King Charles the third in Germany.

 King Charles the third in Germany.

It's some time since we last heard of the whereabouts of King Charles the third. He's always been there at the back of our minds and even there in the middle of an important news bulletin. True, the public image and perception of the King hasn't been the high profile one we might have been expecting. But with King Charles the third Coronation now just over a month away now, the man who would be King found himself in the middle of Germany today speaking in German, entertaining German politicians with a dry line in humour and then realising that his position of monarch is now one that has to be taken seriously.

But today King the Charles the third spoke to the Reichstag in Berlin with all the natural fluency of a German citizen. To those of us with very raw sensitivities on the subject of the World Wars and the Holocaust, this is the not the sound we would have liked to hear even 76 years after the end of the Second World War. The Germanic Teutonic dialect is still as harsh, guttural, stern and distressingly military at times but there is now a grudging acceptance of bygones being bygones and moving on.

Listening to the King speaking German is now something to be admired rather than abhorred, a language that no longer belongs in Hitler's impassioned, hysterical speeches where the fists were brandished with menacing intent and wholesale barbaric murder of the global population was the only issue that had to be addressed. Admittedly, the King's impeccable command of German is remarkably reminiscent of the late and much loved Her Majesty the Queen's French so there is a multi lingual love of languages running through the royal genes.

Today though King Charles the third appealed warmly to his audience in a way that his mother would have taken careful mental note of and probably approved of. We all know of the Royal Family's German ancestry but for the first time in quite a long time Charles looked comfortable and relaxed, at ease with himself and no longer the sole focus of attention as became readily apparent when Her Majesty The Queen passed so poignantly. He was happy, relaxed and delighted to be among a nation who once launched a blistering attack on Buckingham Palace during the Second World War.

And yet it was time to talk about more up to date, topical and contemporary accounts of the monarchy and today's problems, difficulties, anxieties, hopes and passions. Dressed in typically sartorial elegance, Charles gazed across a rapt Reichstag fully equipped with gentle pleasantries and the fervent hope that Britain could still enjoy amicable relations in Europe despite the uncertainties surrounding Brexit. He then did something that nobody thought he'd ever mention. He made humorous references to Monty Python humour and probably thought of the celebrated sketch in BBC's 1970s national comedy treasure Fawlty Towers. 

You must remember the sketch, surely. John Cleese(aka Basil Fawlty, owner of the craziest hotel in Torquay) strides pompously into a dining room where a poor, unsuspecting German family are subjected to a rude and vitriolic tirade from Fawlty. Cleese then barks furiously at the said Germans with all the ruthless arrogance you'd expect of the man. He then reminds them of their German heritage and then apologises for his irrational behaviour insisting though that the Germans were still wholly responsible for the Second World War.

Still, here we are on the final day of March 2023 and maybe now would be the right time to forgive and forget the sins of our now distant ancestors. From where you stood there should, in theory, be no room for apologies and a conviction that it'll never happen again doesn't really sound realistic. The truth is though that there remains a strong underground element of racism and antisemitism brewing quite disturbingly in Europe. 

At the moment there are isolated outrages of desecrated Jewish gravestones being daubed unforgivably with Nazi swastikas or destroyed in quite the most reprehensible and disgusting fashion. Russia, under the despicable tyranny of one Vladimir Putin, are spreading hate crime of the most malicious and evil kind, killing hundreds and thousands of innocent Ukranians and flattening homes, buildings and shops with a violent ferocity that hardly seems possible. And yet it's happening on a daily basis.

For a while though today King Charles the Third was the authentic voice of peace and reason, reassurance and dignity, a man with an unwavering commitment to the civilised standards that you'd like any society to stick to. He plunged his hands in his pockets as his late father Prince Philip was often wont to do on so many occasions and told his German audience that most of the world would just like to cut out this aggressive nonsense, the ugly face of bloodshed, death and brutality consigned to history.

It was nice to see the new King of the United Kingdom and Head of Commonwealth because at long last Charles has got everything under control. In the days and weeks after the sad death of his mother Her Majesty the Queen, Charles was an emotional wreck. The image of Charles showing understandable annoyance when handed a leaky fountain pen for yet another signature is one that does stay in the mind from time to time. Let us all salute the new King Charles the third and the Queen consort Camilla. May they reign supreme with enormous dignity.

Two out of two for wins for England in Euro 2024 qualifier

 Two out of two wins for England in Euro 2024  qualifier.

They came from all four corners of Ukraine, the inconsolable, heartbroken, devastated, grieving so desperately, praying and hoping that one day that the wicked mass murderer Russian president Vladimir Putin simply rots in hell. The tears have been shed in gallons, an abundance of suffering that can never be properly measured because you simply forget how long war can just drag on interminably. Already Ukraine is traumatised and will be permanently and maybe that's even more of a tragedy.

But on Sunday evening a small corner of Ukraine gathered in their thousands at Wembley Stadium, massed away tightly at one end of the ground. For 90 minutes they were emotionally united, delighted to be at the home of a country whose sympathies remain just as unconditional as ever. In vast rows of yellow and blue flags, they stood brave and honourable, undaunted, unperturbed by the occasion itself and just grateful to be in a welcoming sporting environment where nobody would judge them, criticise them or humiliate them.

For the duration of England's second Euro 2024 qualifier against Ukraine, yellow and blue clad supporters spent all of the match, jumping up and down joyfully, bouncing together, arms linked, all wedded to the same underlying theme of the afternoon. They were our kindred spirits, the men and women who just want to wake up every morning in the hope that one day they'll be given the freedom and the luxury of open spaces to play football from morning to evening, displaying their skills and participating in the Beautiful Game. At the moment it is a forlorn hope but at least here was a temporary truce.

Nobody was ever going to say this was an easy game for Ukraine since football may not be their foremost consideration or over riding priority. Instead they lined up against an England side searching for their second consecutive victory in their opening Euro 2024 qualifier. Last Thursday of course England broke the habits of a lifetime or seemingly so by beating the European Champions Italy in Naples. It may have been a significant breakthrough but then this is England we're talking about so anything could and probably will happen.

And so Wembley welcomed home their battle hardened if ultimately defeated Euro 2020 runners up as if painful memories had been summarily obliterated from their minds. Ukraine of course were looking for some modicum of  revenge after the 4-1 thrashing by England in the 2018 World Cup at a time when Russia was just being a grizzly bear with a sore head. What we witnessed at Wembley on  Sunday evening was the steady evolution of an England in transition, still recovering from the body blows of both Qatar and Russia and re-connecting on the same wavelength.

Here we have an England side, who although missing out on a major international trophy, are still testing the waters after dipping their toes at the shallow end and finding that they do belong in the highest echelons of world football. For the opening twenty minutes to half an hour, England moved the ball around like pawns and bishops on a chessboard. They looked comfortable and assured, never in danger of losing the game but just waiting for the right moment to pounce. Their movements were strategic but simple, nothing to get excited about but then there were carefully constructed platforms to score when the mood took them.

In years gone by, England would have strolled onto the old Wembley with some kind of masterplan only to find that there were pieces missing, components of their game that still needed refining and tweaking, a side who were  just awkward and cumbersome. These were the days when the ball would spend so much time in the air that reconnaissance missions were sent to look for the ball. The ball resembled a hot potato when England had possession and sides were built on strength and endurance rather than technical ability and skill.

Now of course England are much more socially aware of their surroundings. Gareth Southgate, England's smartly dressed boss, has revolutionised thinking back at St George's Park and most of the England players now genuinely look forward to future confrontations rather than being scared stiff. Now a football is something to be treasured and relished, where friendly relationships are formed and the sense of bonding can never be disguised. It's true. England are changing and changing for the best.

When England returned home from Qatar just before Christmas, the festivities were somewhat tinged with sadness. England hadn't brought home the World Cup after all so what was there to celebrate? We'd got to a quarter final against France but even Napoleon Bonaparte would have been laughing all the way to the Champs Elysees had he known what happened. England's cross Channel rivals had stolen their thunder and the spirit of entente cordiale among the French had ensured that England would be taking the first plane home.

Still, here we were back at Wembley once again on the last Sunday of the month and England were ready and waiting to go again. Regrettably Ukraine were nowhere to be seen, on the outside looking on, hovering on the periphery but never really engaging in the game. For a while England tapped out a veritable Morse Code  of passing movements, short, succinct and clear passes that restored your faith in the national side. This was an England side building and re-building, gently as she goes, patient, possessive, proactive and constructive, considerate rather than rash and hurried, protective rather than panicky.

When John Stones and Kyle Walker had erected their portcullises and fortresses in England's defence, there would be no way through for Ukraine who threatened only sporadically. Both Stones and Walker are now ageing rapidly but there's a great deal to be said for experience. Walker still looks like the fastest athlete and Stones just happens to be in the right place and the right time so there would be nobody to encroach on their territory.

Once again Declan Rice was magisterial, shifting around in front of England's rigid back four, a player of flair and flexibility, nipping into tackles with impeccable timing and always a master of the solid interception, throwing the full force of his body into challenges in a way that had to be admired. Then there was Ben Chilwell who although now settled at Chelsea has found that the season has not been quite as successful as he would have hoped. Chilwell looked secure and responsible, never resorting to over elaboration when simplicity was all that England needed.

In England's midfield James Maddison made his international debut and looked every inch the controller, the barometer, easy going, a player of the highest culture and excellence. Maddison, rather like his midfield partner Jack Grealish, could form the most compatible of partnerships. He is pleasing to the eye, passing the ball cleanly and accurately, stylish to his fingertips. At Leicester he looks the kind of player who may find himself travelling to pastures anew since relegation battles may not have been in his job description when he joined the club.

And so it was that England fired on all cylinders again. Jude Bellingham was quite breath taking once again, breezing past players effortlessly and authoritatively, picking his moments to find the right ball for one of his colleagues and by far the most exciting discovery the England side have made in ages. Bellingham is still blissfully young, elegant, the complete article, never anxious or nervous and just England's future. At times you thought of Paul Gascoigne and hoped for a similar package but without the troubled private life that so sadly accompanied Gazza on his footballing journey.

Then the goals inevitably arrived. We had to wait for a while but then England opened the scoring. Arsenal scoring sensation Bukayo Saka, a John Radford or Charlie George in the making was just inspirational for England and is destined for honours within the game. Saka is almost impossible to catch when he's in this mood. There were times when the Arsenal forward seemed to running rings around the Ukranian defence, tricking, dropping his shoulder, teasing his opponent mockingly, checking back onto his other foot and then driving the ball forcefully into the net.

His reward came shortly before half time. Jordan Henderson, now in the autumn of an admirable career at both club and country level, fed a typically perceptive pass inside his defender and Saka picked up the ball on the edge of the penalty area. What followed was a masterclass of wing play with Saka cutting back onto his favoured foot before curling a beautiful shot that flew past the Ukranian goalkeeper. It was a goal fit to win any football match let alone this one.

The second half, for what it was worth, seemed just a terrible anti climax with England apparently content with their afternoon's work. England just stroked the ball around as if the match had now been reduced to a training ground routine. Job done for England. It was good to be following an England match at the beginning of the spring equinox. Optimism had replaced a world weary disappointment following England's failure to bring home the World Cup.

England manager Gareth Southgate, now as dapper and chipper as it was possible to be, distanced himself from his menswear salesman persona, always respectable and unfailingly polite. At some point an England football team and manager will win something and you find yourself wondering whether the always diplomatic and former Crystal Palace defender may be the one to lift that elusive trophy. Nobody deserves it more. 

England open Euro 2024 qualifier with win against Italy.

 England open Euro 2024 qualifier with win against Italy.

They say that all good things come to those who wait. Patience must have been a virtue and, at long last, it was rewarded. There are times though that however hard we try to redress the balance, or rectify our faults, nothing seems to go right. For large periods of England's Euro 2024 qualifier against Italy in Naples, we all felt that eventually something would give and it did. So when the referee blew his whistle at full time, some of us were so pleasantly surprised that if somebody had told us a full moon would appear at roughly midnight we'd have probably questioned them and dismissed the thought out of hand.

Last night though in the grand old city of Naples, home of some of the most violently disturbing skirmishes between rival fans and a good deal of gang warfare, it all came right on the night for England and a 2-1 victory away from home against the indisputable European Champions can never be sneezed at regardless of the stakes. So it was then that Gareth Southgate gently strolled up to his players, relieved at the knowledge that some measure of revenge had been exacted over Italy after England were beaten by the Azzurri at Wembley Stadium in the Euro 2020 Final.

Across the picture postcard hills and sloping valleys of England and Middle England, its silvery streams and sweetly flowing rivers that nestle peacefully next to dramatic waterfalls, a victory for the English football team is normally a plausible excuse for a stirring knees up in pubs and wine bars across the land. We congratulate ourselves because we too felt a real sense of affinity and belonging to any occasion that culminates in a famous victory over rival international teams. And here we are back in the rarefied land of international football qualifiers, a major forte for any England team in recent decades.

Guess what? England have once again started with yet another win in their opening Euro qualifying group. This has happened so many times now that some of us have lost count. But the difference this time is that England were up against one of the strongest and most attractive looking Italian national side for years. In the second half of the Euro 2020 Final, Italy had called England's bluff, noticed something strange in English poker faces and totally bossed the second forty five minutes that unravelled for England like a threadbare cotton wool. It can be no coincidence that the law of averages would throw up a result in England's favour.

The last time England beat Italy in Neapolitan surrounds was back in 1961 when the late and much missed Jimmy Greaves ran ragged an Italian defence who would normally have taken out an insurance policy for ages knowing fully well that few countries would ever break it down. The bad, old days of obsessively negative defensive football with the language of catenaccio very much to the fore, are now locked away securely in the vaults of Italian football. Now Italy play the game very much on the front foot, an inspirational and uplifting sight in full flow, positivity flowing through their veins, a team with a very palpable air of freedom and independence about their football. At long last the Italian national side are going places.

Before this Euro 2024 qualifier, the stadium darkened quite alarmingly before we were told that this was the precursor to a wondrous light show. Suddenly purple lights flickered around the perimeter of the pitch and then needles of light illuminated Naples. Then the match itself burst into life and for well over half an hour, England took the fight to their hosts as if all the misfortunes that had befallen them beforehand were no longer evident and they could just venture into what had been forbidden territory up until last night.

England, in contrast to the second half of the Euro 2020 debacle, were coherent, cohesive, unified, together in thought and deed, fearless, undaunted and supremely adventurous. They began to dictate the pace of the game with a controlled authority and a pronounced style. England were swaggering rather than swaying about in a drunken fashion as if the Italians had spiked their drinks. Their football oozed confidence, athleticism and a pliable flexibility rarely seen in international football at any level.

Suddenly there was a real sense that Italy could be caught off guard. England were now moving the ball around with quick, quick, slow slow staccato passing that spun webs around the Italian players. No longer are England teams inhibited by circumstances they could never control. Under Gareth Southgate the ball is an amiable family relative who always smiles at you in instant recognition. The channels of communication were buzzing last night and England were talking the most expressive language.

And so it was that Harry Maguire, John Stones, Kyle Walker and the superb Declan Rice put their indelible imprint on last night's match. The understanding that had been developed so carefully and shrewdly for so many months and years, once again revealed itself in its finest plumage. Maguire occasionally looks slightly sluggish and cumbersome at the back but the Manchester United defender is a model of reliability. Luke Shaw, who was deservedly sent off for a moment of madness late on, still chained himself to the Italian attack, reminding you of a limpet. Walker is still stunningly quick while the rest of the England defence simply did their duty with due diligence.

By far the most handsome of performances came from Declan Rice, the West Ham captain, who at this rate, will certainly lead his country. Rice was like a huge cinema projector screen, skilfully reading the game like somebody deeply immersed in a historical novel, tackling with an instinctive awareness of events around him, muscling blue shirts out of the way with decisive interventions. It now seems almost inevitable that Rice will be leaving West Ham this summer regardless of his team's fate at the end of the season.

With barely minutes into the game England asserted themselves intelligently. The ball seemed to switch between white shirts with a lovely accuracy, short, pinpoint passes that were sent with eye catching effectiveness and an innate belief that finally they could beat the Italians in their own backyard. From an inswinging corner England finally discovered a strategic spot that the Italians hadn't covered. The ball eventually landed at the feet of Harry Kane who swung the ball back into the six yard box, helping the ball on productively to Declan Rice who emphatically slammed the ball into the net from close range.

England now found themselves in the most unusual of environments. The last time this happened George Martin had sat down with the Beatles at the Abbey Road recording studios with radical song arrangements and lyrics on his mind. Then the esteemed likes of Johnny Haynes, Sir Bobby Robson and Jimmy Armfield were at the heart of Walter Winterbottom's by now experienced team. Jimmy Greaves and Gerry Hitchens shared the goal scoring that distant afternoon 62 years ago.

Shortly before half time with England increasing their share of possession by the minute, England scored again. Another England corner descended rapidly down from the air and a blue Italian shirt caught Kane's attempt to challenge for the ball. An arm was raised which looked as if the ball had been accidentally ricocheted off the Italian arm and the back of his hand. After much deliberation and the consultation of a VAR screen the referee pointed to the penalty spot and Kane stepped up to blast home England's second goal.

After the break, Italy, perhaps hoping that things could hardly have got any worse than they already were, rallied and recovered to some extent. There was a much greater purpose and intensity to their passing and it all looked well constructed but lacking in the vital cutting edge. We're all familiar with the theatricality of Italian football, the almost operatic movements, the sense of a persecution complex about them. At times it almost feels as though the whole world seems to be ganging up against them. 

But last night it all felt pure and unblemished, free flowing, fluid and frequently inventive. In the second half Italy were administered with an injection of attack minded football. Their incessant pressure for at least twenty minutes into the second half was deservedly rewarded. A magnificent exchange of quick, impulsive passes around the edge of the England 18 yard box was threaded through to Mateo Retegui who picked his spot and fired past a helpless England goalkeeper Jordan Pickford.

The last quarter of the game was spent largely in the England half as England struggled desperately to hold onto possession. Italy had established something of a foothold and looked like equalising but failed to find away through a stubborn and well disciplined England defence. So, as is becoming quite the custom now, England were off to a confident winning start to yet another international qualifying group. This time only one team can qualify for Germany next year so the incentive could hardly be bigger for England. Perhaps Gareth Southgate could summon the spirit of Sir Alf Ramsey in 1966 when the lad from Dagenham was convinced England would definitely win the World Cup four years before. Maybe next year. We shall see.

My new book of football poetry.

 My new book of football poetry.

It's hard to believe folks but this is my fifth book. You'd have forgiven for thinking that I'd simply run out of energy, desire and inclination but not me. You wake up in the morning and think of an idea or hundreds of ideas and the words just seem to pour out of me in torrents and you've no resistance whatsoever.

So what, you may ask, is the subject matter? My first science fiction novel, a horror book about monsters and evil forces, perhaps my first love story-cum- romantic novel, an epic psychological thriller or a collection of short stories? But no folks it's none of the above and that maybe for another day. Who knows? This one is different, original, fresh, and unexpectedly surprising in as much as that I didn't think I was ever capable of writing such a book.

My new book of football poetry is called Football's Poetic Licence by me Joe Morris. Now where did that one come from? You weren't ready for that one, hey. Yes a book about football poetry. It occupies a place in the literary market somewhere far away in the distance and is suitable for all fans of the Beautiful Game. It's poetry that does rhyme for every reason and most amusingly if I say so myself. But it's football poetry that paints pictures, illustrates different themes, football that is both thought provoking and full of lyrical descriptions.

In Football's Poetic Licence I wax lyrical about the FA Cup, Premier League, Champions League, my late and wonderful mum and dad, there's a eulogy to my lovely dad, my grandpa Jack, the World Cup, England, Euro 2020, Europa League, the Carabao Cup, football grounds and Ilford FC. There are topical and nostalgic references from the present day to yesteryear football. It is football poetry full of imagery, meaning and soul. It is the kind of book that may transport you all the way back to some historic FA Cup match or just make you smile, giggle and laugh.

So here's how to buy a copy of my book of football poetry. Football's Poetic Licence is available to buy at Amazon, Waterstones bookshops and Waterstones online, Foyles online, Hatchards online and Barnes and Noble online in the USA, always our friends. It's a book that you can pick up at any time of the day and find yourselves swept along with poetic adjectives, adverbs and pronouns. It is football poetry that has a very definite identity and character and I hope you'll enjoy reading it.

Football's Poetic Licence is all singing, all dancing and designed to make you feel good about football poetry. It's football as poetry in motion, football with life and vitality and football with verse and whimsical word play. You'll love Football's Poetic Licence because it's about words with emotions and from the heart. So go on, treat yourself. I can guarantee you a rewardingly enjoyable read. Thanks everybody.

Manchester City safely through to the FA Cup semi finals

 Manchester City are safely through to the FA Cup semi finals.

In the end it all looked so ridiculously easy and simple. Manchester City have well and truly mastered that art form. City beat Burnley of the Championship almost effortlessly, impudently and, of course, stylishly. But then you knew they would. They are now through to what must seem their umpteenth FA Cup semi final and they were just blase and matter of fact in their approach to the game. It's at times like this when you wish they would look vulnerable at times, a side with rough edges, deficiencies and shortcomings, chinks in their armour. But that certainly won't happen and nor is it ever likely to be the case in the foreseeable future.

Suddenly the FA Cup has become Manchester City's favourite toy or game, an inanimate thing perhaps but still visible to the eye. Yesterday City eventually walloped a Burnley side whose manager once decorated all of City's big occasions with his presence, his stature and his all encompassing influence. The sight of Vincent Kompany in the opposition dug out at the Etihad Stadium almost felt like some optical illusion. Surely you were imagining this one because Kompany had light blue in his veins and was permanently regarded as a cult hero at City.

In the bigger picture Manchester City may have taken their eye off the ball metaphorically of course. They'll be eight points behind Arsenal, the Premier League leaders, if the North London side beat Crystal Palace today at the Emirates Stadium. The calculations are now obvious and City know it. City are still capable of overhauling Arsenal at the top but the FA Cup has assumed an altogether greater significance for Manchester City.

And yet City were just relentless, remorseless, singularly without any leniency or contrition, a side revved up,  a side of spectacular co-ordination, constant movement both on and off the ball, freestyling, freewheeling, high fiving, jinking, darting and then passing the ball to each other like children at a birthday party handing the parcel around. City are truly memorable, seminal, pioneering, a force of nature quite often verging on the unbeatable, impossible to catch and, more importantly, to dispossess. It looks as if their route to another FA Cup Final can only be a matter of time.

Over fifty years ago Malcolm Allison and Joe Mercer used to sit in the Maine Road directors box drooling and salivating over the Manchester City of the early 1970s. In those days the likes of Francis Lee, Rodney Marsh and Colin Bell were elegant exhibitionists linking together joyfully in midfield, reading each other's minds, then stripping away the fragile layers of opposition defences and delighting in the wide open spaces. City didn't win anything as such but at the end of the 1960s they did win the old First Division League Championship trophy.

Then City dropped into the wilderness for decade upon decade. For a while they were trapped in the old Third Division which, in retrospect, must have seemed quite degrading and demoralising. But now under the fantastically inspirational Pep Guardiola, City are a team transformed, rejuvenated, effortlessly flamboyant passing, a team of mesmerising intricacies, one and two touch football that leave most of us gasping for yet more superlatives and flattery. By the final whistle Burnley, in a darker shade of shirt, must have been pleading for their team coach to whisk them away from the scene of the crime. But this was no crime, simply a reassertion of Manchester City's Premier League supremacy.

Now City's mega wealthy Saudi owners are beginning to look to the future with some confidence whereas the City of Allison and Mercer were just building site labourers laying down the foundations, planting the seeds, digging for gold they were never likely to find. On the surface it all looked very good and highly impressive but for years and decades City have struggled to find the identity they thought they had discovered under Allison and Mercer.

But now everything has come to fruition. City have now won back to back Premier League titles but you get the impression that the FA Cup and the Champions League may take priority to winning the Premier League. The next couple of weeks after the international break for England could tell us much more than we already knew about City's realistic aspirations. Arsenal are currently in the driving seat and look as though they may be pulling away from City but then anything could happen. Two horse races can often be an immense source of fascination although we are now at the business end of the Premier League season and Nostradamus has yet to reach any positive conclusions.

Yesterday Pep Guardiola looked like a bullfighter who wasn't afraid to take any nonsense. He stood on the touchline animated quite frequently, gesturing politely with his hands and  pointing his fingers at his players in  a a quiet, restrained manner before the eyes would begin to flare and it all looked very serious and businesslike. Guardiola doesn't do fedora hats and smoke cigars though and it became quite evident though that his City are not quite as annoyingly unpredictable than the City of the Maine Road era.

However in the away dug out Vincent Kompany, once Guardiola's captain, was doing his level best to look like the apprentice facing the sorcerer. Kompany looked suitably honoured to be on the same pitch as his old boss but then it must have seemed like an emotional return to his old home. Burnley will quite definitely be back in the Premier League, after a season's absence and a good, old fashioned bottle of wine will be ready and waiting when Kompany and Guardiola renew old acquaintances.

For the time being City are very much class personified. Once again the difference between City and Burnley is that City have the once again immaculate Kevin De Bruyne, a measured, composed and serene influence on the game every time he touched the ball. For a number of seasons Bruyne has been City's beacon, trigger point, catalyst, smooth as honey, floating delightfully weighted passes angled to perfection. De Bruyne has been order among the chaos, playing the game as if by memory, strutting here and swaggering there as if he'd performed the same act a thousand times. De Bruyne has to be the first name on Guardiola's team sheet.

With Julian Alvarez, the evergreen Ruben Dias, Manuel Akanj, the valuable and game changing Aymeric Laporte and, particularly Riyad Mahrez at his most cunning and manipulative whenever the ball was at its feet, City were just unstoppable at times, unsurpassable, too good to be true. Then there was the still young Phil Foden, frustratingly unsuccessful with Gareth Southgate's 2022 World Cup at the end of last year but still  vital and prominent in everything City did. There is a hint of the Colin Bell in Foden inasmuch that his tireless running and carrying of the ball can often remind you of what stage Bell had reached in his years of magnificence.

Then there were the youngsters Cole Palmer and Rico Lewis, products of City's prolific academy and hopefully the spine of City's first team in years to come. With Kyle Walker as fast as a train in a hurry at the back and Laporte equally as immovable in City's rock solid defence, the likes of Sergio Gomez and Rodri were given the luxury of free roles in the final thirds of the pitch. Rodri waved the baton and Gomez simply blew on the bassoon and tinkled the ivories of the piano.

And so for the goal feast. With the game into its first quarter City began to find their flow and irresistible tempo. They were like an orchestra in the pit, warming up their instruments. From Stefan Ortega's short goal kick out, Foden shrewdly anticipated the pass, looked up almost instinctively, saw the options in front of him before sending a precise through ball to Erling Haaland and the extraordinary Norwegian striker then ran beautifully onto Foden's classic ball, rounding the keeper and then slotting home City's opening goal.

Minutes later City had doubled the lead. Bruyne of course was once again the tormentor in chief, prodding the ball through the back of the Burnley defence, finding this time Alvarez who, cutting the ball back sharply, jinked inside his defender and whipped the ball firmly high into Burnley's net like an arrow. Game effectively over for Burnley then anyway. The games was beyond the Clarets reach. City were humming, purring, ticking over efficiently, clipping and snipping their passes together and then briefly admiring their own handiwork. There was something very presumptuous and contemptuous about City's football that led you to believe that they didn't really care whether you'd liked them or not.

From another crazy bagatelle of passes across the centre of the pitch and then whizzing back through Mahrez and Foden, the cat's cradle of passing landed gently and conveniently at the feet and from Foden's cut back low cross that man Haaland was there to nudge home the easiest of third goals. City were definitely in cruise control and the fourth was soon forthcoming. From another multi pass fashion parade of passes from City Alvarez almost steered the ball into the net with all the expertise of an experienced veteran. Then De Bruyne obliged with another goal and the youngster Cole Palmer gave his goal scoring demonstration with a goal he will always remember. Six of the best from City.

And so it was that Manchester City progressed to a Wembley FA Cup semi final in roughly a months time. This is familiar territory for Pep Guardiola's and not for the first time will City fans gather in their droves. There are few heavyweights left in this season's FA Cup so as long as you avoid City in the last four, the chances are that this could be your year to win the FA Cup. Still, as long as Pep is around this is merely wishful thinking.

The Cheltenham Festival

 The Cheltenham Festival

You can tell it's almost spring. The days are getting ever so slightly lighter for longer, the wintry sun seems to be out until late afternoon, the burning embers of log fires in country pubs are beginning to fizzle out and there is a different kind of symphony orchestra out there in the atmosphere. The rumbling of vans and lorries seem to be more pleasing to the ear, while the fragrant smells of tulips, daffodils and daisies are altogether more stunning than the gaunt-looking tree branches without any foliage at all.

In a fortnight the clocks go forward as they always will and always have done and Rishi Sunak, the Prime Minister might decide to have a lie in on that Sunday morning while the rest of Britain will be grateful for mercies as well it should be. All over the country there is a sense of liberation from those dark early evenings of December, January and February which have now left us. Spring, with all of its encouraging omens and promising hints of colour and vitality, is about to arrive on our doorstep with a friendly wave and comforting breeze.

This week springtime wouldn't be springtime without one of horse racing's annual jamborees. The Cheltenham Festival is now a firmly established tradition, a bookie's favourite and one of those sporting spectacles synonymous with our Irish friends. Essentially the Cheltenham Festival is all about those who groom and race their horses on the Emerald Isle. You'll see them all over this idyllic corner of Gloucestershire, the jockeys, the trainers, the immaculately turned out horses, the voices, the foaming glasses of Guinness beer, the flag itself and all of the Festival's social niceties.

Today almost the entire community of Northern and Southern Ireland will be gathering en masse in all of the local bookmakers, busily putting their last- minute bets on the overwhelming favourites, the odds on favourites and those beautiful thoroughbreds who have quite definitely got form and must be fancied to win their respective races. Money will change hands at a quite bewildering speed and some of us will look on with mild astonishment. But then you look at our equine's breeding and stock and begin to see the reason why the Cheltenham Festival retains its enduring affection on those who just love it.

For those of us whose sole venture into a local William Hill or Paddy Power is confined to the Grand National and the Epsom Derby, this is just another day on the sporting calendar. But none should ever underestimate its significance on horse racing's biggest stage. The Cheltenham Festival is normally the dress rehearsal for the Grand National in as much that it gives us a strong indication of which horse has got what it takes to win the Aintree spectacular.

Wednesdays are normally reserved for the Ladies and of course it's Ladies Day. Now this is the day when all of those macho and machismo men step aside decorously for the ladies who will happily treat the day as one big, great celebration of horse racing. They will wear those magnificently striking hats, discreet feathers, fabulously fashionable dresses, the very latest in designer clothes and then stroll around the course proudly and nonchalantly. The uber- wealthy among them probably think they deserve to be there, to be seen and noticed. It is a day for statements and vivid personalities.

In no particular order there's the Ballymore Novices Hurdle, the Brown Advisory, Novices Steeple Chase, the Coral Cup Hurdle and, perhaps quite notably, the Queen Mother Champion Chase, We will also be witnessing the Grand Annual Handicap Chase and the Champions Bumper. Now, to all intents and purposes, this sounds like a pretty full day for experienced punters. So they'll park their Land Rovers quite possibly in just the right spot, take a bracing walk across the rural pathways and meandering country lanes of Cheltenham and then dig into their Ploughman's lunch. This could only be England at her stateliest, loveliest and prettiest. Don't forget to take as many photos as you can.

Horse racing of course was her late Majesty the Queen's favourite sport. How Her Majesty adored her horses, riding them across desolate moors, galloping freely across her favourite geographical locations without a care in the world and just enjoying their company. This afternoon, you suspect, Her Majesty would undoubtedly have been at Cheltenham, binoculars in her hand, scarf around her neck, sun- glasses perched neatly on the bridge of her nose and a copy of the Racing Post tucked away in her pocket.

Sadly Her Majesty is no longer with us anymore so we'll miss her terribly and always think of her as somehow an integral part of  Cheltenham. But today for those who can't get to the Festival, all of the usual social media platforms will be available for a punt or two, TV will bring everything to life, into our lives and living rooms and betting slips will be rapidly torn up in disgust or simply thrown up into the air with delight.

And now we find ourselves in March, the Ides of March, a month of emerging from our winter hibernation. It's the Cheltenham Festival followed by the Grand National before really getting down to the nitty gritty of the Boat Race, before the football season gradually reaches its thrilling conclusion. The seasons may come and go with a heartwarming familiarity but the sounds and sights never change. Let the cavalry charge begin and the thunderous hooves pound the ground with startling conviction. The Cheltenham Festival is well and truly underway. You can almost hear the Irish craic. It's everywhere.

The Gary Lineker tweet

 The Gary Lineker tweet

You may well have been wondering what all the fuss was about. Besides, the joys of freedom of speech have always been celebrated at every level of society. Those dark days of censorship, prohibition, and subjects that were fiercely taboo, have well and truly disappeared like a powder puff of smoke. In Putin's Russia anything that contravened the party line was suitably punished by the KGB with a lengthy spell of solitary confinement in a dark room and possibly a bullet in the back of the head.

And this is where Lineker gate, as it should be so coined, becomes the major if only topic of discussion this morning. When Gary Lineker levelled West Germany's deflected free- kick that looped over Peter Shilton in the 1990 World Cup in Italy, most of us thought the angelic one whose family used to run a market stall in Leicester would never do anything even remotely wrong. His behaviour was impeccable and a squeaky- clean career with both club and country led us to believe that one day he would be sainted, knighted and elevated to the peerage.

How appearances could be so deceptive? After a series of minor skirmishes with social media and a couple of grumbles, Lineker is back in the spotlight and under the scrutiny of all and sundry. Not for the first time the former Leicester City, Spurs, Everton and Barcelona striker has put his size 10s in it. It was not so much a grievance or just a dissenting voice but the innermost thoughts of a passionate and forthright social commentator. But sadly it was the kind of comment that he may come to regret permanently in the immediate future if the BBC decide to take a very dim view of his heartfelt beliefs.

Yesterday Lineker took full advantage of his position as a famous public figure and a football individual who rightly felt he could pontificate on any given subject provided it wasn't too controversial. But then everything came unstuck and unravelled almost alarmingly for the blue- eyed boy from Leicester who once played for his country. He jumped onto his soap box, exercised his keyboard fingers and found Twitter to be the most convenient platform for his highly explosive and incendiary comments.

In normal circumstances Linker's take on the topical migrants story may have been quickly dismissed as the rantings of a former footballer with designs on becoming, dare we say it, a full - time politician. And yet it was the nature and context of his comments that were almost immediately attacked and criticised. It was almost as if Lineker had committed the ultimate sin, reacting perhaps too sharply to a news story he had no right to be as judgmental on since apologies would be demanded and besides Lineker was just endorsing the sentiments of the whole of the British population.

But the man who once scored an overabundance of goals for fun at Spurs, wasn't about to go away quietly. Yesterday Lineker sheepishly emerged from his home, smiled obligingly for the cameras and was convinced he was the innocent party. He ducked into the back of a car, coat draped casually over his arms and, for all the world, totally unaffected by all the commotion. He reminded you of a man who had just been accused of stealing a dinner jacket from a reputable menswear shop. It was an absurd allegation and one he would fight all the way to the highest court in the land.

The truth is of course that a nation of football lovers will be denied its weekly fix of highlights- driven football on a Saturday night. Match of the Day is not only the most familiar theme but also one of its leading voices of authority of BBC football. Both Ian Wright, Alan Shearer, Micah Richards and Danny Murphy and made all of their objections heard in the public domain. The pundits have had their say and it is to say nothing while the commentators have also downed tools. In fact the Salford studios from where Match of the Day delivers its weekly broadcast will begin to resemble a municipal library this evening.

So where does that leave Match of the Day? You suspect it'll be left in an awkward state of limbo and dumbstruck, contemplating its navel and examining its Reithian code of morality. Lineker went on record as saying that the migrants escaping from persecution in troubled, war-torn countries reminded him of the language and rhetoric emanating from the 1930s. Now the implication might have been that foreign migrants looking for safe sanctuary could be directly compared to all the pre -Second World War propaganda.

Now depending on your point of view this is no more than a statement from the heart of one of football's most jovial jokers, a man who rigidly sticks to his guns on any topic and will never be reluctant to say it straight from the hip. Lineker was also outspoken on the recent World Cup in Qatar and there are seemingly no boundaries in his world.

Match of the Day, which next year will mark its 60th anniversary, stands by its principles and will not tolerate the nonconformists, the rebels and renegades, the militant tendency, the trade unionists with their banners, their shop stewards and those well lit braziers with smoke pouring from every angle. It is hard to know where or how far Lineker and company will take this now very political hot potato. At the moment football is not so much in revolt but simply disillusioned with its paymasters at the BBC. You suspect that peace will be restored and mutual agreement between all parties will be found eventually. But for tonight at least Match of the Day will be turning the off switch and hoping that a temporary crisis doesn't degenerate into all out warfare.