Manuel Pellegrini- Oh to be a Premier League manager.
Oh to be a Premier League manager! These days you have to be accountable to everybody including both the fans, the stakeholders, the shareholders, quite possibly the accountants, family, friends and even the local milkman who may have lost that cheerful whistle as he drops off his twentieth pint of the day on your doorstep. Then there's the wealthy chairman who, apart from having a seriously vested interest in your club, is still frustrated with his latest golf swing or maybe worried about his yachts in the South of France.
New West Ham manager Manuel Pellegrini must be wondering what's happened to his managerial prowess. A couple of seasons ago the gentleman from Chile was guiding his Manchester City to the most resounding of Premier League titles. Everything in the garden was wonderfully rosy and Pellegrini could hardly have believed that several seasons later he would be presiding over a West Ham team who now look completely shell shocked.
Of course there can be no sentiment in football and when a football manager gets stuck in a rut, he may find there are no sympathetic shoulders to cry on. Undoubtedly Pellegrini is an excellent manager and it may be now that his prowess as a Premier League manager will face its most severe examination. Besides he is now in charge of West Ham United and we know how daunting a job that one is. It could hardly be any more testing and horribly taxing because for some reason West Ham have never really come flying out of the starting blocks at the beginning of a new Premier League season.
At the moment West Ham, as their hard pressed and now masochistic supporters know only so well, are once again in their default position. Bottom of the Premier League table with no points from four games, they remind you of those Victorian beggars who stand on street corners with chimney sweep soot on their faces, piteously holding out their hands for money. There is indeed a look of poverty and sadness about West Ham, a haunted and haggard face with ragged and torn coats.
But for those of us who are almost well conditioned to the trials and tribulations of the happy Hammers this should not come as any great surprise. They are locked in a vice like grip of mediocrity from which there would appear little escape. After the 4-0 thumping by now Premier League pacesetters and unbeaten Liverpool at Anfield, there were ineffectual defeats at home to Bournemouth and the unluckiest of 3-1 defeats at Arsenal last week.
Yesterday West Ham slowly unravelled like the most ordinary cotton reel. A 1-0 defeat to Wolves at the London Stadium has left the natives restless, agitated and inconsolable. Late summer afternoons can often be difficult and challenging for the club who used to think nobody could beat them at their old Upton Park ground. This though is becoming a customary series of events, like some hardy perennial that briefly blooms then wilts like a yellowing cluster of leaves.
For those of us who believe that this may well be the way things invariably turn out for West Ham there can be no hiding place. Perhaps we should just give up on our team and follow croquet, real tennis, rugby union or league or the handsome game of summer cricket. Still it could be worse. At least we are still rubbing shoulders with those uber rich millionaires of the Premier League, the colourful and flamboyant likes of Manchester City, Liverpool and Chelsea, those prancing, swaggering plutocrats with their gleaming sports cars and their fast lane, privileged lifestyles.
Yesterday West Ham boss Manuel Pellegrini told us repeatedly that there was no need to panic although he was desperately worried. Shortly September will become October and November and the black hole may become a yawning chasm. West Ham are poised to topple over a metaphorical cliff but the arrival of an international break in which England will play both Spain and Switzerland in friendlies could well come as a much needed psychological relief to West Ham.
Suddenly West Ham's last season at Upton Park seems rather like some golden, sepia tinted memory where everything that could have gone right did. Finishing seventh under Slaven Bilic and playing the kind of football that the fans felt was their traditional hallmark, West Ham, with the instinctively brilliant Frenchman Dimitri Payet in full bloom and a force of nature, were a delight to the senses and prolific scorers.
Of course, the fans who had retained their faith in the move to the London Stadium are beginning to yearn for some romantic return back to Upton Park. Suddenly Upton Park is no longer that much treasured piece of East End land and the club that once gave us the World Cup trio of Bobby Moore, Sir Geoff Hurst and Martin Peters are now desperately treading water, flapping their feet frantically and wishing they could re-capture their lovely days of 1960s liberation and flower power.
There were some of us who were just rubbing our hands with anticipation, counting the days down to the opening of the new Premier League season. West Ham had finally landed the signature of Jack Wilshere from Arsenal, the Brazilian winger Felipe Anderson would give us a superb impersonation of Gerson or Rivelino from that formidable Brazilian team from the 1970 World Cup and all would be well. Regrettably this would not be the case and now West Ham are beginning to recall that nightmarish season under Avram Grant when four defeats in a row eight years ago at the same stage of the season, ended in sackcloth and relegation ashes for West Ham.
Eight years later and West Ham now have another manager who looks as though his whole world has fallen apart and nothing will ever improve. A gloomy melancholia has now overtaken Manuel Pellegrini and the long term forecast is not the best. After the international break West Ham go to Goodison Park where a rejuvenated Everton team, although held by Huddersfield to a 1-1 draw, must feel as if all their birthdays will come at once when West Ham come calling in two weeks time.
Then West Ham are back at the London Stadium with the visit of both Chelsea and Manchester United which is rather like being informed that the taxman is about to pay you a visit. Chelsea, in contrast to West Ham, have won their first four matches of the new season and under Maurizio Sarri look unbeatable. Manchester United, for their part, are internally bickering among themselves under the seemingly hugely conceited Jose Mourinho. The defeats at home to Spurs last Monday and the equally as damaging 3-2 defeat at Brighton are beginning to irritate and rankle with the grumpy and cantankerous Mourinho.
It is time though now for West Ham to cast aside their early season troubles and attempt to ignore the doom and gloom mongers who fear the worst for the club. A lump sum of £100 million has been spent on a brand new team who have yet to find their bearings. There is indeed a long and torturous road ahead for those who have travelled that way a hundred times before. The Grim Reaper may well be in the vicinity of West Ham but there are no blood stained axes in our midst and the impending chills of autumn may yet work in West Ham's favour.
Summer is about to leave us with a regretful tear in its eye but for West Ham autumnal mellow mists and fruitfulness may yet be the portent for happier days ahead. Oh to be a West Ham loyalist. Those eternal bubbles must be allowed to blow at all times. This is certainly time to keep the faith and drink coffee.
Sunday, 2 September 2018
Friday, 31 August 2018
Theresa May - what a dancer!
Theresa May- what a dancer.
This week saw the arrival of one of the greatest dancers of modern times. In fact there have been some valid comparisons to Ginger Rogers in her Top Hat pomp with the equally as nimble footed and gloriously athletic Fred Astaire. You can only assume the summer heat might have gone to the Prime Minister head because things were certainly taking an unusual turn this week.
At a school in South Africa Theresa May took a gentle trip back to her heady school disco days with the kind of performance that would have left the likes of Nureyev, Dame Margot Fonteyn and, more recently, John Travolta, breathless and consumed with envy. May did what any political leader worth their salt would have done if confronted with a playground of hugely energetic schoolchildren.
She danced and danced and danced until she could hardly believe what she was doing. It must have been like one of those afternoons when you have to join in with the spirit of the occasion. Some of us are still scratching our heads and others just speechless. Besides, it was the middle of the week and what else would you do if somebody told you to do something completely spontaneous and unexpected?
But this was the Prime Minister of Britain, there was a photo opportunity to grab and the prying eyes of the world were firmly on her. Here was the Prime Minister finally discovering that at long last the pressure had temporarily been taken off her for at least a while and now it was time to break into the kind of dancing routine that over enthusiastic wedding or bar or bat mitzvah guests would not think twice of acting out without any prompting whatsoever.
The fact is that Theresa May took this most celebrated of all art forms to the most extraordinary heights. Wearing a red jacket and dark trousers topped with the cheesiest of grins, May at first swayed backwards and forwards on her heels rather like somebody who didn't quite know what to do next when the cameras were on her. She carried on with unashamed courage and daring, rocking and swinging her hips somewhat awkwardly before realising that this could be her day to shine and completely win over her hardened critics. She clicked her fingers and did the hippy, hippy shake.
Now May found herself revisiting the spirit of Michael Jackson and quite possibly Olivia Newton John in Grease. Firstly, there was the half baked, stuttering, robotic dance, followed by the delirious Jackson moonwalk followed by a couple of neat, nifty steps and then the Showaddywaddy rock and roll, drain pipe trousered boogie woogie. Wow! What a display! How on earth any respected or discredited politician of any party could match that fleet of feet, terpsichorean showtime spectacular is quite anybody's guess.
Seriously though the Prime Minister of Britain is back on the Brexit trail banging the drum vociferously for Britain as a world class trading partner. She is building those proverbial bridges of commercial prosperity on behalf of a country that still finds itself unsure and indecisive in its role as an economic powerhouse. But come on, that dance was something pretty special and any relevance it might have had with the whole way in which we conduct ourselves with our global counterparts is hard to fathom.
As things stand at the moment most of us are just flummoxed with hard or soft Brexit deals at the top table of political negotiations. Are we in or we are out? Or do we simply do the Hokey Cokey, turn around and decide that that's what it's all about? What do we do if the country decides that it wants a second referendum thus jeopardising everything that the first one could have potentially offered? Perhaps we should just go back to eating Dutch cheese and buying German cars without a single word of scathingly hurtful commentary on our European friends.
Theresa May now finds himself teetering on the brink of humiliation and unsure whether to stick or twist. Somehow you begin to wonder whether the life of Prime Minister is worth all that aggravation and worry. You take yourself off on an innocent walking holiday in Italy and before you know it you're back on the front pages of the national newspapers dancing, joking, smiling and then dancing again. This may be the right time for quality time, for kicking off your high heels and pretending you're some uninhibited teenager at the end of term school high prom where the adrenaline has kicked in with a vengeance.
As the party political conference season looms on the horizon for our British speechmakers and rhetoric magicians, the Conservatives, Labour, and Lib Dems are gearing up for another season of verbal fist fights, childish name calling. opportunistic grandstanding statements and the kind of ludicrous behaviour normally expected at a kids birthday party. We await flying fur, mud flinging, spiteful off the cuff remarks, vindictive insults and a whole succession of impassioned rants.
In the middle of it all will remain that most classical of dancers, a performer of the most original and balletic beauty. Theresa May has just floored everybody with a finger snapping, body popping, head rolling, dancing masterclass. It is to be hoped that there were just a couple of talent scouts out there watching and scrutinising this natural hoofer, this tap dancer extraordinaire.
Now we await the efforts of the now much reviled and despised Jeremy Corbyn, surely now one of the most singularly unpopular and disagreeable of Labour leaders since the beginning of time. Quite what Corbyn may have to offer the rarefied world of the ballroom can hardly be imagined. Perhaps the military two step or some very regimented sequence of steps? This is not a good time for Corbyn and dancing of any kind would perhaps be the last thing on his mind. It's time for the Labour leader to think about singing some slow ballad or perhaps an introspective chant to himself.
But as august August gives way to soulful and sanguine September we can only look back to that last week in August 2018 when the Prime Minister of Britain just let herself go, loosened her hair and got down with the kids. At the moment her stock has risen ever so slightly and the sun, although now autumnally watery, is still shining metaphorically on Theresa May. If there has been a more memorable dance by a serving Prime Minister then somebody should tell us now. To quote those soul meisters Chic. Dance, Dance, Dance Theresa! Keep those feet moving.
This week saw the arrival of one of the greatest dancers of modern times. In fact there have been some valid comparisons to Ginger Rogers in her Top Hat pomp with the equally as nimble footed and gloriously athletic Fred Astaire. You can only assume the summer heat might have gone to the Prime Minister head because things were certainly taking an unusual turn this week.
At a school in South Africa Theresa May took a gentle trip back to her heady school disco days with the kind of performance that would have left the likes of Nureyev, Dame Margot Fonteyn and, more recently, John Travolta, breathless and consumed with envy. May did what any political leader worth their salt would have done if confronted with a playground of hugely energetic schoolchildren.
She danced and danced and danced until she could hardly believe what she was doing. It must have been like one of those afternoons when you have to join in with the spirit of the occasion. Some of us are still scratching our heads and others just speechless. Besides, it was the middle of the week and what else would you do if somebody told you to do something completely spontaneous and unexpected?
But this was the Prime Minister of Britain, there was a photo opportunity to grab and the prying eyes of the world were firmly on her. Here was the Prime Minister finally discovering that at long last the pressure had temporarily been taken off her for at least a while and now it was time to break into the kind of dancing routine that over enthusiastic wedding or bar or bat mitzvah guests would not think twice of acting out without any prompting whatsoever.
The fact is that Theresa May took this most celebrated of all art forms to the most extraordinary heights. Wearing a red jacket and dark trousers topped with the cheesiest of grins, May at first swayed backwards and forwards on her heels rather like somebody who didn't quite know what to do next when the cameras were on her. She carried on with unashamed courage and daring, rocking and swinging her hips somewhat awkwardly before realising that this could be her day to shine and completely win over her hardened critics. She clicked her fingers and did the hippy, hippy shake.
Now May found herself revisiting the spirit of Michael Jackson and quite possibly Olivia Newton John in Grease. Firstly, there was the half baked, stuttering, robotic dance, followed by the delirious Jackson moonwalk followed by a couple of neat, nifty steps and then the Showaddywaddy rock and roll, drain pipe trousered boogie woogie. Wow! What a display! How on earth any respected or discredited politician of any party could match that fleet of feet, terpsichorean showtime spectacular is quite anybody's guess.
Seriously though the Prime Minister of Britain is back on the Brexit trail banging the drum vociferously for Britain as a world class trading partner. She is building those proverbial bridges of commercial prosperity on behalf of a country that still finds itself unsure and indecisive in its role as an economic powerhouse. But come on, that dance was something pretty special and any relevance it might have had with the whole way in which we conduct ourselves with our global counterparts is hard to fathom.
As things stand at the moment most of us are just flummoxed with hard or soft Brexit deals at the top table of political negotiations. Are we in or we are out? Or do we simply do the Hokey Cokey, turn around and decide that that's what it's all about? What do we do if the country decides that it wants a second referendum thus jeopardising everything that the first one could have potentially offered? Perhaps we should just go back to eating Dutch cheese and buying German cars without a single word of scathingly hurtful commentary on our European friends.
Theresa May now finds himself teetering on the brink of humiliation and unsure whether to stick or twist. Somehow you begin to wonder whether the life of Prime Minister is worth all that aggravation and worry. You take yourself off on an innocent walking holiday in Italy and before you know it you're back on the front pages of the national newspapers dancing, joking, smiling and then dancing again. This may be the right time for quality time, for kicking off your high heels and pretending you're some uninhibited teenager at the end of term school high prom where the adrenaline has kicked in with a vengeance.
As the party political conference season looms on the horizon for our British speechmakers and rhetoric magicians, the Conservatives, Labour, and Lib Dems are gearing up for another season of verbal fist fights, childish name calling. opportunistic grandstanding statements and the kind of ludicrous behaviour normally expected at a kids birthday party. We await flying fur, mud flinging, spiteful off the cuff remarks, vindictive insults and a whole succession of impassioned rants.
In the middle of it all will remain that most classical of dancers, a performer of the most original and balletic beauty. Theresa May has just floored everybody with a finger snapping, body popping, head rolling, dancing masterclass. It is to be hoped that there were just a couple of talent scouts out there watching and scrutinising this natural hoofer, this tap dancer extraordinaire.
Now we await the efforts of the now much reviled and despised Jeremy Corbyn, surely now one of the most singularly unpopular and disagreeable of Labour leaders since the beginning of time. Quite what Corbyn may have to offer the rarefied world of the ballroom can hardly be imagined. Perhaps the military two step or some very regimented sequence of steps? This is not a good time for Corbyn and dancing of any kind would perhaps be the last thing on his mind. It's time for the Labour leader to think about singing some slow ballad or perhaps an introspective chant to himself.
But as august August gives way to soulful and sanguine September we can only look back to that last week in August 2018 when the Prime Minister of Britain just let herself go, loosened her hair and got down with the kids. At the moment her stock has risen ever so slightly and the sun, although now autumnally watery, is still shining metaphorically on Theresa May. If there has been a more memorable dance by a serving Prime Minister then somebody should tell us now. To quote those soul meisters Chic. Dance, Dance, Dance Theresa! Keep those feet moving.
Wednesday, 29 August 2018
Andy Murray- Britain's finest but with a point to prove at the US Open.
Andy Murray- Britain's finest but with a point to prove at the US Open.
Now that summer has more or less gone and autumnal shades begin to hover in the distance, sport finds itself back in one of its more genteel summer pursuits. You'd have thought that the tennis season had been and gone with the last crack of a winning forehand return at Wimbledon but you'd be wrong to think along those lines because tennis is still on the radar of British sport and very much the intriguing issue in the USA.
Because a certain Andy Murray, the two time Wimbledon champion, has some pretty important assignments on his mind and perhaps a point or several to prove. We all know that Murray won the gold medal at the London Olympics in 2012 and also captured the hearts of an adoring British audience when he swept to a conclusive, double dose of Wimbledon singles titles. But there is something missing in the Murray locker and it's hard to know whether he can identify it.
Sure, Murray is undoubtedly one of the greatest British tennis players in modern times and of course he is technically gifted, well adjusted and brilliantly resourceful particularly when the chips may be down or defeat may be imminent. But when he walks out to face Fernando Verdasco this evening at the US Open Murray may be tempted to look over a couple of worried shoulders and hope against hope that his recently chronic injury record may become a thing of the past.
You see the problem with Andy Murray is that although he is now officially the poster boy and heart throb idol for many a fluttering feminine hearts there are those who unfairly believe that Murray is just a walking disaster, horribly susceptible to all manner of injuries, both long and short term. And this is the problem. Of course Murray is by far and away the best tennis player Britain has ever produced but he does seem prone to bad backs and every conceivable strain, pull, debilitating pain or ache that keeps him out of action for much longer than seems possible.
In the old days of course Britain didn't really concern themselves overmuch with the welfare of our tennis players because there weren't that many to bother ourselves over. But this time Murray is the real thing, the genuine article and we should really wrap him up in cotton wool. This is no time for over reaction or panic but you fear that in the boiling heat of an American evening, something will be snapped or jolted out of place. Maybe, dare we say it, dehydration will set in and Murray will just flop to the ground, wiping copious sweat beads from his forehead and desperate for something cool.
Still, when Murray walks out this evening to face Verdasco it must be hoped that his thought processes will be fully functioning, concentration is at its sharpest and the physical troubles of recent times will melt away into a sultry American evening. We will hope that the Murray temperament and mindset will be focused, body and soul joined in perfect union and mum Judy will try to keep her feelings in check knowing all the time that her son is doing his utmost to win the US Open.
We all know now about the relationship between mum Judy and son Andy because mum Judy, while understandably the gloating and boasting mum of a British tennis legend, does enjoy her own personal spot in the public limelight. A couple of years Judy appeared on the BBC's Strictly Come Dancing show winning a whole host of new admirers and quite a number of disbelieving souls into the bargain.
But now Andy and brother Jamie are still hogging all of the adulatory highlights and mum Judy may find that she might need to take more of a back seat rather than basking in her son's reflected glory. How can you keep leaping up and down with barely suppressed pleasure and joy while acutely aware that your son is just trying to make you enormously proud of you? Then she claps her hands wildly, cheering and whooping, naturally elated at her son's amazing achievements.
When Murray won his first Wimbledon title, son Andy did what most would have expected sons to do. He flung his hands into the air, looked to the blue Wimbledon skies in a state of shock and sheer incredulity but then jubilation followed. You know what it's like. You win your first Wimbledon title, you're British, your nation hasn't been able to acclaim a men's singles title at Wimbledon for decades and there is a kind of delayed reaction because it hasn't hit you yet. But then you turn around and you found that's it happened. It's been well over 70 years now but if Fred Perry could do it back in the 1930s then so could Murray.
This year at Wimbledon there was no Andy Murray because injuries intervened and Murray found himself in a position that maybe he hadn't been acquainted with before. After winning Wimbledon again Murray was left twiddling his fingers, stretching out on a treatment table and wondering whether he'd ever hear those hysterically happy Wimbledon fans singing and chanting his name again.
Now though, at the US Open, Murray is back at the tennis coal face, swinging those shoulders, pumping himself up with those familiar growls and grunts of self criticism and just relieved to be back on a tennis court. He may have cause to reflect on a summer of frustration and emptiness, a sense that no longer could he remain out of the public's mind because Murray's considerable army of supporters have been waiting with teeth clenching anticipation.
Tonight at Flushing Meadows the Americans will have another chance to express their innermost feelings as British tennis stoops to conquer. Of course the Americans are just as patriotic as their British cousins from across the pond but perhaps this could be the ideal time for Andy Murray to give us a tantalising glimpse of the player he still is rather than the player who couldn't play because his body wouldn't let him.
Which brings us very neatly back to Judy, Andy Murray's mum. Of course she's protective and of course she's very nurturing and compassionate. You'd hardly expect anything else from a mother because that's what mums have always done. Judy will be there this evening rooting for her son, willing him on, inspiring, yelling her head off, always encouraging, always supportive, screaming and shrieking and then realising that perhaps such heartfelt emotions may have to be kept in check.
But of course Judy will be forgiven for getting ever so slightly over excited because sport is a something passionate, something very visceral, raw and tender. Tennis is very personal, something very dependent on that vital moment when points are won or lost by a thunderous ace, a booming backhand or forehand return or that feathery drop shot that droops over the net and wins the Wimbledon final.
The sight of Andy Murray celebrating a Wimbledon singles title by running up to where mum Judy was sitting remains an enduring memory. The image of Murray climbing into the family area and accidentally ignoring his mum is etched on the mind forever. Should son Andy beat Verdasco in the white heat of an American evening then most of us will raise a glass to the all conquering British hero who shrugged off injury, sneered at adversity and reminded us all that he was still there. You can hardly say fairer than that. Come on Andy!
Now that summer has more or less gone and autumnal shades begin to hover in the distance, sport finds itself back in one of its more genteel summer pursuits. You'd have thought that the tennis season had been and gone with the last crack of a winning forehand return at Wimbledon but you'd be wrong to think along those lines because tennis is still on the radar of British sport and very much the intriguing issue in the USA.
Because a certain Andy Murray, the two time Wimbledon champion, has some pretty important assignments on his mind and perhaps a point or several to prove. We all know that Murray won the gold medal at the London Olympics in 2012 and also captured the hearts of an adoring British audience when he swept to a conclusive, double dose of Wimbledon singles titles. But there is something missing in the Murray locker and it's hard to know whether he can identify it.
Sure, Murray is undoubtedly one of the greatest British tennis players in modern times and of course he is technically gifted, well adjusted and brilliantly resourceful particularly when the chips may be down or defeat may be imminent. But when he walks out to face Fernando Verdasco this evening at the US Open Murray may be tempted to look over a couple of worried shoulders and hope against hope that his recently chronic injury record may become a thing of the past.
You see the problem with Andy Murray is that although he is now officially the poster boy and heart throb idol for many a fluttering feminine hearts there are those who unfairly believe that Murray is just a walking disaster, horribly susceptible to all manner of injuries, both long and short term. And this is the problem. Of course Murray is by far and away the best tennis player Britain has ever produced but he does seem prone to bad backs and every conceivable strain, pull, debilitating pain or ache that keeps him out of action for much longer than seems possible.
In the old days of course Britain didn't really concern themselves overmuch with the welfare of our tennis players because there weren't that many to bother ourselves over. But this time Murray is the real thing, the genuine article and we should really wrap him up in cotton wool. This is no time for over reaction or panic but you fear that in the boiling heat of an American evening, something will be snapped or jolted out of place. Maybe, dare we say it, dehydration will set in and Murray will just flop to the ground, wiping copious sweat beads from his forehead and desperate for something cool.
Still, when Murray walks out this evening to face Verdasco it must be hoped that his thought processes will be fully functioning, concentration is at its sharpest and the physical troubles of recent times will melt away into a sultry American evening. We will hope that the Murray temperament and mindset will be focused, body and soul joined in perfect union and mum Judy will try to keep her feelings in check knowing all the time that her son is doing his utmost to win the US Open.
We all know now about the relationship between mum Judy and son Andy because mum Judy, while understandably the gloating and boasting mum of a British tennis legend, does enjoy her own personal spot in the public limelight. A couple of years Judy appeared on the BBC's Strictly Come Dancing show winning a whole host of new admirers and quite a number of disbelieving souls into the bargain.
But now Andy and brother Jamie are still hogging all of the adulatory highlights and mum Judy may find that she might need to take more of a back seat rather than basking in her son's reflected glory. How can you keep leaping up and down with barely suppressed pleasure and joy while acutely aware that your son is just trying to make you enormously proud of you? Then she claps her hands wildly, cheering and whooping, naturally elated at her son's amazing achievements.
When Murray won his first Wimbledon title, son Andy did what most would have expected sons to do. He flung his hands into the air, looked to the blue Wimbledon skies in a state of shock and sheer incredulity but then jubilation followed. You know what it's like. You win your first Wimbledon title, you're British, your nation hasn't been able to acclaim a men's singles title at Wimbledon for decades and there is a kind of delayed reaction because it hasn't hit you yet. But then you turn around and you found that's it happened. It's been well over 70 years now but if Fred Perry could do it back in the 1930s then so could Murray.
This year at Wimbledon there was no Andy Murray because injuries intervened and Murray found himself in a position that maybe he hadn't been acquainted with before. After winning Wimbledon again Murray was left twiddling his fingers, stretching out on a treatment table and wondering whether he'd ever hear those hysterically happy Wimbledon fans singing and chanting his name again.
Now though, at the US Open, Murray is back at the tennis coal face, swinging those shoulders, pumping himself up with those familiar growls and grunts of self criticism and just relieved to be back on a tennis court. He may have cause to reflect on a summer of frustration and emptiness, a sense that no longer could he remain out of the public's mind because Murray's considerable army of supporters have been waiting with teeth clenching anticipation.
Tonight at Flushing Meadows the Americans will have another chance to express their innermost feelings as British tennis stoops to conquer. Of course the Americans are just as patriotic as their British cousins from across the pond but perhaps this could be the ideal time for Andy Murray to give us a tantalising glimpse of the player he still is rather than the player who couldn't play because his body wouldn't let him.
Which brings us very neatly back to Judy, Andy Murray's mum. Of course she's protective and of course she's very nurturing and compassionate. You'd hardly expect anything else from a mother because that's what mums have always done. Judy will be there this evening rooting for her son, willing him on, inspiring, yelling her head off, always encouraging, always supportive, screaming and shrieking and then realising that perhaps such heartfelt emotions may have to be kept in check.
But of course Judy will be forgiven for getting ever so slightly over excited because sport is a something passionate, something very visceral, raw and tender. Tennis is very personal, something very dependent on that vital moment when points are won or lost by a thunderous ace, a booming backhand or forehand return or that feathery drop shot that droops over the net and wins the Wimbledon final.
The sight of Andy Murray celebrating a Wimbledon singles title by running up to where mum Judy was sitting remains an enduring memory. The image of Murray climbing into the family area and accidentally ignoring his mum is etched on the mind forever. Should son Andy beat Verdasco in the white heat of an American evening then most of us will raise a glass to the all conquering British hero who shrugged off injury, sneered at adversity and reminded us all that he was still there. You can hardly say fairer than that. Come on Andy!
Monday, 27 August 2018
New football season in Britain- same old faces.
New football season in Britain- same old faces.
After the first three games of the new Premier League football season, the familiar names are there at the front of the queue, the same old faces and names still very much instantly recognisable. Before long the furious debates will be held and those by now customary egos will take centre stage. If all goes according to plan then the likelihood is that one team may well run away with the Premier League emerging with the top prize by several swimming lengths.
At this stage it may be impossible to find an obvious indicator as to how things might turn out but by this time last season Manchester City were already preparing their acceptance speech. By last Christmas the Premier League had been won, done and dusted, clinched handsomely without any of their challengers anywhere to be seen and a sense of shuddering anti climax setting in. In the second week of May City were Premier League champions because nobody could possibly catch them. They were, quite literally in a League of their own.
We may be in the season's infancy and inevitably Liverpool and Chelsea are setting the pace with a triple whammy of victories under their belt. But hold on, look who's behind them. It's Watford. Yes Watford. Now this may be the time to rub our eyes with bemusement because Watford aren't supposed to be in the top four of the Premier League and yet they are.
Watford are intruders, impostors, party poopers, supposedly average, totally unfashionable, also rans, not to be considered as serious contenders for anything let alone the Premier League title. Or even a place in the Europa League and, quite possibly, a place in the Champions League. That's plainly wishful thinking, too daft to contemplate. Even in Watford's wildest fantasies this is not the way things will pan out. Surely, they'll wake up and conclude that this isn't the set for an epic Hollywood movie. This is real life or is it?
Just over 30 years ago the late Graham Taylor, freshly scrubbed from his managerial apprenticeship in the lower Leagues at Watford, guided, cautiously steered, gently encouraged and eventually revolutionised a football club who had been heavily snoring in the old Fourth Division. He had at his disposal a workmanlike group of players including Wilf Rostron, Nigel Callaghan, John Barnes, Luther Blissett and Ross Jenkins.
Vicarage Lane was, and still is, Watford's very traditional looking ground, an eminently respectable piece of Hertfordshire turf. Watford were a side of very few ambitions and just survival on their immediate itinerary. Then Taylor arrived with few fanfares, few guarantees and no promises. There were no airs or graces about Taylor. He knew what he was looking for and for a number of seasons he did exactly what others might have thought impossible. He dragged Watford from the muck and bullets of the old Fourth Division to the aristocratic staircases of the old First Division which is now the swanky Premier League.
And then in one astonishing season, Watford almost won the old First Division championship or became the League champions in the old currency. They finished second to Liverpool and the club's supporters must have felt that the thrilling roller coaster ride that had taken them to the giddy heights of fame, celebrity and global recognition would never stop.
In the years that followed there were moments of leanness and hardship for Watford. When the dark clouds of struggle and mediocrity began to gather for both Graham Taylor and the fans, the Hertfordshire club began to wave the white flag of surrender. There was a painful sense of drift, a breakdown in momentum, the awful realisation that a feared collapse was about to be met head on whether they liked it or not.
For a whole succession of seasons Watford's rather allegedly ugly, predictable and one dimensional approach to the game had been rumbled quite disturbingly. Taylor belonged to the old school of football where the long ball, up and under and flatly functional game still ruled the waves. Taylor told us that all of those fancy dan, tippy tappy, pretty passes would never work in British football.
It was all very over elaborate and unnecessary, superfluous to requirements and besides who ever won the League with all of that attractive approach work and the kind of inventive football that remained on the ground. Who needed arty sophistication when you could always rely on that unsightly long ball? But to his eternal credit Taylor stuck by his guns refusing to budge from his principles and perhaps deludedly believed that the way forward was very much onwards and unfortunately upwards. This is where Taylor and the critics parted company because the purists wanted a completely different end product.
Undoubtedly though Watford still seemed like some very dated anachronism, footballing dinosaurs, footballing cavemen who scribble their very indecipherable carvings on walls scratched by a thousand messages. Watford were stubbornly independent, insistent that their way was the right way. The ball had to be transferred to the forward line as quickly and urgently as possible in case it caught light or burst unexpectedly when a Watford attack had been picked up by a passing helicopter.
Now though Watford are a brand new creation with lethal forwards such as Argentine Roberto Pereyra, English red blooded types such as Will Hughes buzzing around like the club's controversial mascot Harry the Hornet, the cultured Jose Holebas full of cool,calculating thought processes, Daryll Janmaat, a Dutch delight always available for the right pass and Etienne Capoue delivering an experienced eye on the game, Watford were firing on all cylinders.
This morning Watford, under the quiet but very businesslike management of Javi Garcia, have crept into third place in the Premier League almost unnoticed. They remind you of one of those studious sixth form school boys with copies of Tolstoy's War and Peace in their pockets. They are neither rebels, or a major threat to the established status quo and the chances are that the bigger boys around them will muscle in on their act. Maybe Watford will find their level and drop into their very precious comfort zone.
But the fact remains that the legacy that Graham Taylor left behind will always be remembered if only for what seemed at the time like the wrong reasons. Recently, Sam Allardyce seemed to find a Taylor imitator with his very blood and thunder, cavalry charge style of football, football laced with sweat, hard work and unfussy pragmatism. Allardyce may well have found a kindred spirit in Graham Taylor because both men had no truck with all those elegant flourishes or neat touches.
Still here we are with three games into the season and Watford are sitting happily third in the Premier League and nobody seems to mind much as long as they don't get any big ideas above their station. On Saturday against Roy Hodgson's disappointing Crystal Palace, Watford did indeed resemble the club's hornet design. There were the broad yellow and black stripes that looked as if they had plenty of venom, a side of bite but now craft.
It suddenly occurs to you that their once very extrovert chairman Elton John may have to remind all of us that Watford are indeed still standing after all these years. From the very bottom of the old Fourth Division to the dizzy heights of top flight football Watford are living proof of a team that fully embraced the rags to riches story. At this rate the Elton John piano may be required to celebrate a new chapter in Watford's history. This may be more than a pipe dream. Stranger things have been known to happen but you never know. Let's hear it for the Hornets.
After the first three games of the new Premier League football season, the familiar names are there at the front of the queue, the same old faces and names still very much instantly recognisable. Before long the furious debates will be held and those by now customary egos will take centre stage. If all goes according to plan then the likelihood is that one team may well run away with the Premier League emerging with the top prize by several swimming lengths.
At this stage it may be impossible to find an obvious indicator as to how things might turn out but by this time last season Manchester City were already preparing their acceptance speech. By last Christmas the Premier League had been won, done and dusted, clinched handsomely without any of their challengers anywhere to be seen and a sense of shuddering anti climax setting in. In the second week of May City were Premier League champions because nobody could possibly catch them. They were, quite literally in a League of their own.
We may be in the season's infancy and inevitably Liverpool and Chelsea are setting the pace with a triple whammy of victories under their belt. But hold on, look who's behind them. It's Watford. Yes Watford. Now this may be the time to rub our eyes with bemusement because Watford aren't supposed to be in the top four of the Premier League and yet they are.
Watford are intruders, impostors, party poopers, supposedly average, totally unfashionable, also rans, not to be considered as serious contenders for anything let alone the Premier League title. Or even a place in the Europa League and, quite possibly, a place in the Champions League. That's plainly wishful thinking, too daft to contemplate. Even in Watford's wildest fantasies this is not the way things will pan out. Surely, they'll wake up and conclude that this isn't the set for an epic Hollywood movie. This is real life or is it?
Just over 30 years ago the late Graham Taylor, freshly scrubbed from his managerial apprenticeship in the lower Leagues at Watford, guided, cautiously steered, gently encouraged and eventually revolutionised a football club who had been heavily snoring in the old Fourth Division. He had at his disposal a workmanlike group of players including Wilf Rostron, Nigel Callaghan, John Barnes, Luther Blissett and Ross Jenkins.
Vicarage Lane was, and still is, Watford's very traditional looking ground, an eminently respectable piece of Hertfordshire turf. Watford were a side of very few ambitions and just survival on their immediate itinerary. Then Taylor arrived with few fanfares, few guarantees and no promises. There were no airs or graces about Taylor. He knew what he was looking for and for a number of seasons he did exactly what others might have thought impossible. He dragged Watford from the muck and bullets of the old Fourth Division to the aristocratic staircases of the old First Division which is now the swanky Premier League.
And then in one astonishing season, Watford almost won the old First Division championship or became the League champions in the old currency. They finished second to Liverpool and the club's supporters must have felt that the thrilling roller coaster ride that had taken them to the giddy heights of fame, celebrity and global recognition would never stop.
In the years that followed there were moments of leanness and hardship for Watford. When the dark clouds of struggle and mediocrity began to gather for both Graham Taylor and the fans, the Hertfordshire club began to wave the white flag of surrender. There was a painful sense of drift, a breakdown in momentum, the awful realisation that a feared collapse was about to be met head on whether they liked it or not.
For a whole succession of seasons Watford's rather allegedly ugly, predictable and one dimensional approach to the game had been rumbled quite disturbingly. Taylor belonged to the old school of football where the long ball, up and under and flatly functional game still ruled the waves. Taylor told us that all of those fancy dan, tippy tappy, pretty passes would never work in British football.
It was all very over elaborate and unnecessary, superfluous to requirements and besides who ever won the League with all of that attractive approach work and the kind of inventive football that remained on the ground. Who needed arty sophistication when you could always rely on that unsightly long ball? But to his eternal credit Taylor stuck by his guns refusing to budge from his principles and perhaps deludedly believed that the way forward was very much onwards and unfortunately upwards. This is where Taylor and the critics parted company because the purists wanted a completely different end product.
Undoubtedly though Watford still seemed like some very dated anachronism, footballing dinosaurs, footballing cavemen who scribble their very indecipherable carvings on walls scratched by a thousand messages. Watford were stubbornly independent, insistent that their way was the right way. The ball had to be transferred to the forward line as quickly and urgently as possible in case it caught light or burst unexpectedly when a Watford attack had been picked up by a passing helicopter.
Now though Watford are a brand new creation with lethal forwards such as Argentine Roberto Pereyra, English red blooded types such as Will Hughes buzzing around like the club's controversial mascot Harry the Hornet, the cultured Jose Holebas full of cool,calculating thought processes, Daryll Janmaat, a Dutch delight always available for the right pass and Etienne Capoue delivering an experienced eye on the game, Watford were firing on all cylinders.
This morning Watford, under the quiet but very businesslike management of Javi Garcia, have crept into third place in the Premier League almost unnoticed. They remind you of one of those studious sixth form school boys with copies of Tolstoy's War and Peace in their pockets. They are neither rebels, or a major threat to the established status quo and the chances are that the bigger boys around them will muscle in on their act. Maybe Watford will find their level and drop into their very precious comfort zone.
But the fact remains that the legacy that Graham Taylor left behind will always be remembered if only for what seemed at the time like the wrong reasons. Recently, Sam Allardyce seemed to find a Taylor imitator with his very blood and thunder, cavalry charge style of football, football laced with sweat, hard work and unfussy pragmatism. Allardyce may well have found a kindred spirit in Graham Taylor because both men had no truck with all those elegant flourishes or neat touches.
Still here we are with three games into the season and Watford are sitting happily third in the Premier League and nobody seems to mind much as long as they don't get any big ideas above their station. On Saturday against Roy Hodgson's disappointing Crystal Palace, Watford did indeed resemble the club's hornet design. There were the broad yellow and black stripes that looked as if they had plenty of venom, a side of bite but now craft.
It suddenly occurs to you that their once very extrovert chairman Elton John may have to remind all of us that Watford are indeed still standing after all these years. From the very bottom of the old Fourth Division to the dizzy heights of top flight football Watford are living proof of a team that fully embraced the rags to riches story. At this rate the Elton John piano may be required to celebrate a new chapter in Watford's history. This may be more than a pipe dream. Stranger things have been known to happen but you never know. Let's hear it for the Hornets.
Saturday, 25 August 2018
Northern Lights- Whitby and the Isle of Arran
Northern Lights- Whitby and the Isle of Arran.
We all know that Britain is blessed with some of the most breathtaking countryside. On a late August family break away from it all, we re-discovered why the tourist boards of every county, shire, town and village in dear old Blighty could rightly point to those jaw-dropping, eye popping, aesthetically remarkable sights and sounds and puff out their chests.
Here we found Britain's towering grandeur, its timeless beauty and a landscape that was fabulously fetching, its comely shapes and curves a pleasure to watch. There was an enduring sense of perfect proportion about St Helens buildings that make it one of the most lovable places in Britain to visit when autumn whistles around its blustery corners, nooks and crannies.
We arrived in St Helens to see our son and his girlfriend, to find that this most robust of rugby league heartlands in the best of health. We were treated with the most impeccable hospitality and promptly settled in for the night. It was now that we realised that the Northern Lights of England were still shining brightly, comfortably nestling next to these closely knit, back to back terraced houses, windswept car parks, warmly inviting supermarkets and the pub which was to be our intended location for that evening.
That evening St Helens rugby league side were playing a meaningless end of season game which looked as though it might have been won judging by the loud cheers that finally accompanied St Helens victory. There is a richly industrial solidity and traditionalism that has never really left this quaint corner of Northern England. St Helens is strong and perfectly capable of looking after itself and the rugby league enthusiasts have never lost their voice or sense of loyalty.
The following morning we all set out for the Knowsley Safari Park, one of those spaciously beautiful parts of the North West of England that held the eyes totally transfixed and hypnotised by nature at her most peaceful and restful. Sometimes you can travel across large swathes of any country and not find anything so pleasing on the eye, so utterly graceful and totally natural, so right and proper, so pure and calming to the soul.
Firstly, there were the long necked giraffes, languidly wandering and roaming around, animals almost arrogantly aware of their height and never for a minute breaking sweat. There were the delightful sea lions in splendidly exhibitionist mood. In a laugh a minute show before an upbeat audience of children and the family Arthur and Roger, the cheeky double act with the most contagious sense of humour, clapped their flippers together hilariously as if on cue and with a unique understanding of what they were supposed to be doing. Apparently Arthur was the naughtier of the two sea lions so remember where you read that first.
Then it was off to bonny Scotland where my wife, son and girlfriend were taken back to their respective childhoods. Deep on the Ayrshire coast a Havens holiday camp was the setting for another few days of eyes down bingo, flashing lights, tinkling machines and the sheer vividness of the modern amusement arcade, leaving me slightly overcome and very old. Holiday camps are very much where it all started with our kids but there was a sense here of deja vu, a sense of revisiting somewhere where it would have been easy to just forget that you were 20 years younger. Then your kids were lively athletes with all the unbounded energy that kids seem to have in abundance.
Let me point out to you immediately that an ageing dad had now been severely handicapped by a series of injuries. Firstly the crown in my teeth just came tumbling out of my mouth as if it had endured one too many toffees in the car. This would have been regarded as a minor setback had it not been for the fact that another misfortune was about to head my way without any prompting. If only I'd had some prior warning.
Sadly, this was not to be the entirely relaxing break I was hoping for. On arrival in Scotland it suddenly occurred to me that my foot and ankle were not working in tandem, a sharp spasm of pain shooting up my legs and more or less rendering me completely incapable of walking properly for the best part of two days or so. It was all vaguely embarrassing as a brief session of hopping turned into an amusing display of hopping, dragging of the feet and a shameful inability to put one foot in front of the other.
But I survived and did what any crocked father would probably have done under the circumstances. I grinned and grimaced, occasionally crying out with an anguished yelp when no medicine seemed to have the desired effect. Firstly, there were the reliable Paracetamol followed by a comforting foot spray which did nothing and if anything compounded the problem.
And so it was that we carried on. Saturday afternoon was spent traipsing around the local supermarket. In a constantly dispiriting day of rain and then drizzle we made our way back home wondering whether anything could possibly lift our grumpy despondency. It wasn't the worst afternoon we could have spent but the mind went back to those bump and grind wrestling contests on TV over 40 years
. It was a time when those Northern town halls hosted some of the most gripping grapple fests ever seen on British TV. Would it ever make a comeback? The sight of those sweaty and vastly overweight wrestlers throwing each other up into the air before crushing and trampling over them with the most horrendous clump still sends the proverbial shiver up your spine. But it was all good, clean fun and we did enjoy the spectacle because we knew in our heart of hearts that nobody had really been hurt and at the end the likes of Giant Haystacks and Big Daddy were just larking around. These were indeed days of complete innocence when nobody seemed to take anything that seriously.
On the Sunday afternoon we all decided to make a real day of it. The weather was kind and gracious, overcast for most of the day and occasionally suggesting torrential downpours but we were not to be daunted. We headed for what was undoubtedly one of the most pleasant and civilised places on Earth. It was gentle, undemanding, spiritually satisfying and deeply enjoyable. It was the kind of place where you simply wanted the day to last for ever but knew it wouldn't because there were only so many hours in the day.
The Isle of Arran was Scotland's most purple of jewels, a diamond encrusted island with scenery that looked as though it had been painted by the most gifted watercolourist. As the rest of the family wrestled with the intricacies of what looked like the biggest crazy golf course on the planet, your eyes were transported by the most outstanding mountain range it has ever been my privilege to watch and admire.
With small parcels of darkening cloud gathering together their forces overhead you suddenly encountered immaculately drawn outlines of mountains and rocks that seem to be perched on an artists canvas rather than the mainland. There it was carefully pencilled into the background, the contours of the land rising and soaring into the air before dropping almost seamlessly into a lovely, jagged dip into the far distance. It felt as though somebody had given me the keys to some wondrous British paradise where everything is unspoilt, untouched and still the same as it ever was.
Then the peace was abruptly stopped. High up in the Scottish sky the seagulls were up to their usual mischief, flying high and then suddenly falling like genuinely soft flakes of snow. It was now that I began to notice the sheer size of nature's most carefree birds. Now I've no idea what exactly they've been feeding these gulls but it did seem that most of them had eaten rather too many plates of meat pie and chips for anybody's liking. They seem to stand there motionless and still, waiting patiently for goodness knows what. To all outward appearances these birds were enormous, monumental and almost frighteningly large at times.
We were now on our way to Gretna Green famously referred as that place all couples elope to in order to be married. We quietly made our way indoors to be confronted with the familiar history of Gretna Green, two very strikingly old fashioned wedding carriages and that very intimate room where marital life begins for the newly weds. In hushed silence we tiptoed around the museums and very different rooms where brightly coloured tartan kilts sit next to glamorous presentations of more tartan and tempting tins of Scottish shortbread.
Back we headed to a friend of ours in the now celebrated Yorkshire town of Redcar once renowned for its TV racecourse over four decades ago. There were no stables or horses to be seen nor those heavy breathing paddocks where our equine friends love to hang out in. Redcar has the most impressive seaside feel but on the day we were there the beach was now deserted after the long and hot summer of Britain 2018.
There were one or two isolated rock pools but the sea did look as if it was huffing and puffing its way to the shore. A couple of kids gleefully shrieked but Redcar looked like a child who had temporarily lost its parents. The summer had now gone and Redcar was waving a fond farewell to the gold-plated summer heatwave. For the first time in ages Redcar was yearning for long forgotten sunshine and romantically hoping that sooner or later it would come back.
So it was that we finally set off to our last port of call. Roughly an hour or so away was Whitby, one of the busiest and most contented of all seaside towns with much to commend it. Essentially, Whitby is one of Yorkshire's prettiest of fishing havens. Wherever you look there were boats and more boats, yachts bobbing agreeably in the late summer sunlight and trawlers with bumper crops of mackerel, cod, trout and skate. Bunched together with thick netting, salty faced fishermen flung their ropes out into barely rippling seas.
Before we left Whitby we had to watch what felt like one of the most attractive sights that Whitby had to offer. Suddenly and without quite being prepared for it, two very smartly dressed formations of Morris dancers stood smiling and waiting for their moment. Before you could blink, the Morris dancers skipped and jigged merrily for our delectation. They engaged in what looked like one of those County and Western line dances that you couldn't help but be enchanted by. With tiny bells strapped to their ankles, they tapped their wooden sticks together before weaving their way in and out of each other, circling once and then going through the same procedure again and again.
This had been the great folk week at Whitby and how joyous that had been. If this is what happens in England towards the end of a mid August day then you'll have to make sure that we might consider a return visit. Folk music has always been criminally overlooked and unfairly ridiculed by a few as some odd piece of British culture.
But this was different. For a moment you were totally taken by Morris dancers from Nottingham and Morris dancers from another part of the country. This seemed like the World Cup of the Morris dancing world and the competition, although friendly, had something that was indefinably British about it; understated, modest, deliciously diverting and appealing. Somebody told me that this yearly ritual dated back to the early 19th century and could only be appreciated by good Yorkshire folk by the seaside.
It was time now to head back home to North London where there is, regrettably, no tartan, no bottles of whisky, no seaside gulls the size of a house and no sign of a rugby league team of any known provenance. There were no fishing trawlers huddling next to rocky outcrops nor mountain ranges that somehow defied superlatives.
We were home from our brief trip up North with confirmations of things we'd always read about but never thought we'd see again in the foreseeable future at least. Northern Britain is alive and well, flourishing and there as a permanent reminder of a Britain that does indeed seem to possess an air of constancy and permanence about it.
Looking over at the steelworks that Redcar was so proudly thought of as part of its treasured heritage, there was a thin line of once thriving chimneys. Now though times are hard for Redcar and although the dark spectre of poverty has now gone, unemployment has once again reared its ugly head again.
But we were home and back again in the seething hustle and bustle of London suburbia where the traffic still inches forward lethargically and slowly like a tortoise while the City sprints around the capital desperately searching for some elusive financial goldmine. They say travel always broadens the mind but when the Northern lights come calling we shall be back on your fair isle. Oh for the joys of Northern England.
We all know that Britain is blessed with some of the most breathtaking countryside. On a late August family break away from it all, we re-discovered why the tourist boards of every county, shire, town and village in dear old Blighty could rightly point to those jaw-dropping, eye popping, aesthetically remarkable sights and sounds and puff out their chests.
Here we found Britain's towering grandeur, its timeless beauty and a landscape that was fabulously fetching, its comely shapes and curves a pleasure to watch. There was an enduring sense of perfect proportion about St Helens buildings that make it one of the most lovable places in Britain to visit when autumn whistles around its blustery corners, nooks and crannies.
We arrived in St Helens to see our son and his girlfriend, to find that this most robust of rugby league heartlands in the best of health. We were treated with the most impeccable hospitality and promptly settled in for the night. It was now that we realised that the Northern Lights of England were still shining brightly, comfortably nestling next to these closely knit, back to back terraced houses, windswept car parks, warmly inviting supermarkets and the pub which was to be our intended location for that evening.
That evening St Helens rugby league side were playing a meaningless end of season game which looked as though it might have been won judging by the loud cheers that finally accompanied St Helens victory. There is a richly industrial solidity and traditionalism that has never really left this quaint corner of Northern England. St Helens is strong and perfectly capable of looking after itself and the rugby league enthusiasts have never lost their voice or sense of loyalty.
The following morning we all set out for the Knowsley Safari Park, one of those spaciously beautiful parts of the North West of England that held the eyes totally transfixed and hypnotised by nature at her most peaceful and restful. Sometimes you can travel across large swathes of any country and not find anything so pleasing on the eye, so utterly graceful and totally natural, so right and proper, so pure and calming to the soul.
Firstly, there were the long necked giraffes, languidly wandering and roaming around, animals almost arrogantly aware of their height and never for a minute breaking sweat. There were the delightful sea lions in splendidly exhibitionist mood. In a laugh a minute show before an upbeat audience of children and the family Arthur and Roger, the cheeky double act with the most contagious sense of humour, clapped their flippers together hilariously as if on cue and with a unique understanding of what they were supposed to be doing. Apparently Arthur was the naughtier of the two sea lions so remember where you read that first.
Then it was off to bonny Scotland where my wife, son and girlfriend were taken back to their respective childhoods. Deep on the Ayrshire coast a Havens holiday camp was the setting for another few days of eyes down bingo, flashing lights, tinkling machines and the sheer vividness of the modern amusement arcade, leaving me slightly overcome and very old. Holiday camps are very much where it all started with our kids but there was a sense here of deja vu, a sense of revisiting somewhere where it would have been easy to just forget that you were 20 years younger. Then your kids were lively athletes with all the unbounded energy that kids seem to have in abundance.
Let me point out to you immediately that an ageing dad had now been severely handicapped by a series of injuries. Firstly the crown in my teeth just came tumbling out of my mouth as if it had endured one too many toffees in the car. This would have been regarded as a minor setback had it not been for the fact that another misfortune was about to head my way without any prompting. If only I'd had some prior warning.
Sadly, this was not to be the entirely relaxing break I was hoping for. On arrival in Scotland it suddenly occurred to me that my foot and ankle were not working in tandem, a sharp spasm of pain shooting up my legs and more or less rendering me completely incapable of walking properly for the best part of two days or so. It was all vaguely embarrassing as a brief session of hopping turned into an amusing display of hopping, dragging of the feet and a shameful inability to put one foot in front of the other.
But I survived and did what any crocked father would probably have done under the circumstances. I grinned and grimaced, occasionally crying out with an anguished yelp when no medicine seemed to have the desired effect. Firstly, there were the reliable Paracetamol followed by a comforting foot spray which did nothing and if anything compounded the problem.
And so it was that we carried on. Saturday afternoon was spent traipsing around the local supermarket. In a constantly dispiriting day of rain and then drizzle we made our way back home wondering whether anything could possibly lift our grumpy despondency. It wasn't the worst afternoon we could have spent but the mind went back to those bump and grind wrestling contests on TV over 40 years
. It was a time when those Northern town halls hosted some of the most gripping grapple fests ever seen on British TV. Would it ever make a comeback? The sight of those sweaty and vastly overweight wrestlers throwing each other up into the air before crushing and trampling over them with the most horrendous clump still sends the proverbial shiver up your spine. But it was all good, clean fun and we did enjoy the spectacle because we knew in our heart of hearts that nobody had really been hurt and at the end the likes of Giant Haystacks and Big Daddy were just larking around. These were indeed days of complete innocence when nobody seemed to take anything that seriously.
On the Sunday afternoon we all decided to make a real day of it. The weather was kind and gracious, overcast for most of the day and occasionally suggesting torrential downpours but we were not to be daunted. We headed for what was undoubtedly one of the most pleasant and civilised places on Earth. It was gentle, undemanding, spiritually satisfying and deeply enjoyable. It was the kind of place where you simply wanted the day to last for ever but knew it wouldn't because there were only so many hours in the day.
The Isle of Arran was Scotland's most purple of jewels, a diamond encrusted island with scenery that looked as though it had been painted by the most gifted watercolourist. As the rest of the family wrestled with the intricacies of what looked like the biggest crazy golf course on the planet, your eyes were transported by the most outstanding mountain range it has ever been my privilege to watch and admire.
With small parcels of darkening cloud gathering together their forces overhead you suddenly encountered immaculately drawn outlines of mountains and rocks that seem to be perched on an artists canvas rather than the mainland. There it was carefully pencilled into the background, the contours of the land rising and soaring into the air before dropping almost seamlessly into a lovely, jagged dip into the far distance. It felt as though somebody had given me the keys to some wondrous British paradise where everything is unspoilt, untouched and still the same as it ever was.
Then the peace was abruptly stopped. High up in the Scottish sky the seagulls were up to their usual mischief, flying high and then suddenly falling like genuinely soft flakes of snow. It was now that I began to notice the sheer size of nature's most carefree birds. Now I've no idea what exactly they've been feeding these gulls but it did seem that most of them had eaten rather too many plates of meat pie and chips for anybody's liking. They seem to stand there motionless and still, waiting patiently for goodness knows what. To all outward appearances these birds were enormous, monumental and almost frighteningly large at times.
We were now on our way to Gretna Green famously referred as that place all couples elope to in order to be married. We quietly made our way indoors to be confronted with the familiar history of Gretna Green, two very strikingly old fashioned wedding carriages and that very intimate room where marital life begins for the newly weds. In hushed silence we tiptoed around the museums and very different rooms where brightly coloured tartan kilts sit next to glamorous presentations of more tartan and tempting tins of Scottish shortbread.
Back we headed to a friend of ours in the now celebrated Yorkshire town of Redcar once renowned for its TV racecourse over four decades ago. There were no stables or horses to be seen nor those heavy breathing paddocks where our equine friends love to hang out in. Redcar has the most impressive seaside feel but on the day we were there the beach was now deserted after the long and hot summer of Britain 2018.
There were one or two isolated rock pools but the sea did look as if it was huffing and puffing its way to the shore. A couple of kids gleefully shrieked but Redcar looked like a child who had temporarily lost its parents. The summer had now gone and Redcar was waving a fond farewell to the gold-plated summer heatwave. For the first time in ages Redcar was yearning for long forgotten sunshine and romantically hoping that sooner or later it would come back.
So it was that we finally set off to our last port of call. Roughly an hour or so away was Whitby, one of the busiest and most contented of all seaside towns with much to commend it. Essentially, Whitby is one of Yorkshire's prettiest of fishing havens. Wherever you look there were boats and more boats, yachts bobbing agreeably in the late summer sunlight and trawlers with bumper crops of mackerel, cod, trout and skate. Bunched together with thick netting, salty faced fishermen flung their ropes out into barely rippling seas.
Before we left Whitby we had to watch what felt like one of the most attractive sights that Whitby had to offer. Suddenly and without quite being prepared for it, two very smartly dressed formations of Morris dancers stood smiling and waiting for their moment. Before you could blink, the Morris dancers skipped and jigged merrily for our delectation. They engaged in what looked like one of those County and Western line dances that you couldn't help but be enchanted by. With tiny bells strapped to their ankles, they tapped their wooden sticks together before weaving their way in and out of each other, circling once and then going through the same procedure again and again.
This had been the great folk week at Whitby and how joyous that had been. If this is what happens in England towards the end of a mid August day then you'll have to make sure that we might consider a return visit. Folk music has always been criminally overlooked and unfairly ridiculed by a few as some odd piece of British culture.
But this was different. For a moment you were totally taken by Morris dancers from Nottingham and Morris dancers from another part of the country. This seemed like the World Cup of the Morris dancing world and the competition, although friendly, had something that was indefinably British about it; understated, modest, deliciously diverting and appealing. Somebody told me that this yearly ritual dated back to the early 19th century and could only be appreciated by good Yorkshire folk by the seaside.
It was time now to head back home to North London where there is, regrettably, no tartan, no bottles of whisky, no seaside gulls the size of a house and no sign of a rugby league team of any known provenance. There were no fishing trawlers huddling next to rocky outcrops nor mountain ranges that somehow defied superlatives.
We were home from our brief trip up North with confirmations of things we'd always read about but never thought we'd see again in the foreseeable future at least. Northern Britain is alive and well, flourishing and there as a permanent reminder of a Britain that does indeed seem to possess an air of constancy and permanence about it.
Looking over at the steelworks that Redcar was so proudly thought of as part of its treasured heritage, there was a thin line of once thriving chimneys. Now though times are hard for Redcar and although the dark spectre of poverty has now gone, unemployment has once again reared its ugly head again.
But we were home and back again in the seething hustle and bustle of London suburbia where the traffic still inches forward lethargically and slowly like a tortoise while the City sprints around the capital desperately searching for some elusive financial goldmine. They say travel always broadens the mind but when the Northern lights come calling we shall be back on your fair isle. Oh for the joys of Northern England.
Friday, 24 August 2018
Aretha Franklin - a Motown legend dies.
Aretha Franklin - a Motown legend dies.
With the recent death of Aretha Franklin Motown has lost one of its favourite daughters. The many tributes and kind words of wisdom have already flooded in but it's hard to believe that the queen of soul, Motown's most celebrated of mother earth figures and matriarchal of musical legends is no longer part of that thriving soul music industry.
This was that special place where the greats shook hands with the up and coming and the ones who are now rapidly blossoming can only dream of a glittering future. Sadly, the loss of Aretha Franklin has now deprived the world of one of the smoothest, gutsiest and rawest sounds ever heard in popular music. We are now left with only the memories of a woman determined to make an unforgettable statement with her sugar sweet lyrics and boldly strident performances on stage.
Franklin was not so much a singer, more of a vociferous campaigner on behalf of women and their rightful position and role within society. It was a heartfelt cry for equality, unity and positive recognition at all levels in the public mainstream. Her voice was a powerful instrument for good, a rumbustious roar and stunning scream that reached previously untouched heights that some must now believe will never be touched again.
Born into the now traditional church gospel family background which has accompanied so many of the narratives and backdrops of so many of those twinkling Motown stars, Aretha Franklin was somehow destined for fame and celebrity. Now though it seems as if somebody has taken a plug out of one of the speakers from which her powerhouse voice used to blast out into vast and feverishly responsive audiences.
Now though the prolific Motown factory is in a state of mourning and grief for one of the most dynamic of all female voices. But on a more general level what on earth for instance must be going through the minds of the likes of Roberta Flack, Diana Ross, Gladys Knight, Dionne Warwicke and all of those magnificent ladies who would command a stage, shaking Las Vegas to its foundations with the sheer vocal majesty and range of their songs and messages? For the black soul singing sisterhood the day Aretha Franklin left us was indeed a much poorer place.
During its most turbulent period of the 1960s, Franklin represented much more than a glorious soul singer with the voice of an angel. She broke down the rigid boundaries of racial discrimination and division that threatened to tear America apart. She added her considerable tonsils to the civil rights movement, and sung songs that clearly resonated with the poor, the misunderstood, oppressed and the permanently downtrodden. She came to the rescue of the underclass, standing up firmly and decisively for those who could never be heard.
But it was one song that would completely change the landscape and mood of 1960s soul music. When Franklin belted out 'Respect', it became not merely a sloganeering piece of feminist propaganda but a genuine song from both the deepest heart and soul. 'Respect' was released as a single and overnight shot into both the British and US charts. It would develop into one of those remarkable songs that would never leave your consciousness, your sensitive ear for a great song.
Even now 'Respect' remains one of those songs that will never be forgotten if only because it did what it said on the tin. Finally and emphatically, Franklin was there at the top of her form and respect was a vital necessity, almost a social imperative, essential to the way we lived our lives and the way we treated each other as fellow human beings.
But Aretha Franklin demanded much more than respect and global reverence from not only her adoring fans. She desperately wanted to be recognised as one of the most consistently successful soul singers of all time. 'Respect' was loud, forceful, repetitive perhaps but urgently impressive, a song delivered with confidence and unequivocal passion. a song of feeling and truth.
'Say a Little Prayer' was rightfully acclaimed as one of those religiously uplifting songs that gave America a sense of re-assurance that no harm would ever come its way. It was the song frequently requested in every bar, club and juke box by all of those who must have privately felt that Vietnam would never end and America would always be embroiled in a war that had to be ended at all costs.
And then there was 'Feel Like a Natural Woman', another song with the most personal and emotional nuance, a song that must have felt like a yearning for playtime on more and more of the millions of American radio stations that always seemed to be increasing during the 1960s. This was not merely another a black singer making her presence felt among the whole music community but a woman with a lust and zest for life, a woman who grabbed hold of a microphone, utterly convinced that the song she was singing was a serious announcement, a cautionary warning and not to be dismissed as some candy floss piece of pop.
Over a week has passed since Aretha Franklin died and the repercussions can be felt by all of today's contemporary singers. It is hard to imagine that any will ever equal the intensity and reach of Franklin's rip roaringly raucous voice, a voice that was punched out with both weight, influence and gravitas. It was music that will continue to be heard every Sunday morning at every gospel gathering. The lady pleaded respect and she certainly got respect. The Queen of Soul may have been dethroned but the words will never be allowed to drift away. Motown and the rest of the world will always miss you.
With the recent death of Aretha Franklin Motown has lost one of its favourite daughters. The many tributes and kind words of wisdom have already flooded in but it's hard to believe that the queen of soul, Motown's most celebrated of mother earth figures and matriarchal of musical legends is no longer part of that thriving soul music industry.
This was that special place where the greats shook hands with the up and coming and the ones who are now rapidly blossoming can only dream of a glittering future. Sadly, the loss of Aretha Franklin has now deprived the world of one of the smoothest, gutsiest and rawest sounds ever heard in popular music. We are now left with only the memories of a woman determined to make an unforgettable statement with her sugar sweet lyrics and boldly strident performances on stage.
Franklin was not so much a singer, more of a vociferous campaigner on behalf of women and their rightful position and role within society. It was a heartfelt cry for equality, unity and positive recognition at all levels in the public mainstream. Her voice was a powerful instrument for good, a rumbustious roar and stunning scream that reached previously untouched heights that some must now believe will never be touched again.
Born into the now traditional church gospel family background which has accompanied so many of the narratives and backdrops of so many of those twinkling Motown stars, Aretha Franklin was somehow destined for fame and celebrity. Now though it seems as if somebody has taken a plug out of one of the speakers from which her powerhouse voice used to blast out into vast and feverishly responsive audiences.
Now though the prolific Motown factory is in a state of mourning and grief for one of the most dynamic of all female voices. But on a more general level what on earth for instance must be going through the minds of the likes of Roberta Flack, Diana Ross, Gladys Knight, Dionne Warwicke and all of those magnificent ladies who would command a stage, shaking Las Vegas to its foundations with the sheer vocal majesty and range of their songs and messages? For the black soul singing sisterhood the day Aretha Franklin left us was indeed a much poorer place.
During its most turbulent period of the 1960s, Franklin represented much more than a glorious soul singer with the voice of an angel. She broke down the rigid boundaries of racial discrimination and division that threatened to tear America apart. She added her considerable tonsils to the civil rights movement, and sung songs that clearly resonated with the poor, the misunderstood, oppressed and the permanently downtrodden. She came to the rescue of the underclass, standing up firmly and decisively for those who could never be heard.
But it was one song that would completely change the landscape and mood of 1960s soul music. When Franklin belted out 'Respect', it became not merely a sloganeering piece of feminist propaganda but a genuine song from both the deepest heart and soul. 'Respect' was released as a single and overnight shot into both the British and US charts. It would develop into one of those remarkable songs that would never leave your consciousness, your sensitive ear for a great song.
Even now 'Respect' remains one of those songs that will never be forgotten if only because it did what it said on the tin. Finally and emphatically, Franklin was there at the top of her form and respect was a vital necessity, almost a social imperative, essential to the way we lived our lives and the way we treated each other as fellow human beings.
But Aretha Franklin demanded much more than respect and global reverence from not only her adoring fans. She desperately wanted to be recognised as one of the most consistently successful soul singers of all time. 'Respect' was loud, forceful, repetitive perhaps but urgently impressive, a song delivered with confidence and unequivocal passion. a song of feeling and truth.
'Say a Little Prayer' was rightfully acclaimed as one of those religiously uplifting songs that gave America a sense of re-assurance that no harm would ever come its way. It was the song frequently requested in every bar, club and juke box by all of those who must have privately felt that Vietnam would never end and America would always be embroiled in a war that had to be ended at all costs.
And then there was 'Feel Like a Natural Woman', another song with the most personal and emotional nuance, a song that must have felt like a yearning for playtime on more and more of the millions of American radio stations that always seemed to be increasing during the 1960s. This was not merely another a black singer making her presence felt among the whole music community but a woman with a lust and zest for life, a woman who grabbed hold of a microphone, utterly convinced that the song she was singing was a serious announcement, a cautionary warning and not to be dismissed as some candy floss piece of pop.
Over a week has passed since Aretha Franklin died and the repercussions can be felt by all of today's contemporary singers. It is hard to imagine that any will ever equal the intensity and reach of Franklin's rip roaringly raucous voice, a voice that was punched out with both weight, influence and gravitas. It was music that will continue to be heard every Sunday morning at every gospel gathering. The lady pleaded respect and she certainly got respect. The Queen of Soul may have been dethroned but the words will never be allowed to drift away. Motown and the rest of the world will always miss you.
Monday, 13 August 2018
Boris Johnson- the Tory politician who would be Prime Minister?
Boris Johnson- the Tory politician who would be Prime Minister?
Winston Churchill would probably be turning in his grave if he knew. These are interesting times in the weird and wacky world of British politics and now that the summer recess is upon us it is hard to believe that anything could possibly happen while the mice play. But there's something decidedly shifty and underhand going on in our midst. One man refuses to keep quiet and there must be a part of him that believes that he had every right to state his case without fear of contradiction.
The man in question is Boris Johnson and if there's any justice Johnson should be sacked on the spot, rapped over the knuckles, severely reprimanded, left with a flea in his ear and docked several months of his wages for violating every rule in the political handbook. Because poor old Boris has done it again. He's put his foot in it, upsetting the apple cart, alienating half of the Muslim community and today offering his verdict on affordable housing. You really couldn't make it up.
But hold on. This may be to form a more sober assessment of Boris Johnson, formerly Foreign Secretary, formerly Mayor of London and all round good egghead. Essentially, our Boris has done very little that might be considered either libellous, slanderous, damaging or physically destructive. He hasn't attacked anybody nor has he said anything could rightly be described as outrageously insulting.
The fact is though that Johnson is committed the ultimate sin. Last week while the rest of the country bathed in the most stunning heatwave of recent years, the Old Etonian with a penchant for quirky Latin phrases and a partiality for bikes and zip wires, trod on the most explosive political grenade he'll ever tread on. For a few, fleeting moments it sounded almost harmlessly comical and amusing but then the sudden realisation hit him that he'd said something he perhaps might have regretted under different circumstances.
You see the truth is that Boris Johnson is hugely intelligent, vastly knowledgeable and impeccably educated but tact and diplomacy may not be his strongest point. Boris has a wonderful command of several languages and has also written a biography of Winston Churchill, a huge tome of superbly researched detail and undoubtedly excellent prose. But when Boris decides to engage in the most sensitive and potentially combustible of subjects the wires are crossed or somebody gets hurt.
For a number of years Boris Johnson has been one of the most eloquent of advocates of Brexit, an issue so horribly confusing and contentious that even Boris may have felt he'd lost the popular vote for a while. Johnson told us quite clearly that once Britain came out of the EU or the European Union we'd all feel much better about ourselves and the whole process of globalisation which Britain should become an integral part of, would soothe our fevered brows and the world would be our oyster.
Boris told us quite categorically that those wretched scoundrels in Brussels were making our lives a misery and as such those high ranking officials in European circles should leave us alone and stop interfering all the time. How dare the EU keep pontificating about all those nasty rules, laws and regulations that are much more of a hindrance to Britain than any other consideration.
There did come a point when for all his alleged buffoonery and eccentricity, Boris Johnson did actually seem to make some kind of sense. He battled on our front, spoke for the nation and hinted at something akin to political excellence at times. And then when it all looked as if the blond haired one had settled for a back seat in the House of Commons, the Johnson mouth accelerated out of control. Oh dear. Or had it?
In what must have seemed like one of those off the record moments when none could have heard any of his impassioned rhetoric, Johnson expressed one of those statements that were, to not put too fine a point on it, daft and ill advised. In retrospect they were the measured views of another politician a number of years ago. So here was history quite definitely repeating itself and just another classic case of double speak.
Many years ago Labour cabinet minister at the time Jack Straw went on record as saying that he found the burka completely covering the face of Muslim women was extremely intimidating and ever so unsettling and offensive. Straw maintained that whenever a woman in a burka came into his surgery or greeted him on the street the fact that he could neither see their face or talk to him properly was both problematic and troublesome.
And so it was that Boris Johnson aired the same objection and inevitably the whole of the country reacted either furiously and in wholehearted support of the Johnson mantra. Although fully defending the right of Muslim woman to wear their chosen dress, Johnson then went on to plunge his hand into the most unseemly bucket of muddied waters. We were not unduly surprised because this is the Johnson way when the public glare isn't quite fully on him personally.
After quitting as Foreign Secretary recently some of us felt that he'd go and hide in a corner and lick his bloodied wounds. This whole EU business wasn't going according to his plan and Boris threw all of his toys out of the pram. All of those stuffy, red tape complexities that were now stifling Prime Minister Theresa May. were now, quite simply, getting on Johnson's nerves. Enough was enough.
Then he made his latest and most peculiar announcement. Muslim women, in Johnson's estimation reminded you of letter boxes or bank robbers. Now in the general scheme of things it does sound like one of those joky and facetious comments you would normally make at a dinner party having consumed one or too many bottles of Chateau Marks and Spencer red wine. But for Boris Johnson this was just an innocent observation and comparison that would blow away and never be commented on again.
But oh no how misguided was the Old Etonian with the permanently ruffled blond hair and the supercilious air of a learned professor. He'd completely misjudged the mood of the nation although there were some who agreed with him and couldn't see what all the fuss was about. Even now there are some Tory ministers who really don't know whether to cry or laugh about one of their colleagues.
Yesterday Johnson, on a gentle and inoffensive Sunday morning, he welcomed the Press into his garden with cups of tea, bonny chit chat and buoyant bonhomie. Now what exactly was he being accused of here? Had he done something seriously wrong or perhaps the country had lost its sense of humour? It was hard to know why we were all getting all hot and bothered about something that should have been forgotten about as soon as it left Boris's mouth.
Still the damage looks as though it might have been done without any legal recourse or far reaching repercussions. Was Johnson just echoing the sentiments of the nation or was he just joshing about, trying desperately to make small talk when we knew and he must have known that this was perhaps a knee jerk comment that could have been kept in house rather than let out in the public domain?
The hardened cynics may well tell you that this could be a cunning, calculated plot on Boris's part to bring down Theresa May and plant himself cosily into that nice hot seat as Prime Minister of Britain. 10 Downing Street must have a very prestigious ring to it and besides this might have been the only reason Johnson entered politics. Surely a case of an ultra ambitious politician scrapping and struggling his way to the top job in the country. What could be simpler?
So as the dust settles and the country continues to play this preposterous game of Musical Chairs, Boris Johnson sits in a private corner of his London home, wondering and thinking, reflecting but still unapologetic. Even though he might be privately regretful about his unfortunately phrased remark, the fact is that some of his closest friends may tell him to hold back on matters of public interest and of course religious sensitivities.
However Johnson has succeeded in conjuring up some wondrous imagery with his similes and parallels. It all began at the end of the Beijing Olympic Games when our Boris told us that he was looking forward immensely to games of whiff waff or what to the rest of us is table tennis.
Now though we are left with the tricky image of Muslim women resembling those red letter boxes that used to populate every street corner or road. Or maybe he was referring to our very own letter boxes where whole rainforests of paper drop casually through that small opening on our front door? Quite how letter boxes can even be remotely said to look like a Muslim woman with a loose black dress and two slits through which to look at the wider world is quite possibly beyond anybody's understanding.
And so we had the reference to bank robbers which you suspect would have mortally offended any such criminal with a balaclava over their head. It is hard to figure out both Johnson's logic or reasoning but to some extent Boris may have something there. It just seemed that this was the wrong time and the wrong place for frothy, off the cuff remarks that should have merited no attention at all.
The fact is that Boris may have to concentrate all of his attentions on keeping out of the public eye, because although he may well be well intentioned, he might become in the goodness of time the figure of fun that was quite clearly not the plan of action.
But as we reach the middle of August and autumn begins to creep up on us inexorably, the blond haired, right honourable gentleman who represents the interests of Uxbridge and South Ruislip may be quietly flicking through the aforesaid book on Churchill and recalling some of his controversial pronouncements.
It is highly unlikely that Boris Johnson has ever fought anybody on any beach or landing ground but he has now left himself marooned in the hottest water. You suspect that shortly Johnson will take himself off to some isolated sun spot away from the noise and pandemonium of Westminster. He will sit down on his wicker or rattan chair or stare out at a glistening blue sea and think of letter boxes or armed robbers. To quote another government anthem from yesteryear things can only get better. Keep calm Boris.
Winston Churchill would probably be turning in his grave if he knew. These are interesting times in the weird and wacky world of British politics and now that the summer recess is upon us it is hard to believe that anything could possibly happen while the mice play. But there's something decidedly shifty and underhand going on in our midst. One man refuses to keep quiet and there must be a part of him that believes that he had every right to state his case without fear of contradiction.
The man in question is Boris Johnson and if there's any justice Johnson should be sacked on the spot, rapped over the knuckles, severely reprimanded, left with a flea in his ear and docked several months of his wages for violating every rule in the political handbook. Because poor old Boris has done it again. He's put his foot in it, upsetting the apple cart, alienating half of the Muslim community and today offering his verdict on affordable housing. You really couldn't make it up.
But hold on. This may be to form a more sober assessment of Boris Johnson, formerly Foreign Secretary, formerly Mayor of London and all round good egghead. Essentially, our Boris has done very little that might be considered either libellous, slanderous, damaging or physically destructive. He hasn't attacked anybody nor has he said anything could rightly be described as outrageously insulting.
The fact is though that Johnson is committed the ultimate sin. Last week while the rest of the country bathed in the most stunning heatwave of recent years, the Old Etonian with a penchant for quirky Latin phrases and a partiality for bikes and zip wires, trod on the most explosive political grenade he'll ever tread on. For a few, fleeting moments it sounded almost harmlessly comical and amusing but then the sudden realisation hit him that he'd said something he perhaps might have regretted under different circumstances.
You see the truth is that Boris Johnson is hugely intelligent, vastly knowledgeable and impeccably educated but tact and diplomacy may not be his strongest point. Boris has a wonderful command of several languages and has also written a biography of Winston Churchill, a huge tome of superbly researched detail and undoubtedly excellent prose. But when Boris decides to engage in the most sensitive and potentially combustible of subjects the wires are crossed or somebody gets hurt.
For a number of years Boris Johnson has been one of the most eloquent of advocates of Brexit, an issue so horribly confusing and contentious that even Boris may have felt he'd lost the popular vote for a while. Johnson told us quite clearly that once Britain came out of the EU or the European Union we'd all feel much better about ourselves and the whole process of globalisation which Britain should become an integral part of, would soothe our fevered brows and the world would be our oyster.
Boris told us quite categorically that those wretched scoundrels in Brussels were making our lives a misery and as such those high ranking officials in European circles should leave us alone and stop interfering all the time. How dare the EU keep pontificating about all those nasty rules, laws and regulations that are much more of a hindrance to Britain than any other consideration.
There did come a point when for all his alleged buffoonery and eccentricity, Boris Johnson did actually seem to make some kind of sense. He battled on our front, spoke for the nation and hinted at something akin to political excellence at times. And then when it all looked as if the blond haired one had settled for a back seat in the House of Commons, the Johnson mouth accelerated out of control. Oh dear. Or had it?
In what must have seemed like one of those off the record moments when none could have heard any of his impassioned rhetoric, Johnson expressed one of those statements that were, to not put too fine a point on it, daft and ill advised. In retrospect they were the measured views of another politician a number of years ago. So here was history quite definitely repeating itself and just another classic case of double speak.
Many years ago Labour cabinet minister at the time Jack Straw went on record as saying that he found the burka completely covering the face of Muslim women was extremely intimidating and ever so unsettling and offensive. Straw maintained that whenever a woman in a burka came into his surgery or greeted him on the street the fact that he could neither see their face or talk to him properly was both problematic and troublesome.
And so it was that Boris Johnson aired the same objection and inevitably the whole of the country reacted either furiously and in wholehearted support of the Johnson mantra. Although fully defending the right of Muslim woman to wear their chosen dress, Johnson then went on to plunge his hand into the most unseemly bucket of muddied waters. We were not unduly surprised because this is the Johnson way when the public glare isn't quite fully on him personally.
After quitting as Foreign Secretary recently some of us felt that he'd go and hide in a corner and lick his bloodied wounds. This whole EU business wasn't going according to his plan and Boris threw all of his toys out of the pram. All of those stuffy, red tape complexities that were now stifling Prime Minister Theresa May. were now, quite simply, getting on Johnson's nerves. Enough was enough.
Then he made his latest and most peculiar announcement. Muslim women, in Johnson's estimation reminded you of letter boxes or bank robbers. Now in the general scheme of things it does sound like one of those joky and facetious comments you would normally make at a dinner party having consumed one or too many bottles of Chateau Marks and Spencer red wine. But for Boris Johnson this was just an innocent observation and comparison that would blow away and never be commented on again.
But oh no how misguided was the Old Etonian with the permanently ruffled blond hair and the supercilious air of a learned professor. He'd completely misjudged the mood of the nation although there were some who agreed with him and couldn't see what all the fuss was about. Even now there are some Tory ministers who really don't know whether to cry or laugh about one of their colleagues.
Yesterday Johnson, on a gentle and inoffensive Sunday morning, he welcomed the Press into his garden with cups of tea, bonny chit chat and buoyant bonhomie. Now what exactly was he being accused of here? Had he done something seriously wrong or perhaps the country had lost its sense of humour? It was hard to know why we were all getting all hot and bothered about something that should have been forgotten about as soon as it left Boris's mouth.
Still the damage looks as though it might have been done without any legal recourse or far reaching repercussions. Was Johnson just echoing the sentiments of the nation or was he just joshing about, trying desperately to make small talk when we knew and he must have known that this was perhaps a knee jerk comment that could have been kept in house rather than let out in the public domain?
The hardened cynics may well tell you that this could be a cunning, calculated plot on Boris's part to bring down Theresa May and plant himself cosily into that nice hot seat as Prime Minister of Britain. 10 Downing Street must have a very prestigious ring to it and besides this might have been the only reason Johnson entered politics. Surely a case of an ultra ambitious politician scrapping and struggling his way to the top job in the country. What could be simpler?
So as the dust settles and the country continues to play this preposterous game of Musical Chairs, Boris Johnson sits in a private corner of his London home, wondering and thinking, reflecting but still unapologetic. Even though he might be privately regretful about his unfortunately phrased remark, the fact is that some of his closest friends may tell him to hold back on matters of public interest and of course religious sensitivities.
However Johnson has succeeded in conjuring up some wondrous imagery with his similes and parallels. It all began at the end of the Beijing Olympic Games when our Boris told us that he was looking forward immensely to games of whiff waff or what to the rest of us is table tennis.
Now though we are left with the tricky image of Muslim women resembling those red letter boxes that used to populate every street corner or road. Or maybe he was referring to our very own letter boxes where whole rainforests of paper drop casually through that small opening on our front door? Quite how letter boxes can even be remotely said to look like a Muslim woman with a loose black dress and two slits through which to look at the wider world is quite possibly beyond anybody's understanding.
And so we had the reference to bank robbers which you suspect would have mortally offended any such criminal with a balaclava over their head. It is hard to figure out both Johnson's logic or reasoning but to some extent Boris may have something there. It just seemed that this was the wrong time and the wrong place for frothy, off the cuff remarks that should have merited no attention at all.
The fact is that Boris may have to concentrate all of his attentions on keeping out of the public eye, because although he may well be well intentioned, he might become in the goodness of time the figure of fun that was quite clearly not the plan of action.
But as we reach the middle of August and autumn begins to creep up on us inexorably, the blond haired, right honourable gentleman who represents the interests of Uxbridge and South Ruislip may be quietly flicking through the aforesaid book on Churchill and recalling some of his controversial pronouncements.
It is highly unlikely that Boris Johnson has ever fought anybody on any beach or landing ground but he has now left himself marooned in the hottest water. You suspect that shortly Johnson will take himself off to some isolated sun spot away from the noise and pandemonium of Westminster. He will sit down on his wicker or rattan chair or stare out at a glistening blue sea and think of letter boxes or armed robbers. To quote another government anthem from yesteryear things can only get better. Keep calm Boris.
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