National Coffee Day.

 National Coffee Day. 

Now in the general scheme of things some of us would be delighted to know what day it is today. No, seriously. So folks let me put you out of  your misery. It's a wondrous source of fascination and for those who like their caffeine fuelled drinks, this has got to be the best piece of news. Yes, you're desperate to know so this is the moment when you reveal the theme for National Something or Somebody day. It seems suitable for the occasion although quite definitively, this is your day and you might want to keep it in your diary for next year on this day. 

Today Ladies and Gentlemen is National Coffee Day. It's 100% unequivocally National Coffee Day and the information is correct. The whole truth your honour and nothing but the truth. You've checked your facts thoroughly and according to those who know it's time to celebrate the virtues of a hot, piping cup or mug of coffee, equally as popular among the masses and just as refreshing as tea, char or for those who remember the 1920s, tiffin. 

So coffee. What do we know about coffee or perhaps we need a light hearted reminder of what coffee means to the British? Our American friends have been drinking coffee for as long as anybody can remember now. They grab a coffee on the way to work, buy whole boxes of doughnuts by way of accompaniment and then slurp it down with undisguised pleasure. It's almost the compulsory wake up call for most Americans because you suspect that without a cup of coffee they'd get withdrawal symptoms. 

In all of those great cop TV programmes, coffee is absolutely essential. They drink coffee until it's more or less coming out of the ear holes. They drink it for breakfast, on the move, lunch quite definitely and then the evening meal although some of the male population may prefer a tin of lager or a glass of red wine. Coffee is the dominant force in their lives. It dictates their fluctuating moods, makes them feel good about life and probably gives them a temporary high in the loosest sense of the word, you understand. 

Coffee of course owes its origins, in part from the old Ceylon (now Sri Lanka), where those swaying palm trees sit happily next to those pulsating plantations and those lovely coffee beans make their first appearance. It's then shipped over in huge bulk and containers to every corner of the globe. Coffee is a drug of that there can be no doubt. It could lead to a mild addiction and you may find yourself knocking back the cups of Nescafe by the hundred on the hour every hour. But all things in moderation of course. 

Back in 1950s London, coffee bars became so fashionable that wherever you went in Soho, the noise of those delightful machines spouting out gallons of hot water onto millions of cups of foaming coffee can still be heard over 70 years later. Coffee bars became the meeting place of teenagers with pocket loads of money to spend on frothy cups of coffee. Around them were those spellbinding juke boxes pumping out the latest singles from Buddy Holly, Eddie Cochran, Cliff Richard and the Shadows, Elvis Presley and Johnny Rae. 

Then they would all huddle around in groups with those wonderful glass cups of coffee, tapping their toes, clicking their fingers hypnotically and the men would brush back their thickly gelled hair. The girls would then be whisked away romantically for an afternoon of dancing in the cafe. There was nothing clandestine about this activity although they were supposed to be at work. But how the Brits loved their coffee, coffee to the backing record tracks of the rock and roll era, the music of the times.

Who could ever forget the Two Eyes in Soho, the most distinguished of all coffee bars because Cliff was always in there and Marty Wilde became rock and roll royalty? Coffee bars gave Britain a welcome escapism from the misery and greyness of Post War austerity. They were the social rendezvous points for youngsters because London was the place where leather clad bikers would congregate and new 45 singles would drift into the West End of London like a sweetly fragrant smell from a distant flower bed. 

Then coffee continued to offer a splendidly attractive alternative to the traditional cup of tea. During both the 1960s and 1970s dinner parties among the so called intellectual elite were transformed into coffee appreciation societies. Coffee became an exotic stimulant that Britain had heard about quite extensively on American cop programmes and knew for a fact that it was also an integral part of their culture. 

So it was that Britain had adopted one of the great American caffeine experiences. Within the last 20 years or so coffee shops, bars and rows of supermarket brands have elevated coffee to a rarefied level of popularity. Nero, Costas, Pret A Mangers and innumerable cocktail bars have blossomed and after years and decades of nursing quiet cups of tea at railway station cafes, coffee has now taken its place in the affections of the British kitchen or dining room. It has to be there to stay. 

And there you have it folks. It's National Coffee Day. Usually, cups of either tea or coffee are accompanied by mouth watering cakes, cream cakes, Black Forest Gateaus, or custard cream biscuits,  delectable chocolate biscuits, biscuits with raisins and Digestives. But coffee demands some company and deserves something to wash it down with. Let coffee be your friend in the morning, afternoon or evening. The Italians and French have always served us those tiny cups of black coffee or large bowls of caffeine but wherever you are enjoy National Coffee Day, savour the flavour. Go on. Two sugars and plenty of milk, please. We deserve it. And don't forget the biscuit as well.    

My books.

 My books. 

OK. Are you at a loose end this morning? Have you had enough of climate change anarchists blocking the M25 in Britain? Have you just had your fill of viruses, their repercussions, the ones who have had the double vaccines and the ones who are still thinking about having them? Aren't you just sick and tired of pontificating politicians with their pointless platitudes? Aren't you screaming at the top of your voice because nobody will tell you what on earth is going on throughout the world? Do you simply wish they'd scrap daytime TV since the sight of wallpaper is infinitely more appealing than being subjected to daytime quiz shows, property auction programmes and endless repeats of old programmes that might have had made you laugh 50 years ago but are now so dated that they should, quite promptly, be re-located to a museum. 

So settle down, put on the kettle and let me tell you about my book. Now, of course you've done your utmost to persuade everybody that you've written four self published books. But hold on a minute. You feel another outrageous self promotion is in the air. Yes there it is just waiting for an announcement through the glories of modern technology.

Now for the purposes of this piece, let me introduce you to my life story and book No Joe Bloggs. Familiarity and repetition may be an underlying theme here but this seems a good a time as any to promote my books. They are the fruits of my literary labours, the rewards for my whole hearted endeavours on the written page and they could be yours if you just want to read an ordinary life story from an ordinary member of the British public. You'll never ever be able to emulate Charles Dickens, Thomas Hardy, Henry James, Marcel Proust, F. Scott Fitzgerald or Joseph Conrad. That would be ridiculous and you'd be entitled to call me a pretentious fool. 

If you'd like some more information on my other books wait no more.  There's Joe's Jolly Japes, my take on social commentary, the Chelsea Flower Show, the Henley Regatta, Polo on the playing fields of  England, chapters on England, West End department stores and the rich tapestry of life. Joe's Jolly Japes is available at Amazon online, Foyles online, Waterstones online and Barnes and Noble online. There's also my first children's book Ollie and His Friends which can be found at Amazon, Waterstones online and Barnes and Noble online. 

No, the fact is that my life story and memoir No Joe Bloggs is my personal creation, my life so far, an everyday account of my childhood reminiscences, affectionate stories about my parents, grandparents, my grandparents and mum as Holocaust survivors, their horrific trials and tribulations and the redemptive years after the Second World War. My references to that whole period are based on nothing but guesswork and hypothesis but they are described in such a way that you hope they pull on your heartstrings. 

Then No Joe Bloggs takes you on a very literary journey growing up in Ilford, Essex, very lyrical descriptions of the West End and London, my wonderful dad's passionate love affair with the West End and of course his lifelong and passionate love of my wonderful mum. In No Joe Bloggs there are chapters on my favourite music, bands, singers and groups from the 1970s, my favourite TV programmes from that iconic era, radio stations, news stories from that tumultuous period and celebrities from Britain and the USA.

When all is said and done No Joe Bloggs is the story of an Autistic individual who, diagnosed with Aspergers Syndrome roughly 20 years ago, can still smile, laugh, dance, love, appreciate, be immensely grateful and express his opinions. And for that reason alone yours truly wants to say thankyou so much if you have a copy of No Joe Bloggs and if you could kindly leave a review of my book on my Amazon page, that would be great.

So where were we? Oh yes. My detailed account of my life story No Joe Bloggs. It's funny, moving, life affirming, nostalgic, descriptive, uplifting and full of heartfelt sentiments. There are some very whimsical references to a fictitious and imaginary account of my late dad going to Las Vegas and fulfilling a lifelong dream of playing the gambling casinos with the likes of Sammy Davis, Tony  Bennett and Frank Sinatra. 

At the beginning of my book you can't help but talk about your personal connection to the 1966 World Cup in England, which, by some coincidence, England won so dramatically. My grandfather, bless him, cut the hair as a barber of the famous West Ham trio of Bobby Moore, Martin Peters and now Sir Geoff Hurst. Now there's a claim to fame. Yes, the three West Ham and England representatives would regularly patronise the barber shop my grandfather worked for in Upton Park, not a million miles away from the ground itself. 

Then you go into what must be, in my opinion, is an amusing and affectionate homage to the 1970s British football teams throughout that glorious epoch. There are the 70s footballing giants including Arsenal, Liverpool, Everton, Manchester City, Manchester United, Ipswich Town, Aston Villa, Wolves, Spurs and Leeds United. My analogies may make you chuckle and giggle. 

Within the first few pages there's my homage to my childhood home of Ilford, Essex. Here is chapter and verse of where it all began on the pavements of Ilford, charging around the back roads thrillingly on my lime green bicycle with stabilisers, accompanied by the sound of the ice cream van whose sweet melodies would ring around the suburbs. 

So there you are Ladies and Gentlemen. My life story No Joe Bloggs is available at Amazon, Waterstones online, Foyles online, Hatchards online, Barnes and Noble online and Angus and Robertson online. You can also see and hear about further details about my book on two You Tube channels. Click on Joe Morris and No Joe Bloggs and you'll find the first chapter of my book as read by me and another from an Australian journalist named Nicola who very kindly offered to promote my book on her foreverautobiographies.com website. Thank you. Nicola. You'll find a full description of an interview she did for me highlighting all of the salient details of No Joe Bloggs on another You Tube video.

Once again thankyou so much for reading this blog about my life story. You've made a very ordinary man very, very happy. Without any more bias, No Joe Bloggs is a cracking read, honest, open, insightful about the precious possessions of our life such as good mental and physical health. My health has always been vitally important and precious to me. The love, understanding and wonderfully supportive wife and family who continue to provide can never be emphasised enough. Oh thankyou my lovely family.       

Aretha Franklin- the Queen of Soul.

 Aretha Franklin- the Queen of Soul. 

When George Michael met Aretha Franklin for the first time it must have been a meeting of great minds thinking alike. The chemistry had to be a dynamic one because one had conquered the globe a million times over in innumerable world stadiums and the other was a pretty boy-cum superb singer songwriter who just happened to have sold millions of records and broken the hearts of millions of girls across the world. So they got together in a recording studio somewhere, exchanged notes on each other's illustrious career thus far and penned 'Knew You Were Waiting' one of the many disco dance floor classics of the 1980s.

Respect, the masterful biopic of the life of Aretha Franklin, began its run on the cinema circuit, a film so exceptional and smoothly flawless that by the end of what seemed an almost interminable period of time, finished half way through Ms Franklin star studded career. 1972 seemed a curious cut off point for a film that always lived up to its lofty expectations. But by then Ms. Franklin's distinctive 1960s beehive hairstyle had become an instantly recognisable afro. The rest had become well documented history. 

The film follows the inevitably turbulent and troubled life of Aretha Franklin from childhood to adolescence. At this point we begin to empathise with the predicament of the Queen of Soul's trials and tribulations. Of course her parents were both proud, immensely religious and wonderfully supportive of their daughter but there must have come a point when the young Aretha just wanted to break away from mum and dad's powerful influence. 

The film itself opens up with Franklyn's discovery that her mother, having left the family home, would never come home again. In an emotional scene a very young Aretha stands in the middle of the road, knowing fully well that her mother had died in an alcoholic dark hole. Then Franklin's father, played by the magnificent Forest Whitaker, begins to impose his presence on his daughter and that in itself would become very challenging and overbearing. 

And so it is we begin at the beginning. Aretha Franklin develops her talent and hones her craft in the humble setting of the local church where gospel rules quite prominently and hugely influentially. Gospel singing provides the perfect foundation for the big, booming, megaphone voice that would become the Franklin trademark. 

Surrounded by a family of strict Baptists, Aretha would grow up steeped in the cadences of gospel, singing powerfully together and almost immersing themselves in the Sunday choral singing and the raised hands of a congregation who did their utmost to encourage young Aretha. The young girl from Memphis, Tennessee was destined to be a star from the moment she opened up her vocal chords. The voice reached across continents and then all four points of the world compass. 

By the time she'd grown up the world had become her oyster. Then she encountered the men in her life and this could only spell trouble for a somewhat impressionable young woman who knew she had it in her to belt out hits but couldn't quite hit the perfect grace note. The men in her life would be viciously controlling and domineering, using and then abusing in her equal measure. Firstly there was the shifty and spiv like Ted White who allegedly had Aretha's best interests at heart but then decided to take out his own personal grievances out on her. 

Suddenly the knight in shining armour, Gerry Wexler, eminent record producer, took Aretha to New York and then back to Alabama, promising her faithfully to make her a legendary performer. Wexler was a fast talking, silver tongued wheeler and dealer who kept assuring her that, with perseverance, Aretha could stop covering old soul classics and forge her own personal identity with a factory of hit after hit after hit. 

But then there were the pampered prima donna outbursts, the demanding strops, the impatience and irritation of the nightmarish diva who just wants her way. After struggling up the often greasy pole of success, gets together her session musicians, looks them in the eye and tells her that she wants her compilation of albums and singles rather than covers of the others.

Finally she escapes from the restraints of those she felt were holding her back. After the brief success of 'Ain't No Way' in 1968, Franklyn progressed and matured spectacularly overnight. Respect of course was not only the title of this glorious film but a grand feminist statement from a now feisty, angry, confident Aretha. Thus far, she'd been relegated to the sidelines of soul music, on the periphery of things rather than at the centre of it all. Now though Aretha was the vey striking superstar. 

Backed by her united backing singers the song would become a vast anthem of the times, a way of expressing and confronting her own private problems. The America that Aretha had grown up in would be one where the dreadful racist divisions and the incendiary street riots of 1960s America would flare up in her face and refuse to go away for some time. 

So Aretha befriended the remarkable Martin Luther King and her alternative passion would manifest itself quite clearly. Wherever King went on his lifelong crusade for racial equality, Franklin would follow. When King was cruelly assassinated, Franklin became lost, grief stricken and permanently bereft. She'd lost not only a close friend but a guiding figure, one of the first men to really understand the difficulties she'd now encountered.

By now a mother of several children, Franklyn falls helplessly in love and then eventually hits the bottle because there seemed no other safe outlet. There were the slanging matches with more men, flaming arguments and counter arguments and then the haunted alcoholic who just couldn't hold it together anymore. So the memory of her late mother comes back to her to hold her hand tenderly and kiss everything better.

Aretha Franklin's back catalogue of fabulous toe tapping, hip shaking Motown hits would flood from the microphone and into a worshipping audience of fans. 'Respect' would be accompanied by 'Think', 'Young, Gifted and Black', 'Change is Gonna Come', the brilliantly female torch song, You May Feel Like A 'Natural Woman' and, then the perfectly pitched and seminal 'Say a Little Prayer', song that still resonates with some of us from our childhood. 

But Aretha Franklin lived life to the full and never short changed anybody. What you saw with her you would always get. Franklyn was dedicated, hugely ambitious, fiercely independent but often misled by those who just wanted to exploit her. Of course she didn't suffer fools gladly but then emerged as the vulnerable and gullible one as most of her generation were, starting out in showbusiness and feeling her way. 

Staggering drunk onto stage at one performance, Franklin does her utmost to sing but then crashes into the front of her adoring audience who were now just perplexed. Right at the end, Franklin's mother would be her redeeming shoulder to cry on and the film ends with Franklin going back to her spiritual roots in church with a marvellous rendition of 'Amazing Grace'.

The 1970s would then move into the 1980s for Franklin. By now she'd become a vociferous campaigner and civil rights activist, passionately interested in politics, racial justice and then singing once again. Her life had of course embraced the vices, temptations and unsavoury distractions that maybe she shouldn't have touched with a barge pole. But she was still unmistakably Aretha, a force of nature, a whirlwind of a stage presence, a voice of so many shades, dimensions and layers that you'd almost forgotten the bad times for her. 

During the mid 1980s Aretha Franklyn met the honey voiced George Michael, a tanned, fit and athletic looking pop singer who had once hooked up with his friend Andrew Ridgley to form the group Wham, the epitome of two baby faced young pop stars who just wanted to have a good time as quickly as possible. Michael was looking for a fresh change and found Aretha Franklin, a soul veteran, the classiest of all acts. 'Knew You Were Waiting' was cool, soulful, utterly relevant to the disco boom and showcased Franklin's voice in a way that she couldn't really have anticipated 20 or so years before. 

Now into her late 60s and 70s the charity performances would proliferate. Until quite recently the voice was still finely oiled and just as dynamic as ever. A year before her death, Aretha Franklin appeared before former Presidents of the USA Bill Clinton and Barrack Obama with one last hurrah. Franklin now bore an uncanny resemblance to one of her childhood heroines Ella Fitzgerald, a voice that sailed across oceans with rousing conviction, powered across exotic islands, shaken a million outdoor stadiums, and then soared into the hearts of her devoted followers. 

At the beginning of Respect, Franklin makes one of  her first cabaret performances before Dina Washington, an established member of  the music industry. Washington, at the end of another prodigious performance from Aretha, stormed into Franklin's dressing room, giving her the full benefit of her wisdom and waspish tongue.  

So please Ladies and Gentlemen. Take note. Treat yourself to almost three hours of the most compelling story telling that the world of cinema has seen since the beginning of lockdown. It was the story that had to be told because sometimes you have to be reminded that a soul singer of the highest calibre and genius, had to be immortalised on the silver screen. Aretha Franklin, the Queen of Soul, a chanteuse par excellence, soul at its finest.    

The news that just keeps delivering.

 The news that just keeps delivering. 

Here we are approaching the end of September and the news just keeps delivering, doesn't it? No sooner have the horrific Covid 19 lockdown restrictions been lifted back in July than autumn came charging around the corner at lightning speed. The news agenda is still fairly morbid, the tone miserably morose and pessimism still lingers in the air like a noxious smell from one of those old fashioned industrial chimneys.

To be honest we knew this was going to be a long, gruelling journey out of those dark underground chambers when the world didn't know whether to laugh or cry. But to all intents and purposes things look much healthier and stable than they were at this time last year. 12 months ago the country was on the precipice, hanging on the edge for grim life. The huge numbers of virus infections had reached a monumental high, the jitters had set in and by the end of last year, the Delta variant had set in with a vengeance and we were stuck in a terrifying rut. 

At the beginning of this year over a thousand people a day were dying because of the coronavirus and the shops that were temporarily open at this time last year were promptly shut again in late November. It was the most horrendous apocalypse for well over a hundred years and nobody had a clue what to do next. But come June time this year we did think we might have been out of the woods. False alarm. No way. It was merely an illusion. So we battened down the hatches yet again and tried to be optimistic. 

Then on July 19 Britain emerged into clear blue sky and a release from isolation, alienation, bemusement, scratching of collective heads before meeting up with family and friends. The last stage of Prime Minister Boris Johnson's road map had been nicely negotiated and we were on the free road, the highway to good times again. The big department shops and shops in the West End of London were open, the restaurants were about to flourish and the tills would be ringing out at vegan cafes, Pret A Manger, Costa and Nero coffee outlets. We'd done it. We were clear to eat and drink within close proximity of each other. Let go of that sigh of relief.  

Finally, after much debate and discussion, torture and torment for London's famous commercial district, the waiting was over. No longer were masks mandatory and you could finally hug again. Ah! Physical interaction had been restored to normal levels and you could actually have a lengthy natter in the post office without feeling as if you were some alien from outer space. You could even book up for Andrew Lloyd's Webber's new and exciting musical Cinderella without any compunction or feeling like some impostor looking for trouble. Theatreland in the West End was alight with back slapping euphoria and the box office was throbbing with hyper activity and handsome profits. We could get used to this again. 

Shortly, the new Bond film  No Time to Die is finally about to hit the cinema screens when we all know that the scheduled date for this major event in the cinema calendar was last March. And we all remembered what happened to that little plan. The world, quite literally, shut down which, if you think about it, sounds like an appropriate title for the next Bond film. Still, when you're a secret agent and a daredevil, all action hero you have to be patient and let perspective take over for a while. 

Poor Daniel Craig. All of those wearisome, tedious months just waiting and waiting and then waiting again for the world to rectify itself and at long last the traffic does seem to be moving. Move that Aston Martin out of the way, Mr Bond. But is he shaken and stirred? Oh no he's not. Craig has now been rewarded for all those unproductive months in a film studio tapping his fingers on tables, itching to see himself on the big screen. It was rather like waiting for the unveiling of some very impressive piece of sculpture outside a famous London landmark. 

Anyway after 18 months of  illness, sadness, helplessness and anguish, we are on the verge of winter. Now according to the latest news bulletins this means that we've all got to hide away in our homes, wrap up warmly, watch the TV and hope that a relapse back into the world of viruses can be avoided. Of course we'll take the flu jabs and if required, the booster for the double vaccine we've all availed ourselves of. But what about the rest of the world and society? Don't forget us. 

Today, the gas and energy companies are panicking like crazy in case there's not enough of it to go around to the elderly, vulnerable and those who keep turning up the central heating. Are those gas suppliers content to see us all shiver when there are five inches of snow outside our doors? They must have a heart and some semblance of compassion. Or maybe not. There are times when you really don't know where the next crisis is coming from. 

Then we've got worry about the environment again. Hasn't somebody told the powers that be that the environment was severely damaged many moons ago, anyway. And yet on the M25, one of Britain's busiest of motorways, another kind of lockdown has been taking place. 'Insulate Britain' the latest eco crusaders have been blocking vast sections of the road with their controversial presence. They've been sitting together in vast multitudes, complaining about the state of the planet, getting all hot under the collar, irritated, militant, immovable and full of stubborn intransigence. We shall not be moved. We shall be not moved. 

Meanwhile today our leader, the UK's leader and Prime Minister Boris Johnston is currently in talks with the fairly new President of the USA Joe Biden. They'll be chatting, joking, laughing, schmoozing and exchanging light hearted pleasantries. Goodness knows whether any of the talks between them will be beneficial and actually tell us something we already probably knew. One of the topics will have to be about global warming and climate change and then Boris will pompously drop in some classic Latin phrases. Then, or so we gather, somebody mentioned the Royal Family. Very interesting. 

Washington has seen some pretty lively action one way or another this year and the lingering memory of the last President Donald Trump still looks like a bleeding gash on the American psyche. Still, Johnson and Biden look very buddy buddy to the impartial observer, masks facing each other as if a putrid smell from the White House kitchen had drifted towards both men. Mr President, can we interest you in some disinfectant from Wall Mart? Donald Trump was convinced of course that bleach was the answer to the coronavirus so we'll have to trust your judgment, Mr Biden. The mask wins again. 

Oh what a world we live in. It's fun and good to be alive of course it is. The constant plopping and dripping of news stories continues to leave us shocked, appalled, horrified, amused at times and then speechless once again. Another winter is imminent if not quite and life either tickles your funny bone or just makes your blood boil over with incandescent rage. But you know what, who cares anyway? We're all together. We'll wake up in the morning, throw open the blinds and do it all over again. Life will always be sweet.

Jimmy Greaves- a goal scoring legend passes

 Jimmy Greaves- a goal scoring legend passes.

Jimmy Greaves was a natural goal scorer, a man who was obsessed with goals, making them, taking them, always instrumental in every Spurs attack in his pomp, a gifted joker and humorist, a classy raconteur, an articulate spokesman on the subject of everything connected with the game and never daunted by the seemingly impossible. Greaves always saw the lighter side of life and always demanded more of himself. 

Yesterday Jimmy Greaves died at 81 after a series of crippling strokes and then a tragic confinement to a wheelchair for many years. It was the saddest of days for the centre forward's fraternity, a society that never closes ranks when the going gets too tough. But then you remembered those salad days when the goals were flowing for Greaves and everything he touched turned to gold. For those whose memories are now only distant black and white ones, the name of Jimmy Greaves may sound like some household name we'd been told about throughout our teenage years but there can be little doubt that the man was a legend. 

Greaves, who served his very young apprenticeship at Chelsea when the larger than life Tommy Docherty was manager at Stamford Bridge, was one of football's genuine characters, extrovert, sociable, gregarious, always chatty and amusingly gossipy at times. From the moment he started pulling on those first mud-caked boots and donned the Chelsea kit for the first time, Greaves made an immediate impact and it was clear that here was an outstanding talent, a man with a most effective footballing compass and an unrivalled knowledge of where the goal was. 

The East End of London born Greaves, who may have been headhunted constantly by the claret and blue of West Ham, was regrettably overlooked by the team from Upton Park and Spurs got in there first. Greaves then became one of the increasing number of English footballers tempted by the persuasive tongues of Italian Serie A giants AC Milan. It was a method of seduction that seemed a good idea at the time but then fell by the wayside when Greaves just couldn't adapt quickly enough to an entirely different footballing culture. Greaves came running back to London and fell helplessly into the arms of Tottenham.

Now began one of the most successful periods of his blossoming career. Spurs fans fell deeply in love with Greaves goal poaching prowess and once he'd got going, he would never look back. He was fast, pacy, uncontrollable, dashing, darting, dribbling with devastating speed, riding through helpless and flailing defenders feet with effortless ease and scoring goals by the bucket load. Greaves had the dexterity of the artist's palette, dabbing all of the primary colours on to the canvas and then creating awe inspiring landscapes.

In one unforgettable old First Division match when Spurs were up against Manchester United, Greaves scored perhaps one of the greatest goals that any of us had ever seen up until then. Drifting beautifully into the centre circle at White Hart Lane, Greaves rapidly went through the proverbial gears before gliding into space with the kind of explosive acceleration that perhaps the Spurs supporters had come to expect. He then breezed past almost the entire United team like a cheetah on the savanna, fluidly slaloming his way towards goal and just ignoring the red United shirts as if they were simply invisible. 

On and on he went before meeting the eagle eyes of Manchester United goalkeeper Alex Stepney and then simply rounding Stepney and just jabbing the ball gently into the net as if he'd done the same thing a million times in training. Spurs went on to thrash United 5-1 and Spurs could hardly believe they'd discovered a goal scoring genius. 

Greaves would continue to bulge opposition's nets with a stunning frequency, hundreds upon hundreds of goals from all angles and positions. For years all seemed swimmingly well with Spurs landing the FA Cup in 1967 at the expense of Chelsea and then the inevitable call up by England manager Sir Alf Ramsey. There followed a very compatible relationship and Greaves would become one of England's leading goal scorers of all time. A year before winning the FA Cup for Spurs though Greaves would experience one of the most anguished and harrowing disappointments of his entire career. 

With the 1966 World Cup to be held in England for the first and, sadly, the only time thus far, Greaves was thrust into prominence and the headlining back pages. He'd scored goals for fun for England and now the Spurs striker had designs on fame and immortality. When the England team gathered together for the regulation pep talk at Hendon Hall hotel, there was a sense that this could be Greaves time. 

England began the 1966 World Cup with a flat and lifeless goal-less draw against Uruguay before France and Mexico followed. Greaves was still in contention but then picked up a niggling injury after the France game. Sir Alf Ramsey, alarmed at this sudden setback, erred on the side of caution and dropped Greaves for the rest of the tournament. Rejection can be very hard on any player when things seemed to be working perfectly but Greaves was out of the 1966 World Cup. Greaves was inconsolable. 

After the referee blew the final whistle to signify wild World Cup winning celebrations, Bobby Moore hugged Martin Peters, Jack Charlton gave his brother Bobby the biggest of bear hugs and Alan Ball kept looking around him as if he'd just won the Lottery over and over again, smiling but exhausted. Sir Geoff Hurst threw his hands up into the air delightedly, Gordon Banks saw Nobby Stiles and the feelings of elated bewilderment could be clearly etched on their faces. For both players, time quite literally stood still. 

But there was one important component missing and he was now an emotional wreck. The conflicting feelings were playing havoc with Jimmy Greaves. Greaves, complete in elegant shirt, suit and tie on England's sidelines, must have wondered whether there had been a conspiracy against him. He'd scored all of the significant goals that had preceded the World Cup in England years before the tournament. Admittedly they were friendlies since England were the hosts but Greaves just blasted his opponents into submission with fiercely driven shots from long and short distances and diving headers that were powered into the back of the net with unflinching accuracy. 

Now though Greaves had been condemned to the dark shadows, a forgotten figure, wrapping his arms around his colleagues in obvious congratulation. The World Cup had been won but Greaves felt completely overlooked. There was an awful scowl on his face, a sullen air of neglect and the immediate realisation that Geoff Hurst had scored a hat-trick rather than him. Why couldn't it have been him rather than his international team mate? 

Once Greaves reached the twilight of his career, disappointment and a personal struggle with alcoholism would rip to shreds any lingering hopes of a comeback. For years the demon drink and the consolatory bottle of booze would dominate his every waking hour. Thankfully Greaves handled his drink problem with an admirable determination that would leave most of his close family and friends drooling admiringly. 

Then after the drink had been ditched and a package business project had brought him more than adequate financial reward, Greaves found himself still wanted and loved by the public. The world of commercial TV would become an enticing and mouth watering one. When Greaves met his fellow professional and playing contemporary Ian St John who had given Liverpool such sterling service, the two became the best friends for life and almost inseparable. Saint and Greavesie would become a TV sporting brothers without any blood relation to each other at all. 

Greaves would be the comical leg puller extraordinaire, having a joke for every occasion and was a hilarious football and topical gag meister who refused to be associated with some of football's darker arts. Occasionally there were the fruity innuendos, the scathing throw away lines and then withering attacks on the FA. Greavesie was TV magic, always humorous and occasionally serious but never short of a pithy comment or two.

And finally there were the last years of illness and infirmity, old age now his most threatening enemy rather than being pleasantly accompanied by the memory of good times. Greaves life had now reached its final chapters. The strokes had broken him and the mischievous glint in his eye had gone. After his old playing chum Ian St John had died shortly before him, our Jimmy must have thought the after dinner circuit had picked up its napkin, cutlery and crockery and left him behind. The curtain had gone up on Jimmy Greaves. 

So it is that we pay a fond farewell to one of English football's finest, the World Cup hero who could have achieved so much more and a striker nonpareil. Jimmy Greaves has now gone to football heaven and there can only be the special memories, the goals galore, the adoring fans and those at the new Tottenham Hotspur stadium who must have been desperate for a reminder of the 1960s vintage that just kept maturing. Jimmy, we do miss you.   

Yom Kippur at Saracens rugby union club.

 Yom Kippur at Saracens rugby union club.

The early autumnal light was fading sweetly into a North London horizon. The evening birds were fluttering gracefully towards distant shores, wheeling and singing quite merrily without a care in the world, swooping and then soaring towards some far off landscape where night time dreams beckon. Then there were the concluding verses of a Yom Kippur service which moved seamlessly towards a close at 8pm. What a day, what an occasion bathed in the luxuriant glow of nature where the intimacy of our surroundings wrapped a warm hug around our shoulders. 

Yesterday Finchley Reform Synagogue(shul) excelled itself in quite the most breath taking day of all days. In ordinary circumstances a high profile rugby union club wouldn't have been the preferred choice of venue for a sacred and deeply religious service, a service so pivotal and grandiose that the thoughts of the assembled congregation inside Saracens ground would probably have been concentrated on the day itself rather than the events that normally unfold on a rugby union pitch. 

The truth is that a rugby union ground seemed a totally alien environment for a Kol Nidre and Yom Kippur ceremony. There were some of us who were still bewildered by the strangeness of it all, the stands, the terraces, the seating arrangements and of course the uniqueness of the location. Besides, all we could see were row upon row of hard backed seats, floodlights on all four corners of the ground and, weirdly, builders at the opposite end of the ground from where we seated. It might have seemed an unnatural juxtaposition of sport, architecture, labour and industry. But it wasn't and how surprised we must have been. 

So at roughly 10.30 in the morning we all settled down in our seats surrounded by buzzing, drilling, construction workers wearing their familiar hard hats and hammering that echoed around the whole of Finchley and possibly the rest of the capital city of London. Around us all there was a sense that we were about to witness the most spectacular music concert of all time. The stage was set, the rabbis were ready and oozing anticipation and the choir were ready to unleash perfectly modulated, mellifluous voices and away we went. 

Everywhere you looked there was an almost idyllic naturalism about the day, a soothing tranquillity that made you think of England's richly fertile countryside. Out in the yonder there were masses of birch, poplar, pine and every conceivable set of trees bunched together like old, loyal friends. And then there was the day itself. It was the most heavenly day of warm sunshine and if you didn't know it was the beginning of autumn you could have sworn it was the middle of June. You found yourself overcome with gratitude and wonderfully blessed. 

And then there was Saracens. Much to our own surprise the ground was in the throes of dramatic re-construction with the huge stand opposite us also subject to a major re-development. There was a mass of concrete seats and the skeleton of a stand that seemed to be some way off completion. Then the men in orange hard hats could be seen wandering around the outskirts of the building work. You would have loved to have been a fly on the wall in any of the conversations that must have been going on while the workers were going about their working day. 

Besides, there was a community of Jewish people trying hard to believe where they were and why they were  there. And yet why ever not? Nobody had said anything in the Torah about Yom Kippur that you couldn't hold the Day of the Fast on a rugby union pitch, a setting where stocky prop forwards and flankers had thundered across a green pitch and where rugby union posts at either end of Saracens ground had promised thrilling try after try. 

Then we looked down on the pitch itself, emerald green, sun bathed grass, thick and beautifully manicured rather like the green you'd normally expect to see at a summer game of bowls, crown green bowling where ladies and gentlemen wear crisp white shirts and in the case of the men, smoke endless pipes. For much of the day nobody felt inclined to walk across these hallowed acres of rich greenery. Then occasionally you would see a silhouette of Jewish members of the shul, trotting slowly across the pitch with prayer book in hand, going somewhere and perhaps seeking their own private space where they could just take in the sheer, enormous magnitude of the day itself. 

You then noticed the athletics track vividly fringing the whole of the ground, seemingly and completely out of character with a rugby union pitch. There was a strong temptation to pull on some shorts and trainers and embark on a leisurely jog around the brown cinder track. Then you remembered where you were and why you were there. Of course it would have been not only deeply embarrassing and inappropriate but just unnecessary since there were no track marshals with time keepers and no records to be broken.

Underneath the framework of the new stand was what looked to be a large, new media centre where shortly the clatter of fingers on laptops would reverberate across rows of seats and tables. It is quite the most impressive sight you'll ever see even if you were Jewish and had no intention of ever going to Saracens at any point. 

At frequent points you would see cranes and JCBS, no bulldozers as such although you half expected them to be there as well. But every so often a couple of builders would shuffle down the empty seats, brushing dust away or just figuring out why there were people at the other end of the ground, praying for all their worth, singing in glorious unison and chanting once again in both Hebrew and English. And why were they wearing gorgeous shawls(tallit) or kippot(skull caps on their heads)?

Suddenly, there was afternoon and from a bright, clear, cobalt blue, azure sky poured forth the hottest, warmest sunshine any of us could recall at either Rosh Hashanah or Yom Kippur. You found yourself looking for superlatives and you knew there were far too many. So you just relaxed and thought you were in Tel Aviv, Israel. It felt like a stunning summer's day, maybe June in disguise from two years ago or 1976 revisited. The weather had done us proud and here we were pinching ourselves at how fortunate we were. 

Now came the changing moods of the day. The afternoon would normally be devoted to Torah story telling, dignitaries from the Jewish community with their reflections on both Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur and a whole host of references to Jonah the whale, moments heavy with symbolism. More sermons followed and then you became aware of the passing hours and the inevitable arrival of the blowing of the shofar. Our guitarist for the afternoon solemnly and respectfully intoned the blessings and lengthy passages of Hebrew and literary beauty. 

Then our wonderful female rabbis achieved the perfect balance of wit and humour, seriousness and a marvellous eloquence that you could never have hoped to emulate from the comfort of your seat. So you sat there and admired the rustic surrounds, the late evening blackbirds whistling their evocative messages to all and sundry. And you could hardly believe what you were witnessing. It was utter perfection. 

As afternoon turned to early evening, a realisation of something markedly different crept up on you almost unobtrusively. On the Jumbotron electronic board which had already moved us with whole screens of Zoom choir singers throughout the day, there was an eerie sense of foreboding. At the end of this February, my mum sadly passed away and at roughly what should have been tea time, a Yahrzeit candle flickered to denote the passing of loved ones. It was an obituary list the length of which seemed to take an eternity. 

So there you were sitting next to your wonderful brother in law and sister in law, father in law with your beautiful wife and daughter at home. After what seemed the most sombre series of announcements ever heard anywhere your heart was lifted to the stratosphere. There was your mum and dad on their wedding day now 60 years ago. A shiver went down your spine, the whole core of your being severely jolted and tears were never far away. They were no longer here but they were still in your hearts for evermore. 

 You thought of their enduring affection for you and the love that had been lavished upon you so unstintingly. You wept a tear or two but then realised that perhaps you'd exhausted all of your tears throughout the year. The raw grief and hollowness had never gone away but you had to look to the future and that, for a moment, felt almost immaterial because both of your parents were no longer here to share your good times. 

But the future had to be illustrated sooner or later whether on a laptop, PC, pen, pencil or charcoal. Of course we can never tell what the future may hold and yet on Yom Kippur it seems fitting that a 25 hour period of introspection, retrospection and penance, in some cases, can be observed. For that very specific period of time Jewish people across the world would stop what they're doing, stand still or sit down whichever is the more comfortable arrangement. They refrain from eating, drinking, watching the telly, listening to the radio, checking our multitude of texts and e-mails on our phones before just pausing for breath. 

We close our eyes, pulling ever closer our cherished tallit, and then ponder for however long seems right for you. Then there must be melancholy or maybe not, the grief, the togetherness of families, the immensely supportive voices of those who mean the world to us. There can be no regret as such because whatever happened was meant to take place for a reason. You love your family immensely and endlessly and you look for the normality that used to be there but perhaps was always there anyway. 

The moods of the day were rapidly changing, the unblemished blue sky now being slowly overtaken by bubbling darker clouds which, although never ever likely to turn into rain, now blotted out the seductive and caressing sun. Covid 19 had now been exhausted as a discussion point for so many months that you almost felt that at no point would the world ever psychologically recover in the immediate future. So we chanted exquisitely, soulfully, truthfully of course with a powerful, heartfelt love in our hearts.  

The darkness of late evening hadn't quite made its presence felt because this year the Jewish holidays were being celebrated right at the end of summer and there were patches of brightness half an hour before the Fast went out. Mid September was still with us and it would be sticking around for quite a while until the festival of Succot( similar to the Harvest Festival with its emphasis on the fruits of the earth and the consumption of apples, pears, oranges, pineapples, mangoes, bananas whatever may ever appeal to your discerning palate. 

And finally there is Simchat Torah, the ulimtate outpouring of happiness and joy. Here we unfold the whole of the Torah abandoning ourselves to absolute delirium, dancing, singing, eating and drinking the whole day through. We clap, throw sweets at the kids and adults and  gobble down the chocolates in one very special act of unashamed hedonism. It is one long party of that there can be no doubt. Short of doing the conga in a drunken stupor, it is Jewish life as it should be. It is being there for each other, wherever you or they may be.

It is indeed the perfect consummation of all those old fashioned Jewish principles bundled up in the loveliest of packages. We do it every year and we love Judaism and being Jewish. L'shana tova everybody. A happy, healthy, sweet and peaceful New Year to you all. It was a time for my lovely family and families around the world to finally gather around a heaving feast after the Fast, expressing eternal love for each other. Thankyou Finchley Reform shul. 

  

    

Emma Raducana- British tennis acclaims another hero.

 Emma Raducana- British tennis acclaims another hero.

Virginia Wade, the last British woman to win a major Grand Slam, smiled broadly and then cheered Britain's latest tennis superstar. The last Brit woman to win Wimbledon in 1977 could hardly believe what she was witnessing. She clenched her fists triumphantly and shared the elation of the whole of Flushing Meadows in New York. The moment had arrived and none of us had really anticipated this one. 

Emma Raducana, an 18-year old girl from Kent with Chinese and Romanian parents, had just won the US Open and the whole of the world was watching something completely unprecedented and unique. Raducana had become the first qualifier ever to win a major tennis grand slam. But the lady who wore a mauve cardigan 44 years ago at Wimbledon had now become the intrigued observer of another British sporting victory at the highest level. Virginia Wade was the model of composure in winning the ladies singles title way back when and her Dutch opponent Betty Stove could only look on with effusive admiration. 

Yesterday though at Flushing Meadows in the city they named twice, our Emma had become our quiet and unassuming heroine, fresh from celebrating her 'A' Levels and re-connecting with the real world. It couldn't have been easy because British tennis had assumed that Andy Murray was just a flash in the pan, twice Wimbledon winner but perhaps the best thing to happen to British sport for only a year or two. But then there was a teenager from Bromley who could only have imagined what it was like for the likes of Virginia Wade, Christine James and Ann Jones to win high profile matches at Wimbledon. Worry no more because our Emma has done it and now seemed as good a time as any to crack open the champers. 

Amid the Mercedes sponsored blue surface at the Arthur Ashe stadium in the heart of New York, Emma Raducana succeeded in achieving something that British women's tennis had never thought possible again. The Kentish girl can now walk out into her local supermarket an instantly identifiable face, the girl who won the US Open, the pinnacle of her career so far and a star spangled accolade that none of us could have imagined before the beginning of the tournament. 

And yet the trouble is Raducana will now be expected to be an odds on favourite to win Wimbledon next summer with consummate ease, a highly fancied contender to lift the trophy at SW19. In New York she came from nowhere, a meteorite that crashed down onto Earth without any warning. So on the very English green lawns of Wimbledon she will be treading the baselines and facing a noisy, sometimes hysterical audience on Centre Court burdened perhaps by the wholly unnecessary expectations that will now come with the territory.

The truth is that she will remain admirably level headed, personable, agreeable, friendly, down to earth and a genuinely modest character who must have thought that everything that had seemed impossible had now come to fruition. At 18 this teenage phenomenon does remind you of several of her predecessors who also captured the imagination of the tennis world. 

There was Tracy Austin, a pig tail haired 16 year old whose verve, youthful vitality and passionate enthusiasm broke down all the hitherto impenetrable barriers that might have got in her way. Martina Navratilova, Martina Hingis and Chris Evert were all comparatively young when success became an all consuming reality. Sport does embrace its teenage prodigies and it loves to think it may well be responsible for the production of the very best it can offer. 

True, Radacuna has a long way to go before fulfilling her full potential but yesterday in New York, she showed a stirring maturity way beyond her years. Of course there were the very vocal grunts which accompanied her every return or indeed that big, booming serve. Then there were yet more boisterous shrieks when the vital points were won but her temperament is an equable one, easy going and unflustered when she lost a couple of break points. 

During the first set the girl with a Romanian name but who is very much British, sent a whole barrage of clubbing, thumping serves deep into her Canadian opponent Leylah Fernandez. There was both a delicate subtlety and merciless brutality about that smooth swing of her racket that was deeply enchanting. Then she swung through again and again, whipping her powerful forehand returns with enormous relish and an enjoyment of the moment. 

Then there were the stirring rallies that seemed to go on ad infinitum, the ball cracking from her racket like a musket shell. Raducana's blistering cross court shots, buccaneering charges and chips towards the net and superhuman stamina were a delight to behold. She scurried around the court like a woman chasing a thousand trains, flicking the racket lightly and deftly, placing her returns of serve with an uncanny accuracy and a timing that left you breathless. 

After a whirlwind first set when both Fernandez and Raducana were trading shots from every conceivable angle both girls upped the ante. Both started lofting attempted lobs at speed, moving each other easily from one side of the tramline to the other, volleying and half volleying the ball firmly into their respective midriffs. Raducana finally came through to win the first set 6-4 but not before Raducana had been hauled back when the British girl seemed to be running away with the contest quite impressively. 

The second set followed an almost identical pattern with the girl from Bromley dominating exchanges and flowing beautifully. There were frequent dainty dinks over the net, immaculately executed drop shots that almost fell like gentle rain over the net. Now increasingly more vigorous and hungrier than every before Raducana punched her shots with extraordinary placement, swotting the ball away down the line before Fernandez had had time to even blink.

Now completely in charge of the match, our Emma broke back from a difficult period and then swept away Fernandez as if she wasn't there. Thundering down the crucial match point towards Fernandez, the Canadian gallantly dug out her return which couldn't possibly find its range again. Game, set and match to Emma Raducana. Britain had found another sporting winner. 

Raducana slumped to her knees before the rest of the body followed suit. She fell deliriously onto her back, arms and hands pointing significantly into the sky. She had won the US tennis open, one of the most prestigious Grand Slam venues and nobody could begrudge her  this moment in time. How can the Kentish girl now not win Sports Personality of the Year? It would be an outrageous mistake and none of us would know why. The BBC trophy is hers for the mantelpiece. Well done Emma Raducana.