It's time up for Theresa.
Oh well it's time up for Theresa May. For the last time the British and Unionist Prime Minister has left the building and it's Bank Holiday Monday time for the good folk of the United Kingdom. It's time to head for the bracing breezes of the seaside and the coast while always remembering the enduring legacy left behind the now outgoing Prime Minister.
History will tell us that Mrs. May was perhaps the most persistent, tenacious and determined PM Britain has had for quite a while. There are others who believe she was the most divisive, indecisive, unsure and dithering of Prime Ministers. Regularly, we were told that she was doing her hardest to come to some amicable agreement with her European Union colleagues only to find that all they could do was shut the door firmly in her face.
Last Friday morning she emerged from 10 Downing Street blinking in the late spring sunshine, hoping that all the formalities would go according to plan and nobody would judge her for what had happened in the past, still believing that nobody could have tried harder. But politics can be a cruel business and after all those endless discussions that came to absolutely nothing here she was on her final day in office at No 10 and the whole world wasn't really on her side after all.
She spoke into those reed thin microphones, facing her inquisitors and composing herself for one last tearful hurrah. She cut a figure of despair, utter anguish and pained desolation. This is not the way it should have ended because she had to be seen as a figure of authority whose leadership qualities should never have been questioned. She was doing a quietly competent job and if you'd only left her to her own devices we'd have left the EU with a positive outcome and none would have quibbled.
But oh no! Come the 29th March, the date assigned for Britain's official withdrawal from the European Union and we were still twiddling our fingers, burying our heads in deep thought, locked in a state of grim introspection and wondering how time was passing so quickly. On the 29th March nothing happened and we were still looking at our watches, still in the EU and stuck in a rut.
In that final week leading up to the 29th March we were still frantically going through the motions, voting over and over again for something none of us could possibly get a handle on. There were deals and no deals, the soft and hard borders, Ireland pointing accusing fingers at the rest of the United Kingdom and puzzled by the ridiculousness of it all. There was the Custom House impasse, the endless drivel and gobbledygook that seemed to gush from the mouths of a thousand politicians and then the Double Dutch which flowed almost comically from those cliched mouths.
Sadly though it just wasn't enough, the modern day Iron Lady allowing the solemnity of the occasion to get the better of her. She admitted that she'd tried three times to get that final vote over the line and still they wouldn't budge. She kept staring at her notes as if that would somehow soften the blow, repeatedly claiming that she'd done all she could to keep the boat afloat. But then her face, by now increasingly crumpling and just folding within itself, eventually fell into some twisted scowl that couldn't comprehend why or how.
She began with references to the remarkable Sir Nicholas Winton, the man who admirably came to the rescue to millions of displaced and then tortured Jewish children during the Second World War. She quoted his heroism and exemplary courage, the memorable example he'd set for decades to come. She now delivered yet more familiar phrases about closer co-operation from our European neighbours and the ultimate compromises that would have to be made if that final departure from Europe could be anything less than a successful one.
Still though the doubts and prevarications prevailed. There were the tired old statements, the petty insults, the mixed messages, the foolhardy pronouncements, the confusion, the bitter confrontations, the weird mannerisms and those bellowing voices that just kept getting louder. There were the forest of blue EU flags outside the Houses of Parliament, cyclists trundling up and down the road curiously for no other reason than they wanted to get their point across and much more tomfoolery.
And yet now in the aftermath of the European elections where the Conservative party have once again struggled desperately for some semblance of unity, the leaving Prime Minister can only look on in horror. It is only now that Prime Minister can only hide behind closed doors in a search for much needed privacy with husband George.
How she must be longing for one of those restful walking holidays, quality time with her devoted husband and the privacy some of us feel she rightfully deserves. Uttering her final sentence outside Downing Street, her voice now cracked and broken, she once again confirmed her love of her country and naturally felt honoured to hold the office of Prime Minister. At this point she turned politely on her heels, slowly stepped back to that famous door and presumably cried rivers of tears.
So who holds the balance of power? In a couple of weeks time the UK will find themselves in a strange state of limbo not knowing whether they're coming or going. We'll have a caretaker Prime Minister with no broom to sweep the corridors of Westminster and no- one to look after Larry the Cat. The country will just have to fend for itself without any real influence from the green seats of the Cabinet.
Meanwhile behind Theresa May, that mad keen, cyclist Boris Johnson prepares himself for the top job hair, hair of golden wheat flying in all manner of directions. Now here's the man with a mission, a man who some are convinced has always had ideas way above his station, delusions of grandeur accompanying him every pedal of his much cherished bike ride. The man is consumed with his own self importance and to those who see him as by far the most pompous man in Britain, the coming months could be too controversial for words.
Finally last but not least there is Nigel Farage, now head of the newly minted Brexit Party. For a majority of us Farage is one of those impassioned patriots who can barely bring himself to associate with anybody who comes from Brussels. Farage wants his country back which is his prerogative. The truth is that Farage, for the last three years, has poured his heart out interminably about nothing in particular. He sits there pint of Guinness in one hand, cigarette dangling forlornly from his lips, spouting more and more platitudes, frothing from the mouth and then attacking the European Union.
For Theresa May this could be a summer for taking stock of her life in politics. Your mind turns back to her previous incumbent of PM, one David Cameron. What exactly do former Prime Ministers get up to when nobody needs them anymore? Do they turn to their trusty laptops and compile their memoirs or do they perhaps think about charity work, vastly eloquent after dinner speeches, becoming a prominent ambassador or just getting stuck into a 50,000 jigsaw piece puzzle? We do wish Mrs May well in her life as former Prime Minister. She remains one of our most gracious politicians. It is time to settle for the quiet life.
Monday, 27 May 2019
Friday, 24 May 2019
Rocketman- the Elton John story.
Rocketman- the Elton John Story.
Tell your family and friends. Spread the word to one and all. Rocketman is the archetypal story of a 1970s rock star who lived the lifestyle of sex, drugs, rock and roll, plenty of drink before literally coming out with an everyday set of glasses, respectable clothing and a substantial bank balance. He set out to be famous one day, achieved his ambition with something to spare, threw caution to the wind, almost pressed the self destruct button but then reflected wistfully on what might have been had it all ended up in complete disaster.
Rocketman, the definitive story of Elton John, is undoubtedly a cinematic masterpiece, a stunning tour de force of dazzling, fizzing colour and splendour, a remarkable hybrid of dancing and singing, a fireball of energy, running around tirelessly from one location to the next and never seemingly coming up for breath. It is a fabulous, beautifully engaging, wonderfully vivid and at times almost poetic story about love, tears, tantrums, repressed emotions and one man who conquered the world with his lyrical genius.
Starting as it does at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, Elton, dressed typically and crazily in red feathers and wings, opens up his heart in the most moving of confessionals about a life that veered almost seamlessly and quite literally from the sublime to the ridiculous. Then he looks back at a childhood terribly damaged by parents who are quite clearly singing from the wrong hymn sheet. Dad just wanted to be on his own, playing Count Basie records in a very austere looking 1950s living room while mum was quite content to play the dutiful if somewhat discontented wife.
Then young Reg Dwight, the real family name that became Elton John, sits down at the newly acquired piano, taps a few tentative keys before revealing a prowess for the musical instrument that would become his permanent friend. Young Reg is then hurried along for his first proper lesson at the Royal Academy of Music by a supportive but pushy nan and within the space of quick, bewildering scene changes Reg Dwight becomes Elton John and all of the hormones kick in with a vengeance.
There is the introduction to Bernie Taupin, Elton's lifelong song writer and inspiration. There were the early gigs at a soul concert in the late 1960s when a young, fresh faced John vigorously hammers away at a very basic piano as if he somehow knew that in a few short years the The Dodger Stadium in Los Angeles would become a regular home from home for him. Taupin, for his part, became John's long term and faithful confidant, a man Elton John could quite happily let off steam in front of when the pressure became too intense to bear.
Rocketman follows Elton John along the long and winding path towards wild and excessive debauchery, ostentatious flamboyance that borders on the near suicidal and a head spinning, spiralling fairground adventure that never seemed to stop. There was that first drink and drugs party in America, the discovery of his homosexuality, the passionate on off affair with manager John Reid, a Scotsman with a blunt turn of phrase and then the introduction to the hot tempered Dick James, curls of cigarette smoke accompanying his every word or phrase.
Elton John's career now soars into the highest stratosphere. After an outrageous sequence of explosive tantrums, heavy drinking, stomping out of both clubs, bars and dressing rooms in a fit of raging pique, John makes his steady way back to the top before quite literally falling off a diving board of a well appointed swimming pool. Here the Rocketman does his utmost to kill himself.
But the songs were the driving force of this most delicious piece of movie gold. The combination of music and Elton's back catalogue of songs performed by all the members of the cast, was truly a sight to behold. There was a distinct feel of Moulin de Rouge and MaMa Mia about Rocketman which spoke volumes for the film's production values.
As the 1970s progressed the more John began to let loose, the costumes on stage becoming increasingly more outlandish and barely believable. There were the glasses of varying sizes, the delightful homage to Dame Edna Everage in Australia followed by even greater helpings of bizarre showmanship and the utterly indescribable.
Once again the songs characterised and defined the man. There was the unforgettable Saturday Night, a loud, proud, triumphant number that hopped, bopped and bounced around with joyful enthusiasm. Who could ever forget 'Crocodile Rock', 'Benny and the Jets', 'Your Song', 'Daniel', 'Rocketman', the magical 'Honky Cat', and 'Philadelphia Freedom' which seemed to have been overlooked in the film. Then Elton hooked up with Kiki Dee in a collaboration which sent 'Don't Go Breaking My Heart' straight to the top of the charts for Elton and Kiki. There was the wonderful 'Pinball Wizard' and of course 'Goodbye Yellow Brick Road', surely a reference to the trajectory of John's career and the path it followed.
In more recent years and decades the defiant 'I'm Still Standing' seemed to speak for itself in its bold statement of intent implying it seemed that nothing could ever break our Elton's indomitable spirit. Dressed in smart waistcoat and trademark boater hat, John sends himself up perfectly with bikini clad girls, a lovely line in humour and the sharpest wit.
In 'Sorry Seems to be the Hardest Word', Elton may well be asking forgiveness after splitting up with his German wife Renata. The heartbreaking poignancy of the break up was highlighted when John was seen sobbing his heart out before his Watford side took to the old Wembley pitch in the 1984 FA Cup Final against Everton - or maybe he had other things on his mind at the time.
Above all, the story of Elton John was the story of a young kid from Pinner in Middlesex who was convinced that he could make his feuding parents proud by embracing, the dizzying, giddy world of showbiz. When John goes back to see his father in a desperate quest for approval the reunion is tinged with sadness and frustration as the now unchallengeable superstar and rock legend resigns himself to the fact that nothing can heal the hurt, the pain and the disappointment he may still be feeling.
So here's the thing. Here's the hard sell, the big promotion. You could worse than taking yourself off to your local Multiplex cinema, grab some popcorn, settle yourself in your well padded seat, fasten your eyes on that vast screen and just milk every special moment in this most beautiful of films, a surefire candidate for being the very best. You've just got to treat yourself to an evening of cinematic perfection. It has my highest recommendation. You won't regret it.
Tell your family and friends. Spread the word to one and all. Rocketman is the archetypal story of a 1970s rock star who lived the lifestyle of sex, drugs, rock and roll, plenty of drink before literally coming out with an everyday set of glasses, respectable clothing and a substantial bank balance. He set out to be famous one day, achieved his ambition with something to spare, threw caution to the wind, almost pressed the self destruct button but then reflected wistfully on what might have been had it all ended up in complete disaster.
Rocketman, the definitive story of Elton John, is undoubtedly a cinematic masterpiece, a stunning tour de force of dazzling, fizzing colour and splendour, a remarkable hybrid of dancing and singing, a fireball of energy, running around tirelessly from one location to the next and never seemingly coming up for breath. It is a fabulous, beautifully engaging, wonderfully vivid and at times almost poetic story about love, tears, tantrums, repressed emotions and one man who conquered the world with his lyrical genius.
Starting as it does at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, Elton, dressed typically and crazily in red feathers and wings, opens up his heart in the most moving of confessionals about a life that veered almost seamlessly and quite literally from the sublime to the ridiculous. Then he looks back at a childhood terribly damaged by parents who are quite clearly singing from the wrong hymn sheet. Dad just wanted to be on his own, playing Count Basie records in a very austere looking 1950s living room while mum was quite content to play the dutiful if somewhat discontented wife.
Then young Reg Dwight, the real family name that became Elton John, sits down at the newly acquired piano, taps a few tentative keys before revealing a prowess for the musical instrument that would become his permanent friend. Young Reg is then hurried along for his first proper lesson at the Royal Academy of Music by a supportive but pushy nan and within the space of quick, bewildering scene changes Reg Dwight becomes Elton John and all of the hormones kick in with a vengeance.
There is the introduction to Bernie Taupin, Elton's lifelong song writer and inspiration. There were the early gigs at a soul concert in the late 1960s when a young, fresh faced John vigorously hammers away at a very basic piano as if he somehow knew that in a few short years the The Dodger Stadium in Los Angeles would become a regular home from home for him. Taupin, for his part, became John's long term and faithful confidant, a man Elton John could quite happily let off steam in front of when the pressure became too intense to bear.
Rocketman follows Elton John along the long and winding path towards wild and excessive debauchery, ostentatious flamboyance that borders on the near suicidal and a head spinning, spiralling fairground adventure that never seemed to stop. There was that first drink and drugs party in America, the discovery of his homosexuality, the passionate on off affair with manager John Reid, a Scotsman with a blunt turn of phrase and then the introduction to the hot tempered Dick James, curls of cigarette smoke accompanying his every word or phrase.
Elton John's career now soars into the highest stratosphere. After an outrageous sequence of explosive tantrums, heavy drinking, stomping out of both clubs, bars and dressing rooms in a fit of raging pique, John makes his steady way back to the top before quite literally falling off a diving board of a well appointed swimming pool. Here the Rocketman does his utmost to kill himself.
But the songs were the driving force of this most delicious piece of movie gold. The combination of music and Elton's back catalogue of songs performed by all the members of the cast, was truly a sight to behold. There was a distinct feel of Moulin de Rouge and MaMa Mia about Rocketman which spoke volumes for the film's production values.
As the 1970s progressed the more John began to let loose, the costumes on stage becoming increasingly more outlandish and barely believable. There were the glasses of varying sizes, the delightful homage to Dame Edna Everage in Australia followed by even greater helpings of bizarre showmanship and the utterly indescribable.
Once again the songs characterised and defined the man. There was the unforgettable Saturday Night, a loud, proud, triumphant number that hopped, bopped and bounced around with joyful enthusiasm. Who could ever forget 'Crocodile Rock', 'Benny and the Jets', 'Your Song', 'Daniel', 'Rocketman', the magical 'Honky Cat', and 'Philadelphia Freedom' which seemed to have been overlooked in the film. Then Elton hooked up with Kiki Dee in a collaboration which sent 'Don't Go Breaking My Heart' straight to the top of the charts for Elton and Kiki. There was the wonderful 'Pinball Wizard' and of course 'Goodbye Yellow Brick Road', surely a reference to the trajectory of John's career and the path it followed.
In more recent years and decades the defiant 'I'm Still Standing' seemed to speak for itself in its bold statement of intent implying it seemed that nothing could ever break our Elton's indomitable spirit. Dressed in smart waistcoat and trademark boater hat, John sends himself up perfectly with bikini clad girls, a lovely line in humour and the sharpest wit.
In 'Sorry Seems to be the Hardest Word', Elton may well be asking forgiveness after splitting up with his German wife Renata. The heartbreaking poignancy of the break up was highlighted when John was seen sobbing his heart out before his Watford side took to the old Wembley pitch in the 1984 FA Cup Final against Everton - or maybe he had other things on his mind at the time.
Above all, the story of Elton John was the story of a young kid from Pinner in Middlesex who was convinced that he could make his feuding parents proud by embracing, the dizzying, giddy world of showbiz. When John goes back to see his father in a desperate quest for approval the reunion is tinged with sadness and frustration as the now unchallengeable superstar and rock legend resigns himself to the fact that nothing can heal the hurt, the pain and the disappointment he may still be feeling.
So here's the thing. Here's the hard sell, the big promotion. You could worse than taking yourself off to your local Multiplex cinema, grab some popcorn, settle yourself in your well padded seat, fasten your eyes on that vast screen and just milk every special moment in this most beautiful of films, a surefire candidate for being the very best. You've just got to treat yourself to an evening of cinematic perfection. It has my highest recommendation. You won't regret it.
Thursday, 23 May 2019
Prime Minister Theresa May's final days or not.
Prime Minister's Theresa May's final days or not.
These are dark and cold days for Theresa May. In fact these are deeply troubling and troubled times for the Prime Minister days because we can all perhaps identify with her pain, that dreadful sense of rejection, that terrifying belief that everything she does is wrong and everybody she meets hasn't a great deal of time for her. It gets pretty lonely out there and at the moment that overwhelming feeling of isolation seems to be getting worse by the hour, day, week and month.
It does seem, according to all the latest reports and public opinion that Theresa May could be on her way and leaving 10 Downing Street. But then again it could be just an elaborate hoax designed to fool not only the people closest to her but those she thought she knew better. The chances are though, we'll all wake up one day and discover that nobody could be that cruel. Besides there's unfinished business to take care of in the House of Commons and time is moving forward rapidly.
Sadly though time is running out, the howls of protest are getting louder, Tory backbenchers and cabinet ministers are deserting May in their droves and poor Larry the Cat is in desperate need of his daily saucer of milk. Yesterday one Minister and leader of the House of Commons Andrea Leadsom, stormed out of the back door in a state of high dudgeon and quit her job. This may not be the time to press the panic button for our noble Prime Minister because she may look as though she's suffered enough.
The harsh reality is though that events are crowding in around here, there's nowhere to turn and even Larry Cat, sitting loyally, it has to be said, on the doorstep of 10 Downing Street has reached the end of his tether. He sat dejectedly outside No 10 licking his paws thoughtfully, turning his head from side to side and perhaps wondering whether as if it was worth all the bother. There has to be somebody out there who thinks about him, cares about him, and, above all a more cheerful Prime Minister who looks as though she just wants to be left alone. Larry though may have to wait a while.
The truth is of course that the British Prime Minister looked as though her eyes were red with tears as she sat on the back seat of the car leaving Downing Street last night. She may not be a tormented figure yet but it looks increasingly bleak for her as time marches on. Nobody appears to be on her side, the noises of betrayal, are, to all intents and purposes, becoming just unbearable and the fact of the matter is that the sooner she goes the better. None could ever have faulted her effort or devotion to duty but it never seemed enough.
Turn back the clock to almost 30 years ago and the scenario was remarkably similar. Margaret Thatcher, the all conquering, sometimes perhaps quite overpowering and overbearing one at times, left Downing Street for the last time amid a flood of tears and sadistic back stabbers who just wanted her job. For those who couldn't wait to see the back of Mrs Thatcher- and there were far more violently opposed to her than in her favour, principled stands meant nothing. The last couple of months have been both nasty, personal and almost virulently vindictive for Theresa May. The hatred could have proved too much for Theresa May. But this is turning into a very grisly game of power and control and when will her heartache end?
Today Britain gathers together for the European elections and across this green and fair island of the United Kingdom the country will be asked, quite ironically whether it still wants to be part of Europe. You could hardly make it up. Here we are in a terrible mess where what feels like a political grenade called Brexit is about to blow up in her face. Quite clearly though, the main topic of discussion should be about the welfare of a very sensible and well mannered woman who just wants to steer the country along the right path.
But, as they say nowadays. it is what it is whatever it's supposed to be. Poor Theresa May is probably wishing that her former colleague and former Prime Minister David Cameron had just ignored the calls for an EU referendum and just got on with the business of running the country. Now though the job of leading the country has become the ultimate poisoned chalice. We are stuck in the deepest political hole, trapped at the bottom of a well with little in the way of light at the end of it all and just hoping that it'll all go away until somebody comes up with a clever solution.
Regrettably though the respectable Mrs May, a devout Christian and a regular churchgoer as evidenced quite recently, may well be forced to fall onto the cliched sword. Religious beliefs are utterly commendable but when it comes to the nitty gritty of everyday life, it looks as if she'll have to accept the inevitable and recognise fairly quickly that sometimes you've just got to take the cliched rough with the smooth.
We are now at an almost critical juncture for the Prime Minister because sooner or later something will have to give whether she likes it or not. There is or seemingly so, a gang mentality in our midst where a beleaguered leader of her country will just slump in front of BBC's Question Time, kick off her shoes and try to rationalise everything. This may not be possible since there are those at the highest level of the Cabinet who would rather she leaves the country than hang around for any great length of time.
For Mrs Thatcher there was a grudging acceptance of defeat since very few of her colleagues felt she was the right woman for the job. Then there were the tears in her eyes as she waved very meekly out of the car window and husband Denis tried to console her with amusing tales from the golf course. The legacy of Thatcher remains well documented. You know the one; three million unemployed, a booming economy at the end of the 1980s. the disappearance of the mining industry, argy bargy altercations with the trade unions and then roaring acclaim, praise and adulation when late 1980s prosperity became both fashionable and welcomed. Oh don't forget those huge mobile phones.
Alas for Theresa May the whole furiously contentious subject of Brexit and all of the fall out that has now resulted in such wretched confusion, may well be her downfall. Here is a woman surrounded by the kind of people she thought she had unwavering faith in her government, her style and her way of doing things. Sadly though this is not the way it's going to be. Promises were broken, guarantees just casually forgotten in the heat of the moment and agreements torn up without even a second thought.
So it is that we reach the turning point, the point of no return. You remembered the lady with a slightly awkward posture, her failure to convince the sceptics, that crazy dance routine and concluded that all that wholehearted endeavour, all of those tight, well meaning smiles were just a token gesture in a battle she was always likely to lose. Your heart goes out to an honourable, well intentioned woman who was fully aware of her deficiencies but knew in our heart of hearts that her outrageous optimism, bloody minded perseverance and insatiable desire to win over her doubters would ever lead to a successful conclusion.
But here we are at the end of another torturous week for Theresa May, the clouds are gathering overhead and the days are ticking by towards what now seems like the last chapter for that nice woman at Downing Street. It's hard to know what the future holds for Mrs May because the current state of British politics is so highly charged and combustible that at any time shortly history the smell of smouldering smoke could still be drifting into the Westminster air for some time.
This is not the time for bitterness or recriminations but it is hard to escape the feeling that the most deeply unenviable job of them all will probably never find the right fit. Who on earth would want to be the Prime Minister of the UK? Maybe the blond bombshell who stands for Uxbridge is ready and waiting. Boris Johnson - your country awaits you. It hardly seems possible but then we do live in the most ludicrous of political times. Hold on everybody. It could be an eventful summer for the citizens of Westminster.
These are dark and cold days for Theresa May. In fact these are deeply troubling and troubled times for the Prime Minister days because we can all perhaps identify with her pain, that dreadful sense of rejection, that terrifying belief that everything she does is wrong and everybody she meets hasn't a great deal of time for her. It gets pretty lonely out there and at the moment that overwhelming feeling of isolation seems to be getting worse by the hour, day, week and month.
It does seem, according to all the latest reports and public opinion that Theresa May could be on her way and leaving 10 Downing Street. But then again it could be just an elaborate hoax designed to fool not only the people closest to her but those she thought she knew better. The chances are though, we'll all wake up one day and discover that nobody could be that cruel. Besides there's unfinished business to take care of in the House of Commons and time is moving forward rapidly.
Sadly though time is running out, the howls of protest are getting louder, Tory backbenchers and cabinet ministers are deserting May in their droves and poor Larry the Cat is in desperate need of his daily saucer of milk. Yesterday one Minister and leader of the House of Commons Andrea Leadsom, stormed out of the back door in a state of high dudgeon and quit her job. This may not be the time to press the panic button for our noble Prime Minister because she may look as though she's suffered enough.
The harsh reality is though that events are crowding in around here, there's nowhere to turn and even Larry Cat, sitting loyally, it has to be said, on the doorstep of 10 Downing Street has reached the end of his tether. He sat dejectedly outside No 10 licking his paws thoughtfully, turning his head from side to side and perhaps wondering whether as if it was worth all the bother. There has to be somebody out there who thinks about him, cares about him, and, above all a more cheerful Prime Minister who looks as though she just wants to be left alone. Larry though may have to wait a while.
The truth is of course that the British Prime Minister looked as though her eyes were red with tears as she sat on the back seat of the car leaving Downing Street last night. She may not be a tormented figure yet but it looks increasingly bleak for her as time marches on. Nobody appears to be on her side, the noises of betrayal, are, to all intents and purposes, becoming just unbearable and the fact of the matter is that the sooner she goes the better. None could ever have faulted her effort or devotion to duty but it never seemed enough.
Turn back the clock to almost 30 years ago and the scenario was remarkably similar. Margaret Thatcher, the all conquering, sometimes perhaps quite overpowering and overbearing one at times, left Downing Street for the last time amid a flood of tears and sadistic back stabbers who just wanted her job. For those who couldn't wait to see the back of Mrs Thatcher- and there were far more violently opposed to her than in her favour, principled stands meant nothing. The last couple of months have been both nasty, personal and almost virulently vindictive for Theresa May. The hatred could have proved too much for Theresa May. But this is turning into a very grisly game of power and control and when will her heartache end?
Today Britain gathers together for the European elections and across this green and fair island of the United Kingdom the country will be asked, quite ironically whether it still wants to be part of Europe. You could hardly make it up. Here we are in a terrible mess where what feels like a political grenade called Brexit is about to blow up in her face. Quite clearly though, the main topic of discussion should be about the welfare of a very sensible and well mannered woman who just wants to steer the country along the right path.
But, as they say nowadays. it is what it is whatever it's supposed to be. Poor Theresa May is probably wishing that her former colleague and former Prime Minister David Cameron had just ignored the calls for an EU referendum and just got on with the business of running the country. Now though the job of leading the country has become the ultimate poisoned chalice. We are stuck in the deepest political hole, trapped at the bottom of a well with little in the way of light at the end of it all and just hoping that it'll all go away until somebody comes up with a clever solution.
Regrettably though the respectable Mrs May, a devout Christian and a regular churchgoer as evidenced quite recently, may well be forced to fall onto the cliched sword. Religious beliefs are utterly commendable but when it comes to the nitty gritty of everyday life, it looks as if she'll have to accept the inevitable and recognise fairly quickly that sometimes you've just got to take the cliched rough with the smooth.
We are now at an almost critical juncture for the Prime Minister because sooner or later something will have to give whether she likes it or not. There is or seemingly so, a gang mentality in our midst where a beleaguered leader of her country will just slump in front of BBC's Question Time, kick off her shoes and try to rationalise everything. This may not be possible since there are those at the highest level of the Cabinet who would rather she leaves the country than hang around for any great length of time.
For Mrs Thatcher there was a grudging acceptance of defeat since very few of her colleagues felt she was the right woman for the job. Then there were the tears in her eyes as she waved very meekly out of the car window and husband Denis tried to console her with amusing tales from the golf course. The legacy of Thatcher remains well documented. You know the one; three million unemployed, a booming economy at the end of the 1980s. the disappearance of the mining industry, argy bargy altercations with the trade unions and then roaring acclaim, praise and adulation when late 1980s prosperity became both fashionable and welcomed. Oh don't forget those huge mobile phones.
Alas for Theresa May the whole furiously contentious subject of Brexit and all of the fall out that has now resulted in such wretched confusion, may well be her downfall. Here is a woman surrounded by the kind of people she thought she had unwavering faith in her government, her style and her way of doing things. Sadly though this is not the way it's going to be. Promises were broken, guarantees just casually forgotten in the heat of the moment and agreements torn up without even a second thought.
So it is that we reach the turning point, the point of no return. You remembered the lady with a slightly awkward posture, her failure to convince the sceptics, that crazy dance routine and concluded that all that wholehearted endeavour, all of those tight, well meaning smiles were just a token gesture in a battle she was always likely to lose. Your heart goes out to an honourable, well intentioned woman who was fully aware of her deficiencies but knew in our heart of hearts that her outrageous optimism, bloody minded perseverance and insatiable desire to win over her doubters would ever lead to a successful conclusion.
But here we are at the end of another torturous week for Theresa May, the clouds are gathering overhead and the days are ticking by towards what now seems like the last chapter for that nice woman at Downing Street. It's hard to know what the future holds for Mrs May because the current state of British politics is so highly charged and combustible that at any time shortly history the smell of smouldering smoke could still be drifting into the Westminster air for some time.
This is not the time for bitterness or recriminations but it is hard to escape the feeling that the most deeply unenviable job of them all will probably never find the right fit. Who on earth would want to be the Prime Minister of the UK? Maybe the blond bombshell who stands for Uxbridge is ready and waiting. Boris Johnson - your country awaits you. It hardly seems possible but then we do live in the most ludicrous of political times. Hold on everybody. It could be an eventful summer for the citizens of Westminster.
Sunday, 19 May 2019
Manchester City complete the domestic treble- FA Cup winners
Manchester City complete the domestic treble- FA Cup winners.
At the beginning of the Premier League season it must have seemed like mission impossible. Surely Manchester City couldn't do it all over again. But they did and when referee Kevin Friend blew the final whistle for the 2019 FA Cup Final, the hordes of light blue and white shirted City fans must have thought they were in some far away fantasy land where everything was just perfect and blissful.
You began to think back nostalgically to those days when City were deep in the basement of the old Third Division going nowhere. There was the famous play off Final at Wembley when City could only marginally squeeze past Gillingham at Wembley and then eventually gain promotion back to the Premier League. But now the decades have passed, the gloom lifted and everything they might have been hoping for has come true.
How long ago it seems since the now strolling minstrels of the Premier League were the laughing stock of English football, the veritable court jesters, those hilarious circus clowns who kept tripping over buckets of water and then just ended up in an embarrassed, crumpled heap on the floor. City were the obvious targets of satire and parody, the stand up comedy club circuit, Private Eye and Viz. You name it City were the authors of their own gag books and you couldn't help but laugh at the time.
But now City are done with the provincial theatres, done with all those exhausting miles on the road where the only thing they could look forward to was a wet January night at Gillingham or a freezing mid week scrap at Bradford City. Of course they've suffered the horrendous embarrassments, the demeaning giggles at Grimsby and then the shamefaced absurdities that had to be experienced because nobody at the London Palladium that was the Premier League wanted to know them.
The club who used to be top of the bill were now condemned to a cramped and claustrophobic dressing room with old bottles of booze in the corner and a couple of grotty handkerchiefs for good measure. Wind forward to the present day and the transformation is complete, the miserable old days are now well and truly behind them and yesterday Manchester City completed the most breathtaking of all achievements.
By beating a helpless and severely wounded Watford 6-0 in the FA Cup Final Manchester City have wrapped up a domestic treble of Carabao Cup aka the League Cup, the Premier League and now the FA Cup. They have booked their place in football's gleaming record books. City are now no mere flashes in the pan, transient visitors passing through, temporary guests, on lookers, nervous observers curious to know what was going on. City are now participants, the specially appointed ones, the ones who deserve the recognition because football may well have been deeply unkind to them in the past. And besides, who wants to be in the shadows when things get difficult? Certainly not City.
Yesterday Manchester City once again defied superlatives, proverbs, pronouns, adverbs, metaphors, similes, comparisons and parallels. You could resort quite freely to those familiar descriptions that may well have been used in any commentary of a City performance. But then you'd be forgiven for once again repeating them, highlighting them and then waxing lyrical about them. They are the words and sentences that seemed to fit so snugly in any reference to Manchester City.
Once again City's football seemed to enter a whole new dimension, an Olympian pinnacle of greatness, a supreme summit of excellence, the highest podium, the top table with the captain. Against Watford, City were just exceptional, angelic, pure, ethereal, extraordinary, the stateliest of them all, a force of nature and above all seemingly unbeatable.
There were one or two specific moments during the second half of the FA Cup Final when you thought you were witnessing the most glorious work of art. Surely a Constable or maybe even a Turner. It could have been a lovingly drawn landscape or a portrait, rich colours delicately dabbed onto a well positioned canvas, a lavish feast for the eyes.
And then there was that golden moment when City seemed to have written up a binding contractual agreement before the game which stated that at no time should Watford ever touch the ball. In fact City seemed to have placed an embargo on City on Watford venturing over the half way, so resounding was Pep Guardiola's side dominance. Watford were forbidden from playing and that had to be the last word. City were a joy to behold, passing and passing and then passing the ball amongst themselves as if it were a parcel at a children's birthday party. It was hypnotic and bewildering but powerful and profound, a sheer perfection for which there was nothing else to say on the matter.
Manchester City are now a team of completeness, class and breeding, footballing pass masters, pioneers and radicals, a team designed by the most educated minds and deepest thinkers. Half way through the game, when the game was now completely lost for Watford, City gratefully took possession of the ball for what seemed to be the best part of fifteen minutes or so. Now they just tapped, flicked, flip flopped and joyfully protected the ball reminding you instantly of the kids in the school playground who, once they'd received the ball, would just hold on it, rushing back into their classrooms and hiding it discreetly in the science lab.
For this is what City were yesterday, souls of discretion, models of subtlety and diplomacy, cunning and refinement, wit and sensitivity. There was a beauty and diversity about City's game that we've now been privileged to watch for two seasons. Their football had a sleekness and sultry sensuality that most of us are now only well too accustomed to seeing. At first it looked as though City were just being experimental with the ball, testing it for future use before once again recycling it with short, snappy passes just for show. This would then be followed by the sharply penetrative pass along the ground that left Watford all tied up and longing for the final whistle.
Before you could blink the City goals came like a torrential flood of rain. After dawdling and losing possession on the half way line, Watford were left high and dry. After the brilliant Raheem Sterling had had his shot briefly blocked, City went on the rampage. A ball floated precisely in the direction of the evergreen David Silva who pulled away and then drilled the ball past the Watford goalkeeper Gomes and into the back of the net. City now had the game in a vice like grip.
By the time the impeccable Vincent Kompany, Kyle Walker, Aymeric Laporte and Oleksander Zinchenko had locked up the gates for City at the back, Watford were facing another impenetrable light blue City wall. Not for the first time the excellent Bernardo Silva started overlapping on the wing for City and then broke open the yellow and black Hornets of Watford like a persistent bank robber. Silva had now become a leading contender for man of the match.
Silva was now wholly responsible for City's second when another exquisitely weighted ball found Gabriel Jesus whose careful shot was gleefully bundled into the net by Raheem Sterling. A two goal lead for City provided the most comfortable of cushions for the team in light blue. City's football had now assumed an altogether different type of shade and complexion. Their passing put you in the mind of a potter's wheel, clay gently manipulated and then presented for an admiring audience.
When the hugely gifted Kevin De Bruyne came on as a sub for City, Watford must have known what was about to follow. It is rather like being forewarned by the local council that one of those famous old industrial chimneys that had to be blown up. De Bruyne it was who sprinted through the centre of the Wembley pitch like a bolt of lightning and then, from another Bernardo Silva break, took the neatest of balls to drive the ball ferociously home for another City goal.
Now the game turned into a royal procession for City. With a Watford defence almost evaporating in front of them and now beyond redemption, |City pounced again and again. Gabriel Jesus seemed to almost glide past the charred ruins, powering home yet another City goal. This was not so much damage limitation for Watford more a case of stopping the rot. We were witnessing something very special, unique and historic and those devoted City supporters were not about to leave Wembley at any time.
Towards the end City were just looting and pillaging Watford's goal for more of the same again. Bernardo Silva, not for the first time, just peeled open the soft and sopping layers of the Watford defence before stroking the ball easily to Raheem Sterling who, for personal reasons, took great delight in scoring another City goal. Sterling grew up near the distinctive arch of Wembley and in the light of all of those deplorable racist obscenities, Sterling would have privately revelled in his scoring pomp. When Sterling applied the finishing touch from another piece of De Bruyne magic for the sixth goal, the Cup was City's and a respectful hush fell over North London. The demolition job had been done.
For just a few fleeting minutes you remembered the two men who once so decorated the old Wembley stadium with their presence. There was Tony Book, that defensive rock from City's old FA Cup winning side of 1969 accompanied by Watford's Luther Blissett who ended up on the wrong side of defeat when the Hornets were beaten by Howard Kendall's Everton in 1984. Wembley always has a warm welcome for those who have trodden its lush green acres. If only Flanagan and Allen had been around to see those Wembley arches.
At the beginning of the Premier League season it must have seemed like mission impossible. Surely Manchester City couldn't do it all over again. But they did and when referee Kevin Friend blew the final whistle for the 2019 FA Cup Final, the hordes of light blue and white shirted City fans must have thought they were in some far away fantasy land where everything was just perfect and blissful.
You began to think back nostalgically to those days when City were deep in the basement of the old Third Division going nowhere. There was the famous play off Final at Wembley when City could only marginally squeeze past Gillingham at Wembley and then eventually gain promotion back to the Premier League. But now the decades have passed, the gloom lifted and everything they might have been hoping for has come true.
How long ago it seems since the now strolling minstrels of the Premier League were the laughing stock of English football, the veritable court jesters, those hilarious circus clowns who kept tripping over buckets of water and then just ended up in an embarrassed, crumpled heap on the floor. City were the obvious targets of satire and parody, the stand up comedy club circuit, Private Eye and Viz. You name it City were the authors of their own gag books and you couldn't help but laugh at the time.
But now City are done with the provincial theatres, done with all those exhausting miles on the road where the only thing they could look forward to was a wet January night at Gillingham or a freezing mid week scrap at Bradford City. Of course they've suffered the horrendous embarrassments, the demeaning giggles at Grimsby and then the shamefaced absurdities that had to be experienced because nobody at the London Palladium that was the Premier League wanted to know them.
The club who used to be top of the bill were now condemned to a cramped and claustrophobic dressing room with old bottles of booze in the corner and a couple of grotty handkerchiefs for good measure. Wind forward to the present day and the transformation is complete, the miserable old days are now well and truly behind them and yesterday Manchester City completed the most breathtaking of all achievements.
By beating a helpless and severely wounded Watford 6-0 in the FA Cup Final Manchester City have wrapped up a domestic treble of Carabao Cup aka the League Cup, the Premier League and now the FA Cup. They have booked their place in football's gleaming record books. City are now no mere flashes in the pan, transient visitors passing through, temporary guests, on lookers, nervous observers curious to know what was going on. City are now participants, the specially appointed ones, the ones who deserve the recognition because football may well have been deeply unkind to them in the past. And besides, who wants to be in the shadows when things get difficult? Certainly not City.
Yesterday Manchester City once again defied superlatives, proverbs, pronouns, adverbs, metaphors, similes, comparisons and parallels. You could resort quite freely to those familiar descriptions that may well have been used in any commentary of a City performance. But then you'd be forgiven for once again repeating them, highlighting them and then waxing lyrical about them. They are the words and sentences that seemed to fit so snugly in any reference to Manchester City.
Once again City's football seemed to enter a whole new dimension, an Olympian pinnacle of greatness, a supreme summit of excellence, the highest podium, the top table with the captain. Against Watford, City were just exceptional, angelic, pure, ethereal, extraordinary, the stateliest of them all, a force of nature and above all seemingly unbeatable.
There were one or two specific moments during the second half of the FA Cup Final when you thought you were witnessing the most glorious work of art. Surely a Constable or maybe even a Turner. It could have been a lovingly drawn landscape or a portrait, rich colours delicately dabbed onto a well positioned canvas, a lavish feast for the eyes.
And then there was that golden moment when City seemed to have written up a binding contractual agreement before the game which stated that at no time should Watford ever touch the ball. In fact City seemed to have placed an embargo on City on Watford venturing over the half way, so resounding was Pep Guardiola's side dominance. Watford were forbidden from playing and that had to be the last word. City were a joy to behold, passing and passing and then passing the ball amongst themselves as if it were a parcel at a children's birthday party. It was hypnotic and bewildering but powerful and profound, a sheer perfection for which there was nothing else to say on the matter.
Manchester City are now a team of completeness, class and breeding, footballing pass masters, pioneers and radicals, a team designed by the most educated minds and deepest thinkers. Half way through the game, when the game was now completely lost for Watford, City gratefully took possession of the ball for what seemed to be the best part of fifteen minutes or so. Now they just tapped, flicked, flip flopped and joyfully protected the ball reminding you instantly of the kids in the school playground who, once they'd received the ball, would just hold on it, rushing back into their classrooms and hiding it discreetly in the science lab.
For this is what City were yesterday, souls of discretion, models of subtlety and diplomacy, cunning and refinement, wit and sensitivity. There was a beauty and diversity about City's game that we've now been privileged to watch for two seasons. Their football had a sleekness and sultry sensuality that most of us are now only well too accustomed to seeing. At first it looked as though City were just being experimental with the ball, testing it for future use before once again recycling it with short, snappy passes just for show. This would then be followed by the sharply penetrative pass along the ground that left Watford all tied up and longing for the final whistle.
Before you could blink the City goals came like a torrential flood of rain. After dawdling and losing possession on the half way line, Watford were left high and dry. After the brilliant Raheem Sterling had had his shot briefly blocked, City went on the rampage. A ball floated precisely in the direction of the evergreen David Silva who pulled away and then drilled the ball past the Watford goalkeeper Gomes and into the back of the net. City now had the game in a vice like grip.
By the time the impeccable Vincent Kompany, Kyle Walker, Aymeric Laporte and Oleksander Zinchenko had locked up the gates for City at the back, Watford were facing another impenetrable light blue City wall. Not for the first time the excellent Bernardo Silva started overlapping on the wing for City and then broke open the yellow and black Hornets of Watford like a persistent bank robber. Silva had now become a leading contender for man of the match.
Silva was now wholly responsible for City's second when another exquisitely weighted ball found Gabriel Jesus whose careful shot was gleefully bundled into the net by Raheem Sterling. A two goal lead for City provided the most comfortable of cushions for the team in light blue. City's football had now assumed an altogether different type of shade and complexion. Their passing put you in the mind of a potter's wheel, clay gently manipulated and then presented for an admiring audience.
When the hugely gifted Kevin De Bruyne came on as a sub for City, Watford must have known what was about to follow. It is rather like being forewarned by the local council that one of those famous old industrial chimneys that had to be blown up. De Bruyne it was who sprinted through the centre of the Wembley pitch like a bolt of lightning and then, from another Bernardo Silva break, took the neatest of balls to drive the ball ferociously home for another City goal.
Now the game turned into a royal procession for City. With a Watford defence almost evaporating in front of them and now beyond redemption, |City pounced again and again. Gabriel Jesus seemed to almost glide past the charred ruins, powering home yet another City goal. This was not so much damage limitation for Watford more a case of stopping the rot. We were witnessing something very special, unique and historic and those devoted City supporters were not about to leave Wembley at any time.
Towards the end City were just looting and pillaging Watford's goal for more of the same again. Bernardo Silva, not for the first time, just peeled open the soft and sopping layers of the Watford defence before stroking the ball easily to Raheem Sterling who, for personal reasons, took great delight in scoring another City goal. Sterling grew up near the distinctive arch of Wembley and in the light of all of those deplorable racist obscenities, Sterling would have privately revelled in his scoring pomp. When Sterling applied the finishing touch from another piece of De Bruyne magic for the sixth goal, the Cup was City's and a respectful hush fell over North London. The demolition job had been done.
For just a few fleeting minutes you remembered the two men who once so decorated the old Wembley stadium with their presence. There was Tony Book, that defensive rock from City's old FA Cup winning side of 1969 accompanied by Watford's Luther Blissett who ended up on the wrong side of defeat when the Hornets were beaten by Howard Kendall's Everton in 1984. Wembley always has a warm welcome for those who have trodden its lush green acres. If only Flanagan and Allen had been around to see those Wembley arches.
Thursday, 16 May 2019
Hotel Manor House.
Hotel Manor House.
Here in the heart of North London suburbia we are now surrounded by hotels, luxury apartments, huge tower blocks and so many noises that you'd be forgiven for thinking that you were living next to a pop music festival in full spate or next to Liverpool's Anfield. Maybe it reminds you of the more geographically correct and new Spurs ground which has just opened nearby. Nobody can possibly foresee an end to all of this building, re-building, hauling, lifting and heaving. Suffice it to say that they could be here for some time. Slowly but surely as they say.
At the moment all you can hear is a constant beeping, grinding, wailing and whining, enormous cranes swinging from side to side in a constantly balletic fashion. In fact there is something distinctly graceful about the whole operation in as much that everything seems to be moving in a very deliberate and orderly fashion.
There is a sense in these parts that by the end of all this wondrously ambitious construction work the builders will leap up and down with joy, throw their hard hats into the air exultantly, celebrate in that very manly way that comes so naturally to men and then do the conga down Green Lanes. They may well converge en masse to the pub where several amber coloured pints of lager will undoubtedly be consumed.
But across the road from us a brand new Travelodge hotel is taking shape and given the abundance of bed and breakfast hotels around here, it does seem totally in keeping with the character of the Manor House area. Thick blocks of concrete are being driven into the ground and the columns are rising into the air with a robust solidity. There are makeshift fences separating all of the half built bedrooms, builders wandering purposefully around every floor and an overwhelming feeling that here is a work in progress that can only be wholly beneficial to the environment.
Still, the fond thought occurs to you that hordes of tourists and holidaymakers from all over the world will inevitably descend on this North London paradise. The holiday season is upon us and Manor House could well become the new Costa Del Sol or some very exotic location where only a lack of striking palm trees and convivial bottles of sangria sets Manor House apart from its Spanish counterpart.
Sadly, there are none of the sprawling beaches that you would normally associate with the traditional seaside resort. We do have the magnificent Woodberry Wetlands which on a warm summer's day has so much to offer the inquisitive holiday maker. There are small colonies of duck, geese and swans blithely going about their business without a care in the world. At one end of the Wetlands there is a cafe with the very latest in organic cakes and biscuits where families take their children on those incessantly warm summer days. Prams and pushchairs come face to face with cute children's bikes and Manor House will resound to exuberant toddlers just happy to be alive.
It is quite the prettiest and most heavenly of havens where endless days of summer sunshine will hopefully play host to those seasonal family picnics. Then there are the leisurely walks by a children's playground with its very own wigwam and the elusive butterflies that flit and flutter playfully between the bulrushes. The hotels of Manor House are ready and waiting to welcome their new guests. It should be quite a summer.
Here in the heart of North London suburbia we are now surrounded by hotels, luxury apartments, huge tower blocks and so many noises that you'd be forgiven for thinking that you were living next to a pop music festival in full spate or next to Liverpool's Anfield. Maybe it reminds you of the more geographically correct and new Spurs ground which has just opened nearby. Nobody can possibly foresee an end to all of this building, re-building, hauling, lifting and heaving. Suffice it to say that they could be here for some time. Slowly but surely as they say.
At the moment all you can hear is a constant beeping, grinding, wailing and whining, enormous cranes swinging from side to side in a constantly balletic fashion. In fact there is something distinctly graceful about the whole operation in as much that everything seems to be moving in a very deliberate and orderly fashion.
There is a sense in these parts that by the end of all this wondrously ambitious construction work the builders will leap up and down with joy, throw their hard hats into the air exultantly, celebrate in that very manly way that comes so naturally to men and then do the conga down Green Lanes. They may well converge en masse to the pub where several amber coloured pints of lager will undoubtedly be consumed.
But across the road from us a brand new Travelodge hotel is taking shape and given the abundance of bed and breakfast hotels around here, it does seem totally in keeping with the character of the Manor House area. Thick blocks of concrete are being driven into the ground and the columns are rising into the air with a robust solidity. There are makeshift fences separating all of the half built bedrooms, builders wandering purposefully around every floor and an overwhelming feeling that here is a work in progress that can only be wholly beneficial to the environment.
Still, the fond thought occurs to you that hordes of tourists and holidaymakers from all over the world will inevitably descend on this North London paradise. The holiday season is upon us and Manor House could well become the new Costa Del Sol or some very exotic location where only a lack of striking palm trees and convivial bottles of sangria sets Manor House apart from its Spanish counterpart.
Sadly, there are none of the sprawling beaches that you would normally associate with the traditional seaside resort. We do have the magnificent Woodberry Wetlands which on a warm summer's day has so much to offer the inquisitive holiday maker. There are small colonies of duck, geese and swans blithely going about their business without a care in the world. At one end of the Wetlands there is a cafe with the very latest in organic cakes and biscuits where families take their children on those incessantly warm summer days. Prams and pushchairs come face to face with cute children's bikes and Manor House will resound to exuberant toddlers just happy to be alive.
It is quite the prettiest and most heavenly of havens where endless days of summer sunshine will hopefully play host to those seasonal family picnics. Then there are the leisurely walks by a children's playground with its very own wigwam and the elusive butterflies that flit and flutter playfully between the bulrushes. The hotels of Manor House are ready and waiting to welcome their new guests. It should be quite a summer.
Monday, 13 May 2019
Manchester City win the Premier League title their way.
Manchester City win the Premier League their way.
And so the curtain falls on quite the most stunning Premier League title chase for roughly a decade during which Manchester City's noisy neighbours United were conquering the whole of England and Sir Alex Ferguson could hardly stop grinning from ear to ear. Roll forward to the present day and Manchester City are the ones stealing everybody's thunder with the kind of football that most of us could only sit back and admire from a distance because those who like their football laced with the finest garnish, seasoning and purity would never ever be disappointed.
Yesterday at Brighton, Manchester City confirmed back to back Premier League titles with a classical mastery of the game's more refined arts, that indefinable sense of style and artistry, a gorgeous demonstration of the passing game and that rare ability to make the simple look even simpler. There was an authenticity about City's game that never stopped giving, a real sense that this was the truth, the real thing, nothing forced, false or hurried about their game.
After Brighton had taken an early lead City simply took a deep breath, counted to ten and just rolled up their sleeves as if this were just a temporary setback, nothing to worry about. A minute later Sergio Aguero finished off the sweetest of City's moves with a trademark equaliser and nothing had been damaged at all. No problem at all. Just take it easy and it'll all work out for the best.
At Anfield Liverpool, who had chased City admirably for the entire season and given all that they had in reserve, did what they had to do by beating one of the best of the rest in Wolves. With barely an inch between City and Liverpool in the end of season's fight to the bitter end, nerves teetering on the edge and pulses racing, City finally shook off their brave contenders in much the way we probably knew they would eventually.
In the end we knew, as the pundits have always told us, that it would all be about fine margins, delicate pivotal moments when either Liverpool would run out of steam or City would just keep ploughing forward relentlessly in search of the promised land. For Liverpool all of that straining, striving and gritting of teeth was somehow insufficient. They knew at some point that Manchester City might falter and stumble at the final hurdle. City, though, would still have an extra tank of petrol and therefore look infinitely more resourceful than we might have given them credit for.
For a minute or two we harked back to the Liverpool and Wolves of that final game at Molineux over 40 years ago when Kevin Keegan and John Toshack sent Liverpool fans into wild and delighted raptures. With Queens Park Rangers breathing down Liverpool's neck and poised to snatch the old First Division championship, Keegan and Toshack shared the goals with smash and grab relish in their eyes. Liverpool won the old First Division championship but have now gone almost 30 years without what is now known as the Premier League trophy. It is far too long and it may be about time to rectify matters in the immediate future.
Still, back at the Etihad Stadium the celebrations were under way, the grey stubbled genius who is Pep Guardiola was being thrown up into the air like a rag doll, gallons of champagne were being deliriously sprayed around North West England and some of us were still taking it all in. This is happening, City have won the Premier League yet again and, when all is said and done, deservedly for art and beauty should always be rewarded.
Liverpool of course may still have the Champions League as a consolation prize when they face Spurs in the Champions League Final on June 1. But to long standing and fanatical Koppites, who have been observing, swooning and drooling over Liverpool sides since Bill Shankly and Bob Paisley's glorious eras, the failure to clinch another League title may be considered as more than a blow to their considerable pride.
But then a German gentleman by the name of Jurgen Klopp stood for a minute or two after the final whistle had gone and simply surveyed the scene with what looked like the beginnings of an emotional lump in his throat. How close had Liverpool pushed City all the way, oh for the valour in defeat and if only things had turned out differently for Liverpool. If only Klopp had made vitally important tactical changes at the right moment and the right time then the team in red from Merseyside would be lifting the Premier League. Maybe next season Jurgen Klopp. If justice is seen to be done then you never know.
And so the curtain falls on quite the most stunning Premier League title chase for roughly a decade during which Manchester City's noisy neighbours United were conquering the whole of England and Sir Alex Ferguson could hardly stop grinning from ear to ear. Roll forward to the present day and Manchester City are the ones stealing everybody's thunder with the kind of football that most of us could only sit back and admire from a distance because those who like their football laced with the finest garnish, seasoning and purity would never ever be disappointed.
Yesterday at Brighton, Manchester City confirmed back to back Premier League titles with a classical mastery of the game's more refined arts, that indefinable sense of style and artistry, a gorgeous demonstration of the passing game and that rare ability to make the simple look even simpler. There was an authenticity about City's game that never stopped giving, a real sense that this was the truth, the real thing, nothing forced, false or hurried about their game.
After Brighton had taken an early lead City simply took a deep breath, counted to ten and just rolled up their sleeves as if this were just a temporary setback, nothing to worry about. A minute later Sergio Aguero finished off the sweetest of City's moves with a trademark equaliser and nothing had been damaged at all. No problem at all. Just take it easy and it'll all work out for the best.
At Anfield Liverpool, who had chased City admirably for the entire season and given all that they had in reserve, did what they had to do by beating one of the best of the rest in Wolves. With barely an inch between City and Liverpool in the end of season's fight to the bitter end, nerves teetering on the edge and pulses racing, City finally shook off their brave contenders in much the way we probably knew they would eventually.
In the end we knew, as the pundits have always told us, that it would all be about fine margins, delicate pivotal moments when either Liverpool would run out of steam or City would just keep ploughing forward relentlessly in search of the promised land. For Liverpool all of that straining, striving and gritting of teeth was somehow insufficient. They knew at some point that Manchester City might falter and stumble at the final hurdle. City, though, would still have an extra tank of petrol and therefore look infinitely more resourceful than we might have given them credit for.
For a minute or two we harked back to the Liverpool and Wolves of that final game at Molineux over 40 years ago when Kevin Keegan and John Toshack sent Liverpool fans into wild and delighted raptures. With Queens Park Rangers breathing down Liverpool's neck and poised to snatch the old First Division championship, Keegan and Toshack shared the goals with smash and grab relish in their eyes. Liverpool won the old First Division championship but have now gone almost 30 years without what is now known as the Premier League trophy. It is far too long and it may be about time to rectify matters in the immediate future.
Still, back at the Etihad Stadium the celebrations were under way, the grey stubbled genius who is Pep Guardiola was being thrown up into the air like a rag doll, gallons of champagne were being deliriously sprayed around North West England and some of us were still taking it all in. This is happening, City have won the Premier League yet again and, when all is said and done, deservedly for art and beauty should always be rewarded.
Liverpool of course may still have the Champions League as a consolation prize when they face Spurs in the Champions League Final on June 1. But to long standing and fanatical Koppites, who have been observing, swooning and drooling over Liverpool sides since Bill Shankly and Bob Paisley's glorious eras, the failure to clinch another League title may be considered as more than a blow to their considerable pride.
But then a German gentleman by the name of Jurgen Klopp stood for a minute or two after the final whistle had gone and simply surveyed the scene with what looked like the beginnings of an emotional lump in his throat. How close had Liverpool pushed City all the way, oh for the valour in defeat and if only things had turned out differently for Liverpool. If only Klopp had made vitally important tactical changes at the right moment and the right time then the team in red from Merseyside would be lifting the Premier League. Maybe next season Jurgen Klopp. If justice is seen to be done then you never know.
Thursday, 9 May 2019
Spurs and Liverpool clinch memorable Champions League Final places.
Spurs and Liverpool clinch memorable Champions League Final places.
If English football has ever known such a triumphant night then some of us have yet to see it. Miracles do indeed happen and this week those two famous English aristocracies proved once again that even if the rest of Europe does look at Britain with a chuckling derision it can still look at the rest of the world in the eye. It does seem that she can still claim that its football teams can reach a major Champions League Final without any feeling of shame or self consciousness.
Last night Tottenham hauled themselves out of the deepest hole in Holland by beating Ajax Amsterdam when the form book suggested that they needn't have bothered to get on a plane let alone step onto a Dutch footballing pitch. Seven days ago Spurs had been played off the park at their new Tottenham Hotspur Stadium and Ajax scored an important away goal to take back to Holland. But then it all unravelled for the once unbeatable Ajax.
For the first hour or so Ajax seemed to be gliding imperiously to a Champions League Final with a now comfortable two goal cushion on the night and nothing to get in their way. But all of that plain logic turned into a spectacular false dawn when Lucas Moura, deputising for the lethal Harry Kane, scored perhaps one of the most momentous hat-tricks of his career and Spurs were through to their first Champions League final. The world had been turned upside down, inside out and then left us speechless and dumbfounded.
On Tuesday Liverpool had sealed their place in the Champions League Final, returning back to the same competition and same position as last season when they were soundly beaten and just overcome by the big occasion. Gareth Bale's stupendous overhead scissors kick was just one of the many delightful jewels to be displayed by Real Madrid in their comprehensive demolition of Liverpool in Ukraine.
So how is it that against all the odds and against all plausible probabilities Spurs and Liverpool both managed to recover and compose themselves when near certain exit from the Champions League seemed only a matter of time. Sometimes sport can play strange tricks with the mind, where the law of averages counts for nothing, somehow catching you out when least expected.
Facing what appeared to be inevitable defeats, both Spurs and Liverpool picked themselves up from the ground, wiped away the dust and carnage left behind in the first leg of their matches and just showed the rest of Britain exactly they were both capable of. They staggered to their feet, brushed themselves off with an almost effortless swagger before performing the most astonishing comeback since Frank Sinatra strode onto a stage at 75.
It is though now hard to choose between these two well balanced English footballing treasures, these masters of the short passing game who will come together on June 1 in Madrid for what promises to be one of the most pulsating exhibitions of football to be put before a Champions League Final audience. For the first time since Manchester United beat Chelsea 11 years ago both Spurs and Liverpool face up against each other in a collision of attack minded cultures.
In 1972 though, the more nostalgic among Tottenham supporters may care to think back to their team's much acclaimed victory against Wolves in the UEFA Cup Final. Played over two legs Spurs overcame Wolves with football of the highest class, originality and precision. Spurs had the tall and domineering Alan Gilzean, the hurrying, scurrying and equally as graceful Ralph Coates with Martin Chivers holding up the ball in exemplary style while always heading the ball with power and consistency.
Liverpool of course have been this way before on numerous occasions. Now five time winners of the Champions League Liverpool bring a handsome pedigree and aura about them that even the most impartial can only drool over with admiration. In 1977 the now sadly missed Tommy Smith rose wondrously to head home Liverpool's first goal in their 3-1 dismissal of Borussia Monchengladbach and Emlyn Hughes gave us the biggest smile ever seen in European Cup Final history.
The following year Liverpool did it all over again when this time a very poor and limited Bruges were only beaten by Kenny Dalglish's goal. But they were never likely to disturb the Anfield's side composure and as Wembley greeted yet another British victory in the competition Liverpool found themselves on the verge of greatness. In 1968 of course Manchester United had followed Celtic's lead by bringing back the European Cup in a 4-1 destruction at the old Wembley but Liverpool had now regained the limelight.
In !981 Liverpool were once again at the forefront of European football attentions and headline makers into the bargain. An Alan Kennedy goal was enough to see off a disappointing Real Madrid in Paris. The European Cup had been securely tied with red ribbons. It would take Liverpool another 36 years to re-capture that highly coveted trophy now known as the Champions League. In quite the most extraordinary turn around Liverpool mounted an incredible fightback to wipe out the 3-0 half time lead that AC Milan had established in Istanbul.
This time though there are no Steven Gerrards around to provide the inspiration and this time it'll be left up to an Egyptian, Brazilian and Dutchman to open up a slightly jittery, leaky and porous Spurs defence. True, Tottenham have enjoyed an often quite brilliant season but with the dropped points against West Ham and Bournemouth Liverpool may feel they can catch Tottenham off their guard.
On reflection though this has been the kind of week that very few of us could ever have seen coming. But given the monumental size of the task that both Spurs and Liverpool are up against perhaps we can look forward to another goal carnival in the Champions League Final itself. Sport, particularly, can often take you to the very extremes of emotion when the mood takes it. Sport can often leave you with misleading impressions or just remain joyously unpredictable. It is to be hoped though that when Spurs take the field against Liverpool for this year's Champions League final nobody will know quite what to expect. Roll up, roll up and get your tickets now.
If English football has ever known such a triumphant night then some of us have yet to see it. Miracles do indeed happen and this week those two famous English aristocracies proved once again that even if the rest of Europe does look at Britain with a chuckling derision it can still look at the rest of the world in the eye. It does seem that she can still claim that its football teams can reach a major Champions League Final without any feeling of shame or self consciousness.
Last night Tottenham hauled themselves out of the deepest hole in Holland by beating Ajax Amsterdam when the form book suggested that they needn't have bothered to get on a plane let alone step onto a Dutch footballing pitch. Seven days ago Spurs had been played off the park at their new Tottenham Hotspur Stadium and Ajax scored an important away goal to take back to Holland. But then it all unravelled for the once unbeatable Ajax.
For the first hour or so Ajax seemed to be gliding imperiously to a Champions League Final with a now comfortable two goal cushion on the night and nothing to get in their way. But all of that plain logic turned into a spectacular false dawn when Lucas Moura, deputising for the lethal Harry Kane, scored perhaps one of the most momentous hat-tricks of his career and Spurs were through to their first Champions League final. The world had been turned upside down, inside out and then left us speechless and dumbfounded.
On Tuesday Liverpool had sealed their place in the Champions League Final, returning back to the same competition and same position as last season when they were soundly beaten and just overcome by the big occasion. Gareth Bale's stupendous overhead scissors kick was just one of the many delightful jewels to be displayed by Real Madrid in their comprehensive demolition of Liverpool in Ukraine.
So how is it that against all the odds and against all plausible probabilities Spurs and Liverpool both managed to recover and compose themselves when near certain exit from the Champions League seemed only a matter of time. Sometimes sport can play strange tricks with the mind, where the law of averages counts for nothing, somehow catching you out when least expected.
Facing what appeared to be inevitable defeats, both Spurs and Liverpool picked themselves up from the ground, wiped away the dust and carnage left behind in the first leg of their matches and just showed the rest of Britain exactly they were both capable of. They staggered to their feet, brushed themselves off with an almost effortless swagger before performing the most astonishing comeback since Frank Sinatra strode onto a stage at 75.
It is though now hard to choose between these two well balanced English footballing treasures, these masters of the short passing game who will come together on June 1 in Madrid for what promises to be one of the most pulsating exhibitions of football to be put before a Champions League Final audience. For the first time since Manchester United beat Chelsea 11 years ago both Spurs and Liverpool face up against each other in a collision of attack minded cultures.
In 1972 though, the more nostalgic among Tottenham supporters may care to think back to their team's much acclaimed victory against Wolves in the UEFA Cup Final. Played over two legs Spurs overcame Wolves with football of the highest class, originality and precision. Spurs had the tall and domineering Alan Gilzean, the hurrying, scurrying and equally as graceful Ralph Coates with Martin Chivers holding up the ball in exemplary style while always heading the ball with power and consistency.
Liverpool of course have been this way before on numerous occasions. Now five time winners of the Champions League Liverpool bring a handsome pedigree and aura about them that even the most impartial can only drool over with admiration. In 1977 the now sadly missed Tommy Smith rose wondrously to head home Liverpool's first goal in their 3-1 dismissal of Borussia Monchengladbach and Emlyn Hughes gave us the biggest smile ever seen in European Cup Final history.
The following year Liverpool did it all over again when this time a very poor and limited Bruges were only beaten by Kenny Dalglish's goal. But they were never likely to disturb the Anfield's side composure and as Wembley greeted yet another British victory in the competition Liverpool found themselves on the verge of greatness. In 1968 of course Manchester United had followed Celtic's lead by bringing back the European Cup in a 4-1 destruction at the old Wembley but Liverpool had now regained the limelight.
In !981 Liverpool were once again at the forefront of European football attentions and headline makers into the bargain. An Alan Kennedy goal was enough to see off a disappointing Real Madrid in Paris. The European Cup had been securely tied with red ribbons. It would take Liverpool another 36 years to re-capture that highly coveted trophy now known as the Champions League. In quite the most extraordinary turn around Liverpool mounted an incredible fightback to wipe out the 3-0 half time lead that AC Milan had established in Istanbul.
This time though there are no Steven Gerrards around to provide the inspiration and this time it'll be left up to an Egyptian, Brazilian and Dutchman to open up a slightly jittery, leaky and porous Spurs defence. True, Tottenham have enjoyed an often quite brilliant season but with the dropped points against West Ham and Bournemouth Liverpool may feel they can catch Tottenham off their guard.
On reflection though this has been the kind of week that very few of us could ever have seen coming. But given the monumental size of the task that both Spurs and Liverpool are up against perhaps we can look forward to another goal carnival in the Champions League Final itself. Sport, particularly, can often take you to the very extremes of emotion when the mood takes it. Sport can often leave you with misleading impressions or just remain joyously unpredictable. It is to be hoped though that when Spurs take the field against Liverpool for this year's Champions League final nobody will know quite what to expect. Roll up, roll up and get your tickets now.
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