Let it snow, let it snow.
So here it is again. For the first time in what seems like decades but in truth now seems only a week or so ago, the weather forecasters have got it absolutely right again. Yes folks, it's that old chestnut again. The weather has done it again. It's finally succeeded in temporarily shunting to the sidelines that wearisome issue known as Brexit, the interminable chatter about a political hot potato that continues to divide and sharply polarise opinion in Britain.
Ladies and Gentlemen snow has fallen across the green and pleasant land of Great Britain and, as usual, we've been caught on the hop yet again. In the last couple of years or so Britain became very smug and blase about its winter weather. It was exceptionally mild, never so much as remotely cold at any point and apart from several blustery winds, a number of heavy rain showers and a few disturbing claps of thunder, last winter was almost sub tropically hot in dear old Blighty.
In fact there were a number of hardy souls who took their life in their hands and decided to take time off for a gentle spot of sunbathing. They bravely pulled on a beach shirt, slapped on Sun Factor 55 and then relaxed on a hotel balcony in Torquay before sipping a pina colada by the pool. But such are the vagaries of the English climate that it wasn't long before we were all shivering in the frozen wastes of Winter 2018.
This morning Britain woke up to another thick blanket of white snow that, certainly here in London, hadn't quite arrived in the huge quantities that had left most of the country in a state of crisis and emergency. Yesterday snow dropped out of the battleship grey sky with a rare intensity and frequency while only days before London, and here in Manor House, we thought we'd escaped the white stuff. There was a liberal sprinkling of snowflakes that swirled around in the air reluctantly but nothing to disturb the level headed equilibrium of every British citizen.
But then the reality set in with a vengeance. It hadn't really snowed properly in London or Britain for ages so we were totally unprepared for and unaccustomed to it. So it was business as usual. The whole infrastructure fell apart in a matter of minutes. The trains seemed to grind to a standstill and we all began to look around at each other in a kind of baffled amusement. What to do next? And yet the snow kept falling and falling, an eerie silence descending across the streets and roads of the nation and outside on the pavements of Manor House one or two of us gingerly stumbled across a mass of snow, slush and what will now turn into ice quite shortly.
You looked across the snow festooned rooftops of the building opposite us and then knew that inevitably the major topic of conversation in most offices and shops across the land would be the weather. No change there then. This has almost become deeply hard wired into the British psyche, a subject that grips us like a vice and refuses to let go until the last snowflakes have drifted languidly into a distant land far away from these shores.
According to your point of view the snow can often be either an annoying irritation or just the most wonderful occurrence. It may be hard to believe but we're now on the first day of March and the gentle intimations of Spring should be everywhere. Regrettably this is not the case and this entirely unexpected snowfall may be regarded as freakish.
Apparently the source of this latest meteorological rarity can be traced to Siberia and Russia, whose citizens treat snow rather like a familiar old friend. The Beast From The East and Storm Emma have combined forces for the first time and brought us nothing but slippery roads, dogs wearing the thickest of coats and a list of grievances about the inordinate length of time the snow has been with us.
It is, if you were to believe those who have seen it all before, the worst winter on record. It's been an utter calamity and we haven't seen a winter quite like this for many a year. And yet how we seem to lose our perspective ever so slightly because up until recently, it's been dry, mild, slightly nippy in the early part of the morning but when all is said and done, remarkably pleasant.
But gradually as the weather showed obvious signs of deterioration and everything went downhill, the grumbles grew louder and suddenly the power went down, things began to get terribly clogged up in the electrical system and in the arable farmlands of the British country, there was a very real sense of isolation and forlornness.
Deep in the heart of England's sleepiest villages, the local butchers, bakers and post offices are throwing their hands up in collective horror at the terrible impact the snow may be having on their businesses. There are the obvious concerns over profit margins, revenue streams and the sense of real urgency that has suddenly gripped the country. The shelves have now emptied, the immediate result of panic buying and Mr and Mrs Smith's newsagents has never been quieter.
Yesterday London woke up to its very own white winter wonderland just when they must have felt that they'd got away with it all. Train platforms were completely taken over with shivering commuters, waiting and waiting patiently, slowly losing patience with the inefficiencies of the local authorities, the pitiful inadequacies of the gritters and the sheer ineptitude of those who earn their living on railway stations such as Euston and Paddington. They look at the huge time table electronic boards, check their watches and then sigh with a gut wrenching exasperation. The 09.50 train from Euston will now leave at 4.30 in the afternoon. Aargh!!!
The weather forecasters have, as usual, have kept us well informed about the latest developments in the world of weather. The experts believe the snow may begin to subside and by next week we can all look back on these bone chilling days with very few regrets. Rest assured the whole of Britain will be like the Chelsea Flower Show come several months early. The tulips will be singing and dancing, crocuses flaunting their peacock colours, snowdrops putting on the style and the daffodils performing their yearly spring waltz in perfect accord with nature.
In a couple of weeks ago the horse racing fraternity will be bracing itself for the annual Cheltenham Festival where talented Irish jockeys will be cleaning up with victory after victory and their trainers will be showing their gratitude to everybody from County Antrim to Dublin. I have it on good authority that spring is getting ready for its yearly picturesque paradise. It just seems at the moment that spring has been permanently cancelled or maybe postponed for a while. What a confounded nuisance.
Meanwhile British schoolchildren are delighting in the knowledge that, on the understandable grounds of health and safety there's no school and it's time to slide across snow coated parklands on their trusty sledges. Oh how they've longed for days like this. If only every day could be like this. What freedom. Life simply couldn't get any better. Then they build their lovable snowmen and naturally throw snowballs at each other, something they've been doing since time immemorial.
The chances are though that by Monday morning the white snowy acres will be a thing of the past. It's at times like this when you begin to look at those countries for whom snow is just a way of life. Do we think that Switzerland, Russia, Austria and the Scandinavian countries ever get hot and bothered about a couple of inches of snow? They know exactly how to deal with the snow because they get tons of the stuff every year and besides it'll go and it is just a temporary measure. We may be in a state of critical alarm at the moment but fear not spring will undoubtedly beckon from the sweetest meadow and that's a fact. Mark my words.
Of course it's freezing at the moment and it may get colder but it simply can't last. Shortly our ears will be subjected to the heaving and groaning cacophony that is the University Boat Race, as ambitious rowers attack the River Thames with all their might and worth. Then the cavalry charge that is the Grand National at Aintree will welcome in the new season as if it had never been anywhere else.
For the time being we can only look out of our windows, smile fulsomely at the white wonder land and pretend it's the happiest time of the year. We switch on the central heating, throw extra logs onto the fireplace and sip a hot toddy or two in our local refreshment bar. All is not lost or bleakness because inside there's a warm optimism that keeps growing and will reach its peak by the early part of April if not shortly before the end of March.
Until then everybody keep warm, stay safe and remember something important. Donald Trump is still the President of the United States. See, I told you. Things will get better and things will improve. We have to remain positive.
Thursday, 1 March 2018
Wednesday, 28 February 2018
Yours truly on Twitter- @joemorris2018 - and No Joe Bloggs, Joe's Jolly Japes and Victorian Madness Lyrics my three books
Yours truly on Twitter- @joemorris2018 - and No Joe Bloggs, Joe's Jolly Japes and Victorian Madness Lyrics, my three books.
By now the whole world has embraced the very essence of the social media phenomenon with enormous enthusiasm and the technology is expanding by the day, minute, nanosecond, week, month and year. In fact the pace of change is leaving some of us breathless and gasping for breath. At some point we may have to implore those in cyberspace to slow down because this communication business, although very heartening to watch, can leave you cross eyed, lost for words and unable to find our way through the maze of buzzwords, the complex language and the local vernacular.
Most of us are aware of a certain American president by the name of Donald Trump. We also know that he has rather a soft spot for that social media outlet whose name has almost become this generation's national anthem. Trump hits Twitter sounds like the most sensational tabloid newspaper headline but just over a year into his presidency the Don himself has almost taken over Twitter lock, stock and barrel. The man, you feel sure, has sizeable shares in the company and eventually world domination one day will be his.
But now move aside Mr Trump because I've just re-opened a new Twitter account and I'm looking for my very own set of followers and tweeters. Twitter is so fashionable and de rigeur that I may have to invest in a Tablet, I-Pad, my individual website and then a place as chairman of the board at Microsoft, Yahoo or Google. It certainly doesn't hurt to have ambition although the aforementioned companies may be beyond any realistic reach of mine.
Still I'm proud to tell you that I'm back on Twitter with my account, my blog and book promotions and a willingness to do everything possible to tell you about both my books and blog. So here we go. I'm at @joemorris2018 and if you fancy a fun, tongue in cheek and I think humorous read about everything and everything then that's my Twitter feed and I hope you'll have a laugh or two.
I should point out that I've been writing on my blog since last October and have had a ball. It's been a blast, genuinely enjoyable and the best fun you could possibly have in writing. This is me writing conversationally, uninhibitedly and freely. This is not to say that I've felt under any pressure at all when it comes to writing but I've now discovered the sweet joys of writing straight from the heart.
There are no deadlines, constraints and I feel that my voice inside has now been allowed the full rein of expression. So if you'd like to read about my very personal and social observations, my reactions to the latest news and my favourite pastime known as sport then this is the blog for you. For years I didn't think it would ever be possible to find this platform for something I could only have dreamt about 30 or 35 years ago. But the waiting is now officially over.
Social technology and the tools that have become immediately available thanks to the guys and girls at both Facebook and Twitter have brought my dream to fruition. No longer have I been consigned to the obscure margins, reduced to pen and pencil, A4 paper or an exercise book. This was time consuming, boring and laborious and I don't think I ever want to see these now ancient pieces of equipment ever again.
So there you have it folks. I'm a full time member of that remarkably popular social media community, where everybody tweets you, retweets you and then a thousand birds surround you on the first day of spring. If only those magpies, robins and chaffinches knew what the human race was up to it may be safe to assume that they may kick up one heck of a fuss. How dare those humans trivialise our every sound with such shameless mockery.
For me Facebook has now become a way of life and an easy vehicle for my self promotion. I've now been associated with Facebook for well over 10 years now and although as not quite as emotionally engaged as I used to be, I do confess that Facebook has given me the chance to catch up with old friends, family and a whole new collection of authors from every part of the globe.
Now though a new friend has made its presence felt and although still ever so slightly muddled by the minefield of new followers and people following you on Twitter, I now have to declare a passionate interest in how it all works. I'd still like to know how I should find these elusive Twitter followers although so far eight people have kindly responded to my friendly requests.
Still for those of you who are still unfamiliar with my literary offerings then this is the time to give you another reminder of my three favourite books - apart from the esteemed likes of Thomas Hardy and Charles Dickens. These were the consuming labours of love that opened up a whole new world to me. They were the result of two and half years of meticulous memory digging, reminiscences on my childhood, teenage years and painful adolescence.
No Joe Bloggs is my memoir, an affectionate account of my family, parents, grandparents, vividly descriptive accounts of London, the West End that my late and wonderful dad loved to be a part of and growing up in Ilford, Essex where it all began. No Joe Bloggs is, I think, my funny, moving, nostalgic and lyrical life story, a story about a very ordinary boy who struggled to overcome the obstacles of shyness and immaturity and then triumphed magnificently.
It is a book essentially about my favourite things, my favourite movies, showbiz celebrities from the late 1960s and 70s, music from those glamorous eras, TV comedians, singers, pop stars, programmes, loads of pop culture from the 1960s and 70s and football. There are I believe some extremely original pen portraits about football teams from the 1970s such as Arsenal, Spurs, Ipswich Town, Wolves, Manchester United and City, Everton and Aston Villa and Chelsea.
I describe those culturally defining and earth stopping moments that defined my childhood, the shocking news events, the tumultuous turning points and the people who made it all happen. There is I think a very poignant description of my grandparents and mum as Holocaust survivors, a fictitious but amusing story about my dad's journey to Las Vegas with his lifetime showbiz heroes Tony Bennett, Frank Sinatra and Sammy Davis Junior and his imaginary games of pool with these giants of showbiz.
But No Joe Bloggs is all about nostalgia, fond recollections of childhood and riding on our bikes on the back roads of my Ilford childhood. It is about my lifelong love of grammar, words and recounting very precious memories of being a child and what it meant to be a child.
No Joe Bloggs is still available at Amazon, Waterstones online market place and Books-A-Million online and I think is a snap, crackle and pop of a book, a good, old fashioned page turner, a singing, dancing, happy go lucky, rib tickling, rip roaring read. I feel sure that it will bring a smile to your face and provoke a giggle or chuckle.
My latest book Joe's Jolly Japes is also at Amazon, Waterstones online market place and Books-A-Million online. Joe's Jolly Japes is my personal take on the England football team and its World Cup trials and tribulations, the victories and defeats, the triumphs and the disasters, the players and managers.
I move onto that timelessly controversial subject known as the English middle classes, England, those national treasures such as the Chelsea Flower Show, the Henley Regatta and Polo on the playing fields of England. I talk about my favourite department stores and shops in the West End of London, those charming British seaside resorts and more about Ilford where the junior years of my life took shape. Joe's Jolly Japes is a jolly, jumping, jiving, feel good book that will admittedly tell you about the things you already know but this time from my perspective and I'd like to think that it's an amusing perspective.
Finally, you may want to read my first book. Now I know I've completed this blog in reverse because my first book was by far the craziest and zaniest literary journey I'd embarked on. It was a book about the use of language, the entertainment you can have with words and grammar while always trying hard to keep a straight face.
My first book Victorian Madness Lyrics was my first foray into the world of book publication. It is an affectionate homage to the North London ska band Madness whose career has gloriously spanned the decades. It is what I believe to be the most incredible literary voyage, a spectacular festival of words, mad and ridiculous, a book of posh similes and metaphors, a bonkers book with my originally unique take on most of Madness's back catalogue with funny expressions and over the top phraseology. This was my first attempt at writing and was therefore an experiment but I think you'll like Victorian Madness Lyrics. If it's coffee table reading you're looking for then Victorian Madness Lyrics is definitely the book for you.
Victorian Madness Lyrics is available at FeedaRead.com
So there you are everybody. Another brief journey around my very personal book world, a world of curiosity, keen social observation and a voyage of discovery about not only me but the rest of the world through my eyes. Oh and before I forget. I'm back on Twitter and my feed is @joemorris2018. Oh for the diverse wonders of social media. It's time to look to the future while enjoying the present.
By now the whole world has embraced the very essence of the social media phenomenon with enormous enthusiasm and the technology is expanding by the day, minute, nanosecond, week, month and year. In fact the pace of change is leaving some of us breathless and gasping for breath. At some point we may have to implore those in cyberspace to slow down because this communication business, although very heartening to watch, can leave you cross eyed, lost for words and unable to find our way through the maze of buzzwords, the complex language and the local vernacular.
Most of us are aware of a certain American president by the name of Donald Trump. We also know that he has rather a soft spot for that social media outlet whose name has almost become this generation's national anthem. Trump hits Twitter sounds like the most sensational tabloid newspaper headline but just over a year into his presidency the Don himself has almost taken over Twitter lock, stock and barrel. The man, you feel sure, has sizeable shares in the company and eventually world domination one day will be his.
But now move aside Mr Trump because I've just re-opened a new Twitter account and I'm looking for my very own set of followers and tweeters. Twitter is so fashionable and de rigeur that I may have to invest in a Tablet, I-Pad, my individual website and then a place as chairman of the board at Microsoft, Yahoo or Google. It certainly doesn't hurt to have ambition although the aforementioned companies may be beyond any realistic reach of mine.
Still I'm proud to tell you that I'm back on Twitter with my account, my blog and book promotions and a willingness to do everything possible to tell you about both my books and blog. So here we go. I'm at @joemorris2018 and if you fancy a fun, tongue in cheek and I think humorous read about everything and everything then that's my Twitter feed and I hope you'll have a laugh or two.
I should point out that I've been writing on my blog since last October and have had a ball. It's been a blast, genuinely enjoyable and the best fun you could possibly have in writing. This is me writing conversationally, uninhibitedly and freely. This is not to say that I've felt under any pressure at all when it comes to writing but I've now discovered the sweet joys of writing straight from the heart.
There are no deadlines, constraints and I feel that my voice inside has now been allowed the full rein of expression. So if you'd like to read about my very personal and social observations, my reactions to the latest news and my favourite pastime known as sport then this is the blog for you. For years I didn't think it would ever be possible to find this platform for something I could only have dreamt about 30 or 35 years ago. But the waiting is now officially over.
Social technology and the tools that have become immediately available thanks to the guys and girls at both Facebook and Twitter have brought my dream to fruition. No longer have I been consigned to the obscure margins, reduced to pen and pencil, A4 paper or an exercise book. This was time consuming, boring and laborious and I don't think I ever want to see these now ancient pieces of equipment ever again.
So there you have it folks. I'm a full time member of that remarkably popular social media community, where everybody tweets you, retweets you and then a thousand birds surround you on the first day of spring. If only those magpies, robins and chaffinches knew what the human race was up to it may be safe to assume that they may kick up one heck of a fuss. How dare those humans trivialise our every sound with such shameless mockery.
For me Facebook has now become a way of life and an easy vehicle for my self promotion. I've now been associated with Facebook for well over 10 years now and although as not quite as emotionally engaged as I used to be, I do confess that Facebook has given me the chance to catch up with old friends, family and a whole new collection of authors from every part of the globe.
Now though a new friend has made its presence felt and although still ever so slightly muddled by the minefield of new followers and people following you on Twitter, I now have to declare a passionate interest in how it all works. I'd still like to know how I should find these elusive Twitter followers although so far eight people have kindly responded to my friendly requests.
Still for those of you who are still unfamiliar with my literary offerings then this is the time to give you another reminder of my three favourite books - apart from the esteemed likes of Thomas Hardy and Charles Dickens. These were the consuming labours of love that opened up a whole new world to me. They were the result of two and half years of meticulous memory digging, reminiscences on my childhood, teenage years and painful adolescence.
No Joe Bloggs is my memoir, an affectionate account of my family, parents, grandparents, vividly descriptive accounts of London, the West End that my late and wonderful dad loved to be a part of and growing up in Ilford, Essex where it all began. No Joe Bloggs is, I think, my funny, moving, nostalgic and lyrical life story, a story about a very ordinary boy who struggled to overcome the obstacles of shyness and immaturity and then triumphed magnificently.
It is a book essentially about my favourite things, my favourite movies, showbiz celebrities from the late 1960s and 70s, music from those glamorous eras, TV comedians, singers, pop stars, programmes, loads of pop culture from the 1960s and 70s and football. There are I believe some extremely original pen portraits about football teams from the 1970s such as Arsenal, Spurs, Ipswich Town, Wolves, Manchester United and City, Everton and Aston Villa and Chelsea.
I describe those culturally defining and earth stopping moments that defined my childhood, the shocking news events, the tumultuous turning points and the people who made it all happen. There is I think a very poignant description of my grandparents and mum as Holocaust survivors, a fictitious but amusing story about my dad's journey to Las Vegas with his lifetime showbiz heroes Tony Bennett, Frank Sinatra and Sammy Davis Junior and his imaginary games of pool with these giants of showbiz.
But No Joe Bloggs is all about nostalgia, fond recollections of childhood and riding on our bikes on the back roads of my Ilford childhood. It is about my lifelong love of grammar, words and recounting very precious memories of being a child and what it meant to be a child.
No Joe Bloggs is still available at Amazon, Waterstones online market place and Books-A-Million online and I think is a snap, crackle and pop of a book, a good, old fashioned page turner, a singing, dancing, happy go lucky, rib tickling, rip roaring read. I feel sure that it will bring a smile to your face and provoke a giggle or chuckle.
My latest book Joe's Jolly Japes is also at Amazon, Waterstones online market place and Books-A-Million online. Joe's Jolly Japes is my personal take on the England football team and its World Cup trials and tribulations, the victories and defeats, the triumphs and the disasters, the players and managers.
I move onto that timelessly controversial subject known as the English middle classes, England, those national treasures such as the Chelsea Flower Show, the Henley Regatta and Polo on the playing fields of England. I talk about my favourite department stores and shops in the West End of London, those charming British seaside resorts and more about Ilford where the junior years of my life took shape. Joe's Jolly Japes is a jolly, jumping, jiving, feel good book that will admittedly tell you about the things you already know but this time from my perspective and I'd like to think that it's an amusing perspective.
Finally, you may want to read my first book. Now I know I've completed this blog in reverse because my first book was by far the craziest and zaniest literary journey I'd embarked on. It was a book about the use of language, the entertainment you can have with words and grammar while always trying hard to keep a straight face.
My first book Victorian Madness Lyrics was my first foray into the world of book publication. It is an affectionate homage to the North London ska band Madness whose career has gloriously spanned the decades. It is what I believe to be the most incredible literary voyage, a spectacular festival of words, mad and ridiculous, a book of posh similes and metaphors, a bonkers book with my originally unique take on most of Madness's back catalogue with funny expressions and over the top phraseology. This was my first attempt at writing and was therefore an experiment but I think you'll like Victorian Madness Lyrics. If it's coffee table reading you're looking for then Victorian Madness Lyrics is definitely the book for you.
Victorian Madness Lyrics is available at FeedaRead.com
So there you are everybody. Another brief journey around my very personal book world, a world of curiosity, keen social observation and a voyage of discovery about not only me but the rest of the world through my eyes. Oh and before I forget. I'm back on Twitter and my feed is @joemorris2018. Oh for the diverse wonders of social media. It's time to look to the future while enjoying the present.
Monday, 26 February 2018
Manchester City win the Carabao Cup, the League Cup.
Manchester City win the Carabao Cup, the League Cup.
At times it was almost as if Arsenal had just dropped onto the set of Hancock's Half Hour. Oh glumness and despondency, possibly the end of the world! Poor Arsene Wenger looked as if he'd just given too many pints of blood and had just bumped into Sid James while walking along the Wembley corridors. Everything seemed so miserable and apocalyptic that not even June Whitfield or Patrick Cargill would have been able to offer a sympathetic shoulder to cry on.
By the end of this remarkably one sided Carabao Cup Final (or League Cup Final for the traditionalists) Arsenal looked so badly beaten that you almost felt that the whole game had begun to drift into a sideshow of total irrelevance. Manchester City had not only punched them into submission but had also left sore and festering wounds to an already troubled season. When the teams re-assemble for the Premier League match at the Emirates on Thursday Arsenal will find themselves looking at a broken mirror.
And yet at heart Arsenal are still capable of playing the kind of football that the classical purists would still claim to be the finest and most pleasurable to watch. After over 20 years at the club Arsene Wenger has set down some of the most honourable of attacking principles ever seen in English football. Arsenal, until quite recently, have delivered some of the most forward thinking and handsomely constructed football in the Premier League, a combination of subtlety, cleverness, intelligence and footballing intellect that has left most of their fans begging for more.
On their day Arsenal have been models of refinement, clear minded and innovative thinking and refreshingly precise in their passing. Not for nothing have they won the FA Cup on several occasions in recent years with something to spare but they've also imposed their natural passing game so powerfully that some of their defeated opponents have been rubbing their eyes with utter disbelief.
But yesterday at Wembley Arsenal once again found the old League Cup something of an ongoing problem, an Achilles heel that seems to get worse with every appearance in a Wembley Final. Just over 10 years Birmingham City disrupted the Gunners golden halo of success in the League Cup Final. In 1987 George Graham's Arsenal eventually overcame Liverpool while a year later Luton Town had flummoxed everybody including Arsenal with a 3-2 victory at the old Wembley.
A couple of years ago their old nemesis Chelsea beat Arsenal in this same competition so there was a widespread belief that yesterday would finally bring their League Cup woes to a grateful end. Sadly though Manchester City were their opponents on the last Sunday afternoon of February and we all know what that means. So far City have been unplayable, unstoppable, imperious and imperial. In fact most adjectives have been rendered utterly redundant. City are a force of nature and, at the moment at least, appear to be running away with the Premier League with some of the most beautifully becoming football seen in the Premier League.
City, under the wonderfully inspirational Pep Guardiola, are so far ahead of the rest of the teams behind them that search parties may be required at some point. They have left a visible cloud of dust in their wake and eventually and mercifully those chasing them will just bow to their superior knowledge. It is hard to imagine how anybody can even mathematically catch them at the moment although realistically the fight is over, the towels have been thrown into the ring and Manchester City are, more or less, Premier League champions elect.
Yesterday Manchester City bore a vague resemblance to Guardiola's Barcelona with their rich range of quick witted and impulsive passing at close quarters, the ball quickly whizzing between light blue shirted feet with a startling ease and fluency. It seemed at times that the City players had some hidden magnet in their boots that connected instantly, an electrifying sight at times and somehow miraculous at others.
But City, after one or two wobbles recently with FA Cup defeat at Wigan and Premier League defeat at Liverpool perhaps subconsciously preying at the back of their minds, were slow starters. The ball admittedly flowed across the ground when City had possession but, occasionally, there has been an alarming raggedness and complacency to City that may have alerted their neighbours United at Old Trafford, not a million miles behind them in the Premier League title chase.
In the first half at Wembley City stepped out onto the famous Wembley turf rather like those snobbish landowners who rightly believe that nobody should ever encroach on their precious territory. Defeat should be unthinkable and City adopted an air of self righteousness that Arsenal were determined to take advantage of. This was no occasion though for the delusional to assume airs and graces. How dare Arsenal even think of stealing City's thunder. It would be most unseemly and unheard of.
So it was that after a jittery and uncertain start from City and an Arsenal side almost hell bent on grafting their passing game onto the game, City rolled up their sleeves, worked the ball with an enviable simplicity and just tinkered with the ball like a laboratory of scientists experimenting with different chemicals. By the end of the first half Arsenal knew neither to stick or twist.
City though, after a brief passage of moderately impressive one touch football struck the first blow. This time though their opening goal was uncharacteristically direct and most unlike City. A long goal kick straight down the pitch bounced deceptively in front of bemused Arsenal defender Shkodran Mustafi and the German seemed to lose his sense of direction, allowing City's lethal striker Sergio Aguero a straight path. Aguero gleefully lobbed the ball over grasping Arsenal keeper David Ospina.
For the rest of the half Arsenal struggled haplessly, pressed back into their own half and to all intents and purposes a side with neither shape, method or pattern. City reminded you of those rural dogs who spend most of their lives endlessly chasing a herd of sheep back into their pens. City had trapped their prey, surrounding Arsenal at every turn, hassling and hurrying the Londoners with a marvellous persistence and tenacity.
Yesterday City had the impeccably evergreen Vincent Kompany patrolling at the heart of a City defence like a nightwatchman or security guard, ever watchful, vigilant and completely self assured at all times. Kompany has been one of the most reliably consistent of City captains in recent seasons and one defensive challenge in particular robbing Arsenal of a potential goal, had to be seen to be believed.
Then Nicolas Otamendi began to surge into Arsenal's half, pestering, badgering, forcing the issue for City and marvellously adventurous. Kyle Walker, who Spurs may have cause to regret missing, had one of those typically heroic and imaginative games overlapping on the flanks that the watching England manager Gareth Southgate may have to cause to take private notes on.
It was now that City began to look their usual faultless and assertive selves. City's football is both calming and soothing to the soul at times and in the second half, they almost blinded Arsenal with their very own brand of science. Ilkay Gundogan looked more and more of a free spirit and this spirit of liberation made his assignment on the day look much less taxing than it could have been.
Now Leroy Sane emerged as one of the most authoritative looking of players on the day. Sane is a very learned and knowledgeable footballer who floats across the pitch like some like a holiday cruise ship. The German never looks flustered and is forever weaving in and out of defenders like a playful spider spinning its web. He dribbles with the ball with both assurance and a sense of insurance that the ball will never be given away lightly.
With David Silva playing with that ever present air of a lightning conductor, buzzing and scheming around red shirts as if he'd always done it like this, City fluttered around and flirted with Arsenal as if genuinely enjoying themselves. Fernandinho provided that customary Brazilian blend that is slowly making a noticeable difference to the national team once again and Sergio Aguero once again gave the entire Arsenal defence the most tiring of run arounds.
The second half was growing older and more frustrating for Arsenal. Then from a low corner on City's right, the ball was driven firmly across the Arsenal penalty area where, after a blur of bodies had left everybody slightly perplexed, the ball fell to Vincent Kompany who stuck out a foot and diverted the ball into the Arsenal net for a vital second goal for City.
It was at this point that large sections of red began to desert their team. The Arsenal fans, almost stunned at their team's increasing discomfort on the ball, now left Wembley in their thousands. Arsenal looked as though they had been strangled by a bizarre inferiority complex. This was not a day for Arsenal will look back on with any kind of pleasure and their season is gradually lapsing into a state of total indifference to everything around them.
Jack Wilshere, combining with Aaron Ramsey and Granit Xhaka are still players of influence and stature, players of genuine awareness, excellent positional play and positive attacking instincts. Wilshere is one of the country's most instinctive touch players, driving forward at every opportunity and making things happen that lesser midfield players may not have thought of. Xhaka though is no Patrick Vieira and his temper may leave some Arsenal supporters fuming with fury. Critics of Viera though will insist that the Frenchman was no angel even at the best of times.
For Arsenal though City's third and almost insulting goal was by now no more than a formality. Once again David Silva had discovered wide open spaces in front of him and the Spanish playmaker powered forward at the now peeling skin of Arsenal's now back pedalling defence. Silva moved swiftly behind the Arsenal back line and steered the ball perfectly across the line of Arsenal keeper David Ospina with a shot that flew past the Spanish keeper.
And so it was that Arsenal looked as if they could hardly wait for the referee to blow the final whistle. Their only light at the end of a very long dark tunnel looks to be a victory in the Europa League Final provided they do get to the Final. Arsenal, of course are still one of the most original and eye catching of all Premier League teams but at the moment it all looks as if their world has collapsed around them. Still revenge can still be found in their Premier League match on Thursday and Arsenal fans, for a minute or so of reflection, that may never be sweeter.
At times it was almost as if Arsenal had just dropped onto the set of Hancock's Half Hour. Oh glumness and despondency, possibly the end of the world! Poor Arsene Wenger looked as if he'd just given too many pints of blood and had just bumped into Sid James while walking along the Wembley corridors. Everything seemed so miserable and apocalyptic that not even June Whitfield or Patrick Cargill would have been able to offer a sympathetic shoulder to cry on.
By the end of this remarkably one sided Carabao Cup Final (or League Cup Final for the traditionalists) Arsenal looked so badly beaten that you almost felt that the whole game had begun to drift into a sideshow of total irrelevance. Manchester City had not only punched them into submission but had also left sore and festering wounds to an already troubled season. When the teams re-assemble for the Premier League match at the Emirates on Thursday Arsenal will find themselves looking at a broken mirror.
And yet at heart Arsenal are still capable of playing the kind of football that the classical purists would still claim to be the finest and most pleasurable to watch. After over 20 years at the club Arsene Wenger has set down some of the most honourable of attacking principles ever seen in English football. Arsenal, until quite recently, have delivered some of the most forward thinking and handsomely constructed football in the Premier League, a combination of subtlety, cleverness, intelligence and footballing intellect that has left most of their fans begging for more.
On their day Arsenal have been models of refinement, clear minded and innovative thinking and refreshingly precise in their passing. Not for nothing have they won the FA Cup on several occasions in recent years with something to spare but they've also imposed their natural passing game so powerfully that some of their defeated opponents have been rubbing their eyes with utter disbelief.
But yesterday at Wembley Arsenal once again found the old League Cup something of an ongoing problem, an Achilles heel that seems to get worse with every appearance in a Wembley Final. Just over 10 years Birmingham City disrupted the Gunners golden halo of success in the League Cup Final. In 1987 George Graham's Arsenal eventually overcame Liverpool while a year later Luton Town had flummoxed everybody including Arsenal with a 3-2 victory at the old Wembley.
A couple of years ago their old nemesis Chelsea beat Arsenal in this same competition so there was a widespread belief that yesterday would finally bring their League Cup woes to a grateful end. Sadly though Manchester City were their opponents on the last Sunday afternoon of February and we all know what that means. So far City have been unplayable, unstoppable, imperious and imperial. In fact most adjectives have been rendered utterly redundant. City are a force of nature and, at the moment at least, appear to be running away with the Premier League with some of the most beautifully becoming football seen in the Premier League.
City, under the wonderfully inspirational Pep Guardiola, are so far ahead of the rest of the teams behind them that search parties may be required at some point. They have left a visible cloud of dust in their wake and eventually and mercifully those chasing them will just bow to their superior knowledge. It is hard to imagine how anybody can even mathematically catch them at the moment although realistically the fight is over, the towels have been thrown into the ring and Manchester City are, more or less, Premier League champions elect.
Yesterday Manchester City bore a vague resemblance to Guardiola's Barcelona with their rich range of quick witted and impulsive passing at close quarters, the ball quickly whizzing between light blue shirted feet with a startling ease and fluency. It seemed at times that the City players had some hidden magnet in their boots that connected instantly, an electrifying sight at times and somehow miraculous at others.
But City, after one or two wobbles recently with FA Cup defeat at Wigan and Premier League defeat at Liverpool perhaps subconsciously preying at the back of their minds, were slow starters. The ball admittedly flowed across the ground when City had possession but, occasionally, there has been an alarming raggedness and complacency to City that may have alerted their neighbours United at Old Trafford, not a million miles behind them in the Premier League title chase.
In the first half at Wembley City stepped out onto the famous Wembley turf rather like those snobbish landowners who rightly believe that nobody should ever encroach on their precious territory. Defeat should be unthinkable and City adopted an air of self righteousness that Arsenal were determined to take advantage of. This was no occasion though for the delusional to assume airs and graces. How dare Arsenal even think of stealing City's thunder. It would be most unseemly and unheard of.
So it was that after a jittery and uncertain start from City and an Arsenal side almost hell bent on grafting their passing game onto the game, City rolled up their sleeves, worked the ball with an enviable simplicity and just tinkered with the ball like a laboratory of scientists experimenting with different chemicals. By the end of the first half Arsenal knew neither to stick or twist.
City though, after a brief passage of moderately impressive one touch football struck the first blow. This time though their opening goal was uncharacteristically direct and most unlike City. A long goal kick straight down the pitch bounced deceptively in front of bemused Arsenal defender Shkodran Mustafi and the German seemed to lose his sense of direction, allowing City's lethal striker Sergio Aguero a straight path. Aguero gleefully lobbed the ball over grasping Arsenal keeper David Ospina.
For the rest of the half Arsenal struggled haplessly, pressed back into their own half and to all intents and purposes a side with neither shape, method or pattern. City reminded you of those rural dogs who spend most of their lives endlessly chasing a herd of sheep back into their pens. City had trapped their prey, surrounding Arsenal at every turn, hassling and hurrying the Londoners with a marvellous persistence and tenacity.
Yesterday City had the impeccably evergreen Vincent Kompany patrolling at the heart of a City defence like a nightwatchman or security guard, ever watchful, vigilant and completely self assured at all times. Kompany has been one of the most reliably consistent of City captains in recent seasons and one defensive challenge in particular robbing Arsenal of a potential goal, had to be seen to be believed.
Then Nicolas Otamendi began to surge into Arsenal's half, pestering, badgering, forcing the issue for City and marvellously adventurous. Kyle Walker, who Spurs may have cause to regret missing, had one of those typically heroic and imaginative games overlapping on the flanks that the watching England manager Gareth Southgate may have to cause to take private notes on.
It was now that City began to look their usual faultless and assertive selves. City's football is both calming and soothing to the soul at times and in the second half, they almost blinded Arsenal with their very own brand of science. Ilkay Gundogan looked more and more of a free spirit and this spirit of liberation made his assignment on the day look much less taxing than it could have been.
Now Leroy Sane emerged as one of the most authoritative looking of players on the day. Sane is a very learned and knowledgeable footballer who floats across the pitch like some like a holiday cruise ship. The German never looks flustered and is forever weaving in and out of defenders like a playful spider spinning its web. He dribbles with the ball with both assurance and a sense of insurance that the ball will never be given away lightly.
With David Silva playing with that ever present air of a lightning conductor, buzzing and scheming around red shirts as if he'd always done it like this, City fluttered around and flirted with Arsenal as if genuinely enjoying themselves. Fernandinho provided that customary Brazilian blend that is slowly making a noticeable difference to the national team once again and Sergio Aguero once again gave the entire Arsenal defence the most tiring of run arounds.
The second half was growing older and more frustrating for Arsenal. Then from a low corner on City's right, the ball was driven firmly across the Arsenal penalty area where, after a blur of bodies had left everybody slightly perplexed, the ball fell to Vincent Kompany who stuck out a foot and diverted the ball into the Arsenal net for a vital second goal for City.
It was at this point that large sections of red began to desert their team. The Arsenal fans, almost stunned at their team's increasing discomfort on the ball, now left Wembley in their thousands. Arsenal looked as though they had been strangled by a bizarre inferiority complex. This was not a day for Arsenal will look back on with any kind of pleasure and their season is gradually lapsing into a state of total indifference to everything around them.
Jack Wilshere, combining with Aaron Ramsey and Granit Xhaka are still players of influence and stature, players of genuine awareness, excellent positional play and positive attacking instincts. Wilshere is one of the country's most instinctive touch players, driving forward at every opportunity and making things happen that lesser midfield players may not have thought of. Xhaka though is no Patrick Vieira and his temper may leave some Arsenal supporters fuming with fury. Critics of Viera though will insist that the Frenchman was no angel even at the best of times.
For Arsenal though City's third and almost insulting goal was by now no more than a formality. Once again David Silva had discovered wide open spaces in front of him and the Spanish playmaker powered forward at the now peeling skin of Arsenal's now back pedalling defence. Silva moved swiftly behind the Arsenal back line and steered the ball perfectly across the line of Arsenal keeper David Ospina with a shot that flew past the Spanish keeper.
And so it was that Arsenal looked as if they could hardly wait for the referee to blow the final whistle. Their only light at the end of a very long dark tunnel looks to be a victory in the Europa League Final provided they do get to the Final. Arsenal, of course are still one of the most original and eye catching of all Premier League teams but at the moment it all looks as if their world has collapsed around them. Still revenge can still be found in their Premier League match on Thursday and Arsenal fans, for a minute or so of reflection, that may never be sweeter.
Saturday, 24 February 2018
The Old Grey Whistle Test- a late night BBC classic.
The Old Grey Whistle Test - a late night BBC classic.
For those of us with a passion for soul music and the legend of Motown this shouldn't have been my cup of tea, coffee, latte or cappuccino. But last night BBC Four excelled itself, pushing the boat right out of the harbour and into the most vintage of amber sunsets. During all of the 1970s and the early part of the 1980s it was cutting edge TV that literally heaved back all of the rock music boundaries and left late night, sleepy BBC 2 viewers hooked and transfixed for ever more.
It was a night devoted to music, nostalgia, official hippiedom, right on classic vinyl album rockers and those aficionados in the music industry who remember the 1970s as that simply golden, long bearded age of classical rock, outrageous hairstyles, wonderful fashion statements and a whole litany of barking mad eccentricities. But how we loved them and we wouldn't have had it any other way.
Last night BBC Four paid a special tribute to the Old Grey Whistle Test, one of the most enthralling and exhilarating music programmes ever to appear on that gold fish bowl in the corner of your living room. Once again it has to be emphasised that for those of us of an easy listening disposition more Stevie Wonder than Stevie Winwood this was something of a culturally offensive shock to the system. But it still remains one of the most iconic of all TV programmes, whose value can never be questioned.
I have to confess here and now that although aware of the Old Grey Whistle Test the programme didn't really preoccupy my burgeoning teenage mind. Not for me those loud, deafening, riotously raucous rock bands who seemed to turn the volume up to such an intense pitch that it was a wonder that my hearing wasn't permanently and severely affected in later life.
But the advancing years have now mellowed me immensely and having watched last night's wonderful confection of legendary singers, bands, accomplished songwriters, lyricists and music makers the Old Grey Whistle Test briefly, for one night only reminded you that it wasn't so bad at all, that those screeching guitarists with enormous speakers had an underlying message.
Introduced by that wonderfully soothing voiced, smooth as silk music lover 'Whistling Bob Harris', now at that velvety veteran stage of his career, the Old Grey Whistle Test took us on a gentle river boat ride through the 1970s, with frequent emphasis on those who made their first appearance on the programme only to find that it had become a glorious launching pad for a glitteringly illustrious career, a time of big concert venues and stadiums that would become their second home.
First on last night was the very feminine and angelically ethereal Kiki Dee, whose famous collaboration with Elton John in the 1970s hit single 'Don't Go Breaking My Heart' somehow endeared her to us more than ever before. For those of us who remember 'I've Got The Music in Me' Kiki Dee's voice had an instantly recognisable uplifting lilt that somehow that epitomised the earthy, gutsy sound of the early 1970s. Dee told us all about her Northern Soul roots and then played her latest number. She then took us back to 1973 with the exquisite 'Amoureuse', a beautifully poetic piece of story telling, richly descriptive and affectionately delivered.
Then Bob Harris reeled off a whole artistic gallery of the great and good, the sublime and the ridiculous, the creators of stunning prose, verse, stanza and vocal cadences that must have been deeply moving to those of a sensitive ear. They came and went from the one off 1970s sofa studio like honoured visitors to a very special party. They spoke fondly of those moments from way back when, the endless days spent in smoky 1960s West End clubs, the pubs where the foundations of their career were first laid, those first precious record labels and studios where the first sounds were conceived and executed, tuned and tweaked.
There was Peter Frampton, whose 1970s middle of the road rock classic 'I Want You To Show Me the Way' elevated the genre to new and unexplored heights. Frampton, last night, treated us to a pretty ditty called 'I Saved a Bird' which must have come as welcome news to all ornithologists. 'Baby I Love Your Way' was a sentimental throwback to his first love and courtship days.
Then Harris, our master of ceremonies, dug into the historic vaults of the 'Old Grey Whistle Test'. There were the glowingly warm reminiscences of the greats, the stars with genuine quality and those who may have been just passing by an old BBC TV studio lift shaft and found that here was a perfect canvas for their artwork.
There was the unforgettably brilliant and enduringly cool David Bowie, Elton John in his prodigiously creative songwriting pomp, all splendid shoulder pads and hilarious glasses. There was Meat Loaf, an all conquering, energetic American rock band who were somehow ideally suited for the Old Grey Whistle Test and led by a highly amusing lead singer who never seemed to take life seriously at any point of his life. Then there seemed the highly improbable appearance of Billy Joel whose brief snatch of 'She's Only a Woman' back in the 1980s broke new ground for the Whistle Test.
Then Bob Harris set us an online competition to the viewers. The winner was the superbly inimitable Bob Marley and the Wailers with their first appearance on the show and 'Stir it Up', a forerunner for the more celebrated and mainstream hits such 'No Woman No Cry' and the constantly infectious reggae rhythms of 'We're Jammin'. Tragically Marley's life would be cut short and we would never again be the privileged listeners to his unique voice.
There was another whistle stop through the multi layered careers of the songbirds, the rousing rebels, the microphone grabbers and the blatant exhibitionists. There was Alice Cooper, that war painted, wild haired demonstration of rock rebellion, an incredibly gifted performance artist and a right show off. Some of us knew where Cooper was coming from but didn't quite know where he'd end up. He was one of those stomping, strutting stage rockers who simply didn't care about the consequences of his actions.
On a more sedate level. Bob Harris introduced us to the one and only Joan Armatrading, a British chanteuse still going strong and still making an impact to this day. Back in the 1970s a little known black singer from Birmingham stirred the nation with a series of hits that had studied sophistication written straight through them.
Armatrading's deep but smouldering soul voice had a style and resonance that would keep the British pop charts in a buoyant state of health. Her voice still has that smooth eloquence that would light up any late night jazz club. 'Love and Affection', a massive hit everywhere, remains a timeless masterpiece. Armatrading still has a laid back class about her that has taken her right up to the present day.
When Radio 1 legend Annie Nightingale told us very powerfully about the unspeakably untimely death of the great John Lennon and her rib ticklingly, funny appearances on the Old Grey Whistle Test we somehow knew that here was a programme that was almost too understated and modest for its own good.
Broadcaster Danny Baker went into rich chapter and verse about his first encounters with this trailblazing TV music programme and a format that was never less than simple and very distinctive. Baker pointed out quite accurately that the Old Grey Whistle Test was one of those programmes that was so tucked away in the late night TV schedules that very few people were aware of its existence. Baker said that it was one of those obscure nuggets of gold that suddenly ingratiated itself into the public's mind and never went away. It was rather like a charming clock on your mantelpiece that always told the right time.
One of the programme's few regrets was that the Beatles or the Rolling Stones could ever be enticed onto the show for reasons that might have become apparent given the worldwide fame and celebrity that both bands had experienced years before the Old Grey Whistle Test. There was an interview with Ian Anderson who fronted Jethro Tull, a band who seemed to be radical pioneers to their fingertips at the time, Gary Numan, another electro pop extrovert and Toyah Wilcox whose extravagant, spiky hair and clothes had a 1980s electricity that couldn't be resisted.
So there you are ladies and gentlemen. A BBC Four one off tribute to the unforgettable Old Grey Whistle Test. To rock connoisseurs it was rather like a late night cup of coffee or a glass of brandy before lights out. Around Britain and the world there are still avid album collectors for whom the act of flicking through racks of carefully arranged LPs remains the guilty pleasure it's always been. Whistling Bob Harris was somehow appropriately made for the Old Grey Whistle Test. Arise Sir Bob. It sounds so right.
For those of us with a passion for soul music and the legend of Motown this shouldn't have been my cup of tea, coffee, latte or cappuccino. But last night BBC Four excelled itself, pushing the boat right out of the harbour and into the most vintage of amber sunsets. During all of the 1970s and the early part of the 1980s it was cutting edge TV that literally heaved back all of the rock music boundaries and left late night, sleepy BBC 2 viewers hooked and transfixed for ever more.
It was a night devoted to music, nostalgia, official hippiedom, right on classic vinyl album rockers and those aficionados in the music industry who remember the 1970s as that simply golden, long bearded age of classical rock, outrageous hairstyles, wonderful fashion statements and a whole litany of barking mad eccentricities. But how we loved them and we wouldn't have had it any other way.
Last night BBC Four paid a special tribute to the Old Grey Whistle Test, one of the most enthralling and exhilarating music programmes ever to appear on that gold fish bowl in the corner of your living room. Once again it has to be emphasised that for those of us of an easy listening disposition more Stevie Wonder than Stevie Winwood this was something of a culturally offensive shock to the system. But it still remains one of the most iconic of all TV programmes, whose value can never be questioned.
I have to confess here and now that although aware of the Old Grey Whistle Test the programme didn't really preoccupy my burgeoning teenage mind. Not for me those loud, deafening, riotously raucous rock bands who seemed to turn the volume up to such an intense pitch that it was a wonder that my hearing wasn't permanently and severely affected in later life.
But the advancing years have now mellowed me immensely and having watched last night's wonderful confection of legendary singers, bands, accomplished songwriters, lyricists and music makers the Old Grey Whistle Test briefly, for one night only reminded you that it wasn't so bad at all, that those screeching guitarists with enormous speakers had an underlying message.
Introduced by that wonderfully soothing voiced, smooth as silk music lover 'Whistling Bob Harris', now at that velvety veteran stage of his career, the Old Grey Whistle Test took us on a gentle river boat ride through the 1970s, with frequent emphasis on those who made their first appearance on the programme only to find that it had become a glorious launching pad for a glitteringly illustrious career, a time of big concert venues and stadiums that would become their second home.
First on last night was the very feminine and angelically ethereal Kiki Dee, whose famous collaboration with Elton John in the 1970s hit single 'Don't Go Breaking My Heart' somehow endeared her to us more than ever before. For those of us who remember 'I've Got The Music in Me' Kiki Dee's voice had an instantly recognisable uplifting lilt that somehow that epitomised the earthy, gutsy sound of the early 1970s. Dee told us all about her Northern Soul roots and then played her latest number. She then took us back to 1973 with the exquisite 'Amoureuse', a beautifully poetic piece of story telling, richly descriptive and affectionately delivered.
Then Bob Harris reeled off a whole artistic gallery of the great and good, the sublime and the ridiculous, the creators of stunning prose, verse, stanza and vocal cadences that must have been deeply moving to those of a sensitive ear. They came and went from the one off 1970s sofa studio like honoured visitors to a very special party. They spoke fondly of those moments from way back when, the endless days spent in smoky 1960s West End clubs, the pubs where the foundations of their career were first laid, those first precious record labels and studios where the first sounds were conceived and executed, tuned and tweaked.
There was Peter Frampton, whose 1970s middle of the road rock classic 'I Want You To Show Me the Way' elevated the genre to new and unexplored heights. Frampton, last night, treated us to a pretty ditty called 'I Saved a Bird' which must have come as welcome news to all ornithologists. 'Baby I Love Your Way' was a sentimental throwback to his first love and courtship days.
Then Harris, our master of ceremonies, dug into the historic vaults of the 'Old Grey Whistle Test'. There were the glowingly warm reminiscences of the greats, the stars with genuine quality and those who may have been just passing by an old BBC TV studio lift shaft and found that here was a perfect canvas for their artwork.
There was the unforgettably brilliant and enduringly cool David Bowie, Elton John in his prodigiously creative songwriting pomp, all splendid shoulder pads and hilarious glasses. There was Meat Loaf, an all conquering, energetic American rock band who were somehow ideally suited for the Old Grey Whistle Test and led by a highly amusing lead singer who never seemed to take life seriously at any point of his life. Then there seemed the highly improbable appearance of Billy Joel whose brief snatch of 'She's Only a Woman' back in the 1980s broke new ground for the Whistle Test.
Then Bob Harris set us an online competition to the viewers. The winner was the superbly inimitable Bob Marley and the Wailers with their first appearance on the show and 'Stir it Up', a forerunner for the more celebrated and mainstream hits such 'No Woman No Cry' and the constantly infectious reggae rhythms of 'We're Jammin'. Tragically Marley's life would be cut short and we would never again be the privileged listeners to his unique voice.
There was another whistle stop through the multi layered careers of the songbirds, the rousing rebels, the microphone grabbers and the blatant exhibitionists. There was Alice Cooper, that war painted, wild haired demonstration of rock rebellion, an incredibly gifted performance artist and a right show off. Some of us knew where Cooper was coming from but didn't quite know where he'd end up. He was one of those stomping, strutting stage rockers who simply didn't care about the consequences of his actions.
On a more sedate level. Bob Harris introduced us to the one and only Joan Armatrading, a British chanteuse still going strong and still making an impact to this day. Back in the 1970s a little known black singer from Birmingham stirred the nation with a series of hits that had studied sophistication written straight through them.
Armatrading's deep but smouldering soul voice had a style and resonance that would keep the British pop charts in a buoyant state of health. Her voice still has that smooth eloquence that would light up any late night jazz club. 'Love and Affection', a massive hit everywhere, remains a timeless masterpiece. Armatrading still has a laid back class about her that has taken her right up to the present day.
When Radio 1 legend Annie Nightingale told us very powerfully about the unspeakably untimely death of the great John Lennon and her rib ticklingly, funny appearances on the Old Grey Whistle Test we somehow knew that here was a programme that was almost too understated and modest for its own good.
Broadcaster Danny Baker went into rich chapter and verse about his first encounters with this trailblazing TV music programme and a format that was never less than simple and very distinctive. Baker pointed out quite accurately that the Old Grey Whistle Test was one of those programmes that was so tucked away in the late night TV schedules that very few people were aware of its existence. Baker said that it was one of those obscure nuggets of gold that suddenly ingratiated itself into the public's mind and never went away. It was rather like a charming clock on your mantelpiece that always told the right time.
One of the programme's few regrets was that the Beatles or the Rolling Stones could ever be enticed onto the show for reasons that might have become apparent given the worldwide fame and celebrity that both bands had experienced years before the Old Grey Whistle Test. There was an interview with Ian Anderson who fronted Jethro Tull, a band who seemed to be radical pioneers to their fingertips at the time, Gary Numan, another electro pop extrovert and Toyah Wilcox whose extravagant, spiky hair and clothes had a 1980s electricity that couldn't be resisted.
So there you are ladies and gentlemen. A BBC Four one off tribute to the unforgettable Old Grey Whistle Test. To rock connoisseurs it was rather like a late night cup of coffee or a glass of brandy before lights out. Around Britain and the world there are still avid album collectors for whom the act of flicking through racks of carefully arranged LPs remains the guilty pleasure it's always been. Whistling Bob Harris was somehow appropriately made for the Old Grey Whistle Test. Arise Sir Bob. It sounds so right.
Wednesday, 21 February 2018
Winter Olympics Gold joy and heartbreak fall
Winter Olympics Gold joy and heartbreak fall.
These Winter Olympics in South Korea are beginning to work their magic on me. For those of us who were never quite sure what to make of snowboarding and curling I think I've been fully converted. There is a lot to be said for somersaulting in the air, back flipping, soaring into the air like the proverbial eagle and then reaching the most seemingly impossible heights before tumbling down back onto the snow with complete sure footedness without a hair out of place.
But for two of our golden Olympic heroines there were vastly contrasting emotions. You know what it's like. You wake up one day and you know how things are going to work out for you. You look out of your snow caked chalet, looking at those vast acres of snow, huge white glaciers, mountain ranges that look remarkably like a birthday cake and trees dripping with yet more combinations of ice and snow.
For Lizzy Yarnold and Elise Christie sport had once again been both cruel and totally heartless. But then in almost the same sentence it had also been extremely generous and genuinely benevolent. Sometimes it can wreak havoc with your hopes and dreams but then you begin to wonder whether conspiratorial forces are at work because you could have sworn you'd done everything in your power to be successful.
When Lizzy Yarnold punched her fists with delight after retaining her Winter Olympic skeleton gold medal, it seemed that everything in the world was right and nothing could top this moment. It all turns out for the best, you've nailed it on the day, you've re-established your skeleton supremacy and nobody can spoil that crowning moment when they drape that gold medal around your neck. You knew you could do it and you knew were good enough and Yarnold must have almost presumed that all she had to do was turn up with her skeleton and breeze through effortlessly to another gold.
The smile on Yarnold's face was as wide as a snow swept valley and she must have thought this was the archetypal fairy tale story, the result of all that hard, relentless training on cold, dark mornings. We know everything there is to know about Olympian sacrifice and dedication. It is one of the major requirements for those Olympic athletes who aspire to be the very best. For Lizzy Yarnold Olympic history had gloriously repeated itself and for the moment at least South Korea is the greatest country in the world. Who knows she may fall in love with South Korea on a more permanent basis?
Sadly though for Elise Christie it all went brutally wrong. It may not have been the end of the world but for our Elise this was nothing short of a disaster. In her first attempt at the 1500m semi final in the speed skating event Christie came tearing out of the blocks like a woman in a frantic hurry. She slid across the ice, thrust herself aggressively towards the front, pushing, jostling and determined to make her mark. Then at the first corner Christie lost her footing. slipping awkwardly and horribly before crashing nastily into the wall. Her face said it all.
There are times during the career of any sportsman and woman when words become almost worthless and superfluous. Poor Elise Christie pulled up sharply in an agonised grimace, her face torn with raw pain and grief. She slumped forward, grasping at something, anything that would offer instant consolation. But then there was the realisation that the entire universe can be a very lonely place, the darkest of holes, an empty chasm where the hollow echoes of defeat reverberate in the mind like a haunting bell.
And then just to make matters even worse Christie was given another chance and after barging her way desperately past her fellow racers, there seemed to be a hint of illegality. Christie was almost immediately disqualified again and once again injured into the bargain. The sight of Christie being carried off the ice will remain one of the saddest seen in any sporting arena. She knew she'd thrown it away, her Olympic day in the sun no more than a melted snowball. She was disgusted with herself, utterly distraught and hoping that the ground would swallow her up.
So there we are. Two British Olympic women had once again summed up the woes and jollities that sport can so often throw up when least expected. With every passing day this Winter Olympics has given us sport at its most gripping, intriguing and mysterious. Some of us are still grappling with the intricacies of curling, a sport whose only focal point seems to be a sweeping brush and a heavy stone. But wonder of wonders it does look great fun and you somehow find yourself drawn into the spectacle.
When the closing ceremony for these Winter Olympics dawns shortly we shall miss the brave, the heroic, the fearless and daring. The Olympic flame will once again flicker and vanish into the mists of history and the citizens of PyeongChang will zip up their thick coats, smile warmly at the memories of February 2018 and then remember two British women by the name of Lizzy Yarnold and Elise Christie. We'll never forget them.
These Winter Olympics in South Korea are beginning to work their magic on me. For those of us who were never quite sure what to make of snowboarding and curling I think I've been fully converted. There is a lot to be said for somersaulting in the air, back flipping, soaring into the air like the proverbial eagle and then reaching the most seemingly impossible heights before tumbling down back onto the snow with complete sure footedness without a hair out of place.
But for two of our golden Olympic heroines there were vastly contrasting emotions. You know what it's like. You wake up one day and you know how things are going to work out for you. You look out of your snow caked chalet, looking at those vast acres of snow, huge white glaciers, mountain ranges that look remarkably like a birthday cake and trees dripping with yet more combinations of ice and snow.
For Lizzy Yarnold and Elise Christie sport had once again been both cruel and totally heartless. But then in almost the same sentence it had also been extremely generous and genuinely benevolent. Sometimes it can wreak havoc with your hopes and dreams but then you begin to wonder whether conspiratorial forces are at work because you could have sworn you'd done everything in your power to be successful.
When Lizzy Yarnold punched her fists with delight after retaining her Winter Olympic skeleton gold medal, it seemed that everything in the world was right and nothing could top this moment. It all turns out for the best, you've nailed it on the day, you've re-established your skeleton supremacy and nobody can spoil that crowning moment when they drape that gold medal around your neck. You knew you could do it and you knew were good enough and Yarnold must have almost presumed that all she had to do was turn up with her skeleton and breeze through effortlessly to another gold.
The smile on Yarnold's face was as wide as a snow swept valley and she must have thought this was the archetypal fairy tale story, the result of all that hard, relentless training on cold, dark mornings. We know everything there is to know about Olympian sacrifice and dedication. It is one of the major requirements for those Olympic athletes who aspire to be the very best. For Lizzy Yarnold Olympic history had gloriously repeated itself and for the moment at least South Korea is the greatest country in the world. Who knows she may fall in love with South Korea on a more permanent basis?
Sadly though for Elise Christie it all went brutally wrong. It may not have been the end of the world but for our Elise this was nothing short of a disaster. In her first attempt at the 1500m semi final in the speed skating event Christie came tearing out of the blocks like a woman in a frantic hurry. She slid across the ice, thrust herself aggressively towards the front, pushing, jostling and determined to make her mark. Then at the first corner Christie lost her footing. slipping awkwardly and horribly before crashing nastily into the wall. Her face said it all.
There are times during the career of any sportsman and woman when words become almost worthless and superfluous. Poor Elise Christie pulled up sharply in an agonised grimace, her face torn with raw pain and grief. She slumped forward, grasping at something, anything that would offer instant consolation. But then there was the realisation that the entire universe can be a very lonely place, the darkest of holes, an empty chasm where the hollow echoes of defeat reverberate in the mind like a haunting bell.
And then just to make matters even worse Christie was given another chance and after barging her way desperately past her fellow racers, there seemed to be a hint of illegality. Christie was almost immediately disqualified again and once again injured into the bargain. The sight of Christie being carried off the ice will remain one of the saddest seen in any sporting arena. She knew she'd thrown it away, her Olympic day in the sun no more than a melted snowball. She was disgusted with herself, utterly distraught and hoping that the ground would swallow her up.
So there we are. Two British Olympic women had once again summed up the woes and jollities that sport can so often throw up when least expected. With every passing day this Winter Olympics has given us sport at its most gripping, intriguing and mysterious. Some of us are still grappling with the intricacies of curling, a sport whose only focal point seems to be a sweeping brush and a heavy stone. But wonder of wonders it does look great fun and you somehow find yourself drawn into the spectacle.
When the closing ceremony for these Winter Olympics dawns shortly we shall miss the brave, the heroic, the fearless and daring. The Olympic flame will once again flicker and vanish into the mists of history and the citizens of PyeongChang will zip up their thick coats, smile warmly at the memories of February 2018 and then remember two British women by the name of Lizzy Yarnold and Elise Christie. We'll never forget them.
Sunday, 18 February 2018
Roger Federer- tennis's oldest world No.1
Roger Federer- tennis's oldest world No.1
Can that really be true? It has to be if they say it is. This weekend Roger Federer became the oldest No.1 player in the history of tennis. What a stunning achievement by anybody's reckoning. According to the world rankings, normally an accurate bellwether of these things, Federer has been playing tennis for so long that there are those seasoned veterans within the game who can hardly remember where they were when Federer first picked up a racket.
Suffice it to say that the most decorated, most praised, most feted, most loved of all sportsmen, has now settled himself neatly into the Tennis Hall of Fame without so much as breaking sweat and probably wondering what all the fuss is about. Federer doesn't really do adulation or self congratulation because his manner is essentially modest, humble, unassuming and self deprecating. There is a remarkable level headedness and groundedness about the man that has always been there and will never, you suspect, leave him.
So it is that Federer breaks yet another record and to those within the game this is not entirely unexpected. The Swiss maestro has won so many Grand Slams now that maybe a shield or special trophy should be designed in his honour. For the man who has everything the game of tennis hasn't only been about longevity more a pursuit of convincing victories, more memorable five set triumphs and more feats of astonishing stamina that continue to leave us gasping for superlatives.
When Roger Federer first stepped onto the Centre Court of Wimbledon most of us regarded him as some young upstart who would undoubtedly reach the most stratospheric heights. But what we didn't know is that he would also win the men's singles title at Wimbledon so many times that calculators would be required and some of us would run out of fingers.
Comparisons are obvious of course. We remember the beautiful talents of that Swedish tennis artist Bjorn Borg. Borg rattled off five consecutive men's singles Final victories without wiping so much as a trickle of sweat from that immovable sweat band that he always wore for the big occasions. Borg barely broke sweat at all, strolling and trotting around the baseline like a man considering his next university essay. He would prowl around the back of a tennis court like a man whose private thoughts could never be fathomed. And this is where Federer came in.
For what must seem like the last 20 years or so - even more- Federer has been a model of composure, calmness personified, never bothered by an imminent crisis such as a murmur from the crowd or a disobedient wind in the wrong direction. Federer just gets on with the business at hand and rather like Borg always looks as if he's just stepped out of the most fashionable menswear shop. There is something of the silent assassin about him, a quiet storm about to erupt with a devastating vengeance.
On any tennis court the Federer demeanour is a classy one. The hair, thick black and lustrous, has always been swept back and combed to perfection, the body primed and prepared for all eventualities. There is a statesmanship and craftsmanship about Federer that is almost set in stone before every Federer match. Federer carries himself with an almost regal and monarchical air that demands a crown on his head when the win is secured.
In recent years Federer's continuing rivalries with Rafa Nadal and Novak Djokovic have been the stuff of legend. When Britain's Andy Murray joined in with the cut and thrust of tennis's finest of all contests, Federer simply out thought and outmanoeuvred his opponents as if they were not there. Some might have called it arrogance and almost insolence but when the Swiss blasts his serves down the centre of the court with those unreturnable and ruthless aces, a palpable majesty follows him. Take that D'Artagnan.
Now though Federer, seemingly at the veteran stage of his career, is simply doing what the rest of his sporting predecessors must have thought would come naturally. And this is where your mind drifts to those other wise sporting campaigners who have trodden the courts, pitches and race tracks of the world without so much as a care in the world.
Back in the late 1960s there was that delightful Australian Ken Rosewall, another tennis practitioner of the gentlest kind. Rosewall, it seemed, just kept on playing and playing until it became physically impossible to play. Like Federer, Rosewall had the most feathery touch and a delicious delicacy about his forehands and backhands that almost invited flattery and kind words.
In football. a gentleman by the name of Stanley Matthews played for both Blackpool- where he would subsequently and finally win an FA Cup winners medal in 1953 against Bolton. Much later Sir Stanley Matthews would once again trouble the record books when he moved to Stoke City at the latter end of his career. In 1965 Matthews would wear a Stoke City shirt at the age of 50. Wingers in football are almost an endangered species now but a 50 year old winger hugging the flanks during the 1960s must have been a truly unusual sight.
More recently Dino Zoff, the vastly reliable Italian goalkeeper, once lifted the World Cup for his country at the age of 40 and Ryan Giggs, Manchester United's fast and explosively pacy winger, was until recently still tying his boots at the age of 38 going on 39.
Sportsmen and women of course are much fitter and stronger than ever before and all those physical conditioning programmes, perfectly observed diets and routine fitness regimes have made today's athlete almost superhuman.
The truth is that one Roger Federer, complete in that immaculately tailored waistcoat -cum jacket, a hint of a pony tail and that worldly air of savoir faire and suave sophistication, has indeed done it again. He is the oldest player to maintain a No 1 ranking and that has to be immensely commendable. I'm 55 and my forehand is a complete embarrassment. Congratulations Roger. Your record is perfectly safe.
Can that really be true? It has to be if they say it is. This weekend Roger Federer became the oldest No.1 player in the history of tennis. What a stunning achievement by anybody's reckoning. According to the world rankings, normally an accurate bellwether of these things, Federer has been playing tennis for so long that there are those seasoned veterans within the game who can hardly remember where they were when Federer first picked up a racket.
Suffice it to say that the most decorated, most praised, most feted, most loved of all sportsmen, has now settled himself neatly into the Tennis Hall of Fame without so much as breaking sweat and probably wondering what all the fuss is about. Federer doesn't really do adulation or self congratulation because his manner is essentially modest, humble, unassuming and self deprecating. There is a remarkable level headedness and groundedness about the man that has always been there and will never, you suspect, leave him.
So it is that Federer breaks yet another record and to those within the game this is not entirely unexpected. The Swiss maestro has won so many Grand Slams now that maybe a shield or special trophy should be designed in his honour. For the man who has everything the game of tennis hasn't only been about longevity more a pursuit of convincing victories, more memorable five set triumphs and more feats of astonishing stamina that continue to leave us gasping for superlatives.
When Roger Federer first stepped onto the Centre Court of Wimbledon most of us regarded him as some young upstart who would undoubtedly reach the most stratospheric heights. But what we didn't know is that he would also win the men's singles title at Wimbledon so many times that calculators would be required and some of us would run out of fingers.
Comparisons are obvious of course. We remember the beautiful talents of that Swedish tennis artist Bjorn Borg. Borg rattled off five consecutive men's singles Final victories without wiping so much as a trickle of sweat from that immovable sweat band that he always wore for the big occasions. Borg barely broke sweat at all, strolling and trotting around the baseline like a man considering his next university essay. He would prowl around the back of a tennis court like a man whose private thoughts could never be fathomed. And this is where Federer came in.
For what must seem like the last 20 years or so - even more- Federer has been a model of composure, calmness personified, never bothered by an imminent crisis such as a murmur from the crowd or a disobedient wind in the wrong direction. Federer just gets on with the business at hand and rather like Borg always looks as if he's just stepped out of the most fashionable menswear shop. There is something of the silent assassin about him, a quiet storm about to erupt with a devastating vengeance.
On any tennis court the Federer demeanour is a classy one. The hair, thick black and lustrous, has always been swept back and combed to perfection, the body primed and prepared for all eventualities. There is a statesmanship and craftsmanship about Federer that is almost set in stone before every Federer match. Federer carries himself with an almost regal and monarchical air that demands a crown on his head when the win is secured.
In recent years Federer's continuing rivalries with Rafa Nadal and Novak Djokovic have been the stuff of legend. When Britain's Andy Murray joined in with the cut and thrust of tennis's finest of all contests, Federer simply out thought and outmanoeuvred his opponents as if they were not there. Some might have called it arrogance and almost insolence but when the Swiss blasts his serves down the centre of the court with those unreturnable and ruthless aces, a palpable majesty follows him. Take that D'Artagnan.
Now though Federer, seemingly at the veteran stage of his career, is simply doing what the rest of his sporting predecessors must have thought would come naturally. And this is where your mind drifts to those other wise sporting campaigners who have trodden the courts, pitches and race tracks of the world without so much as a care in the world.
Back in the late 1960s there was that delightful Australian Ken Rosewall, another tennis practitioner of the gentlest kind. Rosewall, it seemed, just kept on playing and playing until it became physically impossible to play. Like Federer, Rosewall had the most feathery touch and a delicious delicacy about his forehands and backhands that almost invited flattery and kind words.
In football. a gentleman by the name of Stanley Matthews played for both Blackpool- where he would subsequently and finally win an FA Cup winners medal in 1953 against Bolton. Much later Sir Stanley Matthews would once again trouble the record books when he moved to Stoke City at the latter end of his career. In 1965 Matthews would wear a Stoke City shirt at the age of 50. Wingers in football are almost an endangered species now but a 50 year old winger hugging the flanks during the 1960s must have been a truly unusual sight.
More recently Dino Zoff, the vastly reliable Italian goalkeeper, once lifted the World Cup for his country at the age of 40 and Ryan Giggs, Manchester United's fast and explosively pacy winger, was until recently still tying his boots at the age of 38 going on 39.
Sportsmen and women of course are much fitter and stronger than ever before and all those physical conditioning programmes, perfectly observed diets and routine fitness regimes have made today's athlete almost superhuman.
The truth is that one Roger Federer, complete in that immaculately tailored waistcoat -cum jacket, a hint of a pony tail and that worldly air of savoir faire and suave sophistication, has indeed done it again. He is the oldest player to maintain a No 1 ranking and that has to be immensely commendable. I'm 55 and my forehand is a complete embarrassment. Congratulations Roger. Your record is perfectly safe.
Friday, 16 February 2018
Dom Parsons- our Winter Olympics bronze medal hero.
Dom Parsons- our Winter Olympics bronze medal hero.
Remember where you heard about it first. You were sitting in your living room late at night nursing a late night cup of piping hot coffee, pondering the mysteries of snowboarding and curling and then realising that you should have been fast asleep. Then you were awoken with a start when you discovered that a Briton had won a bronze medal in the Winter Olympics. After all when was the last time that had happened and besides it was only a bronze. Still a medal is a medal and this was an Olympic medal.
But hold on folks. Last night amid a snow blizzard of celebration and euphoria, a certain gentleman by the name of Dom Parsons won a bronze medal for Britain in the Winter Olympics. No you weren't dreaming and yes it definitely came to pass. Dom Parsons, against all the laws of probabilities, astonished everybody in Britain with the most surprising of all bronze medals in any Winter Olympics Games events.
Just when you thought it was safe to turn over and nod off for the night Dom Parsons came from nowhere to clinch a bronze medal when it looked for one fleeting moment, that it was not to be his day. In a controversial finish to the men's skeleton, Parsons took the deepest breath, agonised for a minute or so, convinced that a medal of any description had eluded him. Then, as if fate had changed its mind for one amazing moment, Parsons had been told that he was the man who'd snatched the glory.
The facts are that Parsons had won a bronze medal for the men's skeleton which, to the uninitiated, looks like the kind of sport which should, almost of necessity, require not only a life insurance policy but guts and bloody minded fortitude. To the outsider and the impartial, it looks the craziest, zaniest and most ludicrous sporting spectacle you've ever seen. In reality it is sport at its most astounding.
And yet however long it took Parsons took to negotiate this head spinning, roller coaster exhibition of sheer and raw courage, we must have been gripped. How often do our British heroes win a major sporting victory on what the harshest critics and jokers laughingly describe as a tea tray? But what do they know about sport because the men's skeleton in the Winter Olympics not only embodies all of the Olympic ideals it goes much further, transcending anything and everything in its path.
On another day of derring do at the Winter Olympics in PyeongChang, a British Winter Olympian laid the whole of his body vertically and aerodynamically on to his skeleton and then launched himself bravely and intrepidly on the most courageous journey of his life. Before it all none of us had ever heard of Dom Parsons but then we realised that Dominic or Dom had gone well beyond duty in the service of his country and nobody would forget his name. Dom had become an overnight sensation, a genuine superstar. Before you know it, he'll be elevated as Sir Dom, a knight of the realm. There will be no more deserving recipient of the honour.
Like a human missile Parsons thrust himself heroically onto an icy chute and propelled himself forward, arms firmly drawn into his side, head streamlined and straight and body prepared for the most gruelling of all Winter Olympic distances. Faster and faster he went, hurtling around one sharp bend after another, a man seemingly obsessed and totally dedicated to the Olympic spirit and cause.
This is sport at its most indescribable, its most improbable and above all completely breathtaking. It is sport that defeats all logic and reasoning. But this is sport that is totally compelling and compulsively watchable. For those who remain slightly sceptical of its inherent dangers, you couldn't help but be drawn into its raw and elemental power, a sense of fascination heightened by the completely unexpected.
A couple of days ago an American gentleman by the name of Shaun White won the snowboard gold medal and totally blew away not only the stunned observers but also captured the hearts of those who, perhaps mistakenly, believed that White was completely mad. After all, what man in his right mind would even think of performing and beautifully executing some of the most spellbinding manoeuvres without thinking for a moment that it was nothing more than a day at the office.
White did everything he could to persuade us that the human body is capable of doing anything in the unlikeliest of circumstances. He challenged himself to act out the seemingly impossible and then accomplished his unenviable task in much the way we photo copy a vital document. White, pushing himself, then flung his board into the air, threw his body high into the cold South Korean wintry air, spinning, whirling and then acting out some of the most acrobatic stunts that any sporting audience had ever seen.
He flipped, turned his body upside down with the most original of contortions, adjusting his body in mid air almost miraculously, then going higher and higher, gripping the board with a rare tenacity, twisting and turning before finishing the whole display with what appeared the most incredible of aerial somersaults, double and triple loops that reminded you of a Red Arrows air show.
Our commentators treated us to some of the most technical of jargon, the stock phrases of snowboarding that have become everyday language in the sport. But this was Shaun White, an athlete of extraordinary flexibility and versatility, a man undaunted by life's more extreme demands and determined to do the kind of things you or I would probably have to take a rain check on because the man or woman in the street would think we were crazy.
So far so good then for the Winter Olympics in the mystical Far Eastern corner of South Korea. The pundits and commentators have worn their thickest boiler suits, thickly wrapped in the warmest scarves and trying hard not to look as though they'd rather be on some hot beach in the Maldives. So far the citizens of PyeongChang have done themselves proud and, most admirably, have shaken hands with their North Korean neighbours in a kiss and make up, peaceful entente cordiale fashion.
Everybody is enjoying themselves in the highest snowy peaks and the sound of clinking Schnapps can be heard in every chalet and hotel. The Olympian spirit is still flourishing and maybe the world has turned a corner at long last. There are those who probably think that the Koreans are bound to fall out with each other again, that it's too good to be true. Once our backs are turned they'll only start fighting and bickering with each other again. Still this is the Winter Olympics of 2018 and we have to hope and keep the faith. After all it's Tokyo in two years time and another summer Olympics will beckon. Happy Days!
Remember where you heard about it first. You were sitting in your living room late at night nursing a late night cup of piping hot coffee, pondering the mysteries of snowboarding and curling and then realising that you should have been fast asleep. Then you were awoken with a start when you discovered that a Briton had won a bronze medal in the Winter Olympics. After all when was the last time that had happened and besides it was only a bronze. Still a medal is a medal and this was an Olympic medal.
But hold on folks. Last night amid a snow blizzard of celebration and euphoria, a certain gentleman by the name of Dom Parsons won a bronze medal for Britain in the Winter Olympics. No you weren't dreaming and yes it definitely came to pass. Dom Parsons, against all the laws of probabilities, astonished everybody in Britain with the most surprising of all bronze medals in any Winter Olympics Games events.
Just when you thought it was safe to turn over and nod off for the night Dom Parsons came from nowhere to clinch a bronze medal when it looked for one fleeting moment, that it was not to be his day. In a controversial finish to the men's skeleton, Parsons took the deepest breath, agonised for a minute or so, convinced that a medal of any description had eluded him. Then, as if fate had changed its mind for one amazing moment, Parsons had been told that he was the man who'd snatched the glory.
The facts are that Parsons had won a bronze medal for the men's skeleton which, to the uninitiated, looks like the kind of sport which should, almost of necessity, require not only a life insurance policy but guts and bloody minded fortitude. To the outsider and the impartial, it looks the craziest, zaniest and most ludicrous sporting spectacle you've ever seen. In reality it is sport at its most astounding.
And yet however long it took Parsons took to negotiate this head spinning, roller coaster exhibition of sheer and raw courage, we must have been gripped. How often do our British heroes win a major sporting victory on what the harshest critics and jokers laughingly describe as a tea tray? But what do they know about sport because the men's skeleton in the Winter Olympics not only embodies all of the Olympic ideals it goes much further, transcending anything and everything in its path.
On another day of derring do at the Winter Olympics in PyeongChang, a British Winter Olympian laid the whole of his body vertically and aerodynamically on to his skeleton and then launched himself bravely and intrepidly on the most courageous journey of his life. Before it all none of us had ever heard of Dom Parsons but then we realised that Dominic or Dom had gone well beyond duty in the service of his country and nobody would forget his name. Dom had become an overnight sensation, a genuine superstar. Before you know it, he'll be elevated as Sir Dom, a knight of the realm. There will be no more deserving recipient of the honour.
Like a human missile Parsons thrust himself heroically onto an icy chute and propelled himself forward, arms firmly drawn into his side, head streamlined and straight and body prepared for the most gruelling of all Winter Olympic distances. Faster and faster he went, hurtling around one sharp bend after another, a man seemingly obsessed and totally dedicated to the Olympic spirit and cause.
This is sport at its most indescribable, its most improbable and above all completely breathtaking. It is sport that defeats all logic and reasoning. But this is sport that is totally compelling and compulsively watchable. For those who remain slightly sceptical of its inherent dangers, you couldn't help but be drawn into its raw and elemental power, a sense of fascination heightened by the completely unexpected.
A couple of days ago an American gentleman by the name of Shaun White won the snowboard gold medal and totally blew away not only the stunned observers but also captured the hearts of those who, perhaps mistakenly, believed that White was completely mad. After all, what man in his right mind would even think of performing and beautifully executing some of the most spellbinding manoeuvres without thinking for a moment that it was nothing more than a day at the office.
White did everything he could to persuade us that the human body is capable of doing anything in the unlikeliest of circumstances. He challenged himself to act out the seemingly impossible and then accomplished his unenviable task in much the way we photo copy a vital document. White, pushing himself, then flung his board into the air, threw his body high into the cold South Korean wintry air, spinning, whirling and then acting out some of the most acrobatic stunts that any sporting audience had ever seen.
He flipped, turned his body upside down with the most original of contortions, adjusting his body in mid air almost miraculously, then going higher and higher, gripping the board with a rare tenacity, twisting and turning before finishing the whole display with what appeared the most incredible of aerial somersaults, double and triple loops that reminded you of a Red Arrows air show.
Our commentators treated us to some of the most technical of jargon, the stock phrases of snowboarding that have become everyday language in the sport. But this was Shaun White, an athlete of extraordinary flexibility and versatility, a man undaunted by life's more extreme demands and determined to do the kind of things you or I would probably have to take a rain check on because the man or woman in the street would think we were crazy.
So far so good then for the Winter Olympics in the mystical Far Eastern corner of South Korea. The pundits and commentators have worn their thickest boiler suits, thickly wrapped in the warmest scarves and trying hard not to look as though they'd rather be on some hot beach in the Maldives. So far the citizens of PyeongChang have done themselves proud and, most admirably, have shaken hands with their North Korean neighbours in a kiss and make up, peaceful entente cordiale fashion.
Everybody is enjoying themselves in the highest snowy peaks and the sound of clinking Schnapps can be heard in every chalet and hotel. The Olympian spirit is still flourishing and maybe the world has turned a corner at long last. There are those who probably think that the Koreans are bound to fall out with each other again, that it's too good to be true. Once our backs are turned they'll only start fighting and bickering with each other again. Still this is the Winter Olympics of 2018 and we have to hope and keep the faith. After all it's Tokyo in two years time and another summer Olympics will beckon. Happy Days!
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