Let the good times roll.
We always knew this day would arrive and indeed it has. It always seemed to have potential so this may be the opportunity to welcome everybody back to the land of milk and honey. Let the good times roll everybody. After a seemingly endless three month trauma we can now see the first signs of recovery. There you are.
It's the fourth day of July and to all you drinkers and revellers this is your day, a day devoted to your bibulous pleasure, a day of riotous bacchanalia, of clinking foaming pints of beer and ale, jumping onto tables, singing perhaps discordantly at the top of your voices, slapping your family and friends on the back in an excess of congratulation and soaking in saturnalia. Nobody deserves it more than us. You've been in denial since March, queued patiently outside all of those mega giant supermarkets, spoken perhaps with some difficulty through all of those medical masks and you've done it. Well done to you all.
And yet all the while there remains the very real and underlying concern that you could be tempted to overdo it today or this afternoon maybe this evening. After three months in the desert, the consumption of alcohol now feels like the ultimate indulgence and the danger is that we could go overboard. Now the question you may have to ask yourself is whether you really need to drink yourself into a wild stupor to the extent that by midnight even the late- night foxes in the neighbourhood may be desperate to avoid you.
There may be something called self- control, self- restraint or just plain and simple moderation. But after all these months of abstinence and frequent visits to either the supermarket or off licence, you'd be forgiven for flinging open those Wild West saloon doors and demanding a row of bourbons, twenty pints of the amber nectar, several hundred shorts and an endless requests for whisky after whisky, vodka after vodka and scotch after scotch. Wow, are we thirsty?
By this time tomorrow morning perhaps millions of weary and exhausted palates will be desperately craving cups and cups of black coffee, nursing a sore head and wishing they hadn't taken the trouble to traipse down to the local boozer. But not my family because we're teetotal and we don't mind admitting it. This is not to say that we're not partial to a drop of something sweet and refreshing but to those of you who just love the traditional decor of your local watering hole, that first drink will feel like nectar, an ambrosial delight, patience rewarded, the moment you've all been waiting for.
Back in medieval times of course nights in the local tavern were about as crazy and debauched as it was possible to be, full- blooded intoxication almost a nightly occurrence. You'd saunter up to the barman, insist on large tankards of mead before the court jesters would leap onto a creaking table and all hell would break loose. Suddenly, the whole of the drinking population would resort to the kind of dissolute behaviour that seemed to come as second nature to them.
Today though things may not be quite as outrageously silly as they were then but now Britain will think that, after all of those torturous trials and tribulations, those nights of private drinking in the comfort of their own homes will now be condemned to history. Now of course pubs have suddenly morphed into gastro bars, doubling up rapidly as Sunday food carveries where families tuck into their mouth waering roasts with salivating relish. Toby and Wetherspoon have now become the new drinking experience.
Now pubs have been joined by remarkably profitable wine bars in the City of London or the heart of the country. Some of the most celebrated of French, Australian and Italian wine labels have crept into our lives as a means of winding down after another stressful day at the office. But the drinking culture has always been synonymous with the British way of life as if it had never gone away.
Tonight though the chairs will be neatly taken down from dusty tables, a million dart boards will be cleaned and steamed, some will go straight for the dominoes and a vast majority will head straight for the snooker table. Soon the soft tapping of green, red, black and blue ball will resound around the whole of Britain's cities, villages, towns and sleepy hamlets. It'll be the sweetest noise the drinkers of Britain will have heard for ages. It will signify that normal life is back again.
Then by way of a treat, somebody will suggest that this could be the opportune moment for a night of glorious karaoke singing into microphones that keep crackling with unnecessary feedback. So all of your uncles, cousins, aunties and nieces you haven't seen since at least the end of the Second World War will step up onto the stage and declare that they have indeed found the road to Amarillo.
Since this is an extra special night the pub will now abandon itself to one of those ambitious local bands who just want to sing their hearts out for the delectation of all those people who have always remained loyal to them. It's bound to be a very convincing Led Zeppelin tribute group with all of those heavy rock vibes while next up is a Neil Diamond impersonator who keeps extolling the praises of Sweet Caroline.
Oh yes. Before we forget it should be pointed out that all of the barbers and hairdressers will also be allowed to open those doors for a much needed Mohican, plenty off the back and a considerable amount off the front. You found yourself wandering what your grandfather would have made of this all. This is not the way he would have wanted the world to be and he'd have lost a fortune in the last couple of months or so.
But he was still a very respectable East End barber who used to cut the hair of three 1966 World Cup winning heroes so he was always pleased to see all of his customers. A sturdy, strong willed and no nonsense character, he would probably have told us all to pull ourselves together and stop performing like a bunch of pathetic hypochondriacs or soppy malingerers and just go to bed. For him coronavirus may well have been just a very bad case of flu when we know of course that it isn't. Still, he was an excellent barber and you feel sure that he would have been looking forward to a day like today.
So there we are folks. It's another Saturday in the calendar year and Britain can finally let itself go. It's time to drink and drink to our hearts content, finally getting rid of all that thick thatch of hair on your head. Isn't life good and wonderful? It's time to re-discover something of those simple enjoyments that, overnight in March, were swept away from us because of some horrendous global disease. March has now become July and the rest of the year could take us into any direction it wants to. For most of us though 2020 still feels like the year that could have promised so much but then we woke up one morning and found that something had gone and deserted us. Of course we love life but there are too many haunting echoes and uncomfortable memories. Who cares let's drink!
Still, we all have each other and the families and friends that remain our foundation and rock are still here and time will of course be the great healer. Mind you if the Red Lion is packed to capacity tonight you maybe inclined to raise a toast and celebrate American Independence day. Mine's a burger and a glass of bourbon. Keep safe and well everybody. It's time to kick your legs in the air and dance. Yee ha!
Saturday, 4 July 2020
Thursday, 2 July 2020
New buzz words, newfangled phrases and what was that word again?
New buzz words, newfangled phrases and what was that word again.
So far the relatively new century has given us plenty to talk about and think upon. There are those very knotty and complex issues that may never be resolved or explained properly. But this may well be life and we are now venturing into new territory. The language is much the same as it always was but quite recently the English vocabulary and grammar may have been ever so slightly garbled by the way in which our lives have now been completely turned upside down.
But the major source of contention is that in the last four years now, the English language has come under a potentially devastating attack from forces it can't quite control. Every decade, every generation has its quirky expressions, its mystifying phrases and what appear to be wholly incomprehensible buzz words, pithy cliches at times and no small amount of gibberish.
But hold on the English language is always receptive to strange, new word patterns since the language has always found itself in a constant state of evolution. We pick up words, absorb words like the proverbial sponge. Occasionally we get words completely mixed up in wildly funny malapropisms and sentences that don't quite scan once you've said them but are nonetheless memorable in their delivery.
Back in the 1960s of course the whole of London was swinging which led you to believe either that London was lost in some nostalgic childhood playground or quite literally on swings. Or maybe it was cool, mainstream, up to date, modern, ahead of its time, revolutionary, go ahead and just the centre of the universe while the rest of the world was just sleeping. It could be that London was just enjoying change, that transitional period where everything was brand new and available on the open market.
Then of course London became far out and can you dig it man as if England had some of the world's foremost archeologists. Every generation brings with it a whole new selection of temporary catch phrases. If London did indeed swing during the 1960s then who is to argue that it simply continued to doing so throughout the 1970s when London suddenly became groovy and ten years later referred to the whole of the 1980s generation as wicked.
And so it is that we move right back to the present generation and today's novelties and oddities for this is what they seem to be. Since the beginning of the 21st century London's architectural skyline has come to be dominated by the Walkie Talkie, the Cheese Grater, the Gherkin and a rich variety of high rise structures that may or may not have disfigured its landscape. But words are not buildings. Words are flexible, multi-talented and are capable of any amount of verbal gymnastics. Words can be physical, vocally versatile and expressive. Buildings and words just stand on their own, open to interpretation and comment but never really do anything as such apart from provoking human reaction. But how important both are.
The point is here that over the last four years language has taken quite a severe buffeting, a good deal of bowdlerisation and no little tinkering, tampering and refining. Up until three or four years ago depending on your point of view, the world of the written word in books and newspapers was quite happily going about its business as usual Then almost overnight the English language was suddenly plunged into some weird and eerie darkness where vampires came out late at night and quite possibly evil spirits haunted us for the rest of our lives.
Four years ago former Prime Minister David Cameron announced quite boldly that he'd had enough of all those whinging, wailing, moaning and discontented people who simply wanted Britain to get out of the European Union. Britain had become totally disenchanted with all of those interfering busybodies in Brussels who just kept telling us what to do and following us around in their annoying droves.
There was a sense here that the whole of Europe was being too bossy and dictatorial, too tiresome and utterly disagreeable for our liking. So what did we do? We told them exactly how we felt about them, told them in the politest way that we wanted nothing to do with them at any time in the future and then told them to get lost. Europe was surplus to requirements, no longer relevant, a very dated anachronism.
Towards the end of the year a new Prime Minister Boris Johnson led the way in a radical departure from the EU which has yet to be digested by some but now seems like the right decision. When Cameron made way for Theresa May because he still wanted to be friends with those officious decision makers in Brussels, the English language changed dramatically overnight.
In roughly early 2017 and probably the latter end of 2016 Britain had adopted Brexit, a bright, shiny new phrase which had clearly been made up on the spot without any consultation from the British public. Now we've all become over familiar with Brexit for Brexit came to represent everything that would become anti Europe, politically controversial but blunt and self explanatory. Or was it?
For the next three years Brexit sparked off so many arguments, flare- ups and inflammatory comments from those on high and those who may have just wanted the quiet life that you wondered whether the subject would just run out of steam. But Brexit just kept going on and on interminably, posturing, pontificating, speechifying and just waffling because nobody seemed to mind and besides you couldn't beat a spot of rip roaring rhetoric.
But then Brexit fiercely divided Britain and families across the nation would do nothing but bicker, fall out with each other for days on end and then reluctantly apologise a couple of weeks later. There was never room for compromise here because Brexit was very trying, a repetitive, cracked vinyl record where the stylus had got irreparably stuck. Brexit eventually exhausted itself after a million references to Brexiteers who were neither on the left or right. Most of us were beginning to dread switching on either the TV and radio because we knew exactly what we were going to get.
And then when Boris Johnson had finally landed his dream job as Prime Minister of country things became much clearer and simpler. Johnson had also lost patience with his EU neighbours and was just desperate to sever his links with Brussels as soon as possible. So the soft Brexiteers and hard Brexiteers had a private party and together with Johnson waved goodbye to Europe with the most smug of grins. They told you they'd do it and they did. So there.
At the beginning of this year we thought we'd seen the back of barely incredulous grammar, newfangled phraseology and seemingly barmy words that had been joined up with equally as vague neologisms, word constructions that smacked of silliness. We giggled for a while before totally losing our way in a labyrinthine maze of complicated sentences. By the end of last year some of us were just gritting our teeth since the English language had been completely destroyed and taken away from us.
So it was that at the start of 2020 when everything had been resolved in Brussels, we settled down for just a very normal and ordinary year, the beginning of a new decade and nobody to bleed our ears with the same old blather and bluster. It was a time for recovery and rehabilitation, away from the fire and brimstone of sharp suited politicians with nothing but Brexit on their minds. What else was there left to talk about? We'd exhausted every angle. Surely nothing more could be said that we hadn't heard before. No point in pressing the same old chestnuts because those very chestnuts were getting on our nerves.
Little we were to know that lurking around another dark corner and ready to pounce there was something else to become very animated about. It was almost too good to be true. For a moment we were drawn into another world of complacency where nothing could ever upset or disturb us. Think again. The apparent certainties of life were about to be blown out of the water.
In January we were told us about some obscure outbreak of a disease that had stricken a cruise vessel and some illness in China which quite literally overnight became globally viral and astonishingly deadly at the same time. It had been burdened with a title that sounded like some crazy science fiction novel. Within a week the whole world knew about the coronavirus pandemic, a disease that would claim the lives of millions around the world.
Within weeks we were stuffing our supermarket trolley with dozens of toilet rolls, eggs and everything we could lay our hands on. We were scurrying around our homes, frantically devising improvised exercise routines, not going out at all in case something very bad and debilitating happened to us and a hospital ward would become a long term second home for the time being. Then it started and none of us knew why.
Before any of us could blink we were thrown into a torturous round of self isolating and self isolation before somebody came up with the ultimate classic. In early March and the rest of April and May we had to master the arts of social distancing. Now where on earth had that one come from. It sounded like the kind of reference that might have been dreamt up by some very imaginative university lecturer or a sociology teacher at the end of the 1970s. Perhaps it was the brainchild of a forward thinking geography teacher with patches on his jacket. It did sound too posh and just a touch too stuffy.
Still, here we are in the first couple of days in July and another literary gem has thrust its way into our consciousness. In what way did the world become inextricably drawn into a lockdown. The world is in lockdown and who were we to argue the point? Lockdowns was more or less an apt summary for a world that had been immobilised, incarcerated in our own homes and shut out from society for the foreseeable future. But lockdown suggested that somebody had thrown away the keys and we had been left to our own devices, not really knowing who to turn to and what to do in a restricted and straitened world.
So what to make of lockdown, self isolation and social distancing? Do we simply have to accept the status quo, become conditioned to the new normal or do we challenge the Establishment, take to the streets in vociferous protest, demand another revision of the English language, make it up as we go along or do we privately laugh at those eccentric wordsmiths who love playing with grammar? Be sure that when the coronavirus does thankfully pass over we won't have to wrestle with another awkwardly uncomfortable news agenda. It may be wishful thinking.
So far the relatively new century has given us plenty to talk about and think upon. There are those very knotty and complex issues that may never be resolved or explained properly. But this may well be life and we are now venturing into new territory. The language is much the same as it always was but quite recently the English vocabulary and grammar may have been ever so slightly garbled by the way in which our lives have now been completely turned upside down.
But the major source of contention is that in the last four years now, the English language has come under a potentially devastating attack from forces it can't quite control. Every decade, every generation has its quirky expressions, its mystifying phrases and what appear to be wholly incomprehensible buzz words, pithy cliches at times and no small amount of gibberish.
But hold on the English language is always receptive to strange, new word patterns since the language has always found itself in a constant state of evolution. We pick up words, absorb words like the proverbial sponge. Occasionally we get words completely mixed up in wildly funny malapropisms and sentences that don't quite scan once you've said them but are nonetheless memorable in their delivery.
Back in the 1960s of course the whole of London was swinging which led you to believe either that London was lost in some nostalgic childhood playground or quite literally on swings. Or maybe it was cool, mainstream, up to date, modern, ahead of its time, revolutionary, go ahead and just the centre of the universe while the rest of the world was just sleeping. It could be that London was just enjoying change, that transitional period where everything was brand new and available on the open market.
Then of course London became far out and can you dig it man as if England had some of the world's foremost archeologists. Every generation brings with it a whole new selection of temporary catch phrases. If London did indeed swing during the 1960s then who is to argue that it simply continued to doing so throughout the 1970s when London suddenly became groovy and ten years later referred to the whole of the 1980s generation as wicked.
And so it is that we move right back to the present generation and today's novelties and oddities for this is what they seem to be. Since the beginning of the 21st century London's architectural skyline has come to be dominated by the Walkie Talkie, the Cheese Grater, the Gherkin and a rich variety of high rise structures that may or may not have disfigured its landscape. But words are not buildings. Words are flexible, multi-talented and are capable of any amount of verbal gymnastics. Words can be physical, vocally versatile and expressive. Buildings and words just stand on their own, open to interpretation and comment but never really do anything as such apart from provoking human reaction. But how important both are.
The point is here that over the last four years language has taken quite a severe buffeting, a good deal of bowdlerisation and no little tinkering, tampering and refining. Up until three or four years ago depending on your point of view, the world of the written word in books and newspapers was quite happily going about its business as usual Then almost overnight the English language was suddenly plunged into some weird and eerie darkness where vampires came out late at night and quite possibly evil spirits haunted us for the rest of our lives.
Four years ago former Prime Minister David Cameron announced quite boldly that he'd had enough of all those whinging, wailing, moaning and discontented people who simply wanted Britain to get out of the European Union. Britain had become totally disenchanted with all of those interfering busybodies in Brussels who just kept telling us what to do and following us around in their annoying droves.
There was a sense here that the whole of Europe was being too bossy and dictatorial, too tiresome and utterly disagreeable for our liking. So what did we do? We told them exactly how we felt about them, told them in the politest way that we wanted nothing to do with them at any time in the future and then told them to get lost. Europe was surplus to requirements, no longer relevant, a very dated anachronism.
Towards the end of the year a new Prime Minister Boris Johnson led the way in a radical departure from the EU which has yet to be digested by some but now seems like the right decision. When Cameron made way for Theresa May because he still wanted to be friends with those officious decision makers in Brussels, the English language changed dramatically overnight.
In roughly early 2017 and probably the latter end of 2016 Britain had adopted Brexit, a bright, shiny new phrase which had clearly been made up on the spot without any consultation from the British public. Now we've all become over familiar with Brexit for Brexit came to represent everything that would become anti Europe, politically controversial but blunt and self explanatory. Or was it?
For the next three years Brexit sparked off so many arguments, flare- ups and inflammatory comments from those on high and those who may have just wanted the quiet life that you wondered whether the subject would just run out of steam. But Brexit just kept going on and on interminably, posturing, pontificating, speechifying and just waffling because nobody seemed to mind and besides you couldn't beat a spot of rip roaring rhetoric.
But then Brexit fiercely divided Britain and families across the nation would do nothing but bicker, fall out with each other for days on end and then reluctantly apologise a couple of weeks later. There was never room for compromise here because Brexit was very trying, a repetitive, cracked vinyl record where the stylus had got irreparably stuck. Brexit eventually exhausted itself after a million references to Brexiteers who were neither on the left or right. Most of us were beginning to dread switching on either the TV and radio because we knew exactly what we were going to get.
And then when Boris Johnson had finally landed his dream job as Prime Minister of country things became much clearer and simpler. Johnson had also lost patience with his EU neighbours and was just desperate to sever his links with Brussels as soon as possible. So the soft Brexiteers and hard Brexiteers had a private party and together with Johnson waved goodbye to Europe with the most smug of grins. They told you they'd do it and they did. So there.
At the beginning of this year we thought we'd seen the back of barely incredulous grammar, newfangled phraseology and seemingly barmy words that had been joined up with equally as vague neologisms, word constructions that smacked of silliness. We giggled for a while before totally losing our way in a labyrinthine maze of complicated sentences. By the end of last year some of us were just gritting our teeth since the English language had been completely destroyed and taken away from us.
So it was that at the start of 2020 when everything had been resolved in Brussels, we settled down for just a very normal and ordinary year, the beginning of a new decade and nobody to bleed our ears with the same old blather and bluster. It was a time for recovery and rehabilitation, away from the fire and brimstone of sharp suited politicians with nothing but Brexit on their minds. What else was there left to talk about? We'd exhausted every angle. Surely nothing more could be said that we hadn't heard before. No point in pressing the same old chestnuts because those very chestnuts were getting on our nerves.
Little we were to know that lurking around another dark corner and ready to pounce there was something else to become very animated about. It was almost too good to be true. For a moment we were drawn into another world of complacency where nothing could ever upset or disturb us. Think again. The apparent certainties of life were about to be blown out of the water.
In January we were told us about some obscure outbreak of a disease that had stricken a cruise vessel and some illness in China which quite literally overnight became globally viral and astonishingly deadly at the same time. It had been burdened with a title that sounded like some crazy science fiction novel. Within a week the whole world knew about the coronavirus pandemic, a disease that would claim the lives of millions around the world.
Within weeks we were stuffing our supermarket trolley with dozens of toilet rolls, eggs and everything we could lay our hands on. We were scurrying around our homes, frantically devising improvised exercise routines, not going out at all in case something very bad and debilitating happened to us and a hospital ward would become a long term second home for the time being. Then it started and none of us knew why.
Before any of us could blink we were thrown into a torturous round of self isolating and self isolation before somebody came up with the ultimate classic. In early March and the rest of April and May we had to master the arts of social distancing. Now where on earth had that one come from. It sounded like the kind of reference that might have been dreamt up by some very imaginative university lecturer or a sociology teacher at the end of the 1970s. Perhaps it was the brainchild of a forward thinking geography teacher with patches on his jacket. It did sound too posh and just a touch too stuffy.
Still, here we are in the first couple of days in July and another literary gem has thrust its way into our consciousness. In what way did the world become inextricably drawn into a lockdown. The world is in lockdown and who were we to argue the point? Lockdowns was more or less an apt summary for a world that had been immobilised, incarcerated in our own homes and shut out from society for the foreseeable future. But lockdown suggested that somebody had thrown away the keys and we had been left to our own devices, not really knowing who to turn to and what to do in a restricted and straitened world.
So what to make of lockdown, self isolation and social distancing? Do we simply have to accept the status quo, become conditioned to the new normal or do we challenge the Establishment, take to the streets in vociferous protest, demand another revision of the English language, make it up as we go along or do we privately laugh at those eccentric wordsmiths who love playing with grammar? Be sure that when the coronavirus does thankfully pass over we won't have to wrestle with another awkwardly uncomfortable news agenda. It may be wishful thinking.
Tuesday, 30 June 2020
Wimbledon- but no strawberries and cream.
Wimbledon- but no strawberries and cream.
Wimbledon, that great summer extravaganza, has been postponed until next year. Back in March that news statement had to be announced because we knew it would. Sport of course has taken the biggest hit of all in the light of the coronavirus pandemic but yesterday it could have happened. The slings and arrows of outrageous misfortune, to misquote the great Bard William Shakespeare have meant that this year tennis is a no go area and you can forget those heavenly strawberries and cream. It's time to close those hallowed gates at SW19, keep those covers on and then ensure that the retractable roof is firmly shut.
Owing to obvious circumstances Wimbledon will not be gracing our digital radio sets or TV channels until sometime next June at the very least. Those admirably patient crowds who queue up outside both Centre Court, Court One, Two and all surrounding courts will have to put everything on hold, picnic hampers on Henman hill hidden away in the larder, bottles of champagne well and truly chilled until hopefully next year and Pimms similarly on tap until the government tell us that it's safe to drink.
Wimbledon always meant middle-class gentility to some and to others a democratic feast of summer sport where everybody could join in with the fun and games. Wimbledon always made us laugh, cry, bellow and shout, yelling out encouragement to the top seeds, idolising the matinee heart-throbs, those sexy men with hairy legs and striking bandanas on their foreheads. The women, of course should never be overlooked, always feminine and demure, flicking back wispy long hair, twiddling rackets and then touching their skirts for good luck perhaps.
Wimbledon provided us with tennis of the most exquisite quality, of the finest lustre and sheen, the highest order and rank. It always seemed to start at the end of June and took us right through to American Independence Day which was a coincidence because the likes of John Mcenroe and Jimmy Connors invariably reached the Final and, in most cases, ended up squabbling with each other. For most of us it represents sport at its most accomplished, sport at its most calming and sport with a significant meaning until well into the following year.
Across the parks and recreation grounds of Britain, people of all ages, classes, belief systems, cultures, genders and demographics will fling open the gates of their local tennis court, adjust the drooping net, tighten their tennis rackets, toss a coin and then send a whole barrage of booming serves and forehands to opposite corners of the court. The public will be allowed to act out their Wimbledon fantasies in their local parks but for the likes of Rafa Nadal and Novak Djokovic, those towering giants and geniuses of the yellow ball game, this is not your year because the adoring audience you might have been expecting have been told to stay at home in their living rooms.
Of course we will miss the immensely gifted likes of Nadal and Djokovic because they elevated tennis to the highest plateau, that starry eyed pantheon of greatness. They were the ones who always conducted themselves with a grace and graciousness that only they were capable of showing. They rarely argued with umpires, rarely questioned debatable calls or foot faults and always judged the mood of a big Centre Court match perfectly.
It is at times like this, when tennis misses out on our yearly diet of summer sport, that we go back in time to the way it used to be. These were the days of wooden rackets, no chairs in between sets and games, those unforgettable five set thrillers that seemed to go on forever. You can still see those late evening encounters, those roaming in the gloaming games when those numbered slats scoreboards were the only things you could see in the fading light of a summer evening.
You remember those bright emerald grass courts, green grass courts that looked as smooth and well manicured as the traditional bowling green. Then you'd notice that those well trodden baselines would suddenly degenerate into a dust bowl, brown sandy patches scuffed beyond recognition. But we loved tennis because we didn't mind about the deteriorating condition of Wimbledon base lines since this was part of its inherent charm.
The greats of course have accompanied us on our journey into adolescence and the TV commentators could always be relied upon to give us lyrical chapter and verse on the latest fashions, the easy and natural swings of the rackets, the service deliveries, the record breaking speeds of that vital first serve and then the explosive ace that could never be returned in any lifetime.
During the 1970s tennis held us spellbound, mesmerised, hypnotised and dumbfounded at the sheer perfection of it all, those extraordinary returns of serve from the back of Centre Court, the miracles of movement. We were treated to the dashing, the rushing, the scampering, the lunging, the frustrated screams and those moments of self reproach when rackets were thrown into the air, fiercely slapped on legs and when it just didn't seem fair. There was always ample room for self improvement and the ones who were top seeded always launched a quest for the impossible, the constant search for the utterly improbable.
We were ridiculously spoilt during the 1970s because in those good, old days we had fully qualified mischief-makers, roguish rebels, rousing renegades, hilarious rascals, intolerable tears and tantrums from the so-called bad boys perhaps but a conveyor belt of well rounded characters with even more outrageous temperaments.
We could hardly believe what we were watching because it always seemed to be too good to be true. There were those lazy summer afternoons when the crack of tennis ball on racket was like a classical music symphony, a richly fulfilling concert of sounds that echoed across the whole of London and the suburbs as if magically wafted through the air. It must have been a privilege to be there and, above all an experience to be treasured, a sporting festival that unfailingly entertained every British summer.
There were the three musketeers, John Mcenroe, Jimmy Connors and Bjorn Borg, players of sumptuous talent, majestic athletes, well proportioned, remarkable exponents of their sport and gloriously talented. Mcenroe was the wild, naughty, rebellious one, bad tempered, impetuous, spiky, arrogant, ferociously argumentative, never satisfied, always on the warpath and consumed with contempt with umpires, the ball boys and,, quite often, the net.
You always had the impression that Mcenroe had the needle with everybody and everything because there may have been a part of him that struggled to find complete happiness with not only himself but the whole world. The foul-mouthed expletives, the vicious eye balling confrontations with the umpires, the crazy explosions and the chalk that had to be on the line were never less than a minute away. But those vile and vitriolic outburts somehow came to define Mcenroe and that's why he was so widely admired wherever he went.
For all the bluster and the pomposity though, his tennis was always instinctive, the returns of serve almost delicately picturesque, the backhands equally as astonishing and the winners down the line delivered with an almost reliable precision. He may have tested our patience but he knew how to tick all the right boxes when the occasion warranted it.
Then there was Bjorn Borg, the Swedish maestro who won five consecutive Wimbledon singles titles without ever seemingly breaking sweat at all. Borg was a handsome player, abundantly equipped with every shot in the book, cool as a cucumber, nervelessly imperturbable, always in command of Centre Court and only occasionally flicking away a bead of sweat from that rigidly placed bandana on his forehead. Borg was the complete player, at home with every surface throughout the world and never ruffled by any potential crisis. The Borg- Connors- Mcenroe era will never ever be forgotten.
Further back in time we witnessed the masterful brilliance of Lew Hoad, the wonderfully balanced and poised Rod Laver, an Australian with every trick in the book, athleticism personified, stylish and versatile, charming and courageous. There was Ken Rosewall, who some of us believed always behaved like the perfect gentleman, a man of manners and courteous at all times. From memory at least Rosewall always had time for everybody and would never break a tennis racket.
The women of course won the palpitating hearts of many a male. During the 1960s and 70s there was Billy Jean King, fast, quick witted, skilful, nimble footed, fleet of foot, returning with almost military timing and then engineering some of the most delightful ground strokes tennis had ever seen. King was a feminist, strong willed, decisive on court, controversial off it but proud of that one match when her male opponent Bobby Riggs was beaten hands down convincingly.
Then your personal tennis heroines came into view, ladies of grace, elegance, power and style. There was Chris Evert, always polite, eternally articulate and never less than fluent and fluid on court. You can still see Evert, eyes deep in concentration, fair hair blowing gently in the wind, spinning her racket with a gentle consideration in case somebody had been offended by something Evert's opponent might have been doing on the other side of the court.
There was the Australian Evonne Goolagong then Cawley, spring heeled, energetic, feisty, tenacious, committed to victory and never less than ladylike. Cawley threw herself into both services and returns, forehand and backhand permanently in tune with her natural game. Cawley was one of tennis's greatest of expressionists, a wristy player with cunning wiles and guiles.
Further back in time there was once Little Mo Connolly, Maria Bueno and then in more modern times Martina Navratilova. a Czech who became an American, a powerhouse of a player, winner of so many Wimbledon titles that it is hard to remember a time when she wasn't a dominant force at SW19. Navratilova had some of the most muscular shoulders in the history of women's tennis, powers of endurance and stamina that frequently left us speechless and a rampant ambition that could never be quelled. She was driven, obsessed with winning over and over again. Quite clearly she wanted to rule the world of tennis for as long as she could and she did.
In more recent years both Martina Hingis and Steffi Graff have both left their artistic legacy on the game and Graff had an unbreakable monopoly over the game. We must believe that one day Johanna Konta will once again raise the profile of British tennis 43 years after the lady in the mauve cardigan Virginia Wade curtsied before the Queen in Silver Jubilee year and lifted the women's tennis singles trophy. Oh what a year that was for British tennis and how the crowds responded.
But we shall miss this year's Wimbledon's cut and thrust, its loud grunts, its noisy, high pitched yells, its twiddling rackets, its force of nature, its players constantly adjusting their clothes, tugging their shirts, squinting into the setting sun of another gorgeous Wimbledon evening. We shall miss those quirky mannerisms, the moody prowls along the baselines, the hidden torment of losing narrowly in five sets.
Above all we'll miss the permanently boisterous crowds, the barking voices of support and idolatry, the magnificent Mexican waves when they get fed up with cheering. We'll know just how long those crowds have been waiting to get onto the main courts because they may have been hanging around the outside the ivy clad walls of Wimbledon since the turn of the 19th century.
We all know about Wimbledon's illustrious past, its heroes and heroines, the court jesters, the musical hall acts, Ilie Nastase wearing a policeman's hat and then sitting next to the front row of the crowd. It will never its lose its jokers, its harlequinades and the crowd pleasers but when next June does arrive we'll be hoping that sport has not its endless capacity to laugh at itself. Let's hear it for game, set and match. We can hardly wait.
Wimbledon, that great summer extravaganza, has been postponed until next year. Back in March that news statement had to be announced because we knew it would. Sport of course has taken the biggest hit of all in the light of the coronavirus pandemic but yesterday it could have happened. The slings and arrows of outrageous misfortune, to misquote the great Bard William Shakespeare have meant that this year tennis is a no go area and you can forget those heavenly strawberries and cream. It's time to close those hallowed gates at SW19, keep those covers on and then ensure that the retractable roof is firmly shut.
Owing to obvious circumstances Wimbledon will not be gracing our digital radio sets or TV channels until sometime next June at the very least. Those admirably patient crowds who queue up outside both Centre Court, Court One, Two and all surrounding courts will have to put everything on hold, picnic hampers on Henman hill hidden away in the larder, bottles of champagne well and truly chilled until hopefully next year and Pimms similarly on tap until the government tell us that it's safe to drink.
Wimbledon always meant middle-class gentility to some and to others a democratic feast of summer sport where everybody could join in with the fun and games. Wimbledon always made us laugh, cry, bellow and shout, yelling out encouragement to the top seeds, idolising the matinee heart-throbs, those sexy men with hairy legs and striking bandanas on their foreheads. The women, of course should never be overlooked, always feminine and demure, flicking back wispy long hair, twiddling rackets and then touching their skirts for good luck perhaps.
Wimbledon provided us with tennis of the most exquisite quality, of the finest lustre and sheen, the highest order and rank. It always seemed to start at the end of June and took us right through to American Independence Day which was a coincidence because the likes of John Mcenroe and Jimmy Connors invariably reached the Final and, in most cases, ended up squabbling with each other. For most of us it represents sport at its most accomplished, sport at its most calming and sport with a significant meaning until well into the following year.
Across the parks and recreation grounds of Britain, people of all ages, classes, belief systems, cultures, genders and demographics will fling open the gates of their local tennis court, adjust the drooping net, tighten their tennis rackets, toss a coin and then send a whole barrage of booming serves and forehands to opposite corners of the court. The public will be allowed to act out their Wimbledon fantasies in their local parks but for the likes of Rafa Nadal and Novak Djokovic, those towering giants and geniuses of the yellow ball game, this is not your year because the adoring audience you might have been expecting have been told to stay at home in their living rooms.
Of course we will miss the immensely gifted likes of Nadal and Djokovic because they elevated tennis to the highest plateau, that starry eyed pantheon of greatness. They were the ones who always conducted themselves with a grace and graciousness that only they were capable of showing. They rarely argued with umpires, rarely questioned debatable calls or foot faults and always judged the mood of a big Centre Court match perfectly.
It is at times like this, when tennis misses out on our yearly diet of summer sport, that we go back in time to the way it used to be. These were the days of wooden rackets, no chairs in between sets and games, those unforgettable five set thrillers that seemed to go on forever. You can still see those late evening encounters, those roaming in the gloaming games when those numbered slats scoreboards were the only things you could see in the fading light of a summer evening.
You remember those bright emerald grass courts, green grass courts that looked as smooth and well manicured as the traditional bowling green. Then you'd notice that those well trodden baselines would suddenly degenerate into a dust bowl, brown sandy patches scuffed beyond recognition. But we loved tennis because we didn't mind about the deteriorating condition of Wimbledon base lines since this was part of its inherent charm.
The greats of course have accompanied us on our journey into adolescence and the TV commentators could always be relied upon to give us lyrical chapter and verse on the latest fashions, the easy and natural swings of the rackets, the service deliveries, the record breaking speeds of that vital first serve and then the explosive ace that could never be returned in any lifetime.
During the 1970s tennis held us spellbound, mesmerised, hypnotised and dumbfounded at the sheer perfection of it all, those extraordinary returns of serve from the back of Centre Court, the miracles of movement. We were treated to the dashing, the rushing, the scampering, the lunging, the frustrated screams and those moments of self reproach when rackets were thrown into the air, fiercely slapped on legs and when it just didn't seem fair. There was always ample room for self improvement and the ones who were top seeded always launched a quest for the impossible, the constant search for the utterly improbable.
We were ridiculously spoilt during the 1970s because in those good, old days we had fully qualified mischief-makers, roguish rebels, rousing renegades, hilarious rascals, intolerable tears and tantrums from the so-called bad boys perhaps but a conveyor belt of well rounded characters with even more outrageous temperaments.
We could hardly believe what we were watching because it always seemed to be too good to be true. There were those lazy summer afternoons when the crack of tennis ball on racket was like a classical music symphony, a richly fulfilling concert of sounds that echoed across the whole of London and the suburbs as if magically wafted through the air. It must have been a privilege to be there and, above all an experience to be treasured, a sporting festival that unfailingly entertained every British summer.
There were the three musketeers, John Mcenroe, Jimmy Connors and Bjorn Borg, players of sumptuous talent, majestic athletes, well proportioned, remarkable exponents of their sport and gloriously talented. Mcenroe was the wild, naughty, rebellious one, bad tempered, impetuous, spiky, arrogant, ferociously argumentative, never satisfied, always on the warpath and consumed with contempt with umpires, the ball boys and,, quite often, the net.
You always had the impression that Mcenroe had the needle with everybody and everything because there may have been a part of him that struggled to find complete happiness with not only himself but the whole world. The foul-mouthed expletives, the vicious eye balling confrontations with the umpires, the crazy explosions and the chalk that had to be on the line were never less than a minute away. But those vile and vitriolic outburts somehow came to define Mcenroe and that's why he was so widely admired wherever he went.
For all the bluster and the pomposity though, his tennis was always instinctive, the returns of serve almost delicately picturesque, the backhands equally as astonishing and the winners down the line delivered with an almost reliable precision. He may have tested our patience but he knew how to tick all the right boxes when the occasion warranted it.
Then there was Bjorn Borg, the Swedish maestro who won five consecutive Wimbledon singles titles without ever seemingly breaking sweat at all. Borg was a handsome player, abundantly equipped with every shot in the book, cool as a cucumber, nervelessly imperturbable, always in command of Centre Court and only occasionally flicking away a bead of sweat from that rigidly placed bandana on his forehead. Borg was the complete player, at home with every surface throughout the world and never ruffled by any potential crisis. The Borg- Connors- Mcenroe era will never ever be forgotten.
Further back in time we witnessed the masterful brilliance of Lew Hoad, the wonderfully balanced and poised Rod Laver, an Australian with every trick in the book, athleticism personified, stylish and versatile, charming and courageous. There was Ken Rosewall, who some of us believed always behaved like the perfect gentleman, a man of manners and courteous at all times. From memory at least Rosewall always had time for everybody and would never break a tennis racket.
The women of course won the palpitating hearts of many a male. During the 1960s and 70s there was Billy Jean King, fast, quick witted, skilful, nimble footed, fleet of foot, returning with almost military timing and then engineering some of the most delightful ground strokes tennis had ever seen. King was a feminist, strong willed, decisive on court, controversial off it but proud of that one match when her male opponent Bobby Riggs was beaten hands down convincingly.
Then your personal tennis heroines came into view, ladies of grace, elegance, power and style. There was Chris Evert, always polite, eternally articulate and never less than fluent and fluid on court. You can still see Evert, eyes deep in concentration, fair hair blowing gently in the wind, spinning her racket with a gentle consideration in case somebody had been offended by something Evert's opponent might have been doing on the other side of the court.
There was the Australian Evonne Goolagong then Cawley, spring heeled, energetic, feisty, tenacious, committed to victory and never less than ladylike. Cawley threw herself into both services and returns, forehand and backhand permanently in tune with her natural game. Cawley was one of tennis's greatest of expressionists, a wristy player with cunning wiles and guiles.
Further back in time there was once Little Mo Connolly, Maria Bueno and then in more modern times Martina Navratilova. a Czech who became an American, a powerhouse of a player, winner of so many Wimbledon titles that it is hard to remember a time when she wasn't a dominant force at SW19. Navratilova had some of the most muscular shoulders in the history of women's tennis, powers of endurance and stamina that frequently left us speechless and a rampant ambition that could never be quelled. She was driven, obsessed with winning over and over again. Quite clearly she wanted to rule the world of tennis for as long as she could and she did.
In more recent years both Martina Hingis and Steffi Graff have both left their artistic legacy on the game and Graff had an unbreakable monopoly over the game. We must believe that one day Johanna Konta will once again raise the profile of British tennis 43 years after the lady in the mauve cardigan Virginia Wade curtsied before the Queen in Silver Jubilee year and lifted the women's tennis singles trophy. Oh what a year that was for British tennis and how the crowds responded.
But we shall miss this year's Wimbledon's cut and thrust, its loud grunts, its noisy, high pitched yells, its twiddling rackets, its force of nature, its players constantly adjusting their clothes, tugging their shirts, squinting into the setting sun of another gorgeous Wimbledon evening. We shall miss those quirky mannerisms, the moody prowls along the baselines, the hidden torment of losing narrowly in five sets.
Above all we'll miss the permanently boisterous crowds, the barking voices of support and idolatry, the magnificent Mexican waves when they get fed up with cheering. We'll know just how long those crowds have been waiting to get onto the main courts because they may have been hanging around the outside the ivy clad walls of Wimbledon since the turn of the 19th century.
We all know about Wimbledon's illustrious past, its heroes and heroines, the court jesters, the musical hall acts, Ilie Nastase wearing a policeman's hat and then sitting next to the front row of the crowd. It will never its lose its jokers, its harlequinades and the crowd pleasers but when next June does arrive we'll be hoping that sport has not its endless capacity to laugh at itself. Let's hear it for game, set and match. We can hardly wait.
Sunday, 28 June 2020
Canaries tweet their last FA Cup tune. Norwich City lose to Manchester United in Cup quarter final.
Canaries tweet their last FA Cup tune. Norwich lose to Manchester United in Cup quarter final.
In an atmosphere that still reminded you of a school playground, Norwich City bowed out of this season's FA Cup with dignity intact but still there is the realisation that their residence in the Premier League may now be in grave jeopardy. After yoyoing back into this year's Premier League Norwich do seem to have taken a liking to their trampoline because the very thought of bouncing back to the top flight does seem to energise them.
It now looks inevitable though that the Canaries from Norfolk's greenest acres will be heading back from whence they came in the Championship but still it was good while it lasted. Norwich, perhaps now infamously, just can't settle in football's top flight and for what now seems an eternity have always flattered to deceive when altitude sickness seems to get the better of them.
The sight of top celebrity chef Delia Smith desperately imploring her Norwich team to victory at half time several seasons ago remains one of the game's more amusing moments. But for whatever reason Norwich remain incapable of remembering their lines and stage fright seems to follow them everywhere. Maybe they should see a footballing psychiatrist since the Carrow Road faithful must be heartily sick of all this instability.
When John Bond was their manager, Norwich were very fetching on the eye, their football spiced with all kinds of fragrant flavours. Norwich were entertaining and certainly one of the most attractive sides in the late 1970s. But since then their football has suffered an attack of the jitters, a side nervous, unsure of themselves always looking for re-assurance. Maybe they should have pretended that Liverpool, Manchester United, Spurs or Arsenal were just optical illusions.
In their FA Cup quarter final tie against a very polished Manchester United side, Norwich only briefly hinted at the kind of form that had completely outplayed their opponents neighbours City earlier on in the season. But this was not the Norwich who had once deeply impressed the neutrals when John Bond was boss roughly 40 years ago.
The truth is that Norwich now looked doomed and condemned to another season in the Championship and any distraction from the Premier League was no more than fleeting. This was never going to be an easy watch for the locals who, you suspect, would much rather have spent a lovely summer evening picking strawberries or potatoes in Norfolk's lush fields. But it was the FA Cup and we're now at the end of June with some incongruous event tacked onto the end of the season as an afterthought.
Still here we were in the FA Cup quarter finals when most of the players, you feel sure, would have much preferred an evening in a Greek taverna or tucking into Spanish paella washed down by a Chateaux Marks and Spencer. Footballers are of course creatures of habit and had you asked any of the players on view yesterday whether a place in a Wembley FA Cup semi final now or a rest and relaxation break in the Costa Brava would be much more to their liking the choice would surely have been predictable.
Football though has to deal with whatever is placed in front of us and although very odd and maybe a touch unsettling for many a traditional football fan this was the FA Cup without its fans and that in itself cast a strange and mystical light on yesterday's fare. Of course the FA Cup has retained something of its old fashioned glamour but for those who can remember the days of rosettes and banners at any FA Cup tie from long ago this was not quite the romantic spectacle of times gone by. Besides Norwich regrettably have been nowhere near a Final appearance and Canaries only sing in coalmines.
Yesterday evening with the summer shadows lengthening and Manchester United were in town. Normally this would have vaguely recalled a David and Goliath Cup tie but by the end of extra time, Norwich were out on their feet. Their rash and careless defender Timm Klose had been sent off for a needless foul on the edge of the Norwich penalty area and the home side were whistling in the wind. Manchester United immediately sensed their moment and went for the yellow and green jugular.
The match itself played out in much the way most of us had expected. Manchester United, with the always venturesome Luke Shaw at the back, Harry Maguire, quietly domineering at the heart of the United defence, Eric Bailly, all hustle and bustle in front of the United back four, United began to assert their customary imprint on the Cup tie. Their football, once so beautifully sculpted and chiselled under Alex Ferguson, still has all those silks and subtleties that continue to give so much pleasure to the football aficionado and the purist who insists on technical correctness.
Under Ole Gunnar Solksjaer United are still a work in progress and the moment of completion may be a number of seasons away but the signs are there and the players fit the bill perfectly. Scott Mctominay may not be another David Beckham in the making as of yet but he still exudes an obvious authority in midfield. With Juan Mata still as quick witted and creative as ever even at the age of 32 and Bruno Fernandes an outstanding player with so much to give United, this is a Manchester United side that could reach the stars without quite the smooth finesse of the Beckham, Giggs, Butt and Scholes era.
We must not overlook the sterling contribution of Jesse Lingard, a home grown Old Ttrafford product, an England international par excellence with a sweetness of touch and a desire to attack with the ball in dangerous areas that never fails to catch the eye. Lingard was forever probing, buzzing, prompting, scheming and searching, linking effectively and powerfully with his United colleagues, the busy bee that provided United with most of the honey.
United eventually made their attacking superiority count when it looked as if Norwich had possibly rumbled United's cunning plan. United took the lead early on after a dazzling passage of play where the ball seemed to be stuck in the green and yellow half like glue on paper. A neat procession of passes found Luke Shaw whose clipped cross low across the Norwich area ultimately found the feet of Odion Ighalo who, turning his defender sharply, shielded the ball carefully before flicking out a lethal foot, guiding the ball firmly past helpless keeper Tim Krul.
In the second half though Norwich surged forward and broke forward with a speed of thought that had quite clearly left United feeling hot and bothered. Their football had much greater clarity and purpose where before there had only been faint suggestions and blurred images. Jamas Lewis looked far more confident on the ball while the likes of Alexander Tettey, Emiliano Buendia and Lukas Ruff were badgering and beavering away, chipping away at United's resistance.
When the promising and forward thinking Todd Cantwell joined in with Norwich's hitherto misfiring attack, it looked as though the home side were emerging from their inhibited shell. Norwich were now seeking rather than retreating, enterprising rather than withering. With the game seemingly running away from them, Norwich were given their thoroughly deserved equaliser. After a spurt of close control and cohesive football on the touchline, Norwich worked the ball smartly across the pitch and Cantwell, latching onto the ball with great delight, cracked the ball with some finality high into the United net. It was, as they say in football parlance, a screamer.
With the game now into injury time all it took was one flash point to decide this moderately engaging Cup quarter final, Norwich, perhaps smelling blood, now saw red. The aforementioned Timm Klose grabbed hold of a United attacker in front of the referee and had to be given his marching orders. Norwich were now without a life raft and just disappeared from the game.
In the closing stages of extra time United now lay siege to a Norwich side with an extremely fragile chin. The attacks came thick and fast, United peppering the Norwich goal with a sustained assault that always looked as if it would result in a winner for United. It almost felt as though Norwich were clinging on to some metaphorical cliff and hoping that penalties would come to their rescue. It was not to be.
Now it was that Luke Shaw, still capable and competent in possession, who picked up the ball from another clever pass. Shaw, weighing up his options with both perception and shrewdness, floated a low, diagonal ball into the Norwich six yard box and after the ball had been laid off to him, Harry Maguire who had been influential in so many of Englnd's World Cup displays two years ago, nipped in front of his defender before clipping the ball past the keeper for United's winner.
And so it is that Manchester United march into another record breaking FA Cup semi final and probably another Cup Final to boot. Meanwhile most of us were still trying to imagine a Cup Final without any supporters from the two respective finalists. For those of us who have avidly followed and endured both the fortunes and misfortunes of our club side, this still feels like an insult to our intelligence rather like watching our favourite movie with the volume turned down or an art gallery without any tourists to cast admiring eyes on.
Still, football is undoubtedly living in some parallel universe, a galaxy far away from a well trodden Earth, a world that has clearly lost its bearings. We are being asked to watch football that has quite literally lost its identity, a sport undermined and humiliated by men with stupid looking blinkers over their eyes and no idea what to do with perhaps the most important influence on the game. These are not the thoughts of a bitter and resentful type more of a plea from the heart, a cry in the wilderness for some degree of sense. An FA Cup Final without its supporters still feels like another game entirely. Wembley, Wembley! Here we go. Here we go Here we go!
In an atmosphere that still reminded you of a school playground, Norwich City bowed out of this season's FA Cup with dignity intact but still there is the realisation that their residence in the Premier League may now be in grave jeopardy. After yoyoing back into this year's Premier League Norwich do seem to have taken a liking to their trampoline because the very thought of bouncing back to the top flight does seem to energise them.
It now looks inevitable though that the Canaries from Norfolk's greenest acres will be heading back from whence they came in the Championship but still it was good while it lasted. Norwich, perhaps now infamously, just can't settle in football's top flight and for what now seems an eternity have always flattered to deceive when altitude sickness seems to get the better of them.
The sight of top celebrity chef Delia Smith desperately imploring her Norwich team to victory at half time several seasons ago remains one of the game's more amusing moments. But for whatever reason Norwich remain incapable of remembering their lines and stage fright seems to follow them everywhere. Maybe they should see a footballing psychiatrist since the Carrow Road faithful must be heartily sick of all this instability.
When John Bond was their manager, Norwich were very fetching on the eye, their football spiced with all kinds of fragrant flavours. Norwich were entertaining and certainly one of the most attractive sides in the late 1970s. But since then their football has suffered an attack of the jitters, a side nervous, unsure of themselves always looking for re-assurance. Maybe they should have pretended that Liverpool, Manchester United, Spurs or Arsenal were just optical illusions.
In their FA Cup quarter final tie against a very polished Manchester United side, Norwich only briefly hinted at the kind of form that had completely outplayed their opponents neighbours City earlier on in the season. But this was not the Norwich who had once deeply impressed the neutrals when John Bond was boss roughly 40 years ago.
The truth is that Norwich now looked doomed and condemned to another season in the Championship and any distraction from the Premier League was no more than fleeting. This was never going to be an easy watch for the locals who, you suspect, would much rather have spent a lovely summer evening picking strawberries or potatoes in Norfolk's lush fields. But it was the FA Cup and we're now at the end of June with some incongruous event tacked onto the end of the season as an afterthought.
Still here we were in the FA Cup quarter finals when most of the players, you feel sure, would have much preferred an evening in a Greek taverna or tucking into Spanish paella washed down by a Chateaux Marks and Spencer. Footballers are of course creatures of habit and had you asked any of the players on view yesterday whether a place in a Wembley FA Cup semi final now or a rest and relaxation break in the Costa Brava would be much more to their liking the choice would surely have been predictable.
Football though has to deal with whatever is placed in front of us and although very odd and maybe a touch unsettling for many a traditional football fan this was the FA Cup without its fans and that in itself cast a strange and mystical light on yesterday's fare. Of course the FA Cup has retained something of its old fashioned glamour but for those who can remember the days of rosettes and banners at any FA Cup tie from long ago this was not quite the romantic spectacle of times gone by. Besides Norwich regrettably have been nowhere near a Final appearance and Canaries only sing in coalmines.
Yesterday evening with the summer shadows lengthening and Manchester United were in town. Normally this would have vaguely recalled a David and Goliath Cup tie but by the end of extra time, Norwich were out on their feet. Their rash and careless defender Timm Klose had been sent off for a needless foul on the edge of the Norwich penalty area and the home side were whistling in the wind. Manchester United immediately sensed their moment and went for the yellow and green jugular.
The match itself played out in much the way most of us had expected. Manchester United, with the always venturesome Luke Shaw at the back, Harry Maguire, quietly domineering at the heart of the United defence, Eric Bailly, all hustle and bustle in front of the United back four, United began to assert their customary imprint on the Cup tie. Their football, once so beautifully sculpted and chiselled under Alex Ferguson, still has all those silks and subtleties that continue to give so much pleasure to the football aficionado and the purist who insists on technical correctness.
Under Ole Gunnar Solksjaer United are still a work in progress and the moment of completion may be a number of seasons away but the signs are there and the players fit the bill perfectly. Scott Mctominay may not be another David Beckham in the making as of yet but he still exudes an obvious authority in midfield. With Juan Mata still as quick witted and creative as ever even at the age of 32 and Bruno Fernandes an outstanding player with so much to give United, this is a Manchester United side that could reach the stars without quite the smooth finesse of the Beckham, Giggs, Butt and Scholes era.
We must not overlook the sterling contribution of Jesse Lingard, a home grown Old Ttrafford product, an England international par excellence with a sweetness of touch and a desire to attack with the ball in dangerous areas that never fails to catch the eye. Lingard was forever probing, buzzing, prompting, scheming and searching, linking effectively and powerfully with his United colleagues, the busy bee that provided United with most of the honey.
United eventually made their attacking superiority count when it looked as if Norwich had possibly rumbled United's cunning plan. United took the lead early on after a dazzling passage of play where the ball seemed to be stuck in the green and yellow half like glue on paper. A neat procession of passes found Luke Shaw whose clipped cross low across the Norwich area ultimately found the feet of Odion Ighalo who, turning his defender sharply, shielded the ball carefully before flicking out a lethal foot, guiding the ball firmly past helpless keeper Tim Krul.
In the second half though Norwich surged forward and broke forward with a speed of thought that had quite clearly left United feeling hot and bothered. Their football had much greater clarity and purpose where before there had only been faint suggestions and blurred images. Jamas Lewis looked far more confident on the ball while the likes of Alexander Tettey, Emiliano Buendia and Lukas Ruff were badgering and beavering away, chipping away at United's resistance.
When the promising and forward thinking Todd Cantwell joined in with Norwich's hitherto misfiring attack, it looked as though the home side were emerging from their inhibited shell. Norwich were now seeking rather than retreating, enterprising rather than withering. With the game seemingly running away from them, Norwich were given their thoroughly deserved equaliser. After a spurt of close control and cohesive football on the touchline, Norwich worked the ball smartly across the pitch and Cantwell, latching onto the ball with great delight, cracked the ball with some finality high into the United net. It was, as they say in football parlance, a screamer.
With the game now into injury time all it took was one flash point to decide this moderately engaging Cup quarter final, Norwich, perhaps smelling blood, now saw red. The aforementioned Timm Klose grabbed hold of a United attacker in front of the referee and had to be given his marching orders. Norwich were now without a life raft and just disappeared from the game.
In the closing stages of extra time United now lay siege to a Norwich side with an extremely fragile chin. The attacks came thick and fast, United peppering the Norwich goal with a sustained assault that always looked as if it would result in a winner for United. It almost felt as though Norwich were clinging on to some metaphorical cliff and hoping that penalties would come to their rescue. It was not to be.
Now it was that Luke Shaw, still capable and competent in possession, who picked up the ball from another clever pass. Shaw, weighing up his options with both perception and shrewdness, floated a low, diagonal ball into the Norwich six yard box and after the ball had been laid off to him, Harry Maguire who had been influential in so many of Englnd's World Cup displays two years ago, nipped in front of his defender before clipping the ball past the keeper for United's winner.
And so it is that Manchester United march into another record breaking FA Cup semi final and probably another Cup Final to boot. Meanwhile most of us were still trying to imagine a Cup Final without any supporters from the two respective finalists. For those of us who have avidly followed and endured both the fortunes and misfortunes of our club side, this still feels like an insult to our intelligence rather like watching our favourite movie with the volume turned down or an art gallery without any tourists to cast admiring eyes on.
Still, football is undoubtedly living in some parallel universe, a galaxy far away from a well trodden Earth, a world that has clearly lost its bearings. We are being asked to watch football that has quite literally lost its identity, a sport undermined and humiliated by men with stupid looking blinkers over their eyes and no idea what to do with perhaps the most important influence on the game. These are not the thoughts of a bitter and resentful type more of a plea from the heart, a cry in the wilderness for some degree of sense. An FA Cup Final without its supporters still feels like another game entirely. Wembley, Wembley! Here we go. Here we go Here we go!
Saturday, 27 June 2020
Time to book your holiday in the sun.
Time to book your holiday in the sun.
Set against an increasingly hostile backdrop of riots, demonstrations and irrationally aggressive behaviour it is now comforting to hear that at long last we can finally book that welcome holiday to the sun. Before that now dreadful lockdown in March most of us were optimistically waiting for the right moment to book our yearly holiday to far off places abroad where the sun shone eternally, pina coladas were drunk by the gallon next to a shimmering swimming pool and Britain was thousands of miles away from here.
Little did we know it at the time that something was ominous in the air with far-reaching implications, terrible repercussions and something that would throw all of us into full -time panic mode. We had to look forward to something but were deprived of doing so because the world became inaccessible, out of bounds, trapped in a raging pandemic disease that just kept getting worse by the day and beyond human control.
And so it is that we welcome summer 2020 and after another series of contradictory messages from both government and those talking heads in the House of Self Parody, we have now been given permission to go on holiday. Whoopee? Let's get out that passport, stock up on those plentiful supplies of sun factor cream 72 and just pack every single piece of clothing into a fit to burst suitcase while always concerned about what might happen if we do get too close to anybody on the plane.
Still, in a couple of weeks time all of those sun kissed beaches in those quintessentially exotic lands far away from British shores will once again be heaving with sun umbrellas, Brits paddling lazily in turquoise seas and kids running in and out of the waters with cute little caps on their heads. Then the Mediterranean idyll will find all of those British tourists with unfortunate red burn marks on their body where the sun factor has failed to reach its intended spot. Then emergency measures will be called upon as dozens of after sun tan lotion bottles will be dug out of bags overflowing with sangria and donkeys.
No matter of course that we may not be up to going away on holiday just yet because the rumours of quarantine, hand sanitisers at airports and yet another consignment of masks to be worn at customs remain as true as they might have done a couple of weeks ago. So there you are already to go, suitcases packed, sun -glasses perched on the bridge of your nose, paperback books tucked away safely in your baggage and then somebody tells us that once we get to our destination we may have to deal with yet more confinement.
Suddenly, the whole concept of going away for a week to two weeks in either the Med or any other part of the world now becomes distinctly less appealing than it should. The fear factor and sense of foreboding is too much to take in and most of us may not entirely fancy the prospect of squeezing through the aisles of a plane, plonking ourselves down on our seats and then suffering the ultimate indignity of claustrophobia when we could be booking ourselves into a bed and breakfast hotel in Skegness or Blackpool.
And this is where we begin to weigh up the pros and cons of this whole bizarre set of events. Is travelling abroad a calculated risk or perhaps Spain, Italy, Greece, Cyprus, the USA, Mexico, the Far East or Israel really does feel like the ultimate temptation too good to be resisted? But hey come on we've got to get away from Britain after all these months of just becoming stressed out because the kids have been driving you mad at home and you're about to explode.
We mustn't forget all that unnecessary hassle and aggravation at the airport where everything becomes like an assault course or some perilous expedition into the unknown. Under the circumstances you probably won't be looking forward to the prospect of walking for miles around the airport concourse, dragging your cases through a minefield of annoyances, those loathsome inconveniences.
There are those tiresome customs desks, hypnotic luggage carousels, the endless parade of perfume shops, checking in with your passports and those wretched security checks where trouser belts have to be taken off, watches and jewellery removed from your pockets and everything that smacks of red tape bureaucracy just leaves you screaming with frustration.
But way back in the early 1970s when we signed up for this time consuming rigmarole at our local airport nobody knew this would happen, much less bargain for. In those days airports, although busy, must have assumed that if you had booked your holiday in either January or February you really wouldn't have to worry about such minor details as out of date passports or the Tablet you'd forgotten to pack. We could negotiate that particular problem since you could always fly off at a later date during the summer.
The blunt truth though is that nobody is going nowhere at this moment although the doors and gates could be open at either Heathrow, Luton, Gatwick and all of those wonderful regional airports around Britain very soon so just hold on and we'll get there. However after all those months of teeth- gnashing and finger biting the enthusiasm to hit the beaches and hotel swimming pools of the world may not be quite as feverish as perhaps it should be. Or maybe you're just counting the hours down before that Easy Jet plane is winging its way over the Iberian peninsula.
The fact is thankfully that we may be edging our way tentatively back to that point of the year when Easter chocolate eggs were only weeks away and spring was the most enticing prospect. Nobody can really tell where we are at the moment because the pubs and restaurants have been ordered to be ready for the beginning of July and most of those non- essential shops are, we assured, ringing those tills.
The feeling though is that half of the world is open and functioning at something that seems like semi business as usual while the other half is still kicking its heels. People are still wandering around in masks, those who aren't wearing them are beginning to ask themselves whether they should and it all feels as if we're like extras for a potential remake of Emergency Ward 10. It just feels like one of those years that really didn't happen at all and should have been scrapped on New Year's Day.
Of course we love life and our mental health but the end of June probably feels like the end of November or the week before Christmas. The end of the world isn't nigh and we know that but the significance of the year and the energy have long since evaporated. All of the cultural and major sporting events have now been placed in cold storage and what could have been so richly satisfying and aesthetically perfect is now just a torn page in history. Or so it would seem.
For instance last night BBC Two devoted the entire evening to the many- layered history of Glastonbury, a pop and rock music festival so enshrined in the hearts of hundreds of late 1960s hippies and modern day kids that a year without it, is a gaping wound. Two presenters stood in an empty field in deepest Somerset surrounded by cows and not a lot else. There was a very lonely electricity pylon but in the place where the esteemed Motown legend who is Diana Ross should have been tomorrow night was grass and stunning scenery. It is all very demoralising but then again there's always next year.
So here's the deal everyone. Forget about Glastonbury, the tennis from Wimbledon, quite possibly cricket and every other national treasure because they won't be happening. Euro 2020 would have been approaching its final stages although the Premier League football season is still jumping up and down in the background and won't be happy until the end of July. These were all scheduled plans that didn't take place nor were they in retrospect, destined to happen.
This is the advice for what's it worth. Close your eyes, take a deep breath and when you wake up at any time in the foreseeable future this will all be over. Trust me, you've looked into your crystal ball and the future is resplendently bright. It can only be a matter of time now. Stay safe and alert everybody and keep well.
Set against an increasingly hostile backdrop of riots, demonstrations and irrationally aggressive behaviour it is now comforting to hear that at long last we can finally book that welcome holiday to the sun. Before that now dreadful lockdown in March most of us were optimistically waiting for the right moment to book our yearly holiday to far off places abroad where the sun shone eternally, pina coladas were drunk by the gallon next to a shimmering swimming pool and Britain was thousands of miles away from here.
Little did we know it at the time that something was ominous in the air with far-reaching implications, terrible repercussions and something that would throw all of us into full -time panic mode. We had to look forward to something but were deprived of doing so because the world became inaccessible, out of bounds, trapped in a raging pandemic disease that just kept getting worse by the day and beyond human control.
And so it is that we welcome summer 2020 and after another series of contradictory messages from both government and those talking heads in the House of Self Parody, we have now been given permission to go on holiday. Whoopee? Let's get out that passport, stock up on those plentiful supplies of sun factor cream 72 and just pack every single piece of clothing into a fit to burst suitcase while always concerned about what might happen if we do get too close to anybody on the plane.
Still, in a couple of weeks time all of those sun kissed beaches in those quintessentially exotic lands far away from British shores will once again be heaving with sun umbrellas, Brits paddling lazily in turquoise seas and kids running in and out of the waters with cute little caps on their heads. Then the Mediterranean idyll will find all of those British tourists with unfortunate red burn marks on their body where the sun factor has failed to reach its intended spot. Then emergency measures will be called upon as dozens of after sun tan lotion bottles will be dug out of bags overflowing with sangria and donkeys.
No matter of course that we may not be up to going away on holiday just yet because the rumours of quarantine, hand sanitisers at airports and yet another consignment of masks to be worn at customs remain as true as they might have done a couple of weeks ago. So there you are already to go, suitcases packed, sun -glasses perched on the bridge of your nose, paperback books tucked away safely in your baggage and then somebody tells us that once we get to our destination we may have to deal with yet more confinement.
Suddenly, the whole concept of going away for a week to two weeks in either the Med or any other part of the world now becomes distinctly less appealing than it should. The fear factor and sense of foreboding is too much to take in and most of us may not entirely fancy the prospect of squeezing through the aisles of a plane, plonking ourselves down on our seats and then suffering the ultimate indignity of claustrophobia when we could be booking ourselves into a bed and breakfast hotel in Skegness or Blackpool.
And this is where we begin to weigh up the pros and cons of this whole bizarre set of events. Is travelling abroad a calculated risk or perhaps Spain, Italy, Greece, Cyprus, the USA, Mexico, the Far East or Israel really does feel like the ultimate temptation too good to be resisted? But hey come on we've got to get away from Britain after all these months of just becoming stressed out because the kids have been driving you mad at home and you're about to explode.
We mustn't forget all that unnecessary hassle and aggravation at the airport where everything becomes like an assault course or some perilous expedition into the unknown. Under the circumstances you probably won't be looking forward to the prospect of walking for miles around the airport concourse, dragging your cases through a minefield of annoyances, those loathsome inconveniences.
There are those tiresome customs desks, hypnotic luggage carousels, the endless parade of perfume shops, checking in with your passports and those wretched security checks where trouser belts have to be taken off, watches and jewellery removed from your pockets and everything that smacks of red tape bureaucracy just leaves you screaming with frustration.
But way back in the early 1970s when we signed up for this time consuming rigmarole at our local airport nobody knew this would happen, much less bargain for. In those days airports, although busy, must have assumed that if you had booked your holiday in either January or February you really wouldn't have to worry about such minor details as out of date passports or the Tablet you'd forgotten to pack. We could negotiate that particular problem since you could always fly off at a later date during the summer.
The blunt truth though is that nobody is going nowhere at this moment although the doors and gates could be open at either Heathrow, Luton, Gatwick and all of those wonderful regional airports around Britain very soon so just hold on and we'll get there. However after all those months of teeth- gnashing and finger biting the enthusiasm to hit the beaches and hotel swimming pools of the world may not be quite as feverish as perhaps it should be. Or maybe you're just counting the hours down before that Easy Jet plane is winging its way over the Iberian peninsula.
The fact is thankfully that we may be edging our way tentatively back to that point of the year when Easter chocolate eggs were only weeks away and spring was the most enticing prospect. Nobody can really tell where we are at the moment because the pubs and restaurants have been ordered to be ready for the beginning of July and most of those non- essential shops are, we assured, ringing those tills.
The feeling though is that half of the world is open and functioning at something that seems like semi business as usual while the other half is still kicking its heels. People are still wandering around in masks, those who aren't wearing them are beginning to ask themselves whether they should and it all feels as if we're like extras for a potential remake of Emergency Ward 10. It just feels like one of those years that really didn't happen at all and should have been scrapped on New Year's Day.
Of course we love life and our mental health but the end of June probably feels like the end of November or the week before Christmas. The end of the world isn't nigh and we know that but the significance of the year and the energy have long since evaporated. All of the cultural and major sporting events have now been placed in cold storage and what could have been so richly satisfying and aesthetically perfect is now just a torn page in history. Or so it would seem.
For instance last night BBC Two devoted the entire evening to the many- layered history of Glastonbury, a pop and rock music festival so enshrined in the hearts of hundreds of late 1960s hippies and modern day kids that a year without it, is a gaping wound. Two presenters stood in an empty field in deepest Somerset surrounded by cows and not a lot else. There was a very lonely electricity pylon but in the place where the esteemed Motown legend who is Diana Ross should have been tomorrow night was grass and stunning scenery. It is all very demoralising but then again there's always next year.
So here's the deal everyone. Forget about Glastonbury, the tennis from Wimbledon, quite possibly cricket and every other national treasure because they won't be happening. Euro 2020 would have been approaching its final stages although the Premier League football season is still jumping up and down in the background and won't be happy until the end of July. These were all scheduled plans that didn't take place nor were they in retrospect, destined to happen.
This is the advice for what's it worth. Close your eyes, take a deep breath and when you wake up at any time in the foreseeable future this will all be over. Trust me, you've looked into your crystal ball and the future is resplendently bright. It can only be a matter of time now. Stay safe and alert everybody and keep well.
Thursday, 25 June 2020
Liverpool almost there but not quite.
Liverpool almost there but not quite.
There's one match to go and the waiting is over. Still, the feeling persists that a heavy cloud of anti climax hangs over Liverpool football club. The fact of course remains that after 30 years Liverpool will once again be acclaimed as Premier League champions( or the old First Division in the old currency) tonight if Manchester City stumble against Chelsea and lose. Finally, it all seems to be coming together for Liverpool and how good it'll feel when, as opposed to if, they hold the Premier League title aloft in maybe a matter of hours although certainly days now.
By way of an irony Manchester City's opponents Chelsea will know exactly how Liverpool are feeling since they have likewise clinched Premier League titles in recent years. And Liverpool will not need reminding of that embarrassing moment when Steven Gerrard lost the ball on the halfway line against Chelsea to hand one of their title chasing rivals Manchester City the Premier League trophy. The image of Gerrard stumbling on the ball to allow Demba Ba to race away and score for Chelsea was all the more galling because the other title chasers Manchester City would go on to claim the Premier League.
Last night's 4-0 victory for Liverpool against Crystal Palace at Anfield must surely have felt like a coronation but the pomp and ceremony that normally marks a Premier League title- winning season will be missing and how Liverpool's fanatical fans will feel that grievous loss. There will be no fanfares, no trumpets, no adulation and, above all, no fans to witness that street carnival after winning the League, nobody on the Kop and nothing but a distinctly uneasy atmosphere.
We know it has to be this way but of all the teams to win a Premier League title Liverpool will no doubt know better than most that when you've waited for 30 years for a party invitation your supporters should be ready to celebrate the homecoming with an open top bus celebration. There are those of us who may feel an enduring sympathy for some of the most adoring and loyal football supporters in the land since Liverpool have had it all sewn up during the 1970s and 1980s and finally 1990.
Time was of course when Anfield was that impregnable fortress, that sturdy ship out at sea, a side with the most watertight and impenetrable defence, a midfield who were just models of synchronicity and an attack with an insatiable appetite for goals. Liverpool managers became legendary figures, men of wit, humour, timeless class and utter diplomacy who loved Liverpool with an almost unreasonable passion. Their names were carved into the Anfield bricks and mortar, clearly legible on tablets of stone. But the next couple of hours or days will not of course feel the same. So let's turn the clock back and remember how it all started for them.
When Bill Shankly arrived at Liverpool in 1959 Liverpool were ordinary, mediocre, almost anonymous and completely out of contention for any conceivable trophy. But then came the 1960s and an empire was built, a winning mentality implemented almost immediately and Liverpool became unbeatable. There was the rock known as Ron Yeats, midfield engineers such as Ian Callaghan, and Gordon Milne, a wondrous wing magician in Peter Thompson and the voracious Ian St John, a striker of pace, power and persistence.
During the 1970s of course as Bill Shankly handed over the reins to Bob Paisley, Liverpool seemed to get progressively stronger, more inventive, even harder to beat and full of goals from everywhere. There was Phil Thompson at the back, Phil Neal and Emlyn Hughes putting up the defensive shutters, Chris Lawler, Brian Hall and the academically comfortable Steve Heighway, a whirling dervish of a winger, teasing and tormenting with that distinctively upright style, ball firmly glued to feet.
And then there were Liverpool's trump cards up front. Throughout the 1970s Kevin Keegan and John Toshack were two of English football deadliest strikers. One was a muscular terrier of a striker, squat and stocky but full of powerful running and tirelessly busy, a livewire nuisance to hapless defenders, full of scurrying and scampering runs into space, a player of grit and industry. Kevin Keegan was here, there and everywhere, ubiquitous, a pain in the neck and full of footballing stubbornness. Keegan dominated old First Division defenders and Toshack was his willing accomplice.
Then there was John Toshack, a Welsh beanpole, as tall as Blackpool tower, quite the most magnificent of presences in oppostion penalty areas and a natural aptitude for scoring goals. Bought from Cardiff, Toshack announced himself to the Liverpool with a glut of goals and from that point innumerable old First Division championships. Toshacks were scored predominantly with his head but once the scent of goals was in his nose Toshack was unstoppable, feeding off Keegan telepathically and then surging into the six yard box with an electrifying menace.
After the imperious reign of Graeme Souness, Ray Kennedy, Terry Mcdermott and still quite remarkably an ageless Ian Callaghan, Liverpool were still breathing fire during the 1980s. When Liverpool won yet more League championships during the 1970s and 1980s it almost felt as if the club had been given some special medicine that would be guaranteed to bring them home the old First Division title.
Now Liverpool would invest in one of their shrewdest signings. Kenny Dalglish was one of Celtic's most wondrous of attacking talents, a force of nature, a forward besotted with the art of scoring goals on an almost weekly basis. In the year before Liverpool's second consecutive European Cup Final victory against Bruges at Wembley, Keegan had left Liverpool with a stunning 3-1 victory against Borussia Monchengladbach and Dalglish inherited Keegan's throne. Dalglish was quite the most gifted striker, always popping up in dangerous areas, turning defenders rather like a man easing his way through a revolving door. Dalglish would score goals with effortless ease over and over again.
And so to the present day and modern times. In 1989 on that last fascinating match of the season Arsenal pipped Liverpool to the old First Division championship with that final, nail biting burst into the penalty area where the Gunners stylish midfield player Michael Thomas squeezed home the winner that stopped Liverpool in their tracks. It left the likes of John Barnes, Steve Mcnamanan and manager Kenny Dalglish stunned and speechless. Liverpool had been denied by a Thomas that certainly wasn't doubting.
The following year Liverpool redeemed themselves and this time the moon was in the right position. This time though there were no cliff hanging finales. Liverpool breezed through to the finishing line and ensured themselves of what was then their 18th League title. Who knew then that it would take another three decades to add to their now ever- expanding collection of trophies?
Who knew that while thousands of Liverpool and Nottingham Forest were tragically losing their lives in an an FA Cup semi final that would prove the ultimate turning point in fan crowd control. And yet here we are again today proudly acknowledging Liverpool's latest escapade, a long overdue receipt of their first Premier League trophy or the League championship. It is now only days away before the city pays homage to its beloved red idols. How deservedly so.
Frustratingly though this was not the way they would have wanted to sing their praises, eulogising and lionising the individual brilliiance of Sadio Mane, Mo Salah, James Milner, the superb Jordan Henderson, the outstanding Virgil Van Djyk at the back, the delightfully overlapping Andrew Roberston on the flank and all of those whose contribution may have been overlooked as the unsung heroes. You'd be inclined to think that they may well have been few and far between.
It does seem a crying shame that Liverpool will indeed have to do without their Kop choir, a huge congregation of natural singers whose voices will not be accompanying that final whistle when Liverpool will be declared the new Premier League champions. In a season that now feels as though it'll go on forever, even the club's now historic anthem 'You'll Never Walk Alone' begins to sound like the most pertinent of hymns. Oh if only Bill Shankly, Bob Paisley and Joe Fagan could see the present day faces of Liverpool. Even without the Kop the roar, somewhere, will be heard the length and breadth of Britain.
There's one match to go and the waiting is over. Still, the feeling persists that a heavy cloud of anti climax hangs over Liverpool football club. The fact of course remains that after 30 years Liverpool will once again be acclaimed as Premier League champions( or the old First Division in the old currency) tonight if Manchester City stumble against Chelsea and lose. Finally, it all seems to be coming together for Liverpool and how good it'll feel when, as opposed to if, they hold the Premier League title aloft in maybe a matter of hours although certainly days now.
By way of an irony Manchester City's opponents Chelsea will know exactly how Liverpool are feeling since they have likewise clinched Premier League titles in recent years. And Liverpool will not need reminding of that embarrassing moment when Steven Gerrard lost the ball on the halfway line against Chelsea to hand one of their title chasing rivals Manchester City the Premier League trophy. The image of Gerrard stumbling on the ball to allow Demba Ba to race away and score for Chelsea was all the more galling because the other title chasers Manchester City would go on to claim the Premier League.
Last night's 4-0 victory for Liverpool against Crystal Palace at Anfield must surely have felt like a coronation but the pomp and ceremony that normally marks a Premier League title- winning season will be missing and how Liverpool's fanatical fans will feel that grievous loss. There will be no fanfares, no trumpets, no adulation and, above all, no fans to witness that street carnival after winning the League, nobody on the Kop and nothing but a distinctly uneasy atmosphere.
We know it has to be this way but of all the teams to win a Premier League title Liverpool will no doubt know better than most that when you've waited for 30 years for a party invitation your supporters should be ready to celebrate the homecoming with an open top bus celebration. There are those of us who may feel an enduring sympathy for some of the most adoring and loyal football supporters in the land since Liverpool have had it all sewn up during the 1970s and 1980s and finally 1990.
Time was of course when Anfield was that impregnable fortress, that sturdy ship out at sea, a side with the most watertight and impenetrable defence, a midfield who were just models of synchronicity and an attack with an insatiable appetite for goals. Liverpool managers became legendary figures, men of wit, humour, timeless class and utter diplomacy who loved Liverpool with an almost unreasonable passion. Their names were carved into the Anfield bricks and mortar, clearly legible on tablets of stone. But the next couple of hours or days will not of course feel the same. So let's turn the clock back and remember how it all started for them.
When Bill Shankly arrived at Liverpool in 1959 Liverpool were ordinary, mediocre, almost anonymous and completely out of contention for any conceivable trophy. But then came the 1960s and an empire was built, a winning mentality implemented almost immediately and Liverpool became unbeatable. There was the rock known as Ron Yeats, midfield engineers such as Ian Callaghan, and Gordon Milne, a wondrous wing magician in Peter Thompson and the voracious Ian St John, a striker of pace, power and persistence.
During the 1970s of course as Bill Shankly handed over the reins to Bob Paisley, Liverpool seemed to get progressively stronger, more inventive, even harder to beat and full of goals from everywhere. There was Phil Thompson at the back, Phil Neal and Emlyn Hughes putting up the defensive shutters, Chris Lawler, Brian Hall and the academically comfortable Steve Heighway, a whirling dervish of a winger, teasing and tormenting with that distinctively upright style, ball firmly glued to feet.
And then there were Liverpool's trump cards up front. Throughout the 1970s Kevin Keegan and John Toshack were two of English football deadliest strikers. One was a muscular terrier of a striker, squat and stocky but full of powerful running and tirelessly busy, a livewire nuisance to hapless defenders, full of scurrying and scampering runs into space, a player of grit and industry. Kevin Keegan was here, there and everywhere, ubiquitous, a pain in the neck and full of footballing stubbornness. Keegan dominated old First Division defenders and Toshack was his willing accomplice.
Then there was John Toshack, a Welsh beanpole, as tall as Blackpool tower, quite the most magnificent of presences in oppostion penalty areas and a natural aptitude for scoring goals. Bought from Cardiff, Toshack announced himself to the Liverpool with a glut of goals and from that point innumerable old First Division championships. Toshacks were scored predominantly with his head but once the scent of goals was in his nose Toshack was unstoppable, feeding off Keegan telepathically and then surging into the six yard box with an electrifying menace.
After the imperious reign of Graeme Souness, Ray Kennedy, Terry Mcdermott and still quite remarkably an ageless Ian Callaghan, Liverpool were still breathing fire during the 1980s. When Liverpool won yet more League championships during the 1970s and 1980s it almost felt as if the club had been given some special medicine that would be guaranteed to bring them home the old First Division title.
Now Liverpool would invest in one of their shrewdest signings. Kenny Dalglish was one of Celtic's most wondrous of attacking talents, a force of nature, a forward besotted with the art of scoring goals on an almost weekly basis. In the year before Liverpool's second consecutive European Cup Final victory against Bruges at Wembley, Keegan had left Liverpool with a stunning 3-1 victory against Borussia Monchengladbach and Dalglish inherited Keegan's throne. Dalglish was quite the most gifted striker, always popping up in dangerous areas, turning defenders rather like a man easing his way through a revolving door. Dalglish would score goals with effortless ease over and over again.
And so to the present day and modern times. In 1989 on that last fascinating match of the season Arsenal pipped Liverpool to the old First Division championship with that final, nail biting burst into the penalty area where the Gunners stylish midfield player Michael Thomas squeezed home the winner that stopped Liverpool in their tracks. It left the likes of John Barnes, Steve Mcnamanan and manager Kenny Dalglish stunned and speechless. Liverpool had been denied by a Thomas that certainly wasn't doubting.
The following year Liverpool redeemed themselves and this time the moon was in the right position. This time though there were no cliff hanging finales. Liverpool breezed through to the finishing line and ensured themselves of what was then their 18th League title. Who knew then that it would take another three decades to add to their now ever- expanding collection of trophies?
Who knew that while thousands of Liverpool and Nottingham Forest were tragically losing their lives in an an FA Cup semi final that would prove the ultimate turning point in fan crowd control. And yet here we are again today proudly acknowledging Liverpool's latest escapade, a long overdue receipt of their first Premier League trophy or the League championship. It is now only days away before the city pays homage to its beloved red idols. How deservedly so.
Frustratingly though this was not the way they would have wanted to sing their praises, eulogising and lionising the individual brilliiance of Sadio Mane, Mo Salah, James Milner, the superb Jordan Henderson, the outstanding Virgil Van Djyk at the back, the delightfully overlapping Andrew Roberston on the flank and all of those whose contribution may have been overlooked as the unsung heroes. You'd be inclined to think that they may well have been few and far between.
It does seem a crying shame that Liverpool will indeed have to do without their Kop choir, a huge congregation of natural singers whose voices will not be accompanying that final whistle when Liverpool will be declared the new Premier League champions. In a season that now feels as though it'll go on forever, even the club's now historic anthem 'You'll Never Walk Alone' begins to sound like the most pertinent of hymns. Oh if only Bill Shankly, Bob Paisley and Joe Fagan could see the present day faces of Liverpool. Even without the Kop the roar, somewhere, will be heard the length and breadth of Britain.
Tuesday, 23 June 2020
Open up those pubs and restaurants but not the theatres.
Open up those pubs, restaurants but not the theatres.
Today the blond one from Uxbridge and the academically brilliant one from Eton school will stand up in the House of Comedy and announce yet another package of mind- boggling measures designed to lift the nation out of its private anguish, thus eliminating that bodily discomfort and removing that gut wrenching malaise that seems to have hovered over Britain and the rest of the world for over three months.
With his hair in some rabid state of revolt and insurrection, Boris Johnson will tell everybody whom it may concern that part, if not all of its catering and hospitality section, can get cracking on the cooking, juggling those pots and pans, checking the ovens thoroughly for rust and dirt while acutely aware that even if they do light the cooker they may find that those good, old habits may not be quite up to the usual high standards.
Wherever they look the nation is bombarded by that seemingly endless overload of TV cookery programmes and everything is quite literally organised chaos and pandemonium. Chefs with boundless enthusiasm and phenomenal reserves of energy rush around kitchens that may or may not bear any resemblance to ours. They dart and dash across pristine kitchen floors, frying pans and pots crackling with the most oleaginous oil, before sprinting across a studio floor in the hope that nothing untoward happens to them.
And so it is that the pub, cafe and restaurant kitchens of Great Britain have been given permission to re-open again on American Independence Day. July 4 is the day set aside for eager customers to gently feel their way into one of the most sociable environments outside our homes. Now we all know that the last couple of months have been fraught with difficulty which may be an understatement anyway but you get the gist of the point.
Anyway the fact is that life without that delectable pint of lager, cider, beer, Coca Cola, orange juice, sambuca, Prosecco and any other choice of alcohol has been distinctly lacking in friendly banter with your family and friends. We've missed the good humoured gossip, the topical references and gags, the in jokes and that collective levity, the carefree aura, that moment to just be with your kith and kin, your mates, your acquaintances, your colleagues at lunchtime for a quick half pint.
If all goes according to plan then entire families, uncles, cousins, dads and mums, brothers and sisters, brothers and sisters in laws, aunties and nieces and that bloke who you also play snooker with, will now be awaiting that longed- for day when we can all join forces once again for perhaps the most emotional reunion. We'll all converge on the bar, prop it up for a while because we just want to savour that indefinable feeling we once got when things were normal. And then we'll get gloriously drunk, drunk on the champagne of life. Hey, come on everybody let's celebrate this much deserved moment of release.
But yes, it's true. You can stroll down to your local watering hole- cum boozer without feeling like an alien impostor. You can shake the hands of the people you might have thought had vanished off the face of the Earth and you can be a social animal again. There is a sense here that this may take some time getting used to again since adjustments will still have to be made to our lives on an unprecedented scale. Now there's another airing for the word 'unprecedented' which you've only heard about a million times in the last three months.
Still, we've made it until now so this may be the time to take advantage of one of Britain's favourite pastimes, its way of unwinding from the stresses and travails of the day, its major source of relaxation, its focal point when things go haywire perhaps and a haven of enjoyment when things aren't going your way at work.
The reality is though that even though we think we're on the verge of some decisive breakthrough in this whole medical breakdown the truth is that we're only halfway there, that in- between period where, having just about overcome every obstacle known to humankind, we still find ourselves weighing up the pros and cons which is hard to take. Still, patience is a virtue as they say.
And yet by this time on July 4 we'll all be bellowing out the orders in the King George, the Red Lion, the Prince of Wales and every other drinking hostelry imaginable across England's fair acres. We'll be balancing fifteen pints of best bitter and Foster's with all the dexterity of a high wire trapeze act in a circus carrying nothing but a pole in their hands. It'll come quite naturally to them for since time immemorial the English pub drinker does like their creature comforts.
Sadly though those very pubs still look ever so miserable and crestfallen, small wooden stools turned upside down on well worn tables and a snug looking sofa that looks slightly sorry for itself. Then there is the small matter of those pumps and optics, the central feature of any pub but now almost lost in deep thought. It is hard to believe that back in March these impressive pieces of architecture were full to the brim with drinkers, jokers, gamblers on those fruit machines and just devoted revellers there simply to have a good night out with those you've always enjoyed the company of.
It must seem an age ago since most pubs played host to those timeless favourites of dominoes, shove ha'penny and bar billiards. But the eternally popular snooker continues to dominate the interior of most pubs these days. Presumably there are those who simply spend their evening studying the Sun and the Financial Times papers while racking their brains over the crossword. Now though we may only have to wait a fortnight before indulging those simple pleasures.
Meanwhile the restaurants of Britain will also be swinging open its doors to the hungry hordes. The West End of London without its Aberdeen Steak House, its Pizza Hut and Express, innumerable Italian, Spanish, Greek, Brazilian, French and Vietnamese eateries have been rather like any location without its human patronage. China Town must have been like a desert in recent months and all of those moreish KFC chicken shacks must have been desperately hoping that one day this would all seem like some nasty illness which indeed it was. Mcdonalds, you suspect, were probably sulking in the corner or just besides themselves with self pity.
But this is where we find ourselves even more puzzled. Rumour has it that the West End theatre community with all of those dazzling, foot tapping and feelgood musicals may remain in the dark until well into 2021. Leading impresario Sir Cameron Mackintosh may well have broken the hearts of every musical enthusiast when he declared that he didn't think any of the great plays, comedies and dramatic productions would now be performed. He told that us the footlights would not be switched on and the orchestra, such an integral part of the evening out, would just have to stay at home and communicate with their contemporaries via social media and Zoom.
Still here we are once again into whatever week we're in of the lockdown and nobody has found any cutters for those chains. It would be easy to dismiss the whole of 2020 as a complete write- off and you'd probably be right to assume this to be the case. The longer this goes on the more likely it is that most of us will just pretend that it didn't happen. Indeed it has though and you weren't hallucinating. This is no Hollywood movie set and Walt Disney hasn't come back to life so hold on to the bar of this roller coaster because there are still six months left of the year and for those who believe that an alien invasion may not be far off, be careful what you wish for. Or maybe not.
Today the blond one from Uxbridge and the academically brilliant one from Eton school will stand up in the House of Comedy and announce yet another package of mind- boggling measures designed to lift the nation out of its private anguish, thus eliminating that bodily discomfort and removing that gut wrenching malaise that seems to have hovered over Britain and the rest of the world for over three months.
With his hair in some rabid state of revolt and insurrection, Boris Johnson will tell everybody whom it may concern that part, if not all of its catering and hospitality section, can get cracking on the cooking, juggling those pots and pans, checking the ovens thoroughly for rust and dirt while acutely aware that even if they do light the cooker they may find that those good, old habits may not be quite up to the usual high standards.
Wherever they look the nation is bombarded by that seemingly endless overload of TV cookery programmes and everything is quite literally organised chaos and pandemonium. Chefs with boundless enthusiasm and phenomenal reserves of energy rush around kitchens that may or may not bear any resemblance to ours. They dart and dash across pristine kitchen floors, frying pans and pots crackling with the most oleaginous oil, before sprinting across a studio floor in the hope that nothing untoward happens to them.
And so it is that the pub, cafe and restaurant kitchens of Great Britain have been given permission to re-open again on American Independence Day. July 4 is the day set aside for eager customers to gently feel their way into one of the most sociable environments outside our homes. Now we all know that the last couple of months have been fraught with difficulty which may be an understatement anyway but you get the gist of the point.
Anyway the fact is that life without that delectable pint of lager, cider, beer, Coca Cola, orange juice, sambuca, Prosecco and any other choice of alcohol has been distinctly lacking in friendly banter with your family and friends. We've missed the good humoured gossip, the topical references and gags, the in jokes and that collective levity, the carefree aura, that moment to just be with your kith and kin, your mates, your acquaintances, your colleagues at lunchtime for a quick half pint.
If all goes according to plan then entire families, uncles, cousins, dads and mums, brothers and sisters, brothers and sisters in laws, aunties and nieces and that bloke who you also play snooker with, will now be awaiting that longed- for day when we can all join forces once again for perhaps the most emotional reunion. We'll all converge on the bar, prop it up for a while because we just want to savour that indefinable feeling we once got when things were normal. And then we'll get gloriously drunk, drunk on the champagne of life. Hey, come on everybody let's celebrate this much deserved moment of release.
But yes, it's true. You can stroll down to your local watering hole- cum boozer without feeling like an alien impostor. You can shake the hands of the people you might have thought had vanished off the face of the Earth and you can be a social animal again. There is a sense here that this may take some time getting used to again since adjustments will still have to be made to our lives on an unprecedented scale. Now there's another airing for the word 'unprecedented' which you've only heard about a million times in the last three months.
Still, we've made it until now so this may be the time to take advantage of one of Britain's favourite pastimes, its way of unwinding from the stresses and travails of the day, its major source of relaxation, its focal point when things go haywire perhaps and a haven of enjoyment when things aren't going your way at work.
The reality is though that even though we think we're on the verge of some decisive breakthrough in this whole medical breakdown the truth is that we're only halfway there, that in- between period where, having just about overcome every obstacle known to humankind, we still find ourselves weighing up the pros and cons which is hard to take. Still, patience is a virtue as they say.
And yet by this time on July 4 we'll all be bellowing out the orders in the King George, the Red Lion, the Prince of Wales and every other drinking hostelry imaginable across England's fair acres. We'll be balancing fifteen pints of best bitter and Foster's with all the dexterity of a high wire trapeze act in a circus carrying nothing but a pole in their hands. It'll come quite naturally to them for since time immemorial the English pub drinker does like their creature comforts.
Sadly though those very pubs still look ever so miserable and crestfallen, small wooden stools turned upside down on well worn tables and a snug looking sofa that looks slightly sorry for itself. Then there is the small matter of those pumps and optics, the central feature of any pub but now almost lost in deep thought. It is hard to believe that back in March these impressive pieces of architecture were full to the brim with drinkers, jokers, gamblers on those fruit machines and just devoted revellers there simply to have a good night out with those you've always enjoyed the company of.
It must seem an age ago since most pubs played host to those timeless favourites of dominoes, shove ha'penny and bar billiards. But the eternally popular snooker continues to dominate the interior of most pubs these days. Presumably there are those who simply spend their evening studying the Sun and the Financial Times papers while racking their brains over the crossword. Now though we may only have to wait a fortnight before indulging those simple pleasures.
Meanwhile the restaurants of Britain will also be swinging open its doors to the hungry hordes. The West End of London without its Aberdeen Steak House, its Pizza Hut and Express, innumerable Italian, Spanish, Greek, Brazilian, French and Vietnamese eateries have been rather like any location without its human patronage. China Town must have been like a desert in recent months and all of those moreish KFC chicken shacks must have been desperately hoping that one day this would all seem like some nasty illness which indeed it was. Mcdonalds, you suspect, were probably sulking in the corner or just besides themselves with self pity.
But this is where we find ourselves even more puzzled. Rumour has it that the West End theatre community with all of those dazzling, foot tapping and feelgood musicals may remain in the dark until well into 2021. Leading impresario Sir Cameron Mackintosh may well have broken the hearts of every musical enthusiast when he declared that he didn't think any of the great plays, comedies and dramatic productions would now be performed. He told that us the footlights would not be switched on and the orchestra, such an integral part of the evening out, would just have to stay at home and communicate with their contemporaries via social media and Zoom.
Still here we are once again into whatever week we're in of the lockdown and nobody has found any cutters for those chains. It would be easy to dismiss the whole of 2020 as a complete write- off and you'd probably be right to assume this to be the case. The longer this goes on the more likely it is that most of us will just pretend that it didn't happen. Indeed it has though and you weren't hallucinating. This is no Hollywood movie set and Walt Disney hasn't come back to life so hold on to the bar of this roller coaster because there are still six months left of the year and for those who believe that an alien invasion may not be far off, be careful what you wish for. Or maybe not.
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