted into a Dynamo Kiev team.
So it is that the Christmas festivities are almost upon us and all thoughts will turn to Moscow sooner or later. English football on Christmas Eve and a World Cup in Russia still seems like some weird fantasy that will never come to pass. Now though is the time to accept the unacceptable and believe that things will turn out for the best. For all my Russian readers you must forgive my world weary scepticism. Those Cossack dancers are truly exceptional and those samovars make a wonderful cup of tea. Football has much to look forward to.
It almost seems like a case of history repeating itself. Many decades ago football matches were played on both Christmas Day, Boxing Day and New Year's Day. Now, in their infinite wisdom, the FA have done it again. As if the football fixture list wasn't congested enough as it is football, or so the rumour has it, has taken upon itself to stipulate that football be played on Christmas Eve and if the FA gets its way, then football would probably be played on each of the 12 Christmas days without so much as a break for mulled wine or a cracker.
What on earth happened to that festive spirit of goodwill when the footballers of the Premier League were spared their taxing duties over Christmas? Surely this is the time of the year when a football is locked away in a cupboard, football's families don a festive paper hat and cracker, told quite firmly to don the red coat, the white beard and then go tumbling down a chimney because mum is still cooking the turkey and the roast potatoes have to be in the oven as soon as possible.
But there are no concessions or sacrifices to be made for our lithe, athletic Premier League players because they're the ones who have to forsake the pleasures of Christmas and run themselves into the ground and deliver three valuable points for their relegation threatened team. Football over Christmas was designed for Boxing Day and essentially it was the game we played before the Christmas pantomime and usually in the morning quite inexplicably.
Then there were the Boxing Day afternoon matches which were normally light hearted affairs where local derbies between bitter rivals would be slugged out remorselessly with heavy stomachs and the leftovers of the previous day's mince pies. The winters were harder and colder, snow engulfing the touchlines, making football more or less impossible.
But the kids had fun and that's all that seemed to matter and groundsmen across the country diligently cleared the white stuff with huge shovels while the players wore natty leggings, gloves, long sleeves and shivered bravely in the freezing cold. On the terraces the fans, in admirably good humoured form, would jump up and down to keep warm while playfully chucking snowballs at each other. The game though had to go on and it was only when conditions became desperately treacherous that matches would be called off.
Here we are though again and this time the FA have announced their latest piece of inspired thinking and forward planning. How about playing a Premier League fixture list on Christmas Eve when most of Britain are planning their Mass visit at mid- night or stocking up on those last minute presents. Crazy but true. What were the FA thinking of at the time if indeed they were thinking at all? Surely it must have occurred to somebody that a team at one end of the country would have to trundle all the way across admittedly empty motorways and play football on Christmas Eve. It seems too absurd for words.
This though is yet another example of the FA's complete disregard for both the players and fans who, whether they like it or not, must travel the length and breadth of the country on the most religious and holiest of holiday periods. Still it could be worse but not that much . Isn't it bad enough that our precious and brilliant players have to go through an entire winter without so much as coming up for air or pausing for breath?
In Britain the almost deafening cry and clamour for a proper winter break has become an almost a boisterous din. We now know that in both France, Germany, Spain and most of the teams who will be adorning next year's World Cup in Russia will be safely tucked up in the warm sanctuary of their homes celebrating the Yuletide with their kith and kin and relishing the resumption of their season sometime in the middle of January or perhaps later.
Maybe this is an opportune time to recall that bizarre, surreal Boxing Day football fixture list in the winter of 1963. In isolation the whole day itself must have made little or no sense to anybody but it happened. Appropriately pantomimes were about to be released on the British public but nobody could have foreseen that Aladdin would be wearing a football shirt. By the end of that day Jack and His Beanstalk must have been totally flummoxed.
Now what took place that day could never be fully explained or summarised to those with the driest of humour. It can only be assumed that most of the players who took to their muddy pitches that day had to be under the strongest influence of a few mischievous glasses of alcohol too many. In total, 66 goals were scored in the old First Division that amazing Boxing Day and you can only imagine that some of the defences that day must have had their minds on a some desert island where the palm trees wave and the sun beats down.
By the River Thames, Fulham met Ipswich Town and nobody had the slightest inkling of the astonishing events that would follow at Craven Cottage. Fulham promptly beat Ipswich 10-1. 10-1! Fulham rattled home 10 goals in a Boxing Day footballing banquet. The Fulham of Bobby Robson, Jimmy Hill and 'Tosh' Chamberlain feasted insatiably on 10 golden goals on a Boxing Day that the fans at the Cottage must have thought they were imagining it all. But on a day of complete footballing madness and bedlam everything that seemed normal on the outside world had been rendered abnormal on the First Division pitches of that day.
My team of course had to become deeply and emotionally involved in the weird sense of unreality that had now made a mockery of all of those pundits who think they can predict any result. West Ham met Blackburn Rovers at the old Upton Park on Boxing Day and must have wondered whether they should have stayed in bed. Some of us are faced with the most challenging of decisions and most of them are right. This was not the case for West Ham on a day of unrelenting nightmares.
Before the Hammers had had time to launch their first attack of the game Blackburn were opening up West Ham's ultimately helpless and fragile defence rather like the child who rips open the paper of their Christmas present. Goals were peppering the West Ham net as if an overnight deluge had flooded Upton Park. West Ham were beaten 8-2 at Upton Park and for those who were still in their cot that day it is a result that somehow defies belief and if any consolation was to be found in this dizzying East End disaster then the chances are that it may never happen again. Well, hopefully not.
The point is though that now in 2017 the Premier League is about to undergo it's first taste of Christmas tomfoolery and silliness. My father in law tells me that there was a full Christmas Day fixture list back in the mists of time. Back in the 1950s and 60s, the underground Tube trains would run and football was played against a suitably festive backdrop of well decorated Christmas trees, mistletoe and holiday time hilarity.
For whatever reason football fans probably didn't care when the game was played but not on the one day when families would gather together from all over the country with no other thought than a Christmas knees up. Then the voice of commonsense was heard and what had hitherto been some stupidly demanding schedule had now been an altogether more sensible arrangement. Football would only be played on Boxing Day and possibly New Year's Day. Still the prospect of three or four games within such a confined space of time smacks of complete madness but then again where would we be without our forward thinking and visionary FA?
But football on Christmas Eve is the proposition to be put before British football fans. One day the FA will come to its senses with a bold announcement of a complete winter break for the game. With the World Cup now within our sights we know that it has to be enforced sooner or later because without that football free zone English football may have to suffer the inevitable consequences. Once again we may have to face another World Cup in a state of mental and emotional meltdown.
Next week the draw for next summer's World Cup in Russia will be held in the Kremlin which does conjure up some splendid images but comment may have to be reserved. Most of England will be hoping that England are joined in their group by those world beaters Panama, Australia and Egypt. The truth is though that most of world football has become a level playing field and the nations who would be customarily dismissed and underestimated before a World Cup are now ready and waiting and champing at the bit.
Still, we'll all be ready and waiting for the big Kremlin hoe down where tight lipped and straight faced Russian football officials will be doing everything by the book. Holding a football World Cup draw in the Kremlin still seems the unlikeliest location for any sporting occasion. Even now there are cynical voices who will insist that the whole draw will be rigged, the KGB will muscle their way into the hall with the direct result that a major international incident will happen in Red Square.
It is at times like this that you wonder what may be going through the mind of a man called Vladimir Putin or maybe his illustrious predecessors for that matter. Leonid Brezhnev never looked the happiest of souls but a football World Cup might have brought a wry smile to his wizened eyes. Boris Yeltsin, another former Russian president was renowned for his love of a cheap vodka or two and conducting orchestras did provide him with a welcome diversion but it's hard to imagine how he would have fitted into a Dynamo Kiev team.
So it is that the Christmas festivities are almost upon us and all thoughts will turn to Moscow sooner or later. English football on Christmas Eve and a World Cup in Russia still seems like some weird fantasy that will never come to pass. Now though is the time to accept the unacceptable and believe that things will turn out for the best. For all my Russian readers you must forgive my world weary scepticism. Those Cossack dancers are truly exceptional and those samovars make a wonderful cup of tea. Football has much to look forward to.
Friday, 24 November 2017
Black Friday- did you get that bargain?
Black Friday- did you that bargain?
Phew! What a day that was? I thought it would never end. Well then, did you get that elusive bargain on Black Friday? All of that fuss and commotion for what? An unnecessary and desperate rush for that special something for your side board, mantelpiece or the shelf groaning with glittering ornaments and family photos.
You've got it. It was Black Friday, that mad stampede on the heart of London's West End department shops and shops around the country, for something that may be conveniently and temptingly cheap but can't be resisted. There they are, the baubles, gadgets, souvenirs or dining room furniture knocked down dramatically at the most mouth watering bargain basement price and designed to remove our wallets of valuable money for Christmas almost exactly a month from today.
Yes, Black Friday is the day when people from all over the country and city spend a whole day worshipping at the shrine of commerce and free flowing consumerism. This is the age of the high tech investment, the age of instant gratification, the must have commodity, an unreasonable hunger for something that may be regarded as vitally important at the time but on reflection can be no more than some tacky excuse to spend money on some trivial gadget. Or maybe not.
In recent years the scenes at Oxford Street have been nothing less than outrageously chaotic, the crazy, surging hordes converging on shops as if their life depended on it, where hundreds of over enthusiastic shoppers and bargain hunters fall over each other determined to get their hands on the latest 84 inch Plasma TV set, washing machines that can sing Happy Birthday to you and sofas so large and luxurious that you may need three or four living rooms to squeeze them into your home.
It's Black Friday, the day of obscene spending and extravagant buying where the people of Britain find any reason to dig deep into their pockets for money they can ill afford to throw away. Or maybe we get a kick out of this day of utter lunacy where for one day only London, certainly, is overwhelmed by seasoned grabbers who love nothing better than a good old fashioned push and shove. They scramble, jostle, lunge and grasp desperately at goods that may look enticing but are no more than attractive shop window decorations.
But then again I may have got it completely wrong and Black Friday is that mindless psychological game where for one day only department stores tell us quite convincingly that you've got to buy it today because tomorrow is just another day and Christmas is that very persuasive advertising campaign when the stuff you could have got on Black Friday may look entirely different on extortionately expensive Saturday. So roll up roll up everybody, show us the colour of your money.
And so it is that the good people of Oxford Street will wend their weary home from their very beneficial shopping excursions undoubtedly exhausted from their huffing and puffing, their gallivanting and traipsing, weighed down by a huge cargo of shopping bags full of whatever it was they couldn't wait to buy tomorrow. But then we love the British and we love their shopping habits, their darting in and out of big department stores, sprinting after their Route Master buses and then trudging back to their bus stops in utter frustration.
Oh if only we'd remembered that armchair, that beautiful carpet, that lovely wardrobe or that irresistible coffee or latte machine, that bean bag, those gorgeous chandeliers or the studio spot lights for the kitchen. It's first come first serve and if you do happen to miss out today there's always next November and the opportunity to do Black Friday all over again.
It's been widely reported that some of the brisk Black Friday trade is also been transacted as an online Internet business. This may be regarded as a most attractive alternative to all of that hustling and bustling, the hurrying and scurrying, lunging at and pulling at clothes, furniture, more bean bags, exotic plants perhaps and all in the name of money and finance.
Now Black Friday may well be drawing to a close and those bright eyed bargain hunters may well be taking a deep breath, looking at their well stocked shopping bags and wondering why? Why did we spend last night camping outside Debenhams and Selfridges when we could have popped into Poundland for something significantly more desirable. But it is Black Friday and it really is side splittingly cool. Besides Black Friday is a day for sweeping up all those goodies in one huge bulk without a moment's regret. Oh Black Friday. And it's only 60 odd days to Christmas. It's too exciting for words.
Phew! What a day that was? I thought it would never end. Well then, did you get that elusive bargain on Black Friday? All of that fuss and commotion for what? An unnecessary and desperate rush for that special something for your side board, mantelpiece or the shelf groaning with glittering ornaments and family photos.
You've got it. It was Black Friday, that mad stampede on the heart of London's West End department shops and shops around the country, for something that may be conveniently and temptingly cheap but can't be resisted. There they are, the baubles, gadgets, souvenirs or dining room furniture knocked down dramatically at the most mouth watering bargain basement price and designed to remove our wallets of valuable money for Christmas almost exactly a month from today.
Yes, Black Friday is the day when people from all over the country and city spend a whole day worshipping at the shrine of commerce and free flowing consumerism. This is the age of the high tech investment, the age of instant gratification, the must have commodity, an unreasonable hunger for something that may be regarded as vitally important at the time but on reflection can be no more than some tacky excuse to spend money on some trivial gadget. Or maybe not.
In recent years the scenes at Oxford Street have been nothing less than outrageously chaotic, the crazy, surging hordes converging on shops as if their life depended on it, where hundreds of over enthusiastic shoppers and bargain hunters fall over each other determined to get their hands on the latest 84 inch Plasma TV set, washing machines that can sing Happy Birthday to you and sofas so large and luxurious that you may need three or four living rooms to squeeze them into your home.
It's Black Friday, the day of obscene spending and extravagant buying where the people of Britain find any reason to dig deep into their pockets for money they can ill afford to throw away. Or maybe we get a kick out of this day of utter lunacy where for one day only London, certainly, is overwhelmed by seasoned grabbers who love nothing better than a good old fashioned push and shove. They scramble, jostle, lunge and grasp desperately at goods that may look enticing but are no more than attractive shop window decorations.
But then again I may have got it completely wrong and Black Friday is that mindless psychological game where for one day only department stores tell us quite convincingly that you've got to buy it today because tomorrow is just another day and Christmas is that very persuasive advertising campaign when the stuff you could have got on Black Friday may look entirely different on extortionately expensive Saturday. So roll up roll up everybody, show us the colour of your money.
And so it is that the good people of Oxford Street will wend their weary home from their very beneficial shopping excursions undoubtedly exhausted from their huffing and puffing, their gallivanting and traipsing, weighed down by a huge cargo of shopping bags full of whatever it was they couldn't wait to buy tomorrow. But then we love the British and we love their shopping habits, their darting in and out of big department stores, sprinting after their Route Master buses and then trudging back to their bus stops in utter frustration.
Oh if only we'd remembered that armchair, that beautiful carpet, that lovely wardrobe or that irresistible coffee or latte machine, that bean bag, those gorgeous chandeliers or the studio spot lights for the kitchen. It's first come first serve and if you do happen to miss out today there's always next November and the opportunity to do Black Friday all over again.
It's been widely reported that some of the brisk Black Friday trade is also been transacted as an online Internet business. This may be regarded as a most attractive alternative to all of that hustling and bustling, the hurrying and scurrying, lunging at and pulling at clothes, furniture, more bean bags, exotic plants perhaps and all in the name of money and finance.
Now Black Friday may well be drawing to a close and those bright eyed bargain hunters may well be taking a deep breath, looking at their well stocked shopping bags and wondering why? Why did we spend last night camping outside Debenhams and Selfridges when we could have popped into Poundland for something significantly more desirable. But it is Black Friday and it really is side splittingly cool. Besides Black Friday is a day for sweeping up all those goodies in one huge bulk without a moment's regret. Oh Black Friday. And it's only 60 odd days to Christmas. It's too exciting for words.
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