West Ham flying high. It must be a dream.

West Ham flying high. It must be a dream.

• This is probably the last time you'll see the Premier League in its present incarnation. Besides, the wheels always seem to fall off and we are talking about West Ham United. If memory serves me correctly the last time West Ham were top of the old First Division was some time in the mid 1970s, ancient history and so long ago that it may just as well have been at some time during the Victorian period when chimney sweeps plied their trade scrubbing and scraping a meagre living. 

Yesterday West Ham finished the day in the exalted heights of third and some of us were just gulping our astonishment. After a hard earned 2-2 draw with Bournemouth at the Vitality Stadium even the south coast promenaders must have paused for breath at the candy floss stall. The seaside air is particularly invigorating at this time but for West Ham it had to be even more satisfying.

Last Wednesday evening West Ham performed one of their familiar music hall acts when they were demolished by League One Oxford United. Oxford's 4-0 victory over West Ham, amid the dreaming spires, was no figment of the imagination because, days after the Hammers attractive 2-0 victory against a struggling Manchester United West Ham fell over yet another banana skin. Only West Ham could beat football's aristocrats and then lose to the paupers. Of course the class divide between the Premier League and the rest of the Football League has now become much more of a level playing field.

So it is that West Ham are out of the Carabao Cup(formerly known as the League Cup) the brainchild of one Alan Hardaker, frequently regarded as one of the most old fashioned and conservative chairmen of the FA. With Manuel Pellegrini now into his second season at West Ham, there were wistful hopes in Stratford that this was the season when finally any kind of silverware would be decorating the West Ham trophy cabinet. Now though only the Premier League and the exciting possibility of a spirited FA Cup run starting in January can provide West Ham with crumbs of consolation, the latter being the most realistic option.


Still, if we concentrate on the present, it's comforting to know that West Ham have now reached double figures at the end of September. After the 5-0 mauling by Premier League champions Manchester City on the opening day of the season, West Ham have made comfortable progress into the early autumnal equinox with some consistently fluent performances, a pleasant combination of speed on the break, free flowing football and neat little tattoos of passes that have torn defences wide open.

Against Bournemouth in  a gripping, end to end game, West Ham once again counter attacked smoothly, broke with devastating ease and used the ball both constructively and with some fluidity. When the superb Felipe Anderson swung over a handsome diagonal pass into the path of striker Sebastian Haller, a goal was somehow seconds away. Haller trapped the ball perfectly, dragged the ball back to the classy Andriy Yarmolenko. The Ukranian turned his marker beautifully and curled the ball into the net for West Ham's deserved opener.

The red and black shirts of Bournemouth were not to be disheartened. Under manager Eddie Howe, the Cherries have carved out a niche for themselves in the Premier League. Some of Bournemouth's football is fit to put before football's most sophisticated connoisseurs, a liberal sprinkling of maple syrup and molasses. Their passing is quick, simple, crisp and metronomically accurate. There is a silkiness and purity about their football that reminds you of freshly washed sheets fluttering in the wind.

After Josh King had levelled for Bournemouth with a goal that seemed to take an age to clarify by VAR, West Ham briefly lost their bearings. Issa Diop and Angel Ogbanna looked ever so slightly ruffled in the heart of West Ham's now fragile central defence. The cutting edge had been dulled and only Declan Rice, Yarmolenko and Anderson managed to keep West Ham's heads above  water.

Seconds into the second half  Bournemouth were ahead in the game. Sluggish and inattentive at the back, Bournemouth's lethal and natural goal scorer Callum Wilson capitalised on West Ham sloppiness and lethargy. Wilson swept the ball past Lukaz Fabianski, the West Ham goalkeeper who would later have to go off the pitch with a worrying injury and West Ham panicked for the best part of twenty minutes or so.

Fortunately though Fabianski's injury setback served only to revitalise the away side who promptly moved forward with yet more stately attacking movements. Rice was venturing forward from defence with increasing confidence, captain Mark Noble was like a temperature gauge, always rotating the ball and recycling it with that calming influence that  West Ham fans have come to expect from him.

With nothing to lose West Ham sprung forward once again, throwing caution to the wind and sensing that Bournemouth's gung ho, carefree approach would eventually be rumbled. Another fairground carousel of passes near the half way line resulted in another long, raking ball to Haller who cushioned the ball back to the onrushing full back Aaron Cresswell who lashed the ball into the net for West Ham's equaliser. It may have taken a deflection but you wouldn't have heard any complaints from triumphant West Ham fans. Cresswell had scored his second goal in successive weeks.

And then the game petered out into a draw, a splendidly enjoyable and cracking game of football rather like the ones we used to see when both teams made a conscious effort to attack with complete freedom regardless of the consequences. At the end of it all, both teams shook hands reflecting all the while that altitude sickness may not be their paramount consideration. West Ham are up to third and Bournemouth are not that far behind them. For those with claret and blue allegiances this seems too good to be true. Still, we can enjoy it while it lasts. Long may it last.

The Jewish New Year

The Jewish New Year.

This is the weekend before all the fun starts. In homes around the globe, the entire Jewish population will be gathering to celebrate the beginning of yet another New Year. You'd be forgiven for thinking that any New Year festivity should be accompanied by several rousing choruses of  'Auld Lang Syne', excessive consumption of alcohol, much partying into the small hours of the morning, a good, old fashioned reminder from the heavily covered Big Ben and that unforgettable fireworks display by the River Thames.

But this is the Jewish New Year, Rosh Hashanah, with its wonderful references to all the sweet things in life, a time for prayer, harmonious singing and chanting, deep reflection, a pause for breath and then whispered discussions about apples and honey. There are lavish lunchtime feasts at friends and families dining rooms, chola( plaited Jewish bread), schmaltz herring, pickled herring, fried fish, potato salad, coleslaw, all washed down with cheeky red wines and gallons of tea and coffee.

Above all Rosh Hashanah is that time when Jews from all over the world come together and remember how good it is to be Jewish. It is the Head of the Year, that first page and chapter of our new book, that sweet rendezvous where Jewish people stop to share our innermost thoughts, for being warm and sincere, for wishing health, happiness and peace to not only our kith and kin but the whole world, which to all appearances, may well give the impression of being mad and dysfunctional but underneath it all, yearns desperately for much greater clarity and understanding.

So as a family we'll all congregate in shul(synagogue) an architectural wonder that has stood the test of times for centuries and continues to exert its timeless charm. We'll fling our talit(shawl) over our shoulders, place couple or kippa on our head and open our book at the appropriate page. For the spiritual and contemplative, this is one of the most special occasions in the Jewish calendar.

Personally Rosh Hashanah is truly one of the most heartwarming and uplifting festivals in the Jewish calendar. It is a time for being studious, grateful, composed, quiet, switching off from the rest of the world, lowering our heads, a few hours of solemnity, still and motionless, while all the time thinking back and then forward to the future. We flick through columns of richly lyrical Hebrew literature, ponder over lengthy passages and parables from many hundreds, thousands and millions ago and then blow the Shofar(the ram's horn). There is a natural progression about the whole service, a logical sequence of events that date so far back in history that some of us may get lost in nostalgia.

We then engage in that thoroughly amusing ritual known as standing up and sitting down, a mildly aerobic exercise that can often prove slightly disorientating particularly after the 50th time of asking. Of course this is an exaggeration but how we love Rosh Hashanah regardless of just how tiring these exertions may become. There is a delightful feeling of belonging and togetherness about both of the New Year days that is so obviously felt that you have to be there to experience it.

And then our erudite rabbis step forward and deliver their immensely eloquent sermons. A reverential silence falls over the hall and the congregation sing their sweetest of melodies. It is a yearly custom that is so joyously re-enacted that some of us will never ever tire of it. Men with strong baritone voices can be heard all over North London. Women with equally as powerful larynxes will join in with quite the most magnificent of sounds.

Judaism though binds us together firmly, a religion that will always be blissfully inclusive, utterly welcoming, always open to radical change, liberal, flexible and never afraid to express itself on a whole diverse range of opinions on all subjects. It is the one reason why we love being Jewish, why we celebrate life in all of its beauty, why we are so determined to have a good time because in an otherwise serious and often cruel world, we have to be optimistic and have to hope that one day the darker shades of the world will vanish never to be seen again.

On both days of Rosh Hashanah the traditional apple and honey flows outside the shul, tables groaning with those sweet tasting metaphors, symbolising the true flavour of Rosh Hashanah. Of course the persecution and suffering have always lain under the surface. How we've endured the ignorance and prejudice for as long as we can remember and not really known why. But we'll never complain because this is essentially a time for families and children, for singing lustily, blowing the shofar once again and listening to that incredible vibrato.

So it is that Rosh Hashanah will make way for Kol Nidre, the most sombre night of the year. The following day we observe Yom Kippur. Now what a day that is. It is the one day of the year when Jews around the world fast for 25 hours. That's it. No food, no drink or anything that is remotely pleasurable. It is abstinence and starvation on a remarkable scale. Some of us, it has to be said, genuinely enjoy this ultimate act of self control, discipline and willpower. Just for a minute though we'll remember quite vividly our rebellious childhood when we created an enormous fuss and questioned everything about Rosh Hashanah.

Come Monday morning then we'll all be donning our smartest suits, shirts and ties, brand new shoes, colourful dresses and skirts and couples on our head of the most marvellous diversity. We'll swap jokes, spin our yarns, chatting, story telling, laughing, walking in and out of shul from time to time because you had to stretch your legs. There will be a soft shuffling of feet, a gentle folding of the talit and then the inevitable rush to the toilet. Rosh Hashanah will always mean so much to us, that festival with its huge significance, symbolism, humour and frequent bursts of hilarity. Because that's what life should always be about. Shana tova everybody. Oh, and don't forget the whisky on Succot.

Political mayhem.

Political mayhem.

Last night the Prime Minister of Great Britain flew home from another important summit in New York to a thunderstorm of bad publicity. In fact you could have sworn that you'd also noticed several flashes of lightning as well because from where we were sitting, it didn't look good for Mr Johnson. There was uproar, a massive commotion and tempers were at their most frayed. Politicians from all parties were on the warpath, blood vessels were bursting and everybody needed to calm down before it got too nasty and vindictive.

The truth is that Boris Johnson lied to Her Majesty the Queen and, in another century, that would have been tantamount to treason and execution. Heads would have rolled, guillotines sharpened and Boris may well have been facing a grisly fate. It was enough that Johnson deceived Her Majesty but when his head hits the pillow tonight he may think that the benefit of the doubt came to his rescue.

In a proper court of law Johnson could have been accused of both perjury and fabrication but then he probably knew that one anyway. It's clearly explained in all of those heavy law books containing all of the legal minutiae he must have been aware of. But then Boris fibbed, lied through his teeth, broke all protocol, transgressed unforgivably and then sneaked back into Britain this morning Johnson decided that he wouldn't play ball. He did so in a fashion that aroused so much fury and opprobrium from both his colleagues and rivals that at some point he must have felt like a hardened criminal.

When he'd passed through customs this morning and lugged his bag through the tightest of security the blond one from Uxbridge via Eton would have been anticipating a bloodbath. And when the House of Commons resumed today for yet more monotonous dialogue about Brexit, voices could be heard quite categorically and for a while a full scale riot looked as though it was on the cards.

What we have here is a classic case of prorogation or proroguing, the simple act of closing down Parliament until everybody quietens down and just starts talking rationally. But this decision went against all the traditions, rules and regulations that have ever existed in the House itself. In fact as we all know now it was illegal, an outrageous violation of every judicial law set down by any government. Johnson ignored the sensible advice- if indeed he was ever given it- and just went on his merry way. This time though he seems to have got away with it because some politicians seemed to think that only they can have carte blanche to do what ever they want as long as nobody else gets hurt.

So the question remains. Will the Prime Minister suffer the ultimate punishment of the sack or will he just sheepishly walk away as though nothing had happened? His intention of course was to stifle and strangle the whole vital process of legislation that only the House of Commons and Parliament can implement in times of crisis. Brexit though is completely different and this time it could mean the end of the Prime Minister's brief term of office. If only he'd thought it through - which he clearly hasn't.

Sadly though Boris Johnson must have woken up one morning and temporarily lost his senses. Nobody in their right minds would have thought for one minute that any negotiation about one of the most momentous decisions he'll ever have to make would come down to this moment. Dear old Boris this evening will be sticking to his guns and insisting that he hasn't been a naughty boy and there can be no need for the naughty step.

But the smoke is still billowing into the early autumn night sky and the resentments are as deeply rooted as ever. This is not going to go away for the Prime Minister and for the next couple of days or so Westminster will continue to resemble one of those Wild West towns where the cowboys have driven out the Red Indians. All of those rooting tooting cowboys have fired their guns and the scene is one of absolute pandemonium.

What can be going through the Prime Minister's mind tonight? Does he remain sternly unrepentant, maintain a brave face, smile in the face of adversity or does he think that he only had Britain's best interests at heart? Or will he look at his well thumbed biography of Churchill and imagine what he would have done under the circumstances. Churchill may well have fought them on the beaches but you suspect that most of Boris's battles will have to be waged in altogether different locations.

The aftermath of what could have turned into a horrendous disaster is not quite as damaging as was first thought. And yet there are still dissenting voices, men and women with steam pouring out of their ears, purple and red with rage, fuming with disgust and questioning the morality of the Prime Minister. Boris Johnson dropped the most ludicrous of clangers, a blundering, bumbling Eton educated politician who still believes that everybody should speak Latin. Resignation though is out of the question and that's final. What on earth has he done wrong? This time, it seems, Boris has gone too far.

It's party political conference season and Labour put their case.

It's party political conference season and Labour put their case.

Just when you thought it was safe to avoid the subject, it's reared its ugly head again. Yes folks, it's the party political conference season in Britain and here we are back in the same place as we were last year- and more decades ago than you would care to imagine. It's that yearly gathering of the vocal, vociferous, impassioned and the downright opinionated. It's time for fiercely contentious issues to be debated, voices to be raised to the highest decibel level and Jeremy Corbyn trying to avoid complete humiliation.

First up on the podium are the Labour party, a veritable rag tag, make do and mend collection of hobbledehoys and 19th century Socialists who still believe quite possibly that the unions should still have a profound influence on the running of the country and every major industry should be nationalised. The fundamental ideals of the Labour party are much the same as the ones espoused by Neville Chamberlain during the Second World War. For now though the sense of crisis that now seems to be eating away at the very core of the Labour party can only get worse before it gets better.

And yet here we are on the first real day of the Labour party conference in salty and salubrious Brighton and the usual old chestnuts are now firmly back under the microscope. Steering the ship is Jeremy Corbyn, a man so deeply unpopular and offensive that surely it can only be a matter of time before Corbyn takes one look in the mirror and admits that he can't take his faltering party any further, meekly leaving by the tradesman's entrance.

But party political conferences are essentially about straight talking, forthright comments from the hip and firmly held convictions. They're about standing on platforms, pointing accusing fingers at everybody but themselves and then realising that a part of that audience have just dropped off to sleep. It is a time for raving and ranting, heckling and haranguing, bitterness, rage, personal grievances and a whole lot of noise. And that's just Tuesday afternoon taken care of.

In the old days Labour party members who were affiliated to the unions since birth, used to swear by their beer and sandwiches diet, men and women who would begin their speeches facing the audience and then turn around at an angle in the hope that they would be listened to properly. They would open up their bodies, swivel their hips, wave flailing arms all over the place and then inexplicably wag their fingers at nothing and nobody in particular.

It was the kind of behaviour that you feel sure, has been carefully analysed by body language experts from all around the world without reaching any positive conclusions. Then again they'll probably never encounter anybody quite like Jeremy Corbyn. Corbyn of course, as has now been frequently documented, is ferociously racist, completely out of touch with the rest of society, crusty, reactionary and, to a vast majority of the nation, politically dangerous.

To most of us Corbyn is just insufferable, totally objectionable, lost in another world and, to the Jewish community, antisemitic. He stands up for everything that most of would find utterly deplorable. There is a shameful lack of self awareness about a man who would, deludedly, kid himself into believing that he has all the relevant credentials for the job of Prime Minister.

Over 35 years ago a certain Neil Kinnock emerged from the wings, rabble rousing, blasting out his hatred of Margaret Thatcher, convinced that he was the next man to lead the country. Then, in the most embarrassing pre General Election speech ever made, Kinnock lost his way, said the wrong things and Thatcher must have thought it was her birthday. The image of Kinnock and his wife Glenys falling over each other as the sea waves swept over them, is one both would rather forget.

And so we return to the business to hand at the moment. This week the Labour party are faced with the one issue they must have thought they'd never have to confront. For the last three years the whole of Britain has torn itself apart at the very mention of Brexit. Now, Jeremy Corbyn is the one figure who finds himself in the wrong place and the wrong time. Is he in full agreement with the rest of the nation or does he simply go along with the consensus? None of us is ever likely to find out one way or the other.

The simple truth is that the Labour party and Corbyn are caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. Corbyn just wants the keys to 10 Downing Street and there is nothing else to discuss. He argues his case both powerfully and forcefully. He shouts and hectors, throwing his voice in much the way that an experienced actor would deliver Shakespeare's Othello or the Merchant of Venice. The volume goes up to an inaudible pitch and you're reminded of that 1970s TV commercial featuring the incomparable Ella Fitzgerald breaking a glass as a result of that majestic voice.

Corbyn is accompanied by John Mcdonnell, two men who remind you a couple of 1920s gangsters creating havoc wherever they go. These are inauspicious times for the Labour party since the one man entrusted with taking charge of the party is no more fit to lead Britain than, quite possibly, Fidel Castro or some crazy revolutionary with ideas way above his station. Undeterred though Corbyn ploughs on, ducking all the awkward questions with  the flair of some tongue tied, monosyllabic after dinner speaker who suddenly gets all his words mixed up.

For some of us though the Labour party represented everything that was good, wholesome and virtuous. My dad was a staunch Labour man, a man honest and law abiding, faithfully proud of his working class values. He would awake at the crack of dawn, jump onto bus and train, pull up his warm coat collar and earn his living as the most persuasive menswear salesman in the world. Dad loved to think that Labour was working for him and never wavered from those fervent beliefs.

So here we are at Brighton by the seaside, beside the seaside, beside the sea. The wide promenade is heaving with red rose Labour loyalists, the sea gulls are not entirely sure where to go and there are very few on the beach because summer has now gone and autumnal mists are gathering over head. A gentleman with a thick grey beard and even greyer policies is stalking the sea front and hoping against hope that nobody gets in his way or behaves in a disagreeable fashion.

This week though we shall find out much more about the Jeremy Corbyn that everybody has now come to loathe and detest. Perhaps he's been ridiculously misunderstood, wrongly perceived as some evil pantomime villain, maybe even a warmonger. The image though is of a man who doesn't quite know how to address any audience and would rather not  be drawn on any issue he would rather not talk about.

The one question on everybody's mind is Corbyn's stance on Brexit and the merits and demerits of whether Britain should negotiate a deal or conversely, a no deal. Sadly, the bearded one appears clueless, spineless, neither here or there, far too extremist and still trapped in a time warp. Realistically though the past will always now haunt Corbyn's past. There were the shared stages with Hamas terrorists, the anti Israel stance and a whole variety of similar public appearances.

By the end of this week we will find out how much further forward the Labour party has moved or just slipped into obscurity. It'll be a week of proposals and counter proposals, motions put forward by desperate men and women wearing red rosettes and then savage arguments that seem to drag on throughout the week. Let the verbal hostilities commence.

There has always been a belt and braces pragmatism about the Labour party that has almost become part of their DNA. It may be a bitter pill to swallow but for those at the coalface in red, the future for Jeremy Corbyn may be considerably bleaker than he might have thought. Let the brothers and sisters of the party political conference season make themselves heard. We can hardly wait.

The 2019 rugby union World Cup

The 2019 rugby union World Cup.

Today the rugby union World Cup gets underway in Japan amid the usual ceremony and formality. The opening ceremony is now history and the global giants from here, there and everywhere will pick up that famous oval ball and just run with it. That notable pioneer William Webb Ellis, whose name is now immortalised on that grand old trophy, must have known a thing or two because now rugby union has been officially been accorded the kind of prestige and status that it could only have dreamt about when Ellis was a lad in shorts.

When Jonny Wilkinson thumped his drop kick penalty to clinch World Cup victory against Australia in 2003, little could we have known then that the current England side are ready and waiting to eat red meat again. Rugby union has always been a game of beefy physicality, men with thighs like tree trunks, thick, muscular bodies that look as though they were designed to shift lorries rather than a rugby ball and a ruthlessly uncompromising approach to the game that takes no nonsense from anybody.

So here they come, the crushing, crashing locks, the formidable prop forwards with the steeliest glint in their eyes, the hookers that jump and bump at every line out they can manufacture, the back rows ready to rumble and tumble at every scrum or maul and a whole variety of those big, stocky and strapping men with ears that resemble cauliflowers, rolled down socks, arms clutching and grabbing at any ball that might come their way and legs like pistons. All systems go.

For some of us though rugby union, sadly perhaps, never really figured on our sporting itinerary. There was a moment when the ball was thrown to you on quite the boggiest and muddiest playing field in Britain. But then you tucked the oval ball under your arm and ran like the wind. You sprinted for your life, kept going and then discovered that you didn't quite know what to do with it. It was all very bewildering since the primary school was perhaps more suited to football rather than rugby union.

Then as we get older we began to recognise that our sporting prowess extended no further than a fleeting flirtation with the local park tennis court or a rumbustious kick about in the school playground that invariably ended up with the ball landing in either the car park or the old fashioned dinner hut. Rugby union was for those well built teenagers who loved nothing better than a deep mid winter scrap, breathing heavily in the scrum and then tightly locking shoulders as if their lives depended on it.

For a while we feasted on the then five nations tournament including both England, Scotland, Wales, Ireland and France little knowing that at no point at all would we ever renew our interest in the oval ball game. We thrilled to the Welsh wizards of Gareth Edwards, Phil Bennett, Mervyn Davies and JPR Williams and never thought we'd ever see such sublime rugby again. They weaved, hop scotched, zig zagged, dodged, darted, dropped a thousand shoulders, dazzled, enthralled, jumped and then took our breath away. Their schemes and strategies were cunning, their intentions never less than serious. There was the wondrous genius of Ireland's Willie John Mcbride and Scotland's prodigiously talented Andy Irvine.

On Sunday though the England rugby union team of 2019 will gather together in the most improbable setting of a Japanese backdrop, gum shield in their mouths and dogged spirit driving them on to the most promised land of the try line. In their opening game England will meet Tonga and this is the point where England will hope that the golden memory of 2003 will still be there willing them onto greater achievements.

We will watch the exceptional Billy Vunipola of Saracens, a harum-scarum, hustle bustle, fiercely committed and adventurous lock, powering past players with meaty, vigorous intent, Ben Youngs, the superb Leicester Tigers scrum half, a player of perpetual motion, will also be there, pushing and coaxing, galloping into the open spaces, dodging, probing and forever scheming, slaloming past players as if they weren't there and then flinging passes to players who were always available.

But most of all we will look forward to seeing the England captain Owen Farrell, rallying his white shirted troops and as inspirational as English skippers past such as Will Carling, Martin Johnson and Bill Beaumont. Essentially, Farrell will be the calming influence, the trigger point, the catalyst, the starting motor and generally tidying up at the back. George Ford of Leicester Tigers will be putting his best feet forward, tussling and nagging away at his adversaries and the peerlessly brilliant Manu Tuilagi of Leicster Tigers will be beavering away tirelessly, hunting, burrowing his way irrepressibly at fly half, barging and then bouncing off his opponents with ease and aplomb.

Above all we can now anticipate the spectacle of the rugby union World Cup, the Japanese hospitality, the hand of friendship they will extend quite naturally and then as hosts they will make everybody at home. For a country who remain receptive learners of the game, this could be a tournament to remember. We'll turn to the well established masters of their craft. New Zealand the current World Champions of course, will be the leading contenders, a team of well honed and toned professionals with stardust on their boots, always a pleasure to watch, an amalgam of breathtaking skill, vision and class.

And then there's Australia who of course who can never be discounted from the final reckoning. After holding onto the cricketing Ashes against England, the Australians will be in no mood to capitulate to anybody. On their day Australia are unstoppable, fearless, full of beans, competing, busting a gut, engaging constantly, desperate to meet England again and win again. France, Ireland, South Africa have to be considered as favourites if only because their all round technical excellence will be imposed immediately from the kick off. Tonga and Fiji will be exotically pleasing to the eye but the shorter form of the game looks to be their strongest suit.

Rugby union though will be uppermost in our minds, a game that to the neutral at least, does seem to stop and start infuriatingly, huffing and puffing towards its conclusion before the players charge forward with their heads down at each other like Spanish bulls. They will kick their steepling kicks huge distances, the ball hanging in the air like a hot air balloon. They will huddle together in collective solidarity because that's what rugby union players have always done. It'll be far from pretty but when the scrums have been delivered and the set plays completed then you can only hope that the rugby will flourish.

Sadly though, you find yourself at a complete loss as to why the likes of Georgia, Uruguay, Argentina, the USA and Canada are making up the numbers. Of course this is the World Cup and the world should never be excluded. It is though highly unlikely that any of the aforementioned will pose any problems at all to the big boys. They will be punching their weight, striving gallantly against the odds before realising that the impossible will almost certainly become a self fulfilling prophecy.

 If William Webb Ellis were still alive the lump in his throat would become readily apparent and with some justification. This is the William Webb Ellis rugby union World Cup and when the kick off whistle goes for Eddie Jones men, England will surely be ready to go. Go England.

There endeth summer. The Last Night of the Proms and all that.

There endeth summer. The Last Night of the Proms and all that.

Last Saturday evening British summer time officially came to an end. For some though it only looked as if this was the case. The last couple of days in London at least, have been glorious and everywhere T- shirts and shorts are still very much in evidence. The number of garden barbecues in leafy suburbia and major cities may be declining but the late summer haze is still with us.

And so it was that on Saturday night one of Britain's most treasured possessions once again came into Kensington, London. The Last Night of the Proms has been with us for as long as anyone can remember and as the fading light of summer's regal pomp slowly sank over a red and blissful horizon, the murmuring masses of the Royal Albert Hall settled down for a night of classical perfection.

Ever since the great Henry Wood first took his bow at the Proms over 125 years ago, audiences have been enraptured by some of the most joyous sounds ever heard anywhere. Rock, soul and country and western audiences may beg to differ but those distinguished composers whose written work may always be adored and revered quite possibly for ever, might have been in spirit once again in the third week of September amid the always acoustically exquisite Royal Albert Hall.

As the autumnal breezes slowly gather in strength and the leaves on the trees assume their familiar shade of yellow, Britain graciously accepts that summer has now regrettably left us for another year and the darker complexions of winter may be only seen in a couple of months time. Every so often in the late summer evening, the low sun and the gentle suggestions of chillier evenings may be too much for some but these are the inevitabilities of the passing seasons and we would never have it any other way.

Back at the Royal Albert Hall on Saturday, the audience, as is usually the case, were swollen with outrageous patriotism, puffed up with full blooded pride, decked from head to feet in eccentric clothing, shrill with shrieking whistles, alive with noisy klaxon horns that could almost be heard at the end of Kensington High Street and finally overwhelmed by a gushing cascade of musical instruments. It was England doing what England does best and Britain drunk on 'Rule Britannia'.

Then we were treated quite affectionately to the memorable strains of George Gershwin and a time when rag time music met Broadway Hollywood magic.'I've Got Rhythm' floated sensuously across the grand old hall of Royal Albert and you almost felt as if Gershwin himself had come back to life and was now in your living room playing the piano. It was music for the soul, music for the senses and music, above all, to savour.

And then you looked across at the orchestra and could hardly help your poetic strain. There were the flirtatious flutes, the weeping, sweeping violins, the charismatic clarinets, the bold bassoons, the very low pitched but charming harps, the thumpingly strident and emphatic drums accompanied by the tinkling pianos with their sweetly enchanting changes of key. All very beautiful and all just right.

You could hardly take your eyes away from the violinists, chins resting comfortably on their violins, eyes spellbound and deep in concentration. In unison, their strings were lovingly manipulated, bows sliding gracefully as nature intended. This is indeed one of the most emotionally charged evenings in  the British social calendar and just for a couple of hours you forgot about the despicable Brexit.

Instead you thought about lilting arpeggios, momentous crescendos and foot tapping pizzicatos. You remembered why Britain always celebrates the Last Night of the Proms. It was the stunning end to another Proms season where, in more recent years, jazz has been so rightly celebrated and the world of film soundtracks has also been so deservedly recognised.

Of course the Royal Albert aficionados have been spoilt by the timeless elegance of Mozart, Beethoven, Elgar, Bach, Strauss, Debussy and Purcell. But amid the vast magnificence of the Royal Albert Hall, the good people who so traditionally wave their Union Jacks would not disappoint. It was happy, humorous, tongue in cheek and utterly triumphant.

So it was that the evening ended with all the style and panache that you would expect on an evening such as this one. 'Jerusalem' and 'Land of Hope and Glory' had everybody on their feet, up on their toes, swaying their scarves, singing with full throated joy, a full congregation of choirs whose voices seemed to be soaring into the roof of the building with every passing minute and hour.

If only you could have bottled an evening at the Last Night of the Proms for posterity then some of us would gladly have taken it and just enjoyed it. It is an evening like no other if only because it allows Britain to revel in its sacred rituals. It is one of the few occasions throughout the year where people from across the nation can let go of their inhibitions, cheer to the rafters and then, certainly at the moment, remind the rest of the European Union that Britannia rules the waves. Well, not quite but almost.

The David Cameron and Boris Johnson show.

The David Cameron and Boris Johnson show.

When will it ever end? Day after day the ears of Britain are being bled profusely by that constant drivel, that incessant gobbledygook, this mindless rhetoric. The nation, you feel sure, has lost patience and if they're not careful we may be tempted to turn off our collective TVs, radios and just stop reading our newspapers. It is soul destroying and horribly grotesque. Maybe we'll be given a welcome reprieve or respite from this abominable mess, this nightmarish confusion, the endless prattle. Perhaps Brexit will finally disappear from our view never to come back at any time. We must hope that it will one day.

So who are we to blame for this awful fiasco, this barrage of grammatical distortion, these unbearable sound bites? What on earth have we done to deserve three years of poppycock, repetitive platitudes, the same old thing over and over again? The earnest statements have flooded out of Cabinet ministers mouths like the most torrential waterfall, raging and turbulent, a painful sounding back track to our lives. But how much longer can we take of this all? Our tolerance threshold can only take so much.

Meanwhile, back at 10 Downing Street the chief protagonists of this whole charade are gnashing their teeth, desperate for the 31st October to arrive and wishing that none of this had ever happened. Some of us are privately wishing that a coven of Halloween witches would whisk them off to some far off land on their broomsticks. This is beginning to feel like Chinese water torture. Two men though may have a lot to answer for.

The truth is that the fault may not lie with Boris Johnson, our current Prime Minister but a certain David Cameron. This morning Cameron is facing the music, being made to pay for his mistakes, called to account and blasted by critics who believe that he was single handedly responsible for this classic blunder in the first place.

When David Cameron left 10 Downing Street, the world and its family must have thought that the immediate fall out from the withdrawal from the EU would be rather less damaging than we thought it would. Cameron seriously misjudged the mood of the nation, humiliated on his own doorstep and left to pick up the trail of broken promises. Oh if only he hadn't made that announcement. Things would have been so much simpler and we'd have all been allowed to get back to the every day business of everyday life; the urgent issues of a long suffering NHS; the vital education system; dilapidated council estates; the housing crisis; the distressing knife crime rate in inner city London and the dwindling number of policemen and women on the streets of Britain.

But oh no. Brexit is the dominant topic for the rest of our lives. It has to be because there's nothing else to talk about. David Cameron was the one who called for this wretched referendum, Cameron was the one who created this bizarre double speak, this totally incoherent language, those buzz words and phrases that would appear to have no relevance to anything and anybody at all.

 And yet the impression you get is that Cameron has had the last laugh. Thank goodness control is now firmly out of his hands. He doesn't care anymore and besides he didn't particularly want a referendum in the first place. He'd have been more than content with a gentle retirement in the sun, pina colada by the pool, feet up and nothing to worry about anymore.

You can almost picture the scene now. That other Eton educated Prime Minister David Cameron, now completely forgotten about by the great British public, has suddenly come out of hiding and put his head firmly on the parapet again. David Cameron is in apologetic mood and sorry for misleading the great British public. Of course he was convinced that Britain would have cold feet about coming out of the EU. Of course he had the finger on the pulse of the nation and of course he could read their minds. On the day  he got it wrong though there was a sheepish admission of guilt. It was then the great British public turned on Cameron viciously.

For the following days, months and years the subject of Brexit has now turned into the British version of War and Peace, an epic and absorbing period drama that keeps going on and on without coming up for air. There have been bloody battles, feuding armies on the march followed by retreat and seething arguments about seemingly nothing in particular. There have been roaring voices, combustible tempers and  TV audiences who would quite happily have stormed the barricades about something they know very little about and would like to be given chapter and verse on. The public have been appallingly misinformed and that's just unacceptable.

This is the point when David Cameron came back in and Boris Johnson finds himself in the thankless position of clearing up the debris Cameron has left behind. Believe it or not Cameron has written a book about his hardships and tearful privations. Yes folks, a former Prime Minister has come out with full details of why he went to the country about the future of Britain's involvement in the European Union.  He had to get it off his chest because if he doesn't then all that bottled up tension would simply explode and we couldn't allow that to happen

Sadly though, Britain still finds itself at another critical point, a genuine game of Poker or Pontoon. Do they stick or twist? It has now been reported that the former students who once indulged their former alumni Boris Johnson have allegedly got their own back on Johnson. They are boiling with anger, livid and red faced with unbridled fury. They've ripped off Johnson's portraits from the wall, quite possibly smeared graffiti all over those academic corridors at Eton and then spilled out whole hearted disgust at the man's absolute incompetence.

These are immensely troubling times in Westminster's fiery bear pit. There are more and more no deals and deals, insufferable delays, long evenings that turn quite naturally into long nights, Tory politicians stomping vehemently through the House of Commons tea bars and terraces, secretive committee rooms where much paper is shuffled and sighs of impatience which can be heard as far afield as Dublin. Then there is the puffing of cheeks as the realisation dawns that this could all be a waste of time.

Finally, there are those lovely backstops and none of us could have got through another day without being given further information on what exactly a backstop is. Of course it's the insurance policy which has been clearly explained to us. It's that protection clause needed by the good people of Ireland if Brexit becomes a failed and useless piece of documentation. Are we any the wiser? Perhaps not.

So there it is folks. The British parliament has closed down for business yet again, Denis Skinner is walking around Westminster like a bear with a sore head, the Speaker of the House John Bercow has quite literally left the building and many of us are still in the dark. It's time for some proroguing and going back into a huddle. What about a General Election just to complicate matters or perhaps we should give Jeremy Corbyn a mop, bucket and broom. That's it. Let's make him a caretaker Prime Minister. Now that's a great idea. The silly season may well be over but at this rate Brexit could challenge Coronation Street for longevity. We could be here for quite a while.