Happy Birthday Coronation Street.

 Happy Birthday- Coronation Street. 

This would not have been the way they'd have liked to celebrate their special anniversary but sadly the year hasn't really worked out for them in the way they would have chosen. They'd have preferred star-studded parties, celebrations galore, thousands of balloons, even a master of ceremonies to make those celebrated announcements before everybody got down for a boogie and dancing into the wee small hours of the morning. 

This week though Coronation Street marks its 60th birthday. Yes 60 years of arguments, gossip, absurd deaths at times, innumerable weddings, train crashes and pub brawls have spilled out onto the most famous cobbled street in Britain and quite possibly the world, with just a passing nod to melodrama, Shakespeare, Dickens and Alan Bennett, three national treasures and obvious influences. How on earth can we just overlook the 60th birthday party of the one TV programme that has not only stood the test of time but is now renowned for its longevity?

Back in 1960 a young TV scriptwriter by the name of Tony Warren, searching for an idea that would capture the attention of an excited and receptive TV audience, suddenly hit the jackpot. It was one of those Eureka moments that would transform the TV landscape so dramatically that in years to come it would provide a perfect platform for major film stars and celebrities as unfulfilled ambitions came to fruition. Now would be the time to down their tools on their Pinewood or Elstree film studios and wander into the Rovers Return for a swift pint of the amber nectar. 

If somebody had mentioned the possibility of showing just a glimpse into the life of Northern England, with all of its lovely characteristics and mannerisms, they would have been sent away cackling with laughter and told to go away in the politest fashion. None of us could have ever guessed that a brand new pilot series for a potentially long-running soap opera would still be around 60 years later, as fresh as ever, modern at every level, relevant, topical and easily identifiable. We'd have scoffed at the very suggestion, made light of something that would only last for perhaps a month, perhaps six months at the very least. 

But then we were given a picture of this new TV experiment-for experiment it almost certainly was. Imagine if you will the grim, back to back terraced houses of Manchester, smoke pouring profusely from the industrial chimneys. the cobbled streets, the symmetrical roofs, the colourful characters, those gossipy protagonists who would give this new soap opera so much life and vitality. We had to visualise a scene where a young university student would sit down with his parents for dinner and express his commendable ambitions. 

In the grainy black and white days of steam-driven TV, Ken Barlow was a thrusting, wannabe and aspirational student who wanted to be radical, politically active and make a lasting mark on society. His parents told him to keep his feet on the ground and get that elusive teaching job as soon as possible. Ken knew where he was going in life and so too did Coronation Street. 

It is a testament to the acting career of William Roache, aka Ken Barlow, that he is still in the same soap opera, almost a fundamental part of the programme's furniture. Today Ken Barlow is still confronting the complex dynamics of his family with the kind of professionalism, honesty and composure that even he, by his own admission, would never have dreamt he'd still be capable of addressing. 

And yet on an early December evening at the beginning of a decade that we have repeatedly assured, swung, the first scene of Coronation Street flickered into action. It was a quaint and cosy corner shop that sold everything from vegetables to bread, chocolate and cheese, a grocer-cum greengrocer at times. A severe, hair netted woman with a face like a crumpled map from pre-Empire days, walked into the shop and then engaged in the kind of down to earth, animated conversation with another customer that would become a permanent feature of the programme in years to come. 

Ena Sharples was a loud-mouthed, forceful, interfering, doggedly dogmatic and comical character straight from the pages of an Alan Bennett play. Ena Sharples had a sharp tongue, an acid tongue at times, always ready to share her vociferous opinions in a fashion that left none of us in any doubt about what she thought of her neighbours. Ena was confrontational, controversial, launching into one very passionate tirade that must have shaken the foundations of many a house in Coronation Street. 

Throughout the history of the programme, Coronation Street has never shied away from realism, the harsh social issues of the day, a barometer of the way we lived our lives when the curtains twitched and  the couple across the road were arguing over a Cornish pasty or a meat and potato pie. It was there to cover devastating fires, violent punch ups between Len Fairclough and Ken Barlow in the Rovers Return, Hilda Ogden cleaning the pub thoroughly and then telling the whole of her community that husband Stan had the most attractive wallpaper on the cobbled streets. 

There was Elsie Tanner, as explosive and argumentative as Ena but always feeling as though that the men in her life would never be good enough. Elsie Tanner seemed to have a permanent grudge against everybody in the Street for some perceived injustice. She hollered with the best of them, had the needle  with anybody who happened to pass her by and then launched into the kind of incendiary language that only just stopped short of being abusive. 

Meanwhile, that dependable publican landlord and landlady partnership of Annie and Jack Walker would stand proudly by the Rovers bar. Annie Walker was posh, prudish, snooty and puritanical, the stately matriarchal figure who always turned up her nose at the peasants who became her loyal drinkers. Annie was perhaps a frustrated actress, a woman who quite clearly felt the builder who was Len Fairclough was somehow beneath her and that Ken Barlow was much more intellectually suitable for her liking.

But Coronation Street, although dramatic and gritty at times, never lost its social compass because the working-class values have always been highlighted and clearly crystallised. The building yard owned by Len Fairclough and Ray Langton was a clear example of  Coronation Street's stubbornly proletarian roots. The corner shop initially the property of Maggie Clegg followed by the alderman and civic figure of Alf Roberts during the 1970s gave us a revealing insight into the pulsing heartbeat of this timeless soap opera. 

And then there was Minnie Caldwell who, along with Albert Tatlock were those endearing pensioners who were either complaining or simply sipping sweet sherries. Minnie Caldwell always looked extremely content with her life and when she joined company with Ena Sharples and Martha Longhurst, would gently criticise family and friends, passing brief comment on the private lives of her nearest and dearest. Minnie Caldwell always appeared delicate and vulnerable, softly uttering her grievances but never offensive or insulting. 

So there we are. Coronation Street will celebrate its 60th birthday quietly and privately because there can be no Mrs Mills style piano standards, plinkety plonk recitals of old music hall songs and the Rovers will have to remain closed for the time being at least. Somehow we seem to have lost touch with our cherished traditions and institutions, definitive, cultural landmarks, classic TV soap operas that are destined to last until, quite probably the 30th century. We'll miss familiarity if Corrie ever leaves our screen and long may it remain a formidable powerhouse for good. Long live Corrie.        

Mike Tyson gets back into a boxing ring again.

 Mike Tyson gets back into a boxing ring again. 

The world of heavyweight boxing has probably seen this before but once again it finds itself exposed to the kind of freak show that it may have thought it had left behind years ago. There can be no more shameful sight than that of one of the most controversial and explosive boxers climbing back into the ring. In the general scheme of things this may not be entirely medically advisable but nobody said it couldn't happen so it will and we'll just have to look at this most grotesque spectacle and take it for what its worth. 

Mike Tyson, one of the most technically brilliant fighters in the modern era, will once again step into a boxing ring at the ripe old age of 54  and you can only but help admire the audacity of the man. Tyson's opponent will be one Roy Jones Junior who now belongs in a museum rather than a boxing ring. Should both men be utterly ashamed of themselves or do we just let them get on with it and just allow them to get it out of their system? 

In the glittering, magical, cabaret, gambling casino, showbiz capital of the world Tyson and Jones Junior will clamber back into a Las Vegas ring and blink good-humouredly in the dazzling lights. Las Vegas will indulge the two men with perhaps a hint of sarcastic cheering and a smattering of ironic applause. The girl cheerleaders will twirl the board numbers indicating the respective rounds and most of us will either be appalled, deeply offended or just highly amused. 

In the small hours of Sunday morning an incredulous, barely disbelieving crowd will be perplexed at the sheer futility of this exercise, questioning the sanity of two prize-fighters who should be making a vastly profitable living on the chat show and reality TV circuit. But Tyson still wants a piece of the action and for all we know, may still retain a fondness for biting the ears of his adversaries. The cannibalistic instinct that drove Tyson to such barbaric actions could be tucked away deep in his soul because Tyson could be ruthless, brutally destructive when the mood took him and lethally quick.

In fact there were times throughout an illustrious career when Tyson had the capacity to knock out his opponent in a matter of minutes rather than the standard 10 or 12 rounds allotted. When Tyson sent in an artillery of punches to both head and midriff the lights would invariably go out and the fight was over in no time at all. Tyson was powerful, ferocious, built like a bulldog, pinning his men into the corner with low blows to the midriff before progressing to the head with cleanly executed rabbit punches and those cruel, sadistic upper-cuts which ultimately ended up with a couple of paramedics and ambulances ready and waiting. 

Then Tyson would launch a fusillade of swift, clubbing hooks across his opponents ears and neck that would result in a chaotic flurry of punches that ensured victory in the blink of an eyelid. Towels would be thrown into the ring, a microphone would drop down into the ring and the referee would intervene quite mercifully. Those thick, bullish and ridiculously muscular arms would be raised and Tyson would bathe in the euphoric glow of triumph.

 No fighter who dared challenge Tyson's supremacy at heavyweight level ever went back to their dressing room with any sense of relief. They'd been battered relentlessly, completely demoralised, realising that the very thought of facing up to Tyson had never been a good idea. Tyson was bloodthirsty, almost primitive at times and when his defeated pug had been thrashed about like a child's toy, Tyson would blurt out something so incomprehensible that you'd have thought he'd just eaten a hot potato. 

In Britain we've also had our heroic pugilists, our bare-knuckle fighters a couple of centuries ago but then gallant, charming characters such as our Henry Cooper, the equally as lovable Frank Bruno and the formidably brilliant Lennox Lewis, a Canadian- cum British brawler who would just wear down his opponents before toppling them. British boxing knows exactly how to treat their boxing beefcakes and years later the images are still vivid, the memories enshrined forever.

More recent times have seen Chris Eubank, one of the cleverest and most streetwise boxers in the history of British boxing. Eubank was almost a merciless destroyer, moving his challenger around the ring like an accomplished chess player and then delivering checkmate. He would become unstoppable, unbeatable at times invincible. When retirement beckoned Eubank would embrace the TV celebrity round and took that impressively built lorry across his hometown of Brighton.

And now Britain can rightly acclaim Anthony Joshua, now the subject of a TV advertising campaign and promoting his Golders Green home in North London. Joshua is a superbly built boxer, seemingly unbeatable but genuinely down to earth. Of course Joshua remains the confident, boastful, gloating prize-fighter since there are tickets that have to be sold and the public, now denied their fix of boxing, can hardly wait to see Joshua bouncing back into a ring before his adoring fans. 

But now a craggy, weatherbeaten, tired-looking veteran will be dusting off the cobwebs, chubbier and podgier around the waist and a pale caricature of his former self. But both Tyson and Jones Junior will be heaving those creaking limbs back into the fray, shuffling painstakingly across the canvas, arms swinging reluctantly, greying hair covering their heads like wintry snow and we'll all be entitled to a good, old fashioned belly laugh. It will be an embarrassing apology of a fight and we must hope that both men never carry out a threat to do it all over again. May the best man win with pride intact. Iron Mike Tyson though is taking this one deeply seriously. Now that's a certainty.    

Diego Maradona dies.

 Diego Maradona dies.

Diego Maradona defied categorisation or classification. Undoubtedly though Maradona was, by common consent, one of the greatest footballing talents the world has ever seen. Comparisons made with his peers are open to debate but Maradona, for all the troubles and excruciatingly painful traumas in his private life, was one of the game's pre-eminent entertainers, an often spectacularly talented player whose delightful ball control at close quarters, remarkable dribbling skills that took out entire defences within seconds and fleet of foot daintiness on the ball when in possession will never ever be forgotten. 

Yesterday Maradona tragically died at the age of 60, no age at all of course but sadly all of that showmanship and flamboyance disguised an inner torment, a chronic insecurity which manifested itself in outrageous displays of eccentricity. We may never know how much more he had to give the game he'd decorated so magically because, until quite recently, he was still wrestling with drug addiction, innumerable other vices, drink and the kind of irrational behaviour that somehow becomes a flawed genius. 

The trouble with Maradona perhaps was that he was indeed a free spirit, an independent thinker, totally nonconformist, a rebellious individualist who never did as he was told. From a very early age the young Maradona was the outstandingly gifted kid in the playground who just wanted to express himself at every opportunity. He would embark on one of those weaving, twisting, darting runs, dropping his shoulders deceptively, then running at defenders with that trademark low centre of gravity. 

It must have been readily apparent when, as a youngster at his first club Boca Juniors, one of the most esteemed giants at Argentinian club football level, that Maradona was destined for greatness. He would flick the ball onto his instep before juggling the ball on his back and shoulder and then indulge in a hypnotic session of keepie puppies at least a thousand times. A star was born. 

By the time he was 20 Maradona had become established himself as a world-class ball-player, a foraging schemer in the middle of the park capable of swaying and swerving past defenders as if the men in front of him were figments of our imagination. There was something of the bohemian spirit about Maradona, a young man who had become besotted with the ball, fascinated with its playfulness, its whimsicalities, its moods, its limitless potentialities. Besides, Maradona had been given the freedom to make a football do exactly as he pleased. He couldn't make it talk but he could influence a game when he had possession of it. 

Inevitably international football came calling and when Maradonna was called up by Argentina there could be no stopping this impish whirlwind, this force of nature, this intoxicating bundle of joy, a whirling dervish of a player, gliding gracefully across a pitch as if generated by some electrical mechanism. Of course Maradonna was selfish at times and the unpredictability was perhaps part of his charm. But he had innate style, an ingenious footballing brain, an intuition that other players must have envied, a knowledge of the game that was incomparable and a geographical picture of the game around him. 

Because the Argentinian had a theatricality and eloquence about his game that others must have longed to inherit. He could be here, there and everywhere, buzzing and scampering after the ball, ubiquitous, always available for the short pass and demanding the ball when there was a yawning gap in the opposing defence. He could create openings at the drop of a hat and then bounce off defenders as if they were just fragile obstacles in his way. He was unstoppable, incomparable, an astonishing technician, gambling, challenging, questioning, pestering, troublesome, damaging and quite the most thrilling sight, a bubbly boulevardier, a man about town, always fashionable but then crushed by sleazy temptations. 

In one of his first appearances in England, a young Maradona faced England at Wembley in 1980. The South American swaggerers lost on a sultry evening at the old Wembley but the proclamation had been made. Maradona had announced himself on the international stage and, from time to time, just perplexed and bamboozled the England defence with a wide variety of trickery, sorcery and chicanery. 

Eight years later in the Mexico World Cup Maradona would leave most of England boiling over with righteous indignation, blowing its top and ready to let loose their frustrations on him when next he trod on British soil. England met Argentina at the quarter-final stage in a precursor to many more confrontations against each other. It would prove the one pivotal moment in the 1986 World Cup, the moment England departed the competition because of underhand tactics, shameful cheating and almost criminal activity. 

A loose ball in the England penalty area bounced up awkwardly into the air and Maradona, with the most desperate lunge, threw out the palm of his hand and pawed the ball into the net quite openly. The England goalkeeper Peter Shilton, the first hand witness to this ludicrous violation, raced out to the referee accompanied by the whole of a fiercely protesting England team. Maradona had got away with it, pulling the wool over everybody's eyes, hoodwinking everybody with the look that suggested he was perfectly innocent and butter wouldn't have melted in his mouth. 

Thankfully it was the one incident that wouldn't overshadow the rest of the proceedings. Picking up the ball on the half way line, Maradona drove powerfully through a forest of English legs, beat at least five or six players in his wake, with Peter Reid and Terry Fenwick, being the most unfortunate victims. Maradona then picked off his last defender before drawing Shilton out of his goal and gently slipping the ball into the net. It was a solo goal of preposterous beauty. It was the winning, decisive goal despite a late English consolation goal. Argentina would go on to win the World Cup in quite the most triumphant fashion.

It had been 20 years before that Argentina had resorted to the brutal and barbaric tactics perpetrated in the World Cup held in England. The rough house approach and ferociously illicit tackling committed by the likes of Antonio Rattin resulted in Rattin being sent off, all hell breaking loose, Pele being kicked out of the tournament and Argentina going home from England in disgrace. 

But then there was Diego Maradona who made Argentian forget their tortured past, a player of breathtaking artistry, ground-breaking innovation and stunning pace. Maradona had taken football back to the street, a street poet, an art installation, the personification of footballing brilliance and sparkling virtuosity. He was the one man who lifted the mood of a nation that had suffered terrible military oppression during the 1978 World Cup in Argentina when the junta had almost broken the country. 

Towards the end of his career Maradona would enjoy further club success with a great Barcelona side and then travel to Italy with Serie A club Napoli where hero-worship would become almost fanatical. Then there would be the wilderness years when age withered him and the drugs he'd been taking quite brazenly, would take their toll. The now distressingly overweight Maradona would continue his eating binges and eventually the body could take no more. 

Yesterday, that other Argentinian magician Lionel Messi paid his respects to his celebrated predecessor, a far more sensible and respectable figure with none of the self-destructiveness of the man he must have idolised. Diego Maradona had lived his life to the full, burnt too many candles and metaphorically fallen off a cliff. Those mad, drug-addled staring eyes with which the man fixed  a TV camera against Greece will now haunt every football supporter who recognises genius when they see it. Of course Maradonna was an exceptionally gifted footballer. But we have to forget the darker side of his character because this is not the way he would have wanted to be remembered. Let's recall the good days Diego.      

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.