Ray Wilkins - another English Rolls Royce dies at 61.
Today the world of football once again bowed its head respectfully and inhaled a sharp intake of breath. A dark pall of mourning and loss hung over English football as another of its own died. Recently, the deaths of England legends Jimmy Armfield and Cyrille Regis deprived football of two of its most devoted professionals, players of style and stature, wisdom and shrewdness, players who were never afraid to express an enduring love of the game without ever resorting to underhand measures.
Now Ray Wilkins, one of Chelsea's finest and most refined of England midfield players has died at the age of 61, horrendously early for one of football's most technical craftsmen, a player of vision, intuition, smoothness, uncanny awareness, a footballer with a magnificent sense of timing, a delectable passing range both long and short, and a perfect command of the game's finer nuances.
Wilkins had an almost geographical knowledge of any football pitch, a sixth sense of where his colleagues were and the supporting runs they were about to make. But today football lost one of its most accomplished artists, a playmaker in every sense of the term in an age when football's grafters, toilers, engine room stokers and, frequently, cloggers ruled the 1970s football empire.
When Wilkins pulled on a blue Chelsea shirt as a wet behind the ears apprentice and wonderfully ambitious youngster, the old First Division was still populated by genuinely colourful and charismatic characters such as Billy Bremner, Norman Hunter, Tommy Smith, Eddie Kelly and Peter Storey. It was a footballing landscape littered with flinty, niggly, nuggety, hard as nails footballers whose only assignment on match day would surely have been the complete humiliation of their opponents.
But then there was Ray Wilkins, smooth as silk, a player with a gossamer touch, gliding gracefully across a Stamford Bridge pitch that bore an obvious resemblance to a local allotment site during the early part of the 1970s. Wilkins though was modestly majestic, quietly influential at first but when given the licence to roam further forward to attack opponents, hard, gritty and often abrasive.
Still there remains in the mind a lingering impression of grace under pressure, of all embracing authority, responsible decision making, immaculate precision in his choice of passes and often scorer of the important goal on important occasions. Wilkins once lobbed a ball over a Belgium keeper for England's equaliser in the 1980 European Championship, a model of arrogance and characteristic subtlety.
So stylish and imposing had Wilkins become that once established at Chelsea, it wasn't long before he was attracting the attention of so called bigger clubs. When Ron Atkinson, Manchester United's flamboyant manager began to hunt around for a player with genuine leadership skills, Wilkins was like putty in his hands. Atkinson was now totally besotted and smitten by a player who would take complete charge of a Manchester United team who were not quite where they would have liked to have been at the time.
For a number of seasons Wilkins settled into his new home at Old Trafford with the likes of Norman Whiteside, Arthur Albiston, Frank Stapleton, Kevin Moran and Bryan Robson, another England captain and affectionately referred to as 'Captain Marvel'. Then there was the beautifully balanced Dutchman Arnold Muhren, a player with whom Wilkins must have formed an instant relationship with and somebody he must have felt a kindred spirit with. Muhren floated and Wilkins swaggered. Both had much in common with each other.
In the 1983 FA Cup Final Wilkins scored one of the Cup Final's most memorable of goals. Picking up the ball on the edge of the Brighton penalty area, Wilkins curled the most delicious of shots past the Brighton keeper. United won the Cup Final replay against Brighton and Wilkins had made that first clear statement of his intentions.
Inevitably England manager of the time Ron Greenwood found it impossible to resist Wilkins world class credentials. It was somehow ironic that English football was almost abundantly spoilt for players with creative gifts and overflowing talents on the ball. There was Tony Currie, Trevor Brooking, Alan Hudson, Stan Bowles and of course Wilkins himself. Both Currie and Brooking completely dictated the tempo of a game rather like a metronome swinging from side to side, full of accurate measurements rather than hit and hope percentages. Wilkins fitted in almost immediately winning a richly deserved haul of FA Cup medals and highly decorated England displays.
Wilkins one blot on an otherwise flawless and unblemished international career was a group game in the 1986 Mexico World Cup against Morocco. After a frustrating opening half hour of England's match against Morocco Wilkins, inexplicably, threw the ball angrily at the referee in what seemed like a childish tantrum. Wilkins was promptly sent off and on a hot day in Central America, he slowly trooped off the pitch, sweat pouring from a troubled forehead and a mounting air of injustice building in his mind.
When Wilkins retired the temptations of management began to beckon and his first love Chelsea must have been calling. But after Chelsea came a surprisingly unexpected interest from Glasgow Rangers and a short but distinguished spell at Rangers did reap a moderate degree of success. Then Italian football left the most enticing of carrots dangling in front of him. The red and black stripes of the legendary AC Milan were determined to get their man and Wilkins needed no further persuasion. For many years Italian football had become trapped in a defensive hole of their own making and here was an English midfield pass master intent on releasing and liberating them.
And so it was that Wilkins returned to England where Queens Park Rangers made no secret of their admiration of a player who could certainly play and do so with a splendid nobility. Even now in his 30s Wilkins was still spraying his passes around Loftus Road like a gushing garden hose. The ability to control a game, organise and orchestrate his midfield colleagues was something that could never be underestimated because his influence on a game was still as priceless as ever. He was the ticking clock of a game, the inner component and mechanism who made QPR a side to be respected.
After varying spells as assistant coach to Carlo Ancelotti at Chelsea and the briefest of spells at Aston Villa Wilkins seemed to get lost in something of a soul destroying hinterland where the modern managers of today's generation felt that a once great player like Wilkins was somehow surplus to requirements and no longer the man to guide once celebrated clubs back to their former glories.
So it is that we today lament the loss of Ray Wilkins. Sadly there are very few midfield players nowadays who could unlock defences with the most perfectly weighted of passes, pointing his fingers at players who needed perhaps the slightest encouragement followed by a gentle coaxing and cajoling in the right direction. Both Chelsea, Manchester United, Rangers and AC Milan have lost a shining light and inspiration to both young and old players alike. 'Butch' Wilkins always seemed to have time for everybody and football will be much the poorer for Wilkins passing. A man with indeed, a touch of class.
Wednesday, 4 April 2018
Monday, 2 April 2018
Trafalgar Square, the pigeons may have gone but it's the new Covent Garden.
Trafalgar Square- the pigeons may have gone but it's the new Covent Garden.
For as long as anybody can remember Trafalgar Square was always a menagerie of birds, birds from all over the world, from all four points of the compass, from everywhere and somewhere. In fact there were so many birds in the heart of London's West End that someone must have thought that this would be a great place for a bird sanctuary in the middle of London.
Now, fifty years on the landscape is entirely different and the birds have been emphatically driven away, told never to come back and warned that if they do sneak back very covertly and under cover then those in authority in the land of humanity will give them their marching orders. Besides how dare those marauding pigeons come flying back into our territory?
In the old days we warmly welcomed our feathered friends into the capital city of London because they were quite friendly but also ravenously hungry. They fluttered and circled around that huge open space in Trafalgar Square, forever pecking, hunting, foraging, scavenging, marching around those commanding lion statues, those effervescent fountains and dear old Nelson's Column, that stunning tourist magnet, a soaring, towering column whose occupant did so much to win the hearts of Britain so many centuries ago.
Way back when, I can still see those thousands of grey pigeons, persistently loitering around large swathes of Trafalgar Square, forever strutting, beaks forever sniffing and scenting vast quantities of bird seed. Ah yes, the bird seed! Now that was the reason we all converged on Trafalgar Square. How they came in their droves to see the birds from the West End gathering together in one mass demonstration of greed, survival of the fittest and always in a spirit of fierce competitiveness.
We can all remember the Trafalgar Square of yesteryear. In a small corner of the square there was the bird seed stall, the place where small pots of bird seed were purchased for a princely sum of a couple of shillings. Then we would all make for the central areas of the square where we knew with some certainty that the birds would always be. Suddenly whole squadrons of pigeons would descend on dozens, hundreds of families and the kids now allowed to fulfill lifetime ambitions.
At this point there would be chaos and mayhem as the entire bird population of the world, or seemingly so, would dive bomb into a sparsely populated ghetto land where only the elite birds would be accepted into their pecking order. It was like watching some enormous bird cage where all inhibitions were thrown to the wind and birds formed the most dominant backdrop to a disbelieving and incredulous West End.
They flapped, impudently perched themselves onto the shoulders of kids, hovered around children for what seemed like an age and then flew off to the lions or took themselves off for a quick dip in the fountains. There followed a furious frenzy of activity, whole families of pigeons darting or swooping, pushing and shoving to the front of the queue in case they'd missed out on a vital spot of lunch.
But now Trafalgar Square looks entirely different. Trafalgar Square is a pigeon free zone, empty of inquisitive grey pigeons whose only objective used to be complete occupation of the West End. The birds have now migrated to some far distant land where accommodating tourists will feed them happily for most of the day. Besides they can always fly off to St Mark's Square in Venice or Paris, maybe the dancing fountains of Barcelona. What about some idyllic quarter of South America or Asia? They're bound to have some feeding ground for those famished birds. They could do a lot worse.
Yesterday on a Easter Sunday family flying visit we made our way down to Trafalgar Square. It suddenly occurred to me that Trafalgar Square, by some quirky change of character, is slowly turning into the new Covent Garden of the West End. In fact it could be said that it does look more or less like an extension of Covent Garden. The atmosphere reminds you of Covent Garden, it looks like Covent Garden and maybe it is Covent Garden in disguise.
What we were confronted with was a street theatre that Covent Garden does so extremely well. There are no arcades or piazzas but there were columns or arched walkways and Trafalgar Square is a walking, talking, rocking and rolling open air theatre. Wherever you looked there were those silver or gold figures who very rarely move and seem to be standing on one leg. There were those lovely characters whose only purpose it seemed was to make the kids scream with laughter and tickle the adult funny bones.
For me though all of the action seemed to be concentrated on the ground. A couple of gentlemen had created what can only be described as an advertisement playground where members of the public were given free rein to write anything that took their fancy. Packets of coloured chalk were displayed and before you could blink, green, orange and red chalk marks were scrawled garishly on the ground. It was a fascinating insight into the way we conduct our lives on an Easter Sunday afternoon in 2018.
There were also the religious spokesmen and women because this was after all Easter and we all know what happened and why it happened. There were men with vociferous pronouncements who were pouring their hearts about the Last Supper, Jesus and how the Messiah would arrive one day. Funnily enough there were no signs of chocolate eggs or kids treasure hunts nor was a single rabbit to be spotted. Still everybody seemed to be in the best of all moods.
As usual Nelson's Column was packed to capacity, tight huddles of people sitting comfortably next to Nelson and then deep in conversation about who knew what. Maybe they could hardly believe that this once thriving bird haven had become, quite by chance, some very arty and bohemian place where the people of the world could openly write messages on the ground. It was time to just take the air without feeling that they were also sharing their space with a remarkable multitude of birds. No more seeds for those pigeons though and how good that must have felt or maybe they were still nostalgic and longed to see them back again.
I've always loved the West End, the buzz, the vibe, the vibrancy, the sense that quite unexpectedly something will happen when least expected. My late dad had given me a more or less ample guided tour of the West End and it was a good enough explanation to a transfixed kid. I'd no idea though that one day though that Trafalgar Square would slowly morph into nearby Covent Garden. There are no more birds anymore, simply a pedestrian playground where strollers and passers by take out their Selfie sticks and take classic photos of each other. Now Trafalgar Square was the new home for art and pavement literature. Who could have seen that coming?
We retired to the National Gallery for a pot of tea which provided the perfect conclusion to a day of avid people watching in the West End. It's the Easter weekend, a time of springtime transition, bonnets, Judy Garland, the Easter Parade, chocolate eggs, sharing and caring and humane consideration for our fellow human being.
We had now found ourselves in Drury Lane, West End theatreland and the home of the blockbusting, spellbinding 42nd Street, a musical that remains a box office sensation. And by some wonderful twist of fate we were back in Covent Garden or was it Trafalgar Square? It was hard to make a proper distinction between the two because there were striking similarities. We all blinked in some amazement and jumped onto a red London bus for home. Day over. An Easter Sunday in London's West End had once again lived up to all expectations. London, what a capital and what a city!
For as long as anybody can remember Trafalgar Square was always a menagerie of birds, birds from all over the world, from all four points of the compass, from everywhere and somewhere. In fact there were so many birds in the heart of London's West End that someone must have thought that this would be a great place for a bird sanctuary in the middle of London.
Now, fifty years on the landscape is entirely different and the birds have been emphatically driven away, told never to come back and warned that if they do sneak back very covertly and under cover then those in authority in the land of humanity will give them their marching orders. Besides how dare those marauding pigeons come flying back into our territory?
In the old days we warmly welcomed our feathered friends into the capital city of London because they were quite friendly but also ravenously hungry. They fluttered and circled around that huge open space in Trafalgar Square, forever pecking, hunting, foraging, scavenging, marching around those commanding lion statues, those effervescent fountains and dear old Nelson's Column, that stunning tourist magnet, a soaring, towering column whose occupant did so much to win the hearts of Britain so many centuries ago.
Way back when, I can still see those thousands of grey pigeons, persistently loitering around large swathes of Trafalgar Square, forever strutting, beaks forever sniffing and scenting vast quantities of bird seed. Ah yes, the bird seed! Now that was the reason we all converged on Trafalgar Square. How they came in their droves to see the birds from the West End gathering together in one mass demonstration of greed, survival of the fittest and always in a spirit of fierce competitiveness.
We can all remember the Trafalgar Square of yesteryear. In a small corner of the square there was the bird seed stall, the place where small pots of bird seed were purchased for a princely sum of a couple of shillings. Then we would all make for the central areas of the square where we knew with some certainty that the birds would always be. Suddenly whole squadrons of pigeons would descend on dozens, hundreds of families and the kids now allowed to fulfill lifetime ambitions.
At this point there would be chaos and mayhem as the entire bird population of the world, or seemingly so, would dive bomb into a sparsely populated ghetto land where only the elite birds would be accepted into their pecking order. It was like watching some enormous bird cage where all inhibitions were thrown to the wind and birds formed the most dominant backdrop to a disbelieving and incredulous West End.
They flapped, impudently perched themselves onto the shoulders of kids, hovered around children for what seemed like an age and then flew off to the lions or took themselves off for a quick dip in the fountains. There followed a furious frenzy of activity, whole families of pigeons darting or swooping, pushing and shoving to the front of the queue in case they'd missed out on a vital spot of lunch.
But now Trafalgar Square looks entirely different. Trafalgar Square is a pigeon free zone, empty of inquisitive grey pigeons whose only objective used to be complete occupation of the West End. The birds have now migrated to some far distant land where accommodating tourists will feed them happily for most of the day. Besides they can always fly off to St Mark's Square in Venice or Paris, maybe the dancing fountains of Barcelona. What about some idyllic quarter of South America or Asia? They're bound to have some feeding ground for those famished birds. They could do a lot worse.
Yesterday on a Easter Sunday family flying visit we made our way down to Trafalgar Square. It suddenly occurred to me that Trafalgar Square, by some quirky change of character, is slowly turning into the new Covent Garden of the West End. In fact it could be said that it does look more or less like an extension of Covent Garden. The atmosphere reminds you of Covent Garden, it looks like Covent Garden and maybe it is Covent Garden in disguise.
What we were confronted with was a street theatre that Covent Garden does so extremely well. There are no arcades or piazzas but there were columns or arched walkways and Trafalgar Square is a walking, talking, rocking and rolling open air theatre. Wherever you looked there were those silver or gold figures who very rarely move and seem to be standing on one leg. There were those lovely characters whose only purpose it seemed was to make the kids scream with laughter and tickle the adult funny bones.
For me though all of the action seemed to be concentrated on the ground. A couple of gentlemen had created what can only be described as an advertisement playground where members of the public were given free rein to write anything that took their fancy. Packets of coloured chalk were displayed and before you could blink, green, orange and red chalk marks were scrawled garishly on the ground. It was a fascinating insight into the way we conduct our lives on an Easter Sunday afternoon in 2018.
There were also the religious spokesmen and women because this was after all Easter and we all know what happened and why it happened. There were men with vociferous pronouncements who were pouring their hearts about the Last Supper, Jesus and how the Messiah would arrive one day. Funnily enough there were no signs of chocolate eggs or kids treasure hunts nor was a single rabbit to be spotted. Still everybody seemed to be in the best of all moods.
As usual Nelson's Column was packed to capacity, tight huddles of people sitting comfortably next to Nelson and then deep in conversation about who knew what. Maybe they could hardly believe that this once thriving bird haven had become, quite by chance, some very arty and bohemian place where the people of the world could openly write messages on the ground. It was time to just take the air without feeling that they were also sharing their space with a remarkable multitude of birds. No more seeds for those pigeons though and how good that must have felt or maybe they were still nostalgic and longed to see them back again.
I've always loved the West End, the buzz, the vibe, the vibrancy, the sense that quite unexpectedly something will happen when least expected. My late dad had given me a more or less ample guided tour of the West End and it was a good enough explanation to a transfixed kid. I'd no idea though that one day though that Trafalgar Square would slowly morph into nearby Covent Garden. There are no more birds anymore, simply a pedestrian playground where strollers and passers by take out their Selfie sticks and take classic photos of each other. Now Trafalgar Square was the new home for art and pavement literature. Who could have seen that coming?
We retired to the National Gallery for a pot of tea which provided the perfect conclusion to a day of avid people watching in the West End. It's the Easter weekend, a time of springtime transition, bonnets, Judy Garland, the Easter Parade, chocolate eggs, sharing and caring and humane consideration for our fellow human being.
We had now found ourselves in Drury Lane, West End theatreland and the home of the blockbusting, spellbinding 42nd Street, a musical that remains a box office sensation. And by some wonderful twist of fate we were back in Covent Garden or was it Trafalgar Square? It was hard to make a proper distinction between the two because there were striking similarities. We all blinked in some amazement and jumped onto a red London bus for home. Day over. An Easter Sunday in London's West End had once again lived up to all expectations. London, what a capital and what a city!
Saturday, 31 March 2018
The Jewish Passover- Pesach
The Jewish Passover- Pesach
Last night Jewish families around the world celebrated the first night of our Jewish passover or Pesach. The springtime festivals are with us and by some wonderful religious coincidence, the first night of Pesach fell on Good Friday which had to be a good thing. There was a poetic symmetry about this whole period because Easter is now days away and spring made that first announcement free from the cold blasts of winter's dramatic orchestrations.
For a while it seemed that those deafening, howling winds would never subside but now we can look back to those snow laden mornings when everything seemed beyond all hope and salvation. Of course the kids enjoyed the snow because they always have and always will. But how glad we are to find that the pavements, although slightly wet from the briefest of passing rains, are now visible rather than cloaked by white carpets of snow, ice and slush.
So how was the Jewish passover for you? Last night was a night for families, friends and close acquaintances, a time for gathering around tables groaning with food, drink, matzas and the Hebrew haggadahs rich in the texts of beautiful Jewish literature. We followed the story of Pesach with its traditional renderings of Egypt, fleeing persecution and biblical chapters from history that reminded us once again of the difficulties that the Jewish people have always faced since time immemorial.
But we've overcome innumerable obstacles with a resilience of character and gritty determination that has to be admired. Still we were not to be defeated because the Jewish people have always fought their corner and refuse to give up when all of the odds are heavily stacked against us. We lit our candles, remembered the meaning of Pesach and abandoned ourselves unashamedly to triumphant celebrations, a medieval banquet of food and wine from the finest cellars and vineyards.
Last night was indulgence on the grandest scale, overflowing food and drink from the busiest of supermarkets and a general engagement in the positive things that life can offer. There was a life affirming togetherness and glowing warmth about this yearly matzafest. Relations were at their most typically harmonious, jokes were exchanged with the liveliest sense of humour and the world around us was discussed with a passion and fervour that was utterly reassuring. Then there were huge bursts of laughter, merriment unconfined and gushing outpourings of warm wishes and story telling on a quite phenomenal scale.
Personally, Pesach triggered a treasure trove of glorious childhood memories. It took me back to my grandparents who lived in Gants Hill, Essex. Now my grand- dad was undoubtedly one of the most learned Hebrew scholars, a man steeped in the traditions of Judaism, a man who knew instinctively about the songs, the blessings and prayers which accompanied his childhood and guided him throughout his life before the Holocaust intervened and almost broke him.
Shortly after they moved into their big, rambling house in Gants Hill in the early 1970s the re-adjustment to a new way of life began to take shape. But the first night of Pesach was particularly special because for my grandparents the passover service held a powerful significance that meant so much to them and it was the one night of the year when they could just relax, enjoy the spirituality of the evening and convey a natural enthusiasm to a very receptive grandson.
I can still remember my grand-dad presiding over the seder service and then spending the best part of five minutes racing through the Haggadah text in a matter of minutes. Suddenly a deep baritone of a voice would open the service, then chanting, mumbling and muttering under his breath, totally incomprehensible but eager to embrace the evening. Not for the first time I could barely grasp any of his Hebrew grammar, the translation of the words in the book and the frightening speed of his utterances, an occasion that had quite literally left me totally confused, speechless and ever so slightly taken aback.
Then there was the year when my grandparents, having settled down at my parents dining room, sat down on those typically 1970s chrome and black padded chairs. Halfway through the blessings all seemed to be going swimmingly well and everything seemed to be going just right. Then my late and wonderful dad stood up for his turn in the spotlight. Cue the circus comedy moment. Seconds into reading a prayer for the wine, the spirit of the circus clown crept up from nowhere and took my dad by complete surprise.
What happened next was the stuff of Whitehall farce, a magically funny moment that will never ever be forgotten by yours truly. In a matter of seconds my dad's trousers had fallen to his ankles, dropping down to shoes and socks that could barely believe what had just happened. Cue the gales of audience laughter. I looked at my dad and everybody around me seemed to be gripped by collective giggling. There was no need to apologise because these are the golden moments of family life that should have been captured on our Kodak Instamatic camera for ever more.
Essentially though Pesach or passover is all about the positivity most of us think we can find, the belief that it doesn't take a lot to find unity, love, understanding, a smile and laugh, a genuine bond and rapport that binds us all in cosy domesticity even when the weather outside is not quite the weather we might have been hoping for. Pesach is about singing at the tops of our voices, of being grateful for the people around us and cherishing who we are.
As the huge plates of lamb and chicken were delivered along with thousands of potatoes and vegetables it was nice to reflect that families are as vitally important as they've ever been. Even in times of world instability and mad mayhem I found myself surrounded by my family, the people who have always been there for me, loving and supportive, the firmest foundations in your life whatever life may bring. Yes I know I'm too soppy and sentimental but once again Pesach had sprinted for the finishing line and won with the most resounding of victories. What a feeling!
Last night Jewish families around the world celebrated the first night of our Jewish passover or Pesach. The springtime festivals are with us and by some wonderful religious coincidence, the first night of Pesach fell on Good Friday which had to be a good thing. There was a poetic symmetry about this whole period because Easter is now days away and spring made that first announcement free from the cold blasts of winter's dramatic orchestrations.
For a while it seemed that those deafening, howling winds would never subside but now we can look back to those snow laden mornings when everything seemed beyond all hope and salvation. Of course the kids enjoyed the snow because they always have and always will. But how glad we are to find that the pavements, although slightly wet from the briefest of passing rains, are now visible rather than cloaked by white carpets of snow, ice and slush.
So how was the Jewish passover for you? Last night was a night for families, friends and close acquaintances, a time for gathering around tables groaning with food, drink, matzas and the Hebrew haggadahs rich in the texts of beautiful Jewish literature. We followed the story of Pesach with its traditional renderings of Egypt, fleeing persecution and biblical chapters from history that reminded us once again of the difficulties that the Jewish people have always faced since time immemorial.
But we've overcome innumerable obstacles with a resilience of character and gritty determination that has to be admired. Still we were not to be defeated because the Jewish people have always fought their corner and refuse to give up when all of the odds are heavily stacked against us. We lit our candles, remembered the meaning of Pesach and abandoned ourselves unashamedly to triumphant celebrations, a medieval banquet of food and wine from the finest cellars and vineyards.
Last night was indulgence on the grandest scale, overflowing food and drink from the busiest of supermarkets and a general engagement in the positive things that life can offer. There was a life affirming togetherness and glowing warmth about this yearly matzafest. Relations were at their most typically harmonious, jokes were exchanged with the liveliest sense of humour and the world around us was discussed with a passion and fervour that was utterly reassuring. Then there were huge bursts of laughter, merriment unconfined and gushing outpourings of warm wishes and story telling on a quite phenomenal scale.
Personally, Pesach triggered a treasure trove of glorious childhood memories. It took me back to my grandparents who lived in Gants Hill, Essex. Now my grand- dad was undoubtedly one of the most learned Hebrew scholars, a man steeped in the traditions of Judaism, a man who knew instinctively about the songs, the blessings and prayers which accompanied his childhood and guided him throughout his life before the Holocaust intervened and almost broke him.
Shortly after they moved into their big, rambling house in Gants Hill in the early 1970s the re-adjustment to a new way of life began to take shape. But the first night of Pesach was particularly special because for my grandparents the passover service held a powerful significance that meant so much to them and it was the one night of the year when they could just relax, enjoy the spirituality of the evening and convey a natural enthusiasm to a very receptive grandson.
I can still remember my grand-dad presiding over the seder service and then spending the best part of five minutes racing through the Haggadah text in a matter of minutes. Suddenly a deep baritone of a voice would open the service, then chanting, mumbling and muttering under his breath, totally incomprehensible but eager to embrace the evening. Not for the first time I could barely grasp any of his Hebrew grammar, the translation of the words in the book and the frightening speed of his utterances, an occasion that had quite literally left me totally confused, speechless and ever so slightly taken aback.
Then there was the year when my grandparents, having settled down at my parents dining room, sat down on those typically 1970s chrome and black padded chairs. Halfway through the blessings all seemed to be going swimmingly well and everything seemed to be going just right. Then my late and wonderful dad stood up for his turn in the spotlight. Cue the circus comedy moment. Seconds into reading a prayer for the wine, the spirit of the circus clown crept up from nowhere and took my dad by complete surprise.
What happened next was the stuff of Whitehall farce, a magically funny moment that will never ever be forgotten by yours truly. In a matter of seconds my dad's trousers had fallen to his ankles, dropping down to shoes and socks that could barely believe what had just happened. Cue the gales of audience laughter. I looked at my dad and everybody around me seemed to be gripped by collective giggling. There was no need to apologise because these are the golden moments of family life that should have been captured on our Kodak Instamatic camera for ever more.
Essentially though Pesach or passover is all about the positivity most of us think we can find, the belief that it doesn't take a lot to find unity, love, understanding, a smile and laugh, a genuine bond and rapport that binds us all in cosy domesticity even when the weather outside is not quite the weather we might have been hoping for. Pesach is about singing at the tops of our voices, of being grateful for the people around us and cherishing who we are.
As the huge plates of lamb and chicken were delivered along with thousands of potatoes and vegetables it was nice to reflect that families are as vitally important as they've ever been. Even in times of world instability and mad mayhem I found myself surrounded by my family, the people who have always been there for me, loving and supportive, the firmest foundations in your life whatever life may bring. Yes I know I'm too soppy and sentimental but once again Pesach had sprinted for the finishing line and won with the most resounding of victories. What a feeling!
Wednesday, 28 March 2018
England and Italy share a draw in Wembley friendly.
England and Italy share a draw in Wembley friendly.
Firstly, a word of thanks to last night's sponsors Italian Mattresses. Yes folks Italian Mattresses, purveyors of some of the most comfortable mattresses and, for all we know, pillows, quilts, blankets and eiderdowns. Then let us extend our warmest acknowledgement to Vauxhall Motors without whose sponsorship last night's football friendly between England and Italy would never have been possible.
Oh for the rampant commercialism of sport and its financial long term benefits. Where would football be without it and besides there were occasional moments when the perimeter of the Wembley pitch provided the large sections of England and Italy supporters with far more enjoyment than they might have missed had they blinked.
At one point during this slow motion friendly between England and Italy you were tempted to believe that Italian Mattresses had completely outclassed Vauxhall Motors and were simply the dominant force in the first half. Then you opened your eyes again and found that Italian Mattresses were being given the runaround by Vauxhall Motors. Sometimes football can take you to places you thought you'd never be able to reach.
Still the truth was that last night's friendly at Wembley did remind you of a group of Victorian promenaders at the seaside strolling lethargically along the pier as the men donned their top hats and the women proudly unfurled their umbrellas. There was a very real sense that this was a friendly in every sense of the word. In fact you felt sure that both teams at some point would simply stop playing, relax on some readily available set of deckchairs and perhaps challenge each other to a game of Trivial Pursuit.
This was England's second friendly in a couple of days and such was the careless indifference shown by both sides that you began to question the validity and necessity for such a pointless fixture. On Friday England beat Holland with some of the most composed and pleasing football that most English supporters had seen for quite a while.
Last night they were faced by Italy. Italy, throughout the ages, have always been renowned for their po- faced defensive caution, catenaccio, prudence of the most tight fisted kind and the ability to just grind their opponents into the dust with superb counter attacking of the most devastating kind.
Gianni Rivera, their 1970s midfield genius somehow typified the football the Italians were always capable of producing. There was Sandro Mazzola, a shrewd, visionary player full of silks and rich footballing fabrics. In recent times there was Alessandro Del Piero, a typically quick witted player who could read a game like the most well thumbed book. Italy loved to throw the largest defensive blanket over their game whenever it suited them but last night the blanket was whipped away for a while and for the opening stages of last night's game it was replaced by a much lighter sheet.
But then Italy produced a manger called Enzo Bearzot, a wily and thoughtful man who very rarely showed any semblance of emotion but who did succeed in fashioning an Italian team who could win games and World Cup matches with generous helpings of wit, intelligence and delicacy. Suddenly the defensive chains were cut away for good and Italy revelled in the football niceties rather than those negative, reckless tackling tactics that showed a rather more unsavoury side to their game. Roberto Bettega and Dino Zoff, who won a World Cup as Italy goalkeeper at the age of 40, symbolised the underlying beauty of Italian football.
Sadly though and perhaps incredibly, Italy will not be gracing football with their presence in this summer's World Cup in Russia. It will be like a reputable art gallery without a Monet, Cezanne, Picasso or indeed a Constable. Italy, for all their eccentricities and whimsicalities at times, are still the team to admire, to appreciate, to gaze at lovingly, to command our attention, to provoke comment on and then bow respectfully before because you somehow know that you're in the most honourable company.
There were moments last night at Wembley when you began to wonder what exactly had happened to the Italy of old. You missed that devil, that playful twinkle in their eyes, that deep and emotional attachment to the finer and stylish element in their DNA. It was hard to put last night's game into any proper context because Italy have now reverted to the drawing board and, most unusually, are now in a no man's land. It was once said that Rome was never built in a day and judging by last night's evidence, Italy are very much in the early stages of a major re-construction.
For England of course the work in progress is beginning to take a much more clearer shape. There is a now a much sharper definition to England's football, a more coherent expression about their football and a much more natural flow to their game that to the outsider, had quite clearly been lacking for too long.
Finally England have rid themselves of the burden weighing down on them whenever Steven Gerrard and Frank Lampard tried to convince whole generations of recent England managers that there was something there but then discovered the sheer incompatibility of the double pairing. Both Gerrard and Lampard, as we were soon to find out, were almost identical to each other. They were two men performing the same midfield roles and eventually found themselves competing for the same ball and then crashing into each other like two men stuck in a revolving door.
Now though England have the likes of Eric Dier, Spurs versatile holding midfielder-cum centre half, sturdy, steady, capable and coolly imperturbable when under even the slightest pressure. Dier was all rock like stability, strolling forward confidently out of defence as and when required. Then there was the magnificently fast, athletic, bold and permanently overlapping Kyle Walker, a player who will almost certainly lifting the Premier League trophy with Manchester City shortly. Walker is strong, powerful and remarkably nerveless in possession, never ever flustered or agitated in the tightest spot.
Once again Walker's defensive partner at Manchester City John Stones had one of his more reliable games in an England shirt although there were a couple of panicky moments at the start of the game when Stones must have been looking for a corner to hide in. But Stones is one of the best discoveries that English football has produced for many years. He is no Bobby Moore, certainly at the moment, and besides this would be the most preposterous comparison anyway. He is no Emlyn Hughes, that most rugged of warhorses for Liverpool nor is he some knight in shining armour but Stones will undoubtedly be a regular fixture in England's defence for many years to come.
In the middle of the park for England there was the roaming, roving, wing wizardry of Manchester City's young thoroughbred Raheem Sterling, sometimes outstanding and sometimes very mundane. Sterling is certainly the real deal but you do worry about his tendency to drift and dither on the periphery of the action. At times the show pony in Sterling's personality may lead to a complete breakdown in communication with the rest of his England's colleagues. But Sterling's head down, directness and single mindedness have to be credit points in his favour. Sterling is worth his weight in gold and that ferocious determination to run at defenders can only bode well for England.
Then of course there was Ashley Young, now 31 and seemingly a historical footnote in Gareth Southgate's World Cup plans. Young has quietly and sensibly shuffled his way effectively down the wing for Manchester United without ever really setting the world alight. But Young has now accumulated a number of impressive displays for United. Last night Young dovetailed nicely with Sterling, calmly linking with the players around him with a sprinkling of neat touches on the ball.
The story of Alex Oxlade Chamberlain is now a familiar one. Does Gareth Southgate persevere with this potential midfield match winner and easy on the eye playmaker or does he take a step back and think again about Chamberlain? Now Chamberlain has found his bearings after promising so much at Arsenal. It is hard to categorise Chamberlain because it often seems that even he, by his own admission, would be hard pressed to tell you where he fits in. He is a player of bountiful gifts and an excellent footballing brain but perhaps England may find out much more about him after their last two dress rehearsals before the World Cup proper against Nigeria and Costa Rica in early June.
England's opened the scoring on the half hour mark. After an uncertain and tentative start England settled down to the task and the circumstances behind the goal were both bizarre and surprisingly unexpected. After Jesse Lingard, also heavily involved and influential in an England shirt once again, had skipped his way through the Italian defence, Sterling wriggled through to take up possession and was then fouled.
A brief moment of confusion followed as the referee blew up for a quickly taken free kick. Lingard slipped the ball through an Italian gap with polished ease and Jamie Vardy, who still has the capacity to score important goals for England, surged through to thump the ball into the Italian net with destructive goal scoring intent. It was a goal England had richly deserved.
In the second half the game seemed to be wind down to walking pace with both teams at times shadow boxing each other and reaching some amicable compromise on the outcome of the game. England lifted the tempo of their delectable passing movements, drilling holes in the Italian defence and then chipping out all the rough edges of a wobbly and vulnerable blue shirted Italian back four.
Then the tide turned quite favourably for the Italians. England had apparently burnt themselves out and unwittingly invited the visitors into their occupied territory. Right at the end of the game when all seemed lost Italy threw their last gamble onto the roulette table. Italy burst into the England penalty area in one last gasp and desperate push for glory. A blue shirt seemed to be bundled over unceremoniously in the England penalty area and after Federico Chiesa had been trampled on, there was the most lengthiest of pauses before the new VAR system eventually decided that the Italians had done enough to win a penalty. Insigne easily tucked home the penalty and the game finished in the most placid draw.
There are number of awkward political obstacles in England's way before they head for Russia in the World Cup but the formations and structures are in place and that very easy going man called Gareth Southgate has a lot to feel good about for England. The trouble is though that we all know what happens to England when they do reach their big World Cup destination. Are there still round holes in square pegs or have England finally hit upon the magical formula to render 1966 as merely ancient history. It is time to hope and wish.
Firstly, a word of thanks to last night's sponsors Italian Mattresses. Yes folks Italian Mattresses, purveyors of some of the most comfortable mattresses and, for all we know, pillows, quilts, blankets and eiderdowns. Then let us extend our warmest acknowledgement to Vauxhall Motors without whose sponsorship last night's football friendly between England and Italy would never have been possible.
Oh for the rampant commercialism of sport and its financial long term benefits. Where would football be without it and besides there were occasional moments when the perimeter of the Wembley pitch provided the large sections of England and Italy supporters with far more enjoyment than they might have missed had they blinked.
At one point during this slow motion friendly between England and Italy you were tempted to believe that Italian Mattresses had completely outclassed Vauxhall Motors and were simply the dominant force in the first half. Then you opened your eyes again and found that Italian Mattresses were being given the runaround by Vauxhall Motors. Sometimes football can take you to places you thought you'd never be able to reach.
Still the truth was that last night's friendly at Wembley did remind you of a group of Victorian promenaders at the seaside strolling lethargically along the pier as the men donned their top hats and the women proudly unfurled their umbrellas. There was a very real sense that this was a friendly in every sense of the word. In fact you felt sure that both teams at some point would simply stop playing, relax on some readily available set of deckchairs and perhaps challenge each other to a game of Trivial Pursuit.
This was England's second friendly in a couple of days and such was the careless indifference shown by both sides that you began to question the validity and necessity for such a pointless fixture. On Friday England beat Holland with some of the most composed and pleasing football that most English supporters had seen for quite a while.
Last night they were faced by Italy. Italy, throughout the ages, have always been renowned for their po- faced defensive caution, catenaccio, prudence of the most tight fisted kind and the ability to just grind their opponents into the dust with superb counter attacking of the most devastating kind.
Gianni Rivera, their 1970s midfield genius somehow typified the football the Italians were always capable of producing. There was Sandro Mazzola, a shrewd, visionary player full of silks and rich footballing fabrics. In recent times there was Alessandro Del Piero, a typically quick witted player who could read a game like the most well thumbed book. Italy loved to throw the largest defensive blanket over their game whenever it suited them but last night the blanket was whipped away for a while and for the opening stages of last night's game it was replaced by a much lighter sheet.
But then Italy produced a manger called Enzo Bearzot, a wily and thoughtful man who very rarely showed any semblance of emotion but who did succeed in fashioning an Italian team who could win games and World Cup matches with generous helpings of wit, intelligence and delicacy. Suddenly the defensive chains were cut away for good and Italy revelled in the football niceties rather than those negative, reckless tackling tactics that showed a rather more unsavoury side to their game. Roberto Bettega and Dino Zoff, who won a World Cup as Italy goalkeeper at the age of 40, symbolised the underlying beauty of Italian football.
Sadly though and perhaps incredibly, Italy will not be gracing football with their presence in this summer's World Cup in Russia. It will be like a reputable art gallery without a Monet, Cezanne, Picasso or indeed a Constable. Italy, for all their eccentricities and whimsicalities at times, are still the team to admire, to appreciate, to gaze at lovingly, to command our attention, to provoke comment on and then bow respectfully before because you somehow know that you're in the most honourable company.
There were moments last night at Wembley when you began to wonder what exactly had happened to the Italy of old. You missed that devil, that playful twinkle in their eyes, that deep and emotional attachment to the finer and stylish element in their DNA. It was hard to put last night's game into any proper context because Italy have now reverted to the drawing board and, most unusually, are now in a no man's land. It was once said that Rome was never built in a day and judging by last night's evidence, Italy are very much in the early stages of a major re-construction.
For England of course the work in progress is beginning to take a much more clearer shape. There is a now a much sharper definition to England's football, a more coherent expression about their football and a much more natural flow to their game that to the outsider, had quite clearly been lacking for too long.
Finally England have rid themselves of the burden weighing down on them whenever Steven Gerrard and Frank Lampard tried to convince whole generations of recent England managers that there was something there but then discovered the sheer incompatibility of the double pairing. Both Gerrard and Lampard, as we were soon to find out, were almost identical to each other. They were two men performing the same midfield roles and eventually found themselves competing for the same ball and then crashing into each other like two men stuck in a revolving door.
Now though England have the likes of Eric Dier, Spurs versatile holding midfielder-cum centre half, sturdy, steady, capable and coolly imperturbable when under even the slightest pressure. Dier was all rock like stability, strolling forward confidently out of defence as and when required. Then there was the magnificently fast, athletic, bold and permanently overlapping Kyle Walker, a player who will almost certainly lifting the Premier League trophy with Manchester City shortly. Walker is strong, powerful and remarkably nerveless in possession, never ever flustered or agitated in the tightest spot.
Once again Walker's defensive partner at Manchester City John Stones had one of his more reliable games in an England shirt although there were a couple of panicky moments at the start of the game when Stones must have been looking for a corner to hide in. But Stones is one of the best discoveries that English football has produced for many years. He is no Bobby Moore, certainly at the moment, and besides this would be the most preposterous comparison anyway. He is no Emlyn Hughes, that most rugged of warhorses for Liverpool nor is he some knight in shining armour but Stones will undoubtedly be a regular fixture in England's defence for many years to come.
In the middle of the park for England there was the roaming, roving, wing wizardry of Manchester City's young thoroughbred Raheem Sterling, sometimes outstanding and sometimes very mundane. Sterling is certainly the real deal but you do worry about his tendency to drift and dither on the periphery of the action. At times the show pony in Sterling's personality may lead to a complete breakdown in communication with the rest of his England's colleagues. But Sterling's head down, directness and single mindedness have to be credit points in his favour. Sterling is worth his weight in gold and that ferocious determination to run at defenders can only bode well for England.
Then of course there was Ashley Young, now 31 and seemingly a historical footnote in Gareth Southgate's World Cup plans. Young has quietly and sensibly shuffled his way effectively down the wing for Manchester United without ever really setting the world alight. But Young has now accumulated a number of impressive displays for United. Last night Young dovetailed nicely with Sterling, calmly linking with the players around him with a sprinkling of neat touches on the ball.
The story of Alex Oxlade Chamberlain is now a familiar one. Does Gareth Southgate persevere with this potential midfield match winner and easy on the eye playmaker or does he take a step back and think again about Chamberlain? Now Chamberlain has found his bearings after promising so much at Arsenal. It is hard to categorise Chamberlain because it often seems that even he, by his own admission, would be hard pressed to tell you where he fits in. He is a player of bountiful gifts and an excellent footballing brain but perhaps England may find out much more about him after their last two dress rehearsals before the World Cup proper against Nigeria and Costa Rica in early June.
England's opened the scoring on the half hour mark. After an uncertain and tentative start England settled down to the task and the circumstances behind the goal were both bizarre and surprisingly unexpected. After Jesse Lingard, also heavily involved and influential in an England shirt once again, had skipped his way through the Italian defence, Sterling wriggled through to take up possession and was then fouled.
A brief moment of confusion followed as the referee blew up for a quickly taken free kick. Lingard slipped the ball through an Italian gap with polished ease and Jamie Vardy, who still has the capacity to score important goals for England, surged through to thump the ball into the Italian net with destructive goal scoring intent. It was a goal England had richly deserved.
In the second half the game seemed to be wind down to walking pace with both teams at times shadow boxing each other and reaching some amicable compromise on the outcome of the game. England lifted the tempo of their delectable passing movements, drilling holes in the Italian defence and then chipping out all the rough edges of a wobbly and vulnerable blue shirted Italian back four.
Then the tide turned quite favourably for the Italians. England had apparently burnt themselves out and unwittingly invited the visitors into their occupied territory. Right at the end of the game when all seemed lost Italy threw their last gamble onto the roulette table. Italy burst into the England penalty area in one last gasp and desperate push for glory. A blue shirt seemed to be bundled over unceremoniously in the England penalty area and after Federico Chiesa had been trampled on, there was the most lengthiest of pauses before the new VAR system eventually decided that the Italians had done enough to win a penalty. Insigne easily tucked home the penalty and the game finished in the most placid draw.
There are number of awkward political obstacles in England's way before they head for Russia in the World Cup but the formations and structures are in place and that very easy going man called Gareth Southgate has a lot to feel good about for England. The trouble is though that we all know what happens to England when they do reach their big World Cup destination. Are there still round holes in square pegs or have England finally hit upon the magical formula to render 1966 as merely ancient history. It is time to hope and wish.
Monday, 26 March 2018
Australian cricket holds its head in shame.
Australian cricket holds its head in shame.
Oh dear! What is to become of Australian cricket? This morning the whole of Australia woke up to infamy, embarrassment, shame, notoriety and disbelief. To think it's come to this. How on earth did it happen to such a clean living and respectable country who never attract the wrong kind of headlines and basically live for the moment when England come calling for a thrashing in the Ashes? But that was over two months ago or so and that's history.
Now though the most disreputable of all acts has visited the shores of our Australian friends. Who would have thought it? It was an act of such dreadful deception and corruption that even now we can barely believe the sheer brass neck cheek and chutzpah of it all. Here in Britain some of the more cynical English cricket supporters were sniggering into their pints of beer, cackling at the sheer impertinence of it all. Then they sniggered, chuckled heartily into their peanuts and resorted to gallows humour. It couldn't have happened to a nicer nation. Still it could have been infinitely worse.
What then was this cunning manoeuvre, this evil plot to undermine fair play and sportsmanship, this brazen display of cheating and illegitimacy. Yes, Australian cricket has now been caught red handed, committing the most unforgivable crime in any walk of life. They cheated and cheated big time. They thought they could get away with it but then realised that nothing could escape the eyes of conscientious umpires and the ever present law of the land.
It all happened in Australia's latest Test match against South Africa. It was all going very badly for the Australians until that moment in your life when it all goes haywire. So what do you do when you're struggling in a major cricket Test match and maybe things aren't going quite according to plan? Do you just muddle along diligently until something goes right or do you just break the rules and resort to the lowest common denominator? The fact is that commonsense should prevail and you should just try to stick it out hoping that the pendulum swings in your favour. Not so for Australian captain Steve Smith.
So what do we do to characters like Steve Smith, those mischievous scoundrels, those double dealing misfits, those loose cannons of society, those scheming miscreants who insist on playing dirty? Or maybe I've got that completely wrong and it's all been blown wildly out of proportion and we're just over reacting.
Maybe the ultimate punishment should be administered to Mr Smith and his maverick chums? Perhaps we should throw him into the Sydney harbour or bring back those penal colonies so popular in the age of Ned Kelly. Smith should be made to suffer in silence, held to account for ball tampering. Yes ball tampering ladies and gentlemen. Steve Smith, on the afternoon of a Test match tried, in private, to change the course of a cricket match by trying to change the shape of a cricket ball in order to gain a clear advantage in a cricket match. This, you feel sure, is not the way it should be.
Yes members of the jury. Steve Smith, in wrongful collaboration with Cameron Bancroft, his otherwise loyal colleague, took themselves off to a quiet dressing room during lunch and plotted the downfall of the South African cricket team through the most illicit of channels. Both Smith and Bancroft who, up until this moment, were honest and trustworthy, showed a much darker side to their character.
With nothing but the smallest piece of tape, a generous helping of dust from the pitch and a good deal of jiggery pokery, both men conspired to cheat, misbehave and overstep the limit. In fact that limit was overstepped quite considerably and this outrage can never ever be tolerated at any level of sport. They rubbed, scratched, probably spat on the ball and generally conducted themselves in a manner wholly unbecoming of fair minded sportspeople. Quite why they chose to stoop to such low levels of degradation and foolhardiness maybe beyond our understanding but they did and no leniency should be spared. There you are jury I rest my case.
We all know that gamesmanship and one upmanship have been around in sport for as long as any of us can remember. There was the famous case of Olympic 100m sprinter Ben Johnson from Canada. Johnson took steroids, dabbled in the most appalling of drug taking and was promptly punished. In the world of athletics the ugly spectre of cheating has cast its glowering shadow of suspicion over some of its finest of all competitors. But now cricket, not for the first time, has been hung out to dry because two of its so called dependable practitioners had a rush of blood to the head and just didn't think it through.
What would Smith's predecessors have thought of it all? We can only imagine what exactly the likes of Sir Donald Bradman, Lindsey Hassett, Warwick Armstrong, Alan Border, dignified cricketers one and all, would have said under the circumstances. In their day of course cricket was a game played by gentlemen, played in the right spirit, played by cricketers with legal minds, upright propriety and impeccable decency. There was never any of this fiddling with the rules or downright cheating in the old days because it quite simply isn't cricket.
But now Steve Smith and his Australian cricketing rogues have done something terribly naughty, the kind of behaviour we'd more readily associate with rebellious school kids in their last year. You know the ones surely. The ones who stupidly let off stink bombs in the chemistry lab or tied the shoe laces of the Maths teacher when they weren't looking, the ones who deliberately wanted to stay behind for detention because they really couldn't face mountains of homework.
Now Steve Smith has done the honourable thing and resigned as captain of the Australian cricket team because quite clearly he hadn't thought through his reckless actions. He thought the thoughts of a man who may have believed that the teachers weren't watching when elastic bands were ready to be launched and humiliation was imminent.
On reflection sport may have seen all of this before and maybe we should have known that something like this might happen at some stage and some time. The old saying of cheats never prospering is more or less a cliche but you have to wonder whether at some point Steve Smith will shortly be rewarded with a TV chat show or reality TV celebrity in an Australian jungle. This may of course completely wrong but how many advertisers, agents and high ranking media executives will be lining Smith up for regular exposure in the world of cheap commercials, endorsements for soft drinks, pizzas and designer shoes. It is an intriguing thought and one that is hardly worthy of any thought.
Still it's happened and it can't be denied. An Australian cricketer with an intelligent mind thought he could get away with it but didn't. He cheated and they cheated again. They apologised and held up their hands. They were deeply sorry and repentant. They'll never do it again miss or sir. Please give us another chance. Cricket is the game they play on village greens during the summer. It's a game designed for white flannelled men in helmets and concluded with cucumber sandwiches at tea. It is a game with strict rules and regulations. Then the church bells ring and we all retire to gentle country pubs.
Sadly, the likes of Steve Smith have learnt the hard way. They've now discovered that when you do something behind somebody's back the consequences can be pretty severe.. Their actions were those of the deplorable burglar who thought they could just sneak through your living room window and steal most if not all your worldly possessions Well, this time cricket has, briefly we must hope, been charged and arrested with a crime that could have been so easily avoided. Perhaps Australian cricket should be firmly told off and reprimanded because if we see you cheating again we'll tell your parents and you'll never be allowed to come out and play. Do we make ourselves abundantly clear? Now go home and don't do it again.
Oh dear! What is to become of Australian cricket? This morning the whole of Australia woke up to infamy, embarrassment, shame, notoriety and disbelief. To think it's come to this. How on earth did it happen to such a clean living and respectable country who never attract the wrong kind of headlines and basically live for the moment when England come calling for a thrashing in the Ashes? But that was over two months ago or so and that's history.
Now though the most disreputable of all acts has visited the shores of our Australian friends. Who would have thought it? It was an act of such dreadful deception and corruption that even now we can barely believe the sheer brass neck cheek and chutzpah of it all. Here in Britain some of the more cynical English cricket supporters were sniggering into their pints of beer, cackling at the sheer impertinence of it all. Then they sniggered, chuckled heartily into their peanuts and resorted to gallows humour. It couldn't have happened to a nicer nation. Still it could have been infinitely worse.
What then was this cunning manoeuvre, this evil plot to undermine fair play and sportsmanship, this brazen display of cheating and illegitimacy. Yes, Australian cricket has now been caught red handed, committing the most unforgivable crime in any walk of life. They cheated and cheated big time. They thought they could get away with it but then realised that nothing could escape the eyes of conscientious umpires and the ever present law of the land.
It all happened in Australia's latest Test match against South Africa. It was all going very badly for the Australians until that moment in your life when it all goes haywire. So what do you do when you're struggling in a major cricket Test match and maybe things aren't going quite according to plan? Do you just muddle along diligently until something goes right or do you just break the rules and resort to the lowest common denominator? The fact is that commonsense should prevail and you should just try to stick it out hoping that the pendulum swings in your favour. Not so for Australian captain Steve Smith.
So what do we do to characters like Steve Smith, those mischievous scoundrels, those double dealing misfits, those loose cannons of society, those scheming miscreants who insist on playing dirty? Or maybe I've got that completely wrong and it's all been blown wildly out of proportion and we're just over reacting.
Maybe the ultimate punishment should be administered to Mr Smith and his maverick chums? Perhaps we should throw him into the Sydney harbour or bring back those penal colonies so popular in the age of Ned Kelly. Smith should be made to suffer in silence, held to account for ball tampering. Yes ball tampering ladies and gentlemen. Steve Smith, on the afternoon of a Test match tried, in private, to change the course of a cricket match by trying to change the shape of a cricket ball in order to gain a clear advantage in a cricket match. This, you feel sure, is not the way it should be.
Yes members of the jury. Steve Smith, in wrongful collaboration with Cameron Bancroft, his otherwise loyal colleague, took themselves off to a quiet dressing room during lunch and plotted the downfall of the South African cricket team through the most illicit of channels. Both Smith and Bancroft who, up until this moment, were honest and trustworthy, showed a much darker side to their character.
With nothing but the smallest piece of tape, a generous helping of dust from the pitch and a good deal of jiggery pokery, both men conspired to cheat, misbehave and overstep the limit. In fact that limit was overstepped quite considerably and this outrage can never ever be tolerated at any level of sport. They rubbed, scratched, probably spat on the ball and generally conducted themselves in a manner wholly unbecoming of fair minded sportspeople. Quite why they chose to stoop to such low levels of degradation and foolhardiness maybe beyond our understanding but they did and no leniency should be spared. There you are jury I rest my case.
We all know that gamesmanship and one upmanship have been around in sport for as long as any of us can remember. There was the famous case of Olympic 100m sprinter Ben Johnson from Canada. Johnson took steroids, dabbled in the most appalling of drug taking and was promptly punished. In the world of athletics the ugly spectre of cheating has cast its glowering shadow of suspicion over some of its finest of all competitors. But now cricket, not for the first time, has been hung out to dry because two of its so called dependable practitioners had a rush of blood to the head and just didn't think it through.
What would Smith's predecessors have thought of it all? We can only imagine what exactly the likes of Sir Donald Bradman, Lindsey Hassett, Warwick Armstrong, Alan Border, dignified cricketers one and all, would have said under the circumstances. In their day of course cricket was a game played by gentlemen, played in the right spirit, played by cricketers with legal minds, upright propriety and impeccable decency. There was never any of this fiddling with the rules or downright cheating in the old days because it quite simply isn't cricket.
But now Steve Smith and his Australian cricketing rogues have done something terribly naughty, the kind of behaviour we'd more readily associate with rebellious school kids in their last year. You know the ones surely. The ones who stupidly let off stink bombs in the chemistry lab or tied the shoe laces of the Maths teacher when they weren't looking, the ones who deliberately wanted to stay behind for detention because they really couldn't face mountains of homework.
Now Steve Smith has done the honourable thing and resigned as captain of the Australian cricket team because quite clearly he hadn't thought through his reckless actions. He thought the thoughts of a man who may have believed that the teachers weren't watching when elastic bands were ready to be launched and humiliation was imminent.
On reflection sport may have seen all of this before and maybe we should have known that something like this might happen at some stage and some time. The old saying of cheats never prospering is more or less a cliche but you have to wonder whether at some point Steve Smith will shortly be rewarded with a TV chat show or reality TV celebrity in an Australian jungle. This may of course completely wrong but how many advertisers, agents and high ranking media executives will be lining Smith up for regular exposure in the world of cheap commercials, endorsements for soft drinks, pizzas and designer shoes. It is an intriguing thought and one that is hardly worthy of any thought.
Still it's happened and it can't be denied. An Australian cricketer with an intelligent mind thought he could get away with it but didn't. He cheated and they cheated again. They apologised and held up their hands. They were deeply sorry and repentant. They'll never do it again miss or sir. Please give us another chance. Cricket is the game they play on village greens during the summer. It's a game designed for white flannelled men in helmets and concluded with cucumber sandwiches at tea. It is a game with strict rules and regulations. Then the church bells ring and we all retire to gentle country pubs.
Sadly, the likes of Steve Smith have learnt the hard way. They've now discovered that when you do something behind somebody's back the consequences can be pretty severe.. Their actions were those of the deplorable burglar who thought they could just sneak through your living room window and steal most if not all your worldly possessions Well, this time cricket has, briefly we must hope, been charged and arrested with a crime that could have been so easily avoided. Perhaps Australian cricket should be firmly told off and reprimanded because if we see you cheating again we'll tell your parents and you'll never be allowed to come out and play. Do we make ourselves abundantly clear? Now go home and don't do it again.
Saturday, 24 March 2018
England display Dutch courage.
England display Dutch courage.
For the first time since 1996 England beat Holland and, just for good measure, in their very own Dutch backyard. Wonder of wonders. The England football team have experienced so many trials and tribulations in recent years that some of us were beginning to think that things would never work out for the best. But finally England have discovered a new lease of life and the 1-0 victory against a painfully weak and lacklustre Holland came as the most pleasant and unexpected of surprises.
It still seems hard to believe that both Holland, England's first friendly opponents and Italy who they will face next Tuesday at Wembley in another amiable encounter, will be sorely missing from this summer's World Cup in Russia. On reflection England's participation in the World Cup may well come under the deepest scrutiny given the soured relations between both the Russians and the English. These are diplomatically difficult times for both countries. Or maybe completely lacking in any diplomacy.
But last night at the Johan Cruyff Arena, England came out of their winter hibernation rather like those gambolling spring lambs who will now take up residence on our rolling English meadows. It may be hard to believe but England genuinely resembled potential winners of the World Cup. And when was the last time that sentence was ever uttered in the wood panelled corridors of FA headquarters?
What on earth has happened to the English football team while snow lay thick and even on the ground? Did they finally see the light or was the light already on and nothing was said. Suffice it to say that England played like a team possessed, with possession being the operative word. England were full of originality, intelligence, imagination and whole hearted industry. It almost seemed to be too good to be true. Some of us had wondered whether we'd ever see an England team at complete ease with a ball and then executing some of the most exquisitely carved football England have ever produced.
At times it may well have been like watching the Brazil of 1970 World Cup vintage, or the Spain and Germany of more recent World Cup editions, the visitors so brilliantly and effectively using the ball for lengthy periods against Holland. Holland, of course are now a team in crisis and stagnation, a team at its lowest ebb and no longer that cultured international team of yesteryear. It did seem something of an irony that England seemed to be taunting a Holland side who once prided themselves on educated, one touch passing.
Briefly, you began to wonder what the likes of Johan Cruyff, Rob Rensenbrink, Ruud Krol and Johan Neeskens would have thought of last night's pathetic no show. Many of us will never know how the Holland of 1974 and 78 succeeded in losing two consecutive World Cup Finals against both West Germany and Argentina respectively. In both games Holland failed to take advantage of their opponents when they were there for the taking. History though had other ideas.
Still, last night Holland were the palest shadow of their former greatness and it was rather like looking at one of those distorted mirrors you normally see at a fairground. Holland were a side of horribly misshapen images, a side completely lacking in any kind of plan, method, structure or pattern. In fact England seemed to be taking an inordinate pleasure in their opponents discomfort, frequently mocking the Dutch with the type of football Holland were once renowned for.
Sadly the vivid orange and strange looking blue socks of the home side were almost awe struck by an England team they must have thought were still living in football's Dark Ages. The England football team were dinosaurs, lost in a time warp, clueless and one- dimensional, a team of ignorant philistines totally incapable of stringing together a cluster of short passes. Holland were technically brilliant, well advanced in their thinking and light years ahead of England.
Back in the late 1970s the memory takes me back to an evening at the old Wembley when Cruyff and co, toyed, teased and tormented England with football made in heaven, football with a delicious sauce of improvisation, cinnamon scented football with a hint of perfection to it. That night Holland not only beat England they positively humiliated them. Their football had a clarity and purity that should have been bottled for posterity.
Last night the clog was definitely on the other foot. The country that has given us bicycles, canals and windmills were clinging on for dear life. Holland is a peaceful and very liberal nation where the brown cafes and the historic Amsterdam house of Anne Frank give the country its most distinctive identity and cultural template. And yet their performance against England last night will not be fondly remembered in anybody's mind.
From the very start the back four of Kieran Trippier, Kyle Walker, Joe Gomez, who would shortly be taken off with injury and the ever reliable Danny Rose demonstrated, quite astonishingly, a unity and togetherness that very few us saw coming, In fact so forward thinking and venturesome were all four men that you half expected at least one or two to figure prominently on the score sheet. Trippier and particularly Walker pushed forward enterprisingly over the half way line completely undaunted and hell bent on making some kind of contribution.
England were now passing patiently and thoughtfully as if all those years spent in the wilderness of the ugly, long ball game had become well and truly a thing of the past. England, at last, had now been converted to the way the game should be played rather than the dated mechanisms that had so disfigured their football in past decades.
Now it was that Gareth Southgate's brave warriors were now instructed to play their football with an entirely different code and policy, an attacking philosophy that should have been in place many years ago. This is not to suggest that England teams down the years should have known better but there was a sense here that this is the age of enlightenment, the dawning of an exciting era. Suddenly the red faced embarrassment that was Iceland in Euro 2016 may well have been some horrid apparition that can safely be forgotten for good.
In England's midfield the first buds of promise and footballing fertility are beginning to show. Jordan Henderson has now become a well established and consistent player for both England and Liverpool. Occasionally Henderson does look ever so jittery and uncomfortable on the ball and although careless at times still looks the kind of inspirational England captain Gareth Southgate may need more so than ever. Henderson cruises gently rather than rushing around like a man in a permanent panic.
Beside Henderson, Manchester City's Raheem Sterling had another very productive game for England and often looked the kind of player who may just be that vitally pivotal figure who can change games with a destructive turn of pace and the ability to frighten the life out of confused defenders. Sterling jinked and shimmied, twisted and turned like a spinning top and then confounded Holland with runs at the Dutch defence that almost left lasting damage on the orange shirts morale but just came up short.
Still every England winger from Stanley Matthews to Terry Paine and John Connelly during the 1960s while not forgetting those speed merchants Peter Barnes and Steve Coppell during the 1970s have had to contend with the knowledge that Sir Alf Ramsey had no time for dashing and deceptive flankers in his 1966 World Cup team and Sterling may find that he has a point to prove if he plays in Russia.
Finally there was Alex Oxlade Chamberlain, a neat and compact midfield player with a nice sense of balance and creativity about him. The problem with Chamberlain is that he may have an annoying tendency to drift anonymously through important contests and find that even though we knew he was on the pitch, he may have been conveniently overlooked by the end. Certainly he could give the England side a tempo and momentum that may be required if England are to reach the World Cup's latter stages.
Up front of course England do seem to be spoilt for chance. The absence through injury of Spurs Harry Kane left England with the slightest of deficiencies and you could only imagine what a fit Kane would have made of a very loose fitting and powder puff Dutch team. Still Jessie Lingard, Manchester United's ever lively and responsive striker, did score the only goal on the night and next to his United colleague Marcus Rashford, England were never short of initiative or foresight.
After almost incessant waves of well engineered, clever and immensely constructive one touch, short passing between the players England finally broke down the Dutch defence, a defence that seemed to be crumbling around them with all the rapidity of a seaside sandcastle. It was a goal entirely in keeping with the character of England's high quality, high intensity and high velocity display.
Chamberlain picked up the ball just outside a besieged Dutch penalty area. He then shrewdly slipped the ball to Danny Rose who in turn swiftly moved the ball across to Jessie Lingard now setting his sights on goal before drilling the ball confidently into the net for the opening goal of the night. On a night of many highs for England that was as good as it got for England and perhaps on another night it should have been more but a victory is a victory and small mercies should always be appreciated.
Gareth Southgate, England's wonderfully pleasant and well mannered manager always looks as if butter would never melt in his mouth which is probably never the case. He continues to give the impression of the class swot, the kid who always finishes his homework on time and never ever gets into any kind of trouble. Southgate is indeed the ace student, always deep in thought, respectable, presentable and never bothered by any of the stuffy red tape and bureaucracy that may threaten him from outside the game.
Now for Italy on Tuesday, another international side going through the wars at the moment and rather like Holland, kicking their heels during the summer. It almost feels as though world football has lost two of its most supportive pillars. It may seem like wishful thinking at the moment but maybe just maybe this could be the year of all years for England. Sir Alf Ramsey was convinced that England would definitely win the 1966 World Cup years before the dream came true. Gareth Southgate may be keeping his cards close to his chest but you never know. You never know.
For the first time since 1996 England beat Holland and, just for good measure, in their very own Dutch backyard. Wonder of wonders. The England football team have experienced so many trials and tribulations in recent years that some of us were beginning to think that things would never work out for the best. But finally England have discovered a new lease of life and the 1-0 victory against a painfully weak and lacklustre Holland came as the most pleasant and unexpected of surprises.
It still seems hard to believe that both Holland, England's first friendly opponents and Italy who they will face next Tuesday at Wembley in another amiable encounter, will be sorely missing from this summer's World Cup in Russia. On reflection England's participation in the World Cup may well come under the deepest scrutiny given the soured relations between both the Russians and the English. These are diplomatically difficult times for both countries. Or maybe completely lacking in any diplomacy.
But last night at the Johan Cruyff Arena, England came out of their winter hibernation rather like those gambolling spring lambs who will now take up residence on our rolling English meadows. It may be hard to believe but England genuinely resembled potential winners of the World Cup. And when was the last time that sentence was ever uttered in the wood panelled corridors of FA headquarters?
What on earth has happened to the English football team while snow lay thick and even on the ground? Did they finally see the light or was the light already on and nothing was said. Suffice it to say that England played like a team possessed, with possession being the operative word. England were full of originality, intelligence, imagination and whole hearted industry. It almost seemed to be too good to be true. Some of us had wondered whether we'd ever see an England team at complete ease with a ball and then executing some of the most exquisitely carved football England have ever produced.
At times it may well have been like watching the Brazil of 1970 World Cup vintage, or the Spain and Germany of more recent World Cup editions, the visitors so brilliantly and effectively using the ball for lengthy periods against Holland. Holland, of course are now a team in crisis and stagnation, a team at its lowest ebb and no longer that cultured international team of yesteryear. It did seem something of an irony that England seemed to be taunting a Holland side who once prided themselves on educated, one touch passing.
Briefly, you began to wonder what the likes of Johan Cruyff, Rob Rensenbrink, Ruud Krol and Johan Neeskens would have thought of last night's pathetic no show. Many of us will never know how the Holland of 1974 and 78 succeeded in losing two consecutive World Cup Finals against both West Germany and Argentina respectively. In both games Holland failed to take advantage of their opponents when they were there for the taking. History though had other ideas.
Still, last night Holland were the palest shadow of their former greatness and it was rather like looking at one of those distorted mirrors you normally see at a fairground. Holland were a side of horribly misshapen images, a side completely lacking in any kind of plan, method, structure or pattern. In fact England seemed to be taking an inordinate pleasure in their opponents discomfort, frequently mocking the Dutch with the type of football Holland were once renowned for.
Sadly the vivid orange and strange looking blue socks of the home side were almost awe struck by an England team they must have thought were still living in football's Dark Ages. The England football team were dinosaurs, lost in a time warp, clueless and one- dimensional, a team of ignorant philistines totally incapable of stringing together a cluster of short passes. Holland were technically brilliant, well advanced in their thinking and light years ahead of England.
Back in the late 1970s the memory takes me back to an evening at the old Wembley when Cruyff and co, toyed, teased and tormented England with football made in heaven, football with a delicious sauce of improvisation, cinnamon scented football with a hint of perfection to it. That night Holland not only beat England they positively humiliated them. Their football had a clarity and purity that should have been bottled for posterity.
Last night the clog was definitely on the other foot. The country that has given us bicycles, canals and windmills were clinging on for dear life. Holland is a peaceful and very liberal nation where the brown cafes and the historic Amsterdam house of Anne Frank give the country its most distinctive identity and cultural template. And yet their performance against England last night will not be fondly remembered in anybody's mind.
From the very start the back four of Kieran Trippier, Kyle Walker, Joe Gomez, who would shortly be taken off with injury and the ever reliable Danny Rose demonstrated, quite astonishingly, a unity and togetherness that very few us saw coming, In fact so forward thinking and venturesome were all four men that you half expected at least one or two to figure prominently on the score sheet. Trippier and particularly Walker pushed forward enterprisingly over the half way line completely undaunted and hell bent on making some kind of contribution.
England were now passing patiently and thoughtfully as if all those years spent in the wilderness of the ugly, long ball game had become well and truly a thing of the past. England, at last, had now been converted to the way the game should be played rather than the dated mechanisms that had so disfigured their football in past decades.
Now it was that Gareth Southgate's brave warriors were now instructed to play their football with an entirely different code and policy, an attacking philosophy that should have been in place many years ago. This is not to suggest that England teams down the years should have known better but there was a sense here that this is the age of enlightenment, the dawning of an exciting era. Suddenly the red faced embarrassment that was Iceland in Euro 2016 may well have been some horrid apparition that can safely be forgotten for good.
In England's midfield the first buds of promise and footballing fertility are beginning to show. Jordan Henderson has now become a well established and consistent player for both England and Liverpool. Occasionally Henderson does look ever so jittery and uncomfortable on the ball and although careless at times still looks the kind of inspirational England captain Gareth Southgate may need more so than ever. Henderson cruises gently rather than rushing around like a man in a permanent panic.
Beside Henderson, Manchester City's Raheem Sterling had another very productive game for England and often looked the kind of player who may just be that vitally pivotal figure who can change games with a destructive turn of pace and the ability to frighten the life out of confused defenders. Sterling jinked and shimmied, twisted and turned like a spinning top and then confounded Holland with runs at the Dutch defence that almost left lasting damage on the orange shirts morale but just came up short.
Still every England winger from Stanley Matthews to Terry Paine and John Connelly during the 1960s while not forgetting those speed merchants Peter Barnes and Steve Coppell during the 1970s have had to contend with the knowledge that Sir Alf Ramsey had no time for dashing and deceptive flankers in his 1966 World Cup team and Sterling may find that he has a point to prove if he plays in Russia.
Finally there was Alex Oxlade Chamberlain, a neat and compact midfield player with a nice sense of balance and creativity about him. The problem with Chamberlain is that he may have an annoying tendency to drift anonymously through important contests and find that even though we knew he was on the pitch, he may have been conveniently overlooked by the end. Certainly he could give the England side a tempo and momentum that may be required if England are to reach the World Cup's latter stages.
Up front of course England do seem to be spoilt for chance. The absence through injury of Spurs Harry Kane left England with the slightest of deficiencies and you could only imagine what a fit Kane would have made of a very loose fitting and powder puff Dutch team. Still Jessie Lingard, Manchester United's ever lively and responsive striker, did score the only goal on the night and next to his United colleague Marcus Rashford, England were never short of initiative or foresight.
After almost incessant waves of well engineered, clever and immensely constructive one touch, short passing between the players England finally broke down the Dutch defence, a defence that seemed to be crumbling around them with all the rapidity of a seaside sandcastle. It was a goal entirely in keeping with the character of England's high quality, high intensity and high velocity display.
Chamberlain picked up the ball just outside a besieged Dutch penalty area. He then shrewdly slipped the ball to Danny Rose who in turn swiftly moved the ball across to Jessie Lingard now setting his sights on goal before drilling the ball confidently into the net for the opening goal of the night. On a night of many highs for England that was as good as it got for England and perhaps on another night it should have been more but a victory is a victory and small mercies should always be appreciated.
Gareth Southgate, England's wonderfully pleasant and well mannered manager always looks as if butter would never melt in his mouth which is probably never the case. He continues to give the impression of the class swot, the kid who always finishes his homework on time and never ever gets into any kind of trouble. Southgate is indeed the ace student, always deep in thought, respectable, presentable and never bothered by any of the stuffy red tape and bureaucracy that may threaten him from outside the game.
Now for Italy on Tuesday, another international side going through the wars at the moment and rather like Holland, kicking their heels during the summer. It almost feels as though world football has lost two of its most supportive pillars. It may seem like wishful thinking at the moment but maybe just maybe this could be the year of all years for England. Sir Alf Ramsey was convinced that England would definitely win the 1966 World Cup years before the dream came true. Gareth Southgate may be keeping his cards close to his chest but you never know. You never know.
Wednesday, 21 March 2018
The first day of Spring- oh what sweet joy!
The first day of Spring- oh what sweet joy!
Oh what sweet joy! The seasons keep passing and finally winter has slipped back into that dark cupboard in your home, consigned to that dusty corner of your attic where once the choking cobwebs cramped our style. Today is officially the first day of spring and across the nation trumpets, bells and whistles have heralded the new season with the kind of reception we would probably reserve for a major birthday or anniversary.
You must have done it by now. You've flung open your curtains or blinds, squinted at those bright, light sunbeams cascading through your windows like a powerful river and then breathed an enormous sigh of relief. Thank goodness for that I hear you cry. We thought it would never get here. We thought we'd have to wait at least another month or so before the first daffodils displayed their familiar, foot loose and fancy free finery and their royal regalia. Nor did we think that those cuckoos would ever make themselves heard ever again and maybe we'd given up on the tulips because they must have been convinced that the winter snows would never clear and disappear.
But fear not we all woke up this morning in Britain today and the coast is clear. Before you know it the first sounds and acoustics of spring will be alive and well and full of encouraging omens. Admittedly, those tree branches still look very nervous and exposed, bare quite definitely and desperately craving that lovely coat of green which give them such a distinguished look during the summer.
Now though it's time to celebrate that invigorating blast of much warmer weather, that sharp injection of sunlight that penetrates deep into your bones and makes you feel so good. Suddenly we can almost feel the refreshing warmth, a good old fashioned dose of new and pristine shades rather than that dull and grey blanket of winter that hung across the land like a curtain that hadn't been washed for ages.
Shortly, our old allies will be returning back for their yearly visit. Pesach(the Jewish passover) and Easter, that heavily symbolic tribute to chocolate eggs, are poised, ready and waiting to usher in a startling sequence of ritualistic spring festivals. Isn't it amazing that year after year we keep telling ourselves that the winters are getting colder and never seem to end only to find that patience is indeed a virtue? Springtime always seems to come around eventually so it's time to dig out those dusters and cloths for a thorough session of cleaning because that's what spring is all about.
Indeed it is the season of spring cleaning, that marathon spell of sweeping, de- cluttering, clearing out drawers, disposing of old papers, folders, sweet wrappers, surplus clothes we haven't worn for at least 20 years and generally removing rubbish and detritus. Then we discover a wonderful set of family photos that seem to have been mouldering away for ages and we can never think why. What about those old dining room candles and brass candle sticks or the Space Hopper which should have gone in the skip at least 40 years ago?
There is a real sense of excess and neglect in the air. How long now have we allowed everything to fall into rack and ruin? We've forgotten about the records which we once so proudly cherished are now no longer necessary and have passed their sell by date. At the time we must have thought they were indispensable and vital but now they looked cracked, shabby and ready for the bin. When was the last time we could play those 78s because our parents thought they were cool. at the time? But 78s were superb fun at the time and our parents must have loved playing them over and over again.
The truth is that spring seems the ideal opportunity to polish up that fading brass, to bring back to life those splendid board games that always left us in a state of euphoria over Christmas. Now we look forward to summer village fetes, dizzying maypole dancing and then rowing down the River Cam in Cambridge. Life is all about living for the moment and spring is seemingly all about the outdoors rather than indoors.
From Sunday onwards the days will get progressively longer, the pub gardens will become more densely populated and you can still take your dogs for a walk at 5.00 in the afternoon without worrying about the lack of light. At long last you can venture out on long walks in the country, up and down meandering hills, stopping only to drop into charming tea shops or wandering around ageless antique shops that may well have been there for as long as anybody can remember.
This Saturday Britain welcomes back another hardy perennial. It's the Boat Race between those two feuding universities, two of the highest and loftiest seats of learning, education and academia. Oxford and Cambridge will once again be going hammer and tongs for bragging rights on the River Thames. By now the Boat Race has almost become carved into the sporting calendar in perpetuity. In fact you shudder to think what would happen if the Boat Race had been unforgivably overlooked or just completely forgotten about. The cost and penalty would be severe. Oxford and Cambridge would probably take everybody to court and the consequences would be deeply felt.
Suddenly the seasonal shift feels much more pronounced, the grasses look significantly greener and those tiny buds of spring have made a welcome appearance in our gardens, parklands and sylvan pastures. The cherry blossom is back again with its stunning tableau of pink and sooner or later the street pavements will be like confetti on the ground, scurrying around faster and faster around in ever increasing circles.
Before you know it we'll all be thinking about our summer holidays, where the musical sound of exotic chickens blends seamlessly with the gentle tinkle of ice in Spanish tequila. May and June though, seem like distant continents at the moment and now maybe is the time to check Expedia.com for a bargain basement holiday next to somewhere totally idyllic where nobody can find us.
Still for the time being let's all anticipate the sweetly piping cuckoos forever serenading us with their very special brand of easy listening melodies. I suspect that sooner or later the runners and joggers will be up and about at the Woodberry Wetlands, a natural haven, where the birds and butterflies will almost inevitably make their summer home without any disturbance at all.
How good does it feel? At long last we can all run through those endless cornfields, gaze awe struck at those neat and well disciplined rows of daisies and think of the world as a decent and safe place to live in. Of course there are those who believe quite fervently that if certain politicians were to get their way we'd all be in a much worse place than could possibly be imagined.
For now though let's look forward to the spring equinox, the Easter rabbits hopping athletically from one spot of woodland to the next, the glorious snapping and crunching of Jewish matzos, moreish and absolutely addictive. At the moment I'm wearing my trusty pullover but I'd like to think that it won't be long before T-shirts and shorts become the order of the day. There is also an optimistic part of me that believes that England just might win the football World Cup in Russia this summer. There is, after all, no harm at all in dreaming.
Oh what sweet joy! The seasons keep passing and finally winter has slipped back into that dark cupboard in your home, consigned to that dusty corner of your attic where once the choking cobwebs cramped our style. Today is officially the first day of spring and across the nation trumpets, bells and whistles have heralded the new season with the kind of reception we would probably reserve for a major birthday or anniversary.
You must have done it by now. You've flung open your curtains or blinds, squinted at those bright, light sunbeams cascading through your windows like a powerful river and then breathed an enormous sigh of relief. Thank goodness for that I hear you cry. We thought it would never get here. We thought we'd have to wait at least another month or so before the first daffodils displayed their familiar, foot loose and fancy free finery and their royal regalia. Nor did we think that those cuckoos would ever make themselves heard ever again and maybe we'd given up on the tulips because they must have been convinced that the winter snows would never clear and disappear.
But fear not we all woke up this morning in Britain today and the coast is clear. Before you know it the first sounds and acoustics of spring will be alive and well and full of encouraging omens. Admittedly, those tree branches still look very nervous and exposed, bare quite definitely and desperately craving that lovely coat of green which give them such a distinguished look during the summer.
Now though it's time to celebrate that invigorating blast of much warmer weather, that sharp injection of sunlight that penetrates deep into your bones and makes you feel so good. Suddenly we can almost feel the refreshing warmth, a good old fashioned dose of new and pristine shades rather than that dull and grey blanket of winter that hung across the land like a curtain that hadn't been washed for ages.
Shortly, our old allies will be returning back for their yearly visit. Pesach(the Jewish passover) and Easter, that heavily symbolic tribute to chocolate eggs, are poised, ready and waiting to usher in a startling sequence of ritualistic spring festivals. Isn't it amazing that year after year we keep telling ourselves that the winters are getting colder and never seem to end only to find that patience is indeed a virtue? Springtime always seems to come around eventually so it's time to dig out those dusters and cloths for a thorough session of cleaning because that's what spring is all about.
Indeed it is the season of spring cleaning, that marathon spell of sweeping, de- cluttering, clearing out drawers, disposing of old papers, folders, sweet wrappers, surplus clothes we haven't worn for at least 20 years and generally removing rubbish and detritus. Then we discover a wonderful set of family photos that seem to have been mouldering away for ages and we can never think why. What about those old dining room candles and brass candle sticks or the Space Hopper which should have gone in the skip at least 40 years ago?
There is a real sense of excess and neglect in the air. How long now have we allowed everything to fall into rack and ruin? We've forgotten about the records which we once so proudly cherished are now no longer necessary and have passed their sell by date. At the time we must have thought they were indispensable and vital but now they looked cracked, shabby and ready for the bin. When was the last time we could play those 78s because our parents thought they were cool. at the time? But 78s were superb fun at the time and our parents must have loved playing them over and over again.
The truth is that spring seems the ideal opportunity to polish up that fading brass, to bring back to life those splendid board games that always left us in a state of euphoria over Christmas. Now we look forward to summer village fetes, dizzying maypole dancing and then rowing down the River Cam in Cambridge. Life is all about living for the moment and spring is seemingly all about the outdoors rather than indoors.
From Sunday onwards the days will get progressively longer, the pub gardens will become more densely populated and you can still take your dogs for a walk at 5.00 in the afternoon without worrying about the lack of light. At long last you can venture out on long walks in the country, up and down meandering hills, stopping only to drop into charming tea shops or wandering around ageless antique shops that may well have been there for as long as anybody can remember.
This Saturday Britain welcomes back another hardy perennial. It's the Boat Race between those two feuding universities, two of the highest and loftiest seats of learning, education and academia. Oxford and Cambridge will once again be going hammer and tongs for bragging rights on the River Thames. By now the Boat Race has almost become carved into the sporting calendar in perpetuity. In fact you shudder to think what would happen if the Boat Race had been unforgivably overlooked or just completely forgotten about. The cost and penalty would be severe. Oxford and Cambridge would probably take everybody to court and the consequences would be deeply felt.
Suddenly the seasonal shift feels much more pronounced, the grasses look significantly greener and those tiny buds of spring have made a welcome appearance in our gardens, parklands and sylvan pastures. The cherry blossom is back again with its stunning tableau of pink and sooner or later the street pavements will be like confetti on the ground, scurrying around faster and faster around in ever increasing circles.
Before you know it we'll all be thinking about our summer holidays, where the musical sound of exotic chickens blends seamlessly with the gentle tinkle of ice in Spanish tequila. May and June though, seem like distant continents at the moment and now maybe is the time to check Expedia.com for a bargain basement holiday next to somewhere totally idyllic where nobody can find us.
Still for the time being let's all anticipate the sweetly piping cuckoos forever serenading us with their very special brand of easy listening melodies. I suspect that sooner or later the runners and joggers will be up and about at the Woodberry Wetlands, a natural haven, where the birds and butterflies will almost inevitably make their summer home without any disturbance at all.
How good does it feel? At long last we can all run through those endless cornfields, gaze awe struck at those neat and well disciplined rows of daisies and think of the world as a decent and safe place to live in. Of course there are those who believe quite fervently that if certain politicians were to get their way we'd all be in a much worse place than could possibly be imagined.
For now though let's look forward to the spring equinox, the Easter rabbits hopping athletically from one spot of woodland to the next, the glorious snapping and crunching of Jewish matzos, moreish and absolutely addictive. At the moment I'm wearing my trusty pullover but I'd like to think that it won't be long before T-shirts and shorts become the order of the day. There is also an optimistic part of me that believes that England just might win the football World Cup in Russia this summer. There is, after all, no harm at all in dreaming.
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