So here we are a month to go to Christmas.

 A month to go before Christmas.

So here we are a month to go before Christmas and, then shortly before the Jewish festival of Chanukah. The old certainties should always be acknowledged. You've got to remember the traditions, the annual festivities, the family gatherings, the booze, the turkey and trimmings, the tinsel bedecked tree, the presents nestling comfortably next to the tree, the doting parents and grandparents, the warm intimacy, the camaraderie, the smiles and the ensuing chaos that follows when the kids discover that their toys are missing the batteries. 

But there's exactly a month to go to Christmas and this year's festivities will quite clearly not be the same. Quite dramatically and cataclysmically, this Christmas has been given the thumbs up and the green light but with disturbing differences and uncharacteristic changes to the schedule. We now know that Covid 19 has now rendered the whole period a seemingly pointless exercise. But we're determined to celebrate the festive holiday in much the way we always have and none of us will be daunted by the restrictions. 

For a while some of us were convinced that Christmas would have to be cancelled completely which would have been regarded as unthinkable at the beginning of this year. But slowly but surely 2020 unravelled like some knotted and twisted ball of cotton wool. The trouble is though that this ball of cotton wool is absolutely filthy and tattered, ready for the bin. By the middle of summer we were resigned to our fate, happy to be with immediate family but sadly prevented from mixing with grandparents, parents, uncles, aunties, cousins, brothers and sisters in law. 

Christmas must though be allowed to take place because we have to observe the sacred customs and rituals that have sustained us for as long as any of us can remember. How can we not cut up the turkey, plunge into a tureen of brussel sprouts, pour brown gravy over this mouth-watering concoction and then plant a paper hat on our head, admiring Her Majesty the Queen at three o'clock in the afternoon on the TV. These are the reliable conventions of modern-day life and besides, we've always done it this way. 

How on earth could Christmas Day and Boxing Day ever be overlooked or simply forgotten when the whole world does the same thing year after year. This is the one period when we are re-acquainted with family who may live at the other end of the country. It is the one time of the year when, just for a couple of days we can just loosen up, lighten up, pulling crackers, laughing whole-heartedly at the outrageous silliness of it all and then filling up with a deeply satisfying malt whisky or port followed by cheese and pineapple on sticks and a whole host of savoury crisps. 

Of course those who may be of a devoutly Christian persuasion, a visit to the local church for Mass on Christmas Eve is a vital necessity. Then you'll probably wander down to your chapel of worship, giggle at the vicar's beard and then proceed to pray on Christmas Day. That's what you've always done and nothing is going to stop you now. The pews will resound clearly to the sacrosanct hymns while Ding, Dong Merrily on High is recited with full vigour from the diaphragm. 

Then again on reflection this can't be the customary Christmas because the UK government will be watching us like a hawk. We can invite a specific number of our family around for the yearly knees up but they have to keep a respectful distance from us in case the virus is still at large on some part of our clothing. It all sounds bonkers to the outside observer but we've just got to get on with it. 

The arrangement is that for only a couple of days after Christmas can we mingle harmoniously with each other as long as we don't forget ourselves and get completely plastered. And therein lies the crux of the problem. What to make of alcoholic excess and wild intoxication. We all know that the temptation to drink booze until we're flat out on the floor, is too good to resist. Still, concessions will be made and as long as we don't stagger out of our homes on the day after Boxing Day and collapse onto the pavement with a full tank of lager from the previous day then maybe things will proceed as normal. 

Still, this is the one Christmas when we will quite literally have to err on the side of caution, consciously avoiding contact with each other and remembering the repercussions of our actions if things get out of hand. But hold on Christmas, in essence, is all about family and extended family and how will that be physically possible? We will be in close proximity with each other whether we like it or not and if all uncles, aunties and cousins all want to share the same sofa space how on earth is this going to work?

There is a nagging suspicion here that the very nature of Covid 19 doesn't allow much room for manoeuvre quite obviously or so it would seem. If we're all in the same dining room and the dog is scurrying around in the way that all excitable canines always do, then this has all the makings of a taboo practice. We'll be moving in and out of the hallway, strolling into the kitchen for another top up, running up and down the stairs at the same time, colliding with the kids again and then meekly apologising for getting in each other's way. This is not a viable proposition and privately we must know it. 

On the second day of December the lockdown will be released again rather like one of those Foster and Allen albums advertised every year. The pubs, clubs, restaurants, cafes, nail bars, hairdressers, utility shops, haberdashery stores, fast food outlets and the chippie on the corner, will all be open yet again just when you thought they'd be closed forever. Oh and we mustn't forget the gyms because some of us have really missed the gyms. And then of course there are the swimming pools and Lidos which may not be advisable in the depths of winter but then again who cares? And those leisure centres.

And then the offices that have flung open their doors will insist on their perennial parties in the local watering hole. Huge groups of revellers will descend on the bar like people in a desert who haven't seen water for years. They'll reach over each other, lunging out for trays groaning with every bottle of amber liquid imaginable. The cocktails will be flowing, glasses of beer spilling profusely everywhere and before you know it social distancing will seem a total irrelevance. 

However the warnings have been announced, the conditions and boundaries are in place and you all know what you've got to do. It is almost Christmas after all and for the Jewish community it'll be Chanukah which some of us just adore because doughnuts will be devoured with some relish and the sweetness of life will be rejoiced in. If you're preparing for the festive season now then some of us wouldn't say no to a mince pie or seven. Or possibly not. Keep well everybody and keep smiling. 

Unusual look at the top of the Premier League.

 Unusual look at the top of the Premier League.

It was business as usual at the top of the Premier League. The great and good are leading the way while the less fashionable are still leaving us ever so slightly shocked and surprised. Football loves the unpredictable, the whimsical, the oddities of life that are very much the rich tapestry of everything we hold dear in the game.Suddenly, and quite out of the blue, there come along a whole batch of teams in the top flight who race out of the blocks at the beginning of a new Premier League season and catch all of us unawares. 

This weekend Spurs, who last won the old First Division championship almost six decades ago, are back on the top of the world. It is indeed heartening to see the club who quite richly celebrated the game's purest attacking principles under manager Bill Nicholson, are top of the Premier League. For those of us who pin our colours to the vintage claret and blue of West Ham United, this does leave you ever so slightly lost for words and queasy in the stomach. 

Under Jose Mourinho, quite possibly one of the most miserable, ungrateful and narcissistic managers in the game, Spurs have travelled a long way towards the summit. At Manchester United, Mourinho almost lost not only the dressing room at Manchester United but also fell out of favour with the entire footballing community. His now almost notorious eyeballing confrontation with Paul Pogba is now football folklore and we may never know whether the two kissed and made up. 

And yet here we are over two months into the new Premier League season and Mourinho is re-capturing his golden Chelsea days when back to back Premier League titles were achieved with almost arrogant ease. But his tenure at United is now the only major concern to trouble the hierarchy at the new Tottenham Hotspur Stadium. Mourinho is still capable of blowing a gasket when things go haywire and Spurs have to be privately worried that if Mourinho does get all hot, bothered and antagonistic, the whole of North London will have to batten down the hatches, flee for shelter and avoid the verbal backlash. 

On Saturday evening Spurs announced their potential Premier League title credentials with an impressively confident dismissal of Manchester City, very much the template for all aspiring winners of the Premier League. When the final whistle went at Spurs both Pep Guardiola and Mourinho touched elbows, acknowledged each other's considerable managerial prowess and went their merry way. Both men are completely familiar with each other's attacking philosophy and it was hard to distinguish the merits of both men's teams because at times both looked a carbon copy of each other. 

When Spurs though get it right on the day their football is a sweetly flavoured mixture of honey and syrup, an irresistible side, full of quick, nimble, classical passing and high intensity. They break at a speed that is almost intimidating, they combine elegantly through the centre of the pitch and the lines and then allow the brilliant Harry Kane to finish with a beautiful coat of emulsion paint. Spurs, by their own admission, though are not the finished article but they do have the right fabrics and furnishings. 

On Sunday the likes of Son Heung Min, provided some of the more decorative touches to this lavish Tottenham feast, a player of bountiful skill on the ball and astonishing intelligence. Heung Min can also be relied on to score some of those spectacular goals that make him such a valuable asset to Spurs. With the likes of Giovanni Lo Celso and Tangy Ndombole adding to the silkiness and smoothness of their well oiled and versatile unit, Spurs are heading in the right kind of direction. Occasionally there are the erratic and madcap moments which lead you to believe otherwise and there can be a flakiness to some of Spurs football, the 3-3 draw at home West Ham earlier on the season being a perfect example of when Spurs simply imploded. 

But Jose Mourinho can look at the Premier League table with just a touch of haughty pride. Comparisons between the Double winning Spurs season from almost 60 years ago are of course ill judged and invidious and although Kane is not quite Jimmy Greaves, nor Lo Celso Alan Gilzean or Terry Dyson Spurs will be pleased that the modern version have found the right and compatible blend. 

At Liverpool the 3-0 thrashing of close Premier League contenders Leicester City had something of a carnival air about it. The 7-2 demolition suffered by Liverpool at Aston Villa just seems like some surreal art installation, full of weird and twisted shapes. It may have been a rush of the blood to the head or maybe the moon was in the wrong position but Jurgen Klopp must be hoping that the result was some ridiculous aberration that will never ever happen again.  

On Saturday evening the marvellously cohesive and artistic football that Liverpool have so often blown teams away with, materialised like a dream. Liverpool once again moved the ball around among themselves with an almost proprietorial air about them. The ball is cherished and protected, caressed and nurtured, the patterns symmetrical at all times, the football, an object of adoration and idolatry. When Sadio Mane, Roberto Firmino, the newcomer Diogo Jota and Mo Salah take possession of the ball you're reminded of a luggage carousel at an airport. The ball is kept in perfect circulation, rotating from feet to feet in a way that would have brought a lump to the throat to Bill Shankly or Bob Paisley. 

And Chelsea under their former player and attacking midfielder Frank Lampard are also hot on the heels of the leaders and pacemakers. Mason Mount in particular has caught the eye, a player of composure and delicious creativity. Then there's Tammy Abraham, a striker with a devastating finishing touch, N'Golo Kante was once again prominent and central to all of Chelsea's positive attacking intent, a revelation who kept gliding and flitting around with clever probing and the most feathery touch on the ball. Chelsea's 2-1 win at Newcastle was a perfect example of a young team who looked years ahead of their time. 

And finally both Arsenal and Everton have enjoyed and endured in most of their opening matches of the season. Arsenal must have thought they were on to a good thing when they disdainfully swept aside Manchester United at Old Trafford but then came unstuck awkwardly at home to Arsenal with a 3-0 defeat at home to Aston Villa. Still, Arsenal do have in Mikel Arteta one of the shrewdest and most thoughtful bosses in the Premier League. Arsenal have that almost Midas touch on the ball, comfortably tapping the ball around among themselves before stylishly dismantling teams with punchy, lethal and penetrative football that invariably ends in the perfectly constructed goal.

Arsenal's 0-0 draw against a joyously carefree and cavalier Leeds United at Elland Road was so impossible to categorise that at times it was hard to know which team would either stick or twist. Leeds United, under Marcelo Bielsa remind you of drunken revellers after chucking out time at a pub. Now the pub itself at the moment is temporarily closed but you feel sure that Bielsa has just stolen the keys, opened up the bar and helped himself to any glass of alcohol he can lay his hands on.

 His players are both scoring and conceding goals as if they were going out of fashion. The 4-3 defeat at Liverpool on the season's opening weekend of the season and Leicester's 4-1 thumping of Leeds a couple of weeks ago were the kind of results that has put the promoted Leeds season into some kind of perspective. Their football may blow hot and cold but you suspect Don Revie would have found such behaviour intolerable. So it's Spurs leading the way at the end of November but the season has just entered its wintry period and that will certainly sort the men from the boys. Give us a smile Jose Mourinho.

The strange mystery of 10 Downing Street.

 The strange mystery of 10 Downing Street.

There are a good number of comedy script-writers who would give anything for the latest goings-on at 10 Downing Street. This otherwise very quiet and unassuming address off Whitehall in Central London is the setting for perhaps the funniest sitcom in the history of TV situation comedies. Could there be anything more amusing than the sight of a whole procession of politicians walking in and out of that famous black door where many of the Prime Minister's predecessors have made their very discreet, polite and formal speeches to the nation on matters of state and anything of vital importance? 

But the last week or so there has been a severe case of turbulence, uproar and controversy which could be an apt description for any working week in the land of mainstream politics. The fact is that the UK government are in a state of flux, anguished soul-baring, hasty apology, complete embarrassment. Then again was it always thus. How many more times have the musical-hall comedians, who do most of their gigs at Westminster go off the deep end and plunge the whole of Britain into yet more crisis and another a barrel load of difficulties? 

This week has been particularly notable for its sheer political incompetence, the tactlessness, the blundering idiocy and complete lack of any diplomacy. Now the truth is that politicians do like to embellish the truth when we know that they're just covering their backs in a sea of falsehood. In a court of law this would be regarded as blatant perjury, a pack of lies and outright foolhardiness. If the court jesters who follow Boris Johnson around like a troupe of medieval troubadours will keep making a spectacle of themselves then we can hardly be blamed for turning our eyes away from the scene of the crime. Because slowly but surely Boris Johnson, the Prime Minister and his cabinet are sinking into a muddy morass of muddled thinking and indecisive bumbling. Or maybe not.

And yet we are in another fine mess. The whole of the 2020, which should be written off as some disastrous liability, is deep into the penultimate month of the year and still we are moving forward gradually towards some kind of breathing space. The coronavirus has quite literally crushed our hopes for the year, a disease so uncontrollably fatal and deadly that the history books are just waiting for it to end. The number of fatalities are disturbingly increasing but that R number bodes well. 

We've now exhausted so many possibilities and probabilities that any forecasts have been hurled out of the window and re-written over and over again. We've all seen those horrendous emergency hospital operations, innumerable patients with oxygen masks hanging over their faces, ventilators plugged in and remarkably industrious surgeons hovering over the stricken with deep anxiety etched onto their faces. It would become progressively worse with every passing day since late March. 

Now though Priti Patel, the former Secretary of the State for the Home Department, has never been short of an opinionated word or two. In fact she positively revels in her forthrightness, a woman with little in the way of kindness in her heart to her colleagues and a foul mouth to boot. Patel was the woman who swore quite bluntly at her Cabinet acquaintances who are now no longer in her good books. Then she insulted them with yet another volley of poisonous vitriol, sharp-tongued comments that turned the air at Tory headquarters quite literally blue. 

We could be missing something here but weren't politicians supposed to get on with each other when the lights went out in the lobbies and corridors of the Palace of Westminster? Aren't they supposed to make up and just agree to disagree when the heckling and haranguing was over? But not this time. It's all very well shouting, yelling, sticking two fingers up at each other and generally hating each other's guts. But this is animosity, acrimony and contempt on a much grander scale. 

Priti Patel lashed out at her so-called chums with such gargantuan force that it was probably just as well that there was hardly anybody on those fabled green benches to hear the vicious onslaught. The ones who should have been in the House of Comedy to hear the latest Max Miller material were trying hard to absolve themselves of any blame. In fact they must have felt so humiliated that a vast majority were probably hiding behind the backbenchers. 

We have now reached the point where all of the daily medical bulletins from Downing Street are beginning to get all mixed up with what passes for factual accuracy. But Mrs Patel put her considerable feet in it when quite clearly nobody really wanted to hear about her latest miserable, expletive-laden beef about Covid 19. You can only listen to so many grievances before outright anger and boredom set in. 

Then after a couple of days deliberation Patel backed down, a woman pleading for forgiveness and contrition. She didn't mean to say what she said and the whole coronavirus is just getting to her. The pressure is almost unbearable and she simply spoke in the heat of the moment. But this is inexcusable behaviour, showing a deplorable lack of any judgment and she should have been put into detention and forced to write a thousand lines after school. And yet this is all about damage limitation so this could be time for careful reflection. You sense vast quantities of humble pie will be eaten by Mrs Patel. 

Then there's the ongoing case of Dominic Cummings, a man so hypocritical and insincere that any mention of his name should never be aired in public again. Cummings, allegedly Chief Adviser to Boris Johnston, took himself off to the fair county of Durham during the summer when everybody knew he shouldn't have been anywhere near a motorway. So Cummings just ignored his well-intentioned advice and became public enemy number one, a victim of not only his inadequacy as friend of the Cabinet but the most evil of all pantomime villains. 

But Cummings happily drove all the way to his Durham family, maintained that he was just on a  mission of mercy and simply the caring face of British politics. The Cummings argument was that a family member was ill and he'd become the compassionate face of British politics. Then he got back into his car and, in all innocence, paid a fleeting visit to Barnard Castle, news that was greeted with national disapproval and public hostility. How on earth did he get away that one? The cheek of it all. 

Last week that one incident came back to bite him quite painfully. After another explosive row with Johnson and his band of merry brothers and sisters, Cummings left through the door marked exit, resigned in disgrace and found that any of his sympathetic listeners who might have been backing him had just left the building and weren't coming back. Sorry, Dominic. This is your fault and we won't bail you out this time. You're in this on your own, mate. 

So, awkwardly carrying out his box of documents and files with the most sheepish look on his face, Dominic Cummings went out into Central London to look for the nearest Pret A Manger coffee shop doubtless pouring out his heart to anybody who might be prepared to listen. His desk was clear ready for the next occupant and Cummings was yesterday's man. Then he realised that nobody much cares for his welfare since he didn't give two hoots about Britain's welfare let alone his family's well being. 

And the political merry-go-round keeps spinning around like a child's toy. The door of 10 Downing Street which thought it had seen everything, now looks in desperate need of oiling. Ministers are leaving and entering so frequently that if anybody hears a creaking noise in Whitehall they'll know the source. It all seems like some tastelessly absurd Whitehall farce where nobody loses their trousers but the only people who emerge from this potty madness with any credit are those who have kept a respectful silence. Who would ever want to become a politician? It is indeed a mug's game. 

Does anybody know what happened to Donald Trump?

 Does anybody know what happened to Donald Trump.

It does seem that Donald Trump may have vanished without trace. We may have missed something but the former President United States seems to have dropped off the radar which is not to say that he's taken the first plane to nowhere in particular. On second thoughts this can't be the truth because air travel has been chronically limited if negligible and Trump could be anywhere, still seething, frothing at the mouth and ready to go to war with anybody opposes him or stops him from doing what he wants to do. The rebel and loose cannon that is Trump is livid, disgusted, disgraced, a grizzly bear who just won't let it drop.

In the depths of his mind and subconscious, Trump stubbornly believes that he is still the President of the United States and he won the recent American election conclusively. In truth the lingering belief is that the man has lost possession of his senses, gone stark raving mad and bonkers and is clearly in the land of the Beatles marmalade skies and angelic fairies. Here is a man who some believe could be deranged, disturbed and demented. But that may do him a slight disservice. 

So it's late at night in the White House and the Oval Office and the man who would probably crave world- domination, has now settled down for some shut-eye, locked himself in the darkest wardrobe and switched off the lights. Here is a fearless and unapologetic figure who delusionally thinks that America still loves him and there can be no reason to leave the White House under any circumstances. 

Then he sneaks covertly into his bedroom, shuts all doors before creeping surreptitiously into a dusty study where his egotistical memoirs and vainglorious Twitter rantings are carefully preserved for posterity. Quietly Trump then draws the curtains, shuffles across to his wardrobe, knocks over the most expensive after-shave lotion bottles accidentally and then rummages through his vast collection of designer clothes wherein lies the repulsive smell of gaudy wealth and cosmetic accessories. 

For Donald Trump Christmas, in keeping with the rest of the world, may have to be cancelled or delayed until next Christmas. But then he realises that he can still be in charge and can still hold lavish, glitzy parties complete with all the trimmings. So Trump, still kidding himself and so aggrieved that he can hardly hold back the simmering fury, checks a cocktail cabinet of festive booze, rumbling and grumbling, brimming with outrage and annoyance. He crashes into a yet to be revealed Christmas tree, blurts out a whole series of curses, oaths and obscenities, blaming both the carpet and the dining room table. 

He is now stumbling around the residence that he thought would turn into a permanent home. He keeps searching for a thousand cans of Budweiser beers, lorry loads of lager and anything that resembles consolationary alcohol. But the festive season will still going ahead in Trump towers and the former President of the United States grabs hold of the tinsel and wrapped presents hidden away in a cupboard and confidently tells himself that he's still the greatest thing since sliced bread. Nobody can depose Trump. 

Then he gropes around in the dark, blustering and bumbling, murmuring and muttering to himself, congratulating himself unashamedly on his fake re-appointment before curling himself up into a ball in a wood-panelled library, twisting the key on the door and cowering away like a frightened kid on his first day at school. But hold on. Trump simply doesn't do fear or anxiety so he combs his hair for the best part of two hours and then just revels in self -aggrandisement. Doesn't he look handsome and how could America have let him down and stabbed him metaphorically in the back? 

But this Christmas will be like every Christmas the Trump family has ever known. They'll still be surrounded by a crazy dysfunctionality, still figuring out the pecking order and still terribly pleased with themselves. There will be an overriding sense that everything is perfectly normal and no virus will ever get the better of them. So they'll gather by the tree, immaculately suited and booted, clothes designed to fit perfectly by Hollywood fashion gurus who worship the Trumps because Donald expects the best. And everything Trump demands he invariably gets. 

And yet the weeks and months are racing past until the day Trump has to come out of the White House with his hands in the air, as police sirens wail and blue lights flash dramatically. He will protest his innocence quite vehemently because Trump hates losing and will never accept defeat. So he struggles with his hand cuffs, shouting the most foul, industrial language before being frogmarched into a van where the former President kicks his feet into the air, wriggling, snarling, swearing and then grinning for the cameras because Trump just adores the camera and being the sole centre of attention.

Still, there are a couple of months to go before the lease runs out on that valuable property at the end of Pennsylvania Avenue. The chances are that Trump will still have its whimpering lackeys and so-called friends around for some farewell games of poker and rummy, long sessions of Bourbon drinking, plotting his next cunning plan and then smoking yet another Havana cigar. He will undoubtedly accuse everybody of wrong doing and criminal malfeasance. The American public will miss Trump and they'll regret their final judgments of that there can no doubt whatsoever. 

At the moment it's all gone very quiet in Washington. The whereabouts of Trump are not shrouded in mystery because we're aware of his enduring passion for golf. But how many fairways can you walk and bunkers negotiate? And how many miles can you walk on those billiard table green courses without throwing away a three iron on the 18th hole and not complain of boredom and repetition. We shall see Trump at some point but here we are in the middle of November and Thanksgiving Day is imminent. OK Donald, where are you? We know you're in there and you may have to explain your actions.      

England goalkeeping giant Ray Clemence dies.

 England goalkeeping giant Ray Clemence dies. 

This has not been a good year for ex- England goalkeepers. Firstly there was Gordon Banks, surely one of the most athletic, flexible, agile and acrobatic England goalkeepers of all time. None of us will ever forget Banks running around the old Wembley Stadium at the end of the 1966 World Cup Final along with some of his now sadly deceased colleagues such as Bobby Moore, Martin Peters, Ray Wilson and Nobby Stiles, milking the thunderous cheering from raucous England fans, grinning happily, absorbing the enormity of his country's achievements and holding aloft his World Cup winners medal. 

Then there was the 1970 World Cup in Mexico when the sweltering heat of a summer's afternoon brought out the very best in Banks astonishing reflexes. Today we still look back in sheer wonder at Banks remarkable save from the most beautifully accomplished player of all time- surely the greatest of them all. When Pele leapt up to meet Jairzinho's cross and headed downwards towards goal, Banks flung himself miraculously across goal and tipped the ball over the bar. To this day it is hard to believe how quickly Banks had moved to keep the ball out. It was truly the most outstanding save ever made by any keeper. 

But yesterday Ray Clemence, another in the rapidly dwindling English goalkeeping brigade, died at the age of 72 and the world of football lowered their heads, lamenting the loss of a gentle giant, a man of substance, manners, polish and quiet modesty. These are often the qualities displayed by footballers who have devoted much of their career to first Liverpool before travelling down to London and guarding the goal for Spurs. Clemence was never one to hog the limelight or attach himself to controversy. 

Most of us who follow the game already know about some of the more enchanting stories that Clemence left behind him. There was the summer job while with his first club Scunthorpe where he thought nothing of folding up deckchairs by the seaside if only to supplement his meagre income at Scunthorpe. But Ray Clemence was by the far the most professional of deckchair attendants since the tall and magisterial Clemence always knew you to had to work at your craft and when money was always a necessity. 

It wasn't long though before Bill Shankly, Liverpool's legendary manager, came calling and knocking at Clemence's door. Liverpool's goalkeeper during the 1960s Tommy Lawrence was beginning to wind down his career at Anfield and Shankly wanted somebody trustworthy to keep goal for the long term. Clemence was a gentle giant, a goalkeeper with presence, stature, a calming, emollient influence, a guardsman of a goalkeeper, an organiser of defences, pointing at the likes of Tommy Smith, Phil Neal, Phil Boersma, Chris Lawler and Brian Hall, shouting, chastising, barking out boisterous orders but always there. 

On  bright, crisp sun-dappled days at Anfield, Clemence was one of the most distinctive figures in Liverpool's serial trophy-winning years. Wearing a green jersey and gloves that fitted perfectly, he would then plonk his cap on his head and proceed in an orderly fashion. You can still see Clemence holding the ball in his hand and, from the goal kick, he would squint his eyes before fly kicking the ball high into the Merseyside air. Clemence and his cap were inseparable. 

Of course Clemence's CV was almost flawless, a glistening treasure chest of medals and trophies. There were the three European Cups including that celebrated night in Rome when his centre half colleague Tommy Smith jumped almost automatically to meet a Steve Heighway corner to head home Liverpool's first goal in Liverpool's first European Cup victory against Borussia Monchengladbach in 1977. The following year Clemence was once again at the prize-giving ceremony when Liverpool beat Bruges. The Clemence smile lit up his face like a torch in the dark. 

Then there was the England career. For much of his prosperous footballing career, Clemence stood toe to toe with Peter Shilton in a friendly rivalry for the highly valued goalkeeper's shirt. Both Shilton and Clemence were of course partial to blunders, embarrassing moments when they would join each other in mutual commiseration. There was the Home International match against Scotland when Clemence accidentally allowed the ball to squirm under his body from Kenny Dalglish for the softest of goals.

But Clemence was never flustered or ruffled by temporary setbacks or crushing defeats when he might have been tempted to look for a hole in the ground. He would though confess to his faults and foibles, weaknesses and peccadilloes, holding up his hand and acknowledging that even he was flawed in his own penalty area. 

For the big man who began at Scunthorpe, goalkeeping was always a refined art, a profession where the only the bold may tread. Clemence though was a pillar of reliability, a daunting barrier to all of those muscular forwards hungry for goals. Clemence was though more than a capable pair of hands, catching the ball cleanly and efficiently from dangerous, probing crosses that would test him to the full. There was something a father-like figure about him that was always protective of up and coming players. 

In later years of course the elasticity and pliability would lose its impact on important games for Liverpool. Clemence could still throw himself intrepidly across goal to palm the ball around the post or fingertip the ball amazingly over the bar when required to do so. It was Clemence's height and ever- present positional sense that would snuff out threatening attacks from the opposition with an effortlessness that defied belief.  

When Clemence left Liverpool the Kop fell into a deep slump. They were inconsolable and completely crestfallen. The adequate replacement was ready and waiting in the shape of Bruce Grobelaar, the ultimate showman, the most extrovert of humorists. But Clemence had gone and Spurs were there to snap him up at a bargain price. What an acquisition and what an investment. 

And yet after clinching five old First Division championships, three European Cups, two League Cups and, lest we forget, two FA Cup runners up medals, it must have felt as if there was little left to achieve in the game. But Clemence persevered and was called up by the England coaching set up where his immense knowledge of the game would be passed on willingly and unselfishly. Everybody felt they could be his lifelong friend.

In recent years Clemence's health horribly deteriorated and his appearances became increasingly less frequent. The square lantern jaw, chiselled and always clean-shaven, could no longer break into laughter and age withered him. The memories though would never fade and the love of his closely-knit family and friends was totally unconditional.

So here we at the end of what feels like the most disastrous years of our lives although some of us will always be grateful to Zoom. Ray Clemence has now joined Gordon Banks and Peter Bonetti in goalkeeping heaven and football fans everywhere will sniffle into their handkerchieves once again. This is just the latest episode in a hugely depressing news year. You can be sure that the great Clem will be up there with a heartfelt wink and that unmistakable twinkle in his eyes. We salute you sir.    

Scotland qualify for Euro 2020- or should that be 2021 and memories of Scotland past.

 Scotland qualify for Euro 2020 - or should that be 2021 and the memories of Scotland past. 

Scottish football will rarely have seen a night like it. They will look back over the years, searching forlornly perhaps for any one event throughout their chequered history where it all came right on the night and then cry profusely into their Tartan beers and whiskies. It'll come as no great surprise then that they have finally cracked the code, qualifying impressively for next years European Championship to be spread all over Europe this time for the first time ever.

Trust the Scots to confound the odds when the odds are heavily stacked against them. They always seem to come up smelling of roses though when nobody gives them a prayer. It seems to be in their DNA. It is now 22 years since Scotland last reached a major tournament and the embarrassment still lingers. No nation has a divine right to either reach either a World Cup or European Championship but for Scotland, gallows humour always seemed appropriate. Nobody though should begrudge them their moment of glory. 

When you think of Scottish football though the mind always travels back to those horrendous World Cups from years gone by. You think of the crumpled face of poor Ally Macleod whose Scotland team arrived in Argentina in 1978 on a tide of delusion and totally misplaced, wild-eyed and wacky optimism. According to Macleod, Scotland would shake them up when they won the World Cup because Scotland were the greatest football team of all time and that's official. But then things didn't go according to plan. 

So the image of Macleod on the pampas of Argentina remains like a dark stain. Gazing despairingly out onto the pitch against both Iran and Peru in the group qualifying stages, Macleod looked like a broken man, tortured by the sudden realisation that Scotland were not renowned world beaters and that the likes of Brazil, Argentina, Holland and West Germany were still technically superior to them by several country miles.  

And yet Scotland have done it again. Their 2-1 victory over Serbia sparked unbridled rejoicing in the Highlands and Grampians, a huge outpouring of utter relief and that indomitable fighting spirit that could never have been questioned. It is easy to think of the battles of Culloden and Bannockburn when mention is made of any Scottish conflict but here again the Scots took to facing up to a seemingly insurmountable challenge, hurdled it with some ease and wondered what all the fuss was about. They could have done this one in their sleep with blindfolds on. 

But then you remember the likes of Willy Ormond at the 1974 World Cup Finals in West Germany and the grave features of Ally Macleod four years later and there you have the personification of Scottish football. When Scotland got to the World Cup Finals in 1974, the nation was regarded as just another addition to the numbers that had already qualified. Sadly expectation would give way to mediocrity. The tartan hordes who would faithfully followed their team come rain or shine would drown their sorrows in the local bodegas of Buenos Aires. 

In their qualifying group Scotland opened their first World Cup since 1958 with a laborious 2-0 victory over Zaire and fared no better against Yugoslavia who at least could boast some kind of playing pedigree on the international circuit. Then the Scots came up against the mighty, all-conquering Brazil, who had won the World Cup several times before with the kind of flair and sophistication that Scotland could only have dreamt about. Then Zaire were demolished by Yugoslavia 9-0 while Brazil were more lenient with the African side in a 3-0 victory. But Scotland were on their way home from West Germany and the fairy tale fantasy was over. 

However, the memories could never be buried and when Archie Gemmill danced through a hapless Dutch defence with his imitation of a slalom skier, weaving and tricking his way through an orange wall of shirts. Sadly the two goal margin which would have ensured qualification for Scotland from the group stage was never completed. Holland's classy playmaker Ruud Krol drove an unstoppable shot from outside the Scots penalty area into the roof of the net for the Dutch second goal. Thus was the fate of Scotland sealed and from that point onwards the Scots were condemned to a place in football's Arctic wastes. 

There was the famous afternoon when Scotland, determined to gain some kind of revenge for their Auld Enemy's glorious World Cup winning victory the year before, came to Wembley and secured the sweetest of 3-2 victories. Who would ever forget the vengeful 'Wee Jimmy Johnstone' jinking, jiving, and skipping past the English defence as if they were somehow invisible? There were the midfield schemers and lock pickers Tommy Gemmell and Bobby Murdoch carving open gaping holes and supplying the necessary service and ammunition for their colleagues. There was the blossoming Denis Law of Manchester United who could hardly believe his luck when George Cohen and Bobby Moore decided to have the day off, a bad day in the English office. 

And who could ever have imagined the chaos and pandemonium that would ensue during the now notorious 1977 Home International tournament? For what must have seemed like years of pent-up frustration, thousands and thousands of Scottish supporters descended on Wembley, intent on destruction of the old stadium. That they succeeded so triumphantly probably says more about the hostility that existed between England and Scotland fans at the time. 

The images of Scottish fans disguised as thuggish hooligans will live on for as international football is played. Crossbars were sat upon and snapped in half with the posts and nets following suit. The green Wembley turf was ripped up cruelly and savagely by fans who allegedly believed they were. The future of the England and Scotland fixture was threatened albeit briefly but then calm was restored.  Until the early 1980s Scotland would continue to throw good-natured insults and oaths at their English counterparts. 

But we must express our congratulations to our friends from beyond Hadrian's Wall, our brothers and sisters in arms over the border. Scotland will always be friendly, welcoming, tolerably opinionated when the mood takes them and just prepared to buy you a strong tot of whisky if you were willing to reciprocate the gesture. We'll always smile at your effusive Hogmany celebrations when ladies and gentlemen hop in between swords in rich tartan skirts. 

Above all we love Scotland is a country of decorative, heather clad hills, imposing mountains and romantic liaisons at Gretna Green when couples tie the marital knot in a ceremony heavily steeped in tradition. It is a country that rightly celebrates the poet Rabbie Burns every Burns day, eats gallons of porridge for breakfast and then produces iconic sporting heroes such as Jackie Stewart from the world of motor racing, Bernard Gallacher from golf's fairways and more recently Sir Andy Murray who has now collected two Wimbledon's men singles titles with some panache and the most sublime tennis Britain has ever seen.

So Scotland we can never thankyou enough. There will of course never be any love lost between England and Scotland and although both crave absolute independence from each other, you'll always be in our good books. You can still hold your caber tossing tournaments during British summers quite unashamedly and Balmoral will always remain a royally commanding castle. So here's a toast to Scotland, the Scotland football team our friends north of the border. Three cheers to Scotland the brave. 

  

England beat the Republic of Ireland in strolling friendly.

 England beat the Republic of Ireland in strolling friendly.

After one of the most challenging weeks for English football the national team rid itself of repellent smells, strolling and almost trotting at times across the hallowed acres of Wembley Stadium rather like a family on a picnic who simply want to engage in some gentle exercise across the rich pastures of the English countryside. At times you were never quite sure what to make of this friendly because it did  live up to its pre-match billing with both England and Republic of Ireland shaking hands with each other politely and that was very much that. 

For almost the entire match, England and the Republic of Ireland gave us the most sedate exhibition of football you were ever likely to see. In fact so laid back and relaxed were both teams that you felt compelled to admire the civility and decorum displayed by two teams who didn't seem to be particularly bothered who had won. Suffice it to say that at the end small knots of men wearing yet another set of masks walked over to each other and just acknowledged each other's existence. It was almost an exercise in mutual appreciation and there was a sense that both were just happy to share each other's company. 

The English have always been apologetic and remorseful when it looks as though they may have done something terribly wrong. But on a mild Thursday evening at Wembley England did bulldoze through a very limp and submissive Eire defence and the Irish had more or less accepted their fate after an hour. England were knocking the ball around the central areas of the pitch with such a studied nonchalance and casual freedom that you almost felt deeply sorry for the Irish. 

But this was quite clearly a practice match, a leisurely knock about, coats for goalposts, meaningless, flat as a pancake, flaccid international friendly that bore as much relevance as an after-work, leisurely five a side contest where the best team did win and little damage was done when the final whistle went. England will now face their two UEFA Nations League contests with both Belgium and then Iceland with some degree of confidence but acutely aware that this was no litmus test of their current form. 

After their demolition of Wales in their first friendly of the season, England went about their business in much the way the aristocracy used to sip their tea and play croquet when the mood took them. The ball itself seemed to spend most of its time being carefully tapped around with mathematical precision, passes neatly executed and cohesive attacking movements that were a joy to behold. 

Many years ago Brian Clough said that football was designed to be played on grass rather than in the air and here was a classic demonstration of Clough's philosophy. At long last British football has come to its senses, finally recognising that the technical, short passing game is far preferable to the old-fashioned long ball wallop where no end product is forthcoming. England have finally discovered that the ball is no longer an impostor, not some frightening wartime bomb that may suddenly go off quite unexpectedly. 

It is no coincidence that current England manager Gareth Southgate has come to England's salvation, a man wedded to the loftier ideals propagated by the likes of Germany, France and Brazil many years ago. Southgate has introduced his players to a game where trust with the ball in possession has now taken precedence to desperate measures. England may have just missed out in a World Cup semi-final where opponents Croatia simply outclassed them in Russia two years ago but they are not moping. 

Wearing a grey cardigan and a dapper shirt and tie, Southgate reminded you of a bank clerk rigorously checking the day's finances with a shrewd and prudent eye. The memory of that penalty miss which cost Terry Venables England entertainers in a Euro 96 semi-final against Germany may still haunt him but Southgate has now grabbed hold of the baton and taken England into a comfortable environment where the air is pure, the future is potentially bright and successful and another chapter is about to be read. 

Last night England spent long periods, establishing a natural bond and intimate relationship with the ball, hogging possession, pondering, dwelling, thinking ahead rather than being drawn into some predictably irrational mindset where the ball is completely overlooked and the game just peters out into some futile anti-climax. England passed with a careful consideration of every possibility and there seemed to be an almost forensic analysis of what could happen in the bigger picture. England were models of accuracy, architects of their destiny rather than being dependent on statistics and percentages. The ball is a close acquaintance rather than something evil and anathema. 

England manager Gareth Southgate is now revelling in the good fortune of possessing a team who can adopt variations on a theme that are truly considered classical. Last night it looked as if the whole England team had been snatched from a nursery. There were so many young faces on view that you'd have been forgiven for thinking that every player had just finished a hectic game in the school playground. There is much to be said for nurturing, rearing and blooding the kids but this was a very youthful third year production as important exams are about to be taken.

England captain Harry Maguire, who has just endured one of the most troubled periods of his nascent career, spent the whole of the match with the face like thunder, a permanent scowl that led you to believe that the world had caved in on him and nobody would ever befriend him again. Maguire was a constant nuisance and torment to Eire with headers at corners that narrowly missed the target. There was the demanding perfectionist about the Manchester United defender that is singularly commendable. 

But the base of England's defence could well be their strongest suit. Both Michael Keane, Maguire, Tyrone Mings and Reece James were alert, dependable, always prepared to gamble by venturing forward into the opposition's territory and sure of their bearings. In midfield Spurs Harry Winks, Chelsea's Mason Mount, Jadon Sancho and the magnificent Jack Grealish were in perfect tandem, sewing their passes together as if they'd known each other for a lifetime. 

Here the Aston Villa midfield playmaker Jack Grealish served notice of a magical and mercurial talent, a player of extraordinary ball playing gifts, treating the ball as if it had been his closest friend. Grealish is clever, intuitive, a player of vision and awareness, always making the game look both easy and logical. At the moment Grealish can do no wrong running his opponents ragged at every opportunity, tricking, teasing and leading everybody a merry dance. For the time being there is nothing of the Paul Gascoigne about Grealish since dentists chairs and general clowning around are not part of the Aston Villa's man private life. 

It took no time at all before England eventually broke down the Irish defence. A swift and incisive blur of passes across the Wembley pitch found Harry Winks whose nicely weighted cross from a corner landed perfectly onto the head of Everton's Dominic Calvert Lewin and his glancing header was nodded powerfully into the net for England's opening goal. 

From that point onwards England never looked back and there was a complete subsidence in the Republic of Ireland's defensive ranks. It was easy why Eire have only ever beaten England twice in competitive games. Of course the Irish will always have the European Championship in 1988 when Ray Houghton headed home their winner and the much loved Jack Charlton just couldn't stop grinning. They did boast a Brady in their team last night but this was certainly not the cultured Liam of Arsenal renown.

And so it was England took the initiative and established a tight grip, their passing between the lines sending their opponents into a drunken stupor and then imposing complete control. Reece James was now scampering down the flanks with a vigour and vivacity that always took the eye. Mason Mount had the most educated feet on the pitch while Harry Winks was composure itself. Winks drops deep into a defensive attacking midfielder, a model of stability and reassurance, moving the ball easily to colleagues around him. His Spurs predecessor Glen Hoddle can only look on from a distance with a heartfelt admiration. 

In a matter of no time England added to their tally with a richly deserved goal. By now Calvert Lewin was dragging his marker all over Wembley, Grealish was a cunning, conniving nuisance, floating and fluttering around in the middle of the park with that unpredictable spark of magic while Winks and Mount were masterful ball manipulators. 

From another bewitching sequence of quick passes Jadon Sancho, a livewire who the Irish simply couldn't handle, cut inside his defender, assessed his options before deciding to drill a fierce shot low past Darren Randolph. Now the white shirts of Eire disintegrated and never looked like surfacing again. The hammer and bludgeon had been brought down and England were heading for an almost regulation victory over opposition essentially close to home. 

In the second half England relaxed into an easy going tempo that never threatened a cricket score. The football still had its pleasant simplicity about it, a slow, slow, quick quick staccato beat that was effortlessly rhythmical but no longer harmful in its intent. Half-way through the second half England put Eire out of their misery. The Arsenal full back Bukayo Saka, after several gallops on the full-back overlap and then surging thrillingly past his defender and then forcing a trip in the penalty area. Calvert Lewin confidently thumped home the penalty into the middle of the net and England's work was over for the evening.

As the players trooped off at the end you were reminded of the two-minute silence that fell over London last Sunday when fallen and dead soldiers from both World Wars at the beginning of the last century were remembered poignantly and dearly. A football match could never be described as a murderous and tragic conflict but when the final whistle went once again last night, there was a painful sense of loss and sadness that had no redeeming features. The crowd noises did their utmost by way of compensation but this felt like an altogether different product.