Mellow mists and fruitfulness

 Mellow mists and fruitfulness

You can almost sense the autumnal mellow mists and fruitfulness, the rustling and crunching of playful, yellowing leaves chasing after each other frenetically like eight year old schoolchildren playing tag in the playground. You can smell the wanton woodfire smoke of the last day of October, the crackling and screaming of the first fireworks soaring over rain drenched rooftops. You can feel the sweet chills of autumn, faint suggestions of winter in the air but not quite yet. 

Then the banging and popping of yet more colourful fireworks, a precursor to the real thing next Sunday's Guy Fawkes Night. This is the darkest time of the year because the clocks have gone back, 5.00 in the evening could be forgiven for being midnight and everything feels mysterious and suspicious. Oh yes it's Halloween night. It's that day of the year: orange pumpkins, kids knocking on the doors of a million front doors, general jollity and merriment and hot bowls of soup with just the occasional barbecue should you feel daring enough.

But for the rest of us autumn has arrived like an old and familiar friend you haven't seen for at least a year.  Most of us disappear into hibernation since there's no point in going anywhere. Where once there was sunlight and the pageantry of summer in all her glory, now there is the incessant rain and wind. Oh well, never mind. We've still got the family and friends we've always cherished, living life to the full and let's just have innumerable board games such as Monopoly, Trivial Pursuit and Scrabble.

During the summer we used to sit outside pub gardens lethargically and contentedly knowing full well that you could drink to your hearts content without worrying about chucking out time. Now let's put the kettle on, send out invitations to our neighbours and discuss the ongoing issues such as war in the Middle East, Ukraine and any parts of the world where only murder, death and suffering now take place on a daily basis. As a proud Jew the abominable genocide of innocent Israeli families, children and a distressing number of Israeli adults have reduced most of us to an excruciating, agonised silence.

We threw up our hands in horror at the cold blooded savagery, the bloodthirsty belligerence, the naked violence, the callous killing and repulsive raping of babies and children. We sat at home and knew we were helpless. We compared our safe and comfortable homes in the UK and just remained dumbfounded, bemused beyond belief. There is something soul destroying and totally demoralising about war particularly if you live in a country where there are despicable, sub human terrorists spreading the message of hatred and intolerance. There is a sense here that humanity seems to be desperately wrestling with its battered conscience. 

So as the first pumpkins are displayed outside your front door there should be a complete recognition that any kind of festivity or happiness should never really be acknowledged. There is an awkward balancing act here where the raw emotions of a deadly and terrifying war have to be put into some kind of sober perspective. Of course there is a widespread sorrow, an aching grief, melancholy that goes way beyond its meaning and a constant mourning of the thousands of deaths.

Now we all now Hamas, a terrorist organisation that can barely be mentioned without a vile detestation of their existence, find that the medicine can leave a nasty taste in your mouth. They who cast the first stone does seem the most suitable phrase since none will ever forgive the deaths of those who perished at a music festival on Simchat Torah. They know who they are and their barbaric brutalities have to be utterly condemned. The hand of retaliation has to be lethal and comprehensive. There should though be no holding back because this war was provoked by Hamas and there is no room for forgiveness.

 We should never condone the killing, bombing and blatant hostage taking which now feels like Israel's guilt and responsibility. Of course the outpouring of compassion and humane benevolence should always be there but for the thousands of Israelis who have suffered with massive loss of life there can be no consolation. Israel have suffered horrifically on a monumental scale and revenge has to be immediate. We've known for some time that the innocent civilians will always lose their lives but we all know who started this war and it certainly wasn't Israel.

But this is now a major global catastrophe. The simple fact remains is that this is not Israel's fault. The  culpability for any atrocity that may well have been reported comes from Southern Israel. As is normally the case Israel always seems to get it in the neck for whatever the nature of their actions. Historically Israel have always been the accused as the architects of their own downfall because Israel  were the ones who killed in far greater numbers. Then we're surrounded by those equally as Hezbollah who also loathe Israel with poisonous thoughts on their minds. 

Sadly there seems little prospect of compromise, negotiation or even a hint of reconciliation. Never in a million years. Hamas are hell bent on wiping Israel from the face of the earth. Jews are repellent, anathema to everything they believe in and stand for, according to Hamas. Here is a disgusting, disgraceful, nefarious killing machine, a bloodthirsty military force who should be destroyed once and for all. We Stand By Israel and always will. Love to the Land of Milk and Honey for ever more.

Eric Cantona- the great French balladeer

 Eric Cantona - the great French ballladeer.

When Eric Cantona stepped into a recording studio for the very first time, some of us privately cackled to ourselves because we couldn't really understand his ulterior motive. Had Cantona reached that critical point of his life when he just wanted to experiment and venture into hitherto unconquered fields? Did he see it as some grand plan to diversify into some cultural hinterland that no or few footballers had ever ventured into. We'd heard about his abstract and surrealist poetry and as a Frenchmen we also knew that he was fully conversant with the world of philosophy because he'd obviously swotted up on the subject.

At the height of his career with Sir Alex Ferguson's Manchester United, Cantona kept spouting out esoteric references to seagulls following trawlers and then after the cheering had stopped at Old Trafford, Cantona thought it an opportune moment to break into the acting world as film director, actor and, quite possibly, scriptwriter for French movies that everybody knew something about but were never quite sure what to make of his long term ambitions.

So we remembered his career trajectory and came to the conclusion that cutting his very first vinyl record represented a logical progression. Cantona was sharp as a needle, intellectually brilliant, articulate, studious, thought provoking and never short of an opinion. You must have thought that a political career couldn't have been that far away since the Frenchmen looked as if he'd always been passionately interested in the world, society, the declining standards within that world, the economy and ecology of the globe as a whole and knew all about the dubious gangsters and shifty opportunists who were controlling and manipulating us. 

It's been some time since footballers found themselves clamping on a pair of headphones and then settling down in front of a microphone before crooning to their hearts content. But then they demonstrated their aptitude for singing, lyricists of the finest quality. But Cantona had always been an avant garde bohemian, the ultimate enfant terrible, always fashionable and de rigeur, the man caught up in the belle epoque, the man with an indefinable je ne sais quoi, a matchless spokesman for his profession with his finger very much on the pulse of the nation.

Back in 1970 the England football squad were the pioneering standard bearers of the pop music world in their often hectic environment. It was pop music and football as a combined force. They gathered together in elegant suits, shirts and bow ties, putting their best faces forward, smiling warmly and then giving us their stirring rendition of a cute ditty called 'Back Home' a song so apt and relevant  because we were at home and too young to understand the wider implications of what was going on. 

So there they were harmonising in unison with perfect pitch and tone but slightly worried that nobody would ever take them seriously. But they stood together, united as a collective choir. The song itself reached number one in the mainstream pop charts and stayed there for a fair number of weeks. This paved the way for a whole new generation of footballers with stars in their eyes, a melody in their voices and a natural desire to appear on the BBC's Top of the Pops.

Earlier on in that year, Chelsea met Leeds United in the FA Cup on a pitch that looked like an allotment site that had once grown cabbages and rhubarb. Just before that Cup Final the Chelsea choristers consisting of Ron Harris, Charlie Cooke, Ian Hutchinson, David Webb and Peter Osgood strolled into a pop music studio and gave the world ' Blue is the Colour' and Chelsea is our name. It was all very good natured, amusing and seemingly a one off. But football had now been converted into an entirely different entity.

There followed a whole succession of FA Cup songs in the years after the 1970 FA Cup Final, some banal, some hilarious and some that bordered on the ridiculous, if occasionally sublime. Football and music were now synonymous with each other. Football became associated with a whole variety of musical genres, neatly encapsulated in song and lyrics. Besides, the vast multitudes on the terraces had been making the loudest of  noises for years although the lyrics were much more colourful and explicit than the footballers they were supporting.

In 1982, Ron Greenwood's England provided us with a personal expression of their souls, a warm homage to Greenwood. The sight of Trevor Francis, Steve Coppell, Bryan Robson, Viv Anderson, Mick Mills and a collection of lovely larynxes belting out Ron's 22 We'll Get it Right still lives comfortably in our memory. At the time we were so enamoured of the concept of footballing singers that we almost accepted it as the prevailing norm. It seemed like a good idea at the time and was instantly chanted in a million local pubs and football clubs across the country.

Three years before, Spurs met Manchester City in the FA Cup Final with two notable adornments in their team. A year before, Spurs had completely broken with footballing tradition when they paraded two Argentinians in their first team. Ossie Ardilles and Ricardo Villa had been instrumental in Spurs enthralling, gripping 3-2 victory over City at the old Wembley stadium after a replay. Spurs are on their way to Wembley was so delightfully cheesy that even now it does sound like the most heartfelt Cup Final song of all time. Ardilles concluded with In the Cup with Totting ham but in years to come the contribution that both Ardilles and Villa had made to English football would become immeasurable.  

And so to the present day and the Eric Cantona experience. We shall never know whether Cantona modelled himself on the celebrated epiglottis of Charles Azanvour. Perhaps he was influenced by the love songs of the  Aznavour back catalogue, that typical example of the French balladeer whose emotional resonance went beyond anything that any footballer had even thought about. And who could ever forget that other chanteur of modern times? Sacha Distel had entranced almost all of his female audience with songs that were laced with a moving poignancy that would last for ever.

The world now awaits the latest exploits of this pop music rock star. When Cantona committed that outrageously unforgivable assault on a Crystal Palace fan during the 1990s, it seemed there was no place for anybody in such an elevated sphere of sport. To even consider an alternative career outside the game seemed almost absurd. But Cantona has reached full maturity, no longer the anarchic face of football or the violent thug who had to be the centre of attention. The kung fu kick on a football supporter, still rankles with good, law abiding fans. We were wholly disgusted. Cantona was suspended and fined quite rightly and did his lengthy community service.

But Cantona now becomes an almost unlikely hero, an anarchist and revolutionary quite possibly, a man craving change and now a singing crooner. If you didn't know that a former Manchester United footballer could come even remotely close to making popular music and writing his own material  then you do now. Cantona will always be the street poet, the man who daringly challenged the status quo and pushed back all the boundaries with literary references.

You'd love to be a fly on the wall in the Sir Alex Ferguson living room. He may be chuckling to himself convinced that he'd never made a more inspired signing for United. It's time to sit back and take notice of the Cantona voice and acknowledge this multi talented genius. We await the inevitable chat show circuit and yet more brazen self promotion. Eric, you're a superstar.

Autism

 Autism.

Autism, sadly, will always be grossly misunderstood. In this age of fast moving, hectic and frantic urgency, little time is spent on sober reflection and a thoughtful pause for breath. We rush around in ever increasing circles, scurrying and scampering around at 100 miles per hour without any hesitation or consideration. When you tell people that you have Autism the misconceptions and perceptions suddenly descend on them. They'll tell you that of course you're unique with a well entrenched outlook on life and of course they've heard of this mental or physical health condition but they don't quite know what to say to you.

They'll tell you that they've heard explanations in the media, social media, magazines, those posh and grandiose magazines and newspapers who devote acres of print and coverage to something that is just beyond their comprehension. We've all heard about those moving and very confessional articles where those who may be experiencing the first symptoms of depression, anxiety and stress then withdraw into private worlds. The truth of the matter is you have to get on with it, snap out of it, the annoyingly repetitive mantra of pulling yourself together and you've got so much to be grateful for. But for those who have Autism you must surely know about the above and of course we love life.

The fact is that although extensive publicity and awareness of Autism has now reached a vast majority of our ears the dark ages of ignorance are just stuck in a tunnel. To all intents and purposes your air of normality is not theirs or maybe it is but all they can see is a speaking, walking, talking, coherent and  probably quite intelligent individual. They obviously haven't been where I've been and it isn't pretty but painful, awkward and horrifically traumatic. My lovely, always loving and wonderfully supportive family were there to catch me when it looked as though a crisis would become a potential minefield that you almost trod on.

In 2009 my beautiful wife Bev took me along to a specialist clinic in Bethnal Green in the East End of London where I was diagnosed with a little known medical condition called Autism. The first reaction was one of total bewilderment and utter confusion. Nobody had ever heard of Autism in my family at the time least of all me. But when we heard a proper explanation about how it affected the rest of the Autistic community we were pleasantly enlightened.

At first it was all very manageable, almost liberating since for most of my life up until then, I'd felt trapped in a maze of complexity, a labyrinthine land of mixed messages, social discomfort and the sudden consciousness of being somehow different. Of course I could engage with day to day life and that was never a hindrance or obstacle. There was no psychological barrier since I could still speak, eat, drink, laugh and joke with the best of them. I could feel blissfully comfortable at family gatherings and anybody who just meant the world to me.

But the wires were bunched together in my brain in some chaotic muddle, the channels of  communication now seemingly broken at the time because I hadn't a clue what was going on inside my head. So you just got on with the business of living life to the full, revelling in the company of compassionate family who would always know what you were going through at the time. So that's exactly what I did and probably thought I could fall back on the coping mechanisms which would keep me sane and eternally loved.

For make no mistake this has been the most gruelling voyage, a voyage of discovery, an extremely painful and harrowing experience where the frighteningly turbulent waters and oceans have often thrown me around the top deck with the most terrifying intensity and ruthlessness. I have been to hell and back and you find yourself looking desperately to dry land where hopefully you'll be welcomed by friendly faces and familiar acquaintances, friends who could sympathise with you but couldn't offer any real solution in the long term.

And yet I know all about the autistic tendency to cherish routine and structure in their lives, continue to be part of your life, always ready with guidance and advice in what might have seemed your darkest moments of life up until that point. You have their whole hearted support and encouragement and you'll always be either at the other end of a phone, text or social media message. You'll always have them in their lives because the suffering you might have gone through is not uncommon. In fact it's a modern discussion point, a topical advertising campaign in Tube and train stations, bus stops and any place where bold and powerfully worded messages are thrust into your eye line.

In recent years we've heard all about the TV celebrities, the eye-opening documentaries, the Prince of Wales hosting innumerable programmes about footballers with deeply rooted mental health problems. So William the Prince of Wales sits down with some of his favourite players and spreads out his empathetic hands to those who may be inwardly struggling and determined to express their innermost emotions. So he sits there accompanied by these seemingly obscenely wealthy and pampered prima donnas with egos the size of a football ground and no connection with the faithful supporters who simply adore them.

So they sit in their dressing rooms and keep talking because this is the finest therapy, a release, cathartic, good for you and we have to keep the narrative going until one day the penny drops. We are all of course flawed and vulnerable, we are delicate and susceptible, always reaching out to those who are always available for lunch or a cup of coffee. Then you chew the cud and just open up to those who may be inherently sceptical. Every day is a new book with smiling faces on the cover of the said paperback and the story, you think, which should be compelling. 

But then it all gets bogged down in the same old stereotypes, the same old themes and tropes, that bit  that probably tells you to find new hobbies, alternative pursuits and just concentrate on those delightful distractions that perhaps you'd never thought about before. So they tell you to find a new interest, an evening class at college or some activity which keeps Autism at bay. But Autism will never go away because it defines you, shapes your personality and then confronts you with daily challenges with your wonderful family behind you, the most positive influence on your life.

Then you realise that certain friends who know they are without being named, choose to punch you in the ribs before launching into a barrage of brutally verbal comments which  leave you dumbfounded and speechless. They are severely critical and judgmental,  sarcastic in the extreme and then just verbally destructive. They become insufferably hurtful  while you are left  and emotionally wounded, totally demoralised. They poke fun at your completion of five self published books, humiliate you on a monumental scale and then sneer at you mercilessly, becoming dismissive without any remorse or self awareness.

But the fact remains that we have to keep talking because Autism will be heavily stigmatised and just cast into the wilderness where the silent majority still think you're just trying to be the centre of attention, cruelly marginalised by society because you are not like the rest of society. So you put on a brave face, tolerant and resigned to defeat. In a sense there can be no conversation between them because  'Get Talking Britain' just sounds like some tireless cliche parrotted over and over again like a broken record. There's  little in the way of any acknowledgement of Autism as the most important mental health condition and an ominous pall of darkness just gets completely lost in the translation.

So how do you react. You read the riot act to those who you thought would have your ear and confidence before just telling them exactly how you feel. As a grandson of a Holocaust survivor, I've now heard it all before and it's all your fault and you're just over reacting. So you try to rationalise with them because quite clearly they're not listening and probably never will. They get on their proverbial high horse, pontificate wisely and confidently and then forget who you are because it's convenient for them and besides we're right, you're wrong and should just endure their derisive comments, their cheap jibes and barbed remarks.

At the moment you almost feel as though you've been savagely attacked for no particular reason. You hold on to the ropes like a downtrodden, battered heavyweight boxer, clambering to their feet after a knock out left hook that now leaves you prone on the canvas. You're Punch being clobbered over their head and then left senseless by Judy, a freak show, a circus act where the clown just exposes themselves to a bombardment of custard pies in their face and then you're reduced to cowering embarrassment.

You have no legal recourse because this is just a funny joke, a highly amusing anecdote, top of the bill material at the London Palladium, the cabaret act, something almost burlesque, comedy gold. So we tell them about your beautiful mum and grandparents and how they almost died before the Germans got busy. Of course it's beyond their imagining. How could it possibly be anything else? Call it ignorance or even possibly jealousy but I should choose the former rather than the latter.

This is not libellous information because if they think their words and sentences are meant in all good fun and not to be taken seriously. The fact of the matter is that they are and they hurt, they make you feel decidedly inferior and small. Why do they gather in a pub and proceed to single you out as the only one in the pub who hasn't got a clue what he's talking about or just intent on undermining your achievements, your self published books, sniggering almost incessantly, portraying you as the village idiot, a character assassination that borders on the ridiculous, a brutal ambush on you as a human being?

So here's my message to the perpetrators of this heinous crime. Let's have some quality time in your prejudiced thoughts because some of us have feelings. Yes I know who they are and some of your behaviour has been both deplorable and disgraceful. You mock me brazenly and then find yourself as guilty as a hardened convict when they're just innocent by standers or unfairly accused of nothing in particular.

You may have one of those moments when you look at yourself in the mirror and wonder what on earth you may have said wrong. There's gallows humour and the type of humour that just crosses the lines since you're clearly not the high wire trapeze act or that funny, silly clown who just wants to entertain the kids and families with good- natured high jinks and frothy frivolity.

The brutally destructive Holocaust jokes about a Jews favourite sound as that of the hissing gas chambers and questions about the Jews not being at 9/11 made by a printing company, will always rankle but there is resilience in all of us. And hey I hope that one day the Germans will issue a fulsome apology to me for their barbarically murderous deeds one day. 

The Second World War is admittedly over 75 years ago but every time I think back to those mid 1970s days it is not with any pleasure. My poor, persecuted and traumatised grandma suffered horrific flashbacks, screaming hysterically, convinced the Nazi stormtroopers were going to kill her 30 years after the event. So for those who just choose to mock me for no good reason then I heartily suggest that you examine your conscience. But I fear you won't.

 As a grandson of a Holocaust survivor I appreciate your goodwill but not the tasteless gallows humour. I'd assumed we left behind all of those cheap jokes and withering barbs far behind me. Regrettably this is neither amusing or hilarious although maybe you still do think along those lines. In which case keep the laughter going but I'd rather not engage in any of that ghastly narrative.

Sir Bobby Charlton dies

 Sir Bobby Charlton dies

Sir Bobby Charlton, who yesterday died at the age of 86, typified the 1960s, its mannerisms, its affectations, its quirks and whimsicalities, its outlandish fashions, its revolutionary movements, the life changing moments, an era of remarkable innovation, invention, reinvention, its colour, personality and charisma. He was English football's greatest striker and forever more will be enshrined warmly in the hearts of all football loyalists, passionate fans and everybody either connected or just fascinated by the Beautiful Game.

Charlton, whose roots can be unashamedly be traced back to a humble and modest coal mining environment, spanned whole generations of football supporters around the world and was never less than a shy, self deprecating, quietly spoken player and manager, a man of bravery, resilience, heroism,  muscular Christianity and character. He was a law abiding, respectable member of every community, an exemplary ambassador, charitable in the extreme, champion of the underdog and the loveliest of gentlemen.

But he was always in the right place and the right time. He was there on that fabled and celebrated day on the penultimate day of July 1966 when England conquered the World with its first and, regrettably, only World Cup victory. When England were pronounced World Champions 57 years ago there were many of us who were touched by the spontaneous reactions of both Bobby and his brother Jack Charlton. Bobby wept with happiness while Jack slumped to the ground outside England's penalty area, limply throwing his arms into the air with elation and relief.

When the final whistle went for the 1966 World Cup Final, manager Sir Alf Ramsey, emotionless and drained, just sat on his bench while England trainer Harold Shepherdson leapt into the air with delight and sent his towels into orbit. Ramsey, totally repressed, implored Shepherdson to sit down. Meanwhile Sir Bobby Charlton was engulfed by his team mates and started hugging all and sundry as if they were doting uncles, fathers, grandparents and close cousins. Never had one cultural event throughout British history yielded so many moments heavy with symbolism, a moving allegory to tell their families and those who would follow in years and decades to come.

And yet it was Bobby Charlton, the footballer, who rose from a hospital bed in Munich in 1958 who captured the hearts of both his devoted Manchester United fans and the global football family. Charlton survived the Munich air disaster which tragically claimed the lives of so many of his United colleagues. Charlton's indefatigable fighting spirit, his determination to embrace the sweetness and sanctity of life and his enduring passion for the game could never be disguised.

The one image of Charlton in his very early childhood days encapsulated everything we came to love and admire about him. In his parents backyard, Cissie, his inspirational mother, is seen jumping together with her son Bobby in a heading duel. Even then the bug would become an addictive one and we knew that there was something indefinable about Charlton's extraordinary talent. His native North East, where coal mines and collieries would produce a conveyor belt of superbly proportioned footballers, knew a footballing genius when they saw one.

Then there was his elevation to United's first team and a couple of old League Championships later, innumerable England caps, FA Cups and then the ultimate achievement of World Cup victory, Charlton would become unmistakably brilliant, productive and the finest of them all. A model of athleticism, speed, acceleration, rapid gear movements all combined to turn an attacking, goal scoring midfielder into a lethal striker of the ball. The hair style was distinctive, the mood always right, the occasion wonderfully fitting, the moments invariably appropriate.

In 1968 though, the zenith of Charlton's career would reach another dimension. After losing his adored colleagues such as Duncan Edwards, Tommy Taylor, Roger Byrne and Dennis Viollet in the Munich air crash, Charlton sought solace and comfort in a newly refurbished and rejuvenated Manchester United side. He discovered John Aston, Dennis Law, George Best, Brian Kidd and a welcoming red carpet at Old Trafford which would never stop believing in the improbable and impossible.

On that wonderful night at Wembley Stadium in the European Cup Final against the masterful Eusebio, Charlton would reach his promised land. Benfica, hitherto, one of the most gifted and dangerous of opponents, were crushed and then annihilated by a rampant United in extra time, 4-1 winners and then gazing at the almost idolised Sir Matt Busby, whose night it would also be.

Two years later in Mexico, Charlton though would be overwhelmed by the sweltering Mexican heat in the 1970 World Cup. Charlton was unforgivably and inexplicably substituted by Sir Alf Ramsey in England's quarter final encounter with West Germany. When Charlton was hauled off by Ramsey many of us thought the rush of blood to his head would cost England any further progress in the tournament. How Gerd Muller must have longed for that crucial moment and the West Germans devoured the winning goals with the utmost relish. England were out of the World Cup and Bobby Charlton was distraught, inconsolable.

After leaving United Charlton would briefly withdraw from the limelight and his last game at Stamford Bridge would be his most poignant departure from the game he'd so brightly illuminated and graced. Chelsea were simply grateful to witness this special occasion. These were difficult moments for Charlton since his relationship with our kid and brother Jack had deteriorated almost completely. The two refused to speak after what, in hindsight, might have seemed a petty family quarrel. But most importantly, Jack and Bobby were always inseparable despite the rift. Both loved each other deeply.

The after dinner circuit beckoned but Charlton was still consumed with football, still infatuated with a game that had given him such a comfortable and prosperous living. When Preston North End came calling for a manager, Charlton didn't hesitate. He'd had no tangible experience as a football manager but the gamble had to be taken and so he took it. Sadly, Charlton and football management were completely incompatible and never the twain should have ever met.

In more recent years Charlton would become the leading founder of hundreds of children's coaching clinics in both England and abroad. The summer camps, the teaching of the game's rudiments and techniques were Charlton's lasting legacy to football. He would open up garden fetes, speak volubly and articulately about the boys of 66 and then express his eternal gratitude and appreciation to those who had been with him since he was a kid wet behind the ears.

And then finally there were the years of Manchester United as an observer from the directors box, the easily recognisable figure who sat admirably and faithfully next to his wife Norma. Charlton had fallen deeply in love with United. Of course he had. But Charlton was there to spread the word about United, a figurehead at the club, proud of the club's steadfast traditions, its beautiful narratives, the years of recovery and redemption, the lifting of trophies. We shall never ever forget Sir Bob. Sir Bobby Charlton, the most outstanding technician, the most accurate distributor of a ball, the most fearsome of shots, a player to cherish, the most stunning of gifts. You were English football's greatest.

England beat Australia in friendly

 England beat Australia in friendly

At times England reminded you of a group of Victorian gentlemen languidly sipping from a cup of Darjeeling or Earl Grey tea, pompously turning the pages of the Financial Times before drinking from a vintage glass of brandy and then lighting up a Havana cigar while also adjusting their tweed smoking jackets for greater comfort. Gareth Southgate has always observed etiquette and protocol but maybe England were too well mannered against Australia.

At Wembley Stadium last night England quite literally went through the motions. This was football as sedate as a typically English game of croquet on beautifully manicured grass. It was football that was designed to send you off to sleep with sweet dreams. There were no vitally important points at stake, little in the way of any intensity simply a good natured kick about with coats for goalposts. Or that's the way it seemed.

It was just as well that this was merely a friendly otherwise questions would have been asked in the highest echelons of the game and fans would have been muttering angrily under their breath. Now the fact is that Australia, until fairly recently, would have been regarded as an end of pier seaside joke in footballing company. In fact distant memories would have transported you back to the 1974 World Cup in West Germany when they passed through the tournament like a gentle breeze without anybody noticing them.

But last night at the national home of English football,  Australia possessed nothing of the bludgeoning power of a Don Bradman, Ricky Ponting or Alan Border in the summer game of cricket. Their football was carefully organised, methodical and efficient but the guns were misfiring and the bullets bounced off the English defence, landing in no man's land. We tend to regard friendlies as the one we witnessed last night with a certain amount of healthy scepticism since this was a night of experimentation and that's perfectly understandable.

Next Tuesday evening England play a Euro 2028 qualifier against Italy confident in the knowledge that they are now within cheering distance of another major tournament. Your mind travelled back exactly 50 years ago now to that fateful night when a cautiously optimistic England met a Polish side who were simply at Wembley to make up the numbers. But then it all went haywire, rapidly descending into a shuddering anti climax, Poland taking the lead  with a fierce shot from Jan Domarski. True, Sir Alf Ramsey's men did equalise with a penalty from Leeds striker Alan Clarke but failure to qualify for the 1974 World Cup was preceded by the sacking of Sir Alf.

Four years later in another crucial World Cup qualifier against England's opponents Italy on Tuesday, England once again spiralled out of control. On the night, goals from Kevin Keegan and Trevor Brooking gave England the most comfortable of 2-0 victories at Wembley Stadium but this was a smokescreen because the mathematical equations decreed that England hadn't done enough to qualify for Argentina in the following summer's World Cup.

And so it was that we concentrated on an England friendly against Australia. It was Friday night, you'd just clocked off from your factory gates, finished off the urgent projects in your office, cleared up in your shop and then rushed off to the pub because this is the usual procedure. Football on a Friday night always seemed the most awkward piece of scheduling. Besides, who came up with the bright idea of international football on a Friday night when there's a good deal of socialising to do in your local drinking hostelry? Absurd or maybe not.

Still, we buckled up for the fairground and just held on for dear life. But this was very ordinary, totally mundane, annoyingly anodyne, dull, boring, predictable and, at times, almost lifeless. England had most of the possession and very rarely lost the ball but this was plodding, pedestrian, painstaking, agonising at times rather like pulling teeth. It may just as well have been a local park or recreation ground. There was no incentive to win and the match felt it was being played under a local anaesthetic.

England played well but there was a businesslike competence about their football that only just pleased the discerning eye since England have now mastered the art of passing the ball within close proximity of each other. There were picturesque short passes and decorative attacking patterns but there were times when the ball seemed reluctant to go any further than the 18 yard box. It was a comforting rather than stimulating watch since goals are the only currency at any level of football.

At the back, England's defence consisting of the hugely impressive Trent Alexander Arnold, the encouraging sense of adventure shown by Chelsea's Levi Colwill, Kieran Trippier is still running around like a highly energetic secondary school kid looking for approval. And then there was the evergreen Jordan Henderson, who for reasons best known to those in the England crowd, proceeded to boo Henderson. Presumably joining a club in Saudi Arabia is just unforgivable. But Henderson is still street wise, knowing, wise, thoughtful as ever and the most calming of influences.

And so England muddled through the first half like a gambler weighing up the odds at a roulette table. It was all very tidy, cautious and respectful. Dare you say that England simply weren't about to take this one too easily? No international football team can ever be pushovers but this was ridiculous. Australia were here in competitive mood and you suspect that even a game of tiddlywinks would have been a matter of life or death against England. So you settled down to watch a match that had little bearing on anything and almost felt like a postscript. Australia wanted to beat England of that there could be no doubt.

During an uneventful first half England seemed blissfully content to just spar and rabbit punch with Australia, occasionally jabbing but never probing. There was an air of blithe indifference about England's football that beggared belief. Back at the Garrick gentleman's club, they were snoring in their relaxing armchairs, newspapers draped carelessly over their laps wondering why on earth they were pursuing their interest in a friendly football match that meant nothing to anybody.

But England's midfield was still functioning, brimming over with verve and originality, vigorous and vibrant. The passes were sensible rather than dangerous, intelligent but somehow rehearsed in the dressing room. Jack Grealish was once again majestic, almost too instinctive for his own good, dribbling past defenders with an almost arrogant impertinence. He then held onto the ball for what seemed a life- time, dinking and jinking, dropping shoulders, stepping over, tricking his way deceptively past forests of Australian legs and tackles.

Then there was James Maddison, Tottenham's latest signing from Leicester City. Maddison was as immaculate, beautifully balanced and poised and pulling midfield strings like a puppet. Maddison, rather like his colleague Grealish, floated and flitted, fluttered and flickered, a butterfly in England's ever probing midfield, always a nuisance and constantly imaginative. He does seem like part of England's new Golden Generation, the throbbing heartbeat, the wheels and cogs in the productive machinery.

At Chelsea Conor Gallagher of Chelsea also tackled with venom and intent, a player of practicality, honest endeavour, efficiency and skilful touches that were pretty as a picture. Gallagher is no Tony Currie, Alan Hudson or Trevor Brooking at the moment that is but the potential is there. He fetched and carried the ball with a heartening persistence and covered enormous acres of the ground but does look the decent deal.

With newly capped Jarrod Bowen of West Ham, another England novice, challenging defenders with those mazy and serpentine runs England kept pressing Australia with magnificent menace. Bowen was joined up front by the ever athletic, pacy and exciting Marcus Rashford, Manchester United through and through and like a bulldozer at times, powering past Australian defenders as if they weren't there. All in all, this was the kind of performance that will never go down as iconic but will remain forgettable.

The winning goal came from one of those valuable sources which could become increasingly valuable in matches to come. Trent Alexander Arnold, now firmly established at Liverpool, picked up the ball just outside the Australia penalty area, ran forward and then chipped a superb diagonal ball towards Grealish who fed the ball back beautifully towards Aston Villa's Ollie Watkins, sliding in to prod the ball into the Australia net from close range.

And so England now face Italy in what could be the tastiest and spiciest Euros qualifier in recent seasons. Of course Italy will treat the game like the most dramatic of operas, always theatrical, always trying to gain some kind of advantage. There is admittedly little of the rough, tough and cynical about their football but this will certainly be decisive. It could be a mini classic and for those of a patriotic persuasion we must hope that the Flag of St Georges will be flying high on Tuesday night. It could be a cracker.

Golda

 Golda

Golda Meir looked directly at the camera. She stared grimly, gravely and portentously at those who always believed she was the greatest political figure the world had ever seen. Her face spoke a million languages, her mouth told a multitude of stories and the body language told you all you needed to know about one of the finest Prime Ministers Israel have ever had. The heavily lined forehead and cheeks were etched with pain and suffering, a thorough knowledge of war, its mechanics and the equipment needed to win that war. There were agonised creases wherever you looked in her face. This was unbearable. She couldn't take anymore and there came a point when it all became too much.

Golda, which is now out on release on most cinema screens across Britain and the rest of the world, was a powerful, gripping, viscerally dramatic, deeply poignant and hard hitting depiction of Golda Meir, the one woman who, above the bullets, bombs, murders and killings which decimated Israel in the Yom Kippur war of 1973, stood on the shoulders of giants and emerged as one of the most influential and admirable of all Prime Ministers. She took the blows almost incessantly and summoned a strength of character that had hitherto never been seen before in the tempestuous world of politics.

It is now 50 years since the destructive forces of war, hatred and excruciating violence, claimed the lives of thousands of innocent Israeli civilians, huge populations of Israel obliterated with a frightening inevitability while the world sighed with a despair and horror that destroyed everything the Israelis had held so dear. But Golda Meir soldiered on heroically and stoically, undaunted, utterly fearless in the face of toxic adversity. She was formidable, irrepressible and impregnable. Nobody would ever argue with her or shift her from any position of weakness and she did what others may have thought impossible. 

She challenged her foes with a bloody minded determination and ferocious commitment to the cause that must have left most of her friends and colleagues almost speechless with admiration. Her energy, stamina and wondrous reserves of endurance and forbearance would lift her nation with the morale boosting spirit that Britain had once seen in Sir Winston Churchill during the Second World War. Golda Meir was a woman of legendary fighting spirit, an indomitable crusader and never to be messed with.

Throughout Golda we witnessed the gravity and sombreness of the Yom Kippur war and we also discovered the recurring theme that accompanied her life. For almost the whole of the film Golda smoked, chain smoked, smoked because she had to, smoked because the crippling stress and anxiety that had been engendered by the Yom Kippur war had eaten away at her nerves. The whole act of smoking cigarettes became an all consuming necessity for Golda, a psychological comfort that kept her going, driving her on to greater achievements and saving her from a complete mental breakdown.

Dame Helen Mirren, one of Britain's most distinguished actresses, has become such a model of versatility and vivacity that you somehow knew she would do immense justice to the role of Golda Meir. Leading from the front, Mirren ran the whole show, commanding others to fall into line with her, dictating to others who may have doubted her. She was ruthless, uncompromising, blunt and forthright, shooting down in flames her most withering of critics. She became a military figure of some renown. She ruled with a rod of iron, plain speaking, a face of thunder frequently followed by flashes of lighting.

Surrounded by compassionate figures such as Henry Kissinger, the ultimate pacifist and peace maker, the always supportive Moshe Dayan and Ariel Sharon, at the time of the Yom Kippur war, a dynamic general and soldier who would eventually become Prime Minister of Israel. But wherever she went Golda smoked and smoked and never stopped smoking. In one memorable scene Golda was seen lighting up for the umpteenth time before being swallowed up by a fog of smoke that then developed into a wartime battleground of smoke, thickening smoke that graphically illustrated the horrendous nature of war.

Golda was beautifully told story with impeccable attention to detail. The characters and locations were superb cameos of what exactly happened during the Yom Kippur. There were the countless meetings behind the scenes, the vitally significant discussions about the involvement of Egypt and Russia and the role they played in the calamitous damage both were solely responsible for. The deaths and casualties were too many to mention but Golda just kept going, immovable, everywhere and ubiquitous.

Wherever she went Golda snarled and growled defiantly, bellowing out orders, bullish and bellicose, strong minded, fiercely independent, never beaten, demanding more and more of anybody who dared to cross her. Her touching relationship with Henry Kissinger was a cinematic masterpiece. The enduring friendship with Moshe Dayan was so heartfelt that you almost felt the two were related to each other as brother and sister. The late night phone calls and the make or break decision to reach a grudging ceasefire with Egypt heightened the drama and psycho drama of the Yom Kippur war.

In one memorable scene we saw the heat pictures of Israel's strategic attacks on Egypt and the rest of her Middle East enemies. White dots of heat would light up explosions and the cries of dying soldiers would echo around Golda as she buried her head in her hands, clutching her hair with increasing desperation. There was one deeply emotional moment when the mother of a son serving in the Israeli army, would be overwhelmed with tears as news would tell her that he'd died. Tapping away at her typewriter furiously as a secretary, she sobbed bitterly, aghast at the realisation that her precious offspring had perished and that this was inconsolable.

And yet how the current events in Israel have now become an almost a ghastly example of history repeating itself with a dreadful familiarity. Over the weekend the Middle East exploded with a vengeance, an outpouring of brutal barbarism, terrifying aggression, unspeakable savagery, a blatant disregard of human lives. For Hamas read Egypt, Russia followed by Syria, Lebanon and Palestine. War never achieves anything at any time but if Golda has taught us anything it is that the human spirit will always flourish.

Here was one woman, a woman passionately dedicated to her country, the woman with a weather beaten and haggard face that looked more and more tormented as the film progressed. There were the moments when she had to be dragged out of her sick bed and forced to convey her unwavering support for a war over which few could ever control at times. Her air of haunted despondency and war ravaged melancholy was a sight that could never be forgotten. Golda would crumple into a world of isolation and utterly distressing introspection where a very private battle was raging inside her head.

As her health increasingly deteriorated, Golda quickly resigned herself to her fate and that of Israel. When Sadat and Menachem Begin shook hands with each other in the first of many peace treaties it felt like a breakthrough moment. The sight of former American president Jimmy Carter as the smiling face of reconciliation is one that lives in the memory. History will see this as a seminal turning point in relations between Israel and the Middle East. 

Sadly though the news pictures of the last week or so are those that are imprinted permanently on our minds. There are the Israelis taken hostage by aggressive members of Hamas, children and babies raped and beaten, dehumanised and humiliated. The ugly face of terrorism is now in full spate, buildings blown up and toppled to the ground, dust and smoke tearing at the foundations. There are the vapours of tracer bullets in the sky, missiles in rapid succession and yet more carnage. It is now becoming a traumatic and familiar occurrence, the loud thump of yet more explosions and then death.

But it was the music festivals which celebrated the end of Sukkot for the Jewish people and the beginning of Simchat Torah which dominated our thoughts over the weekend. Hundreds of youngsters were seen fleeing gun fire and running for their lives. Here was a triumphant expression of joy now crushed by deadly Hamas killing machines. There has to be a detailed explanation for this tragic crime against humanity. Israel though will fight on, fiercely defending its right to retaliate in self defence. For this is the essence of war, that infinite capacity to hit back against the enemy. We will Stand by Israel and always will with peace and love for ever more. L'Chaim L'chaim to life.

The Labour party conference

 The Labour party conference

You'd have thought the Labour Party were ever so slightly fed up with being the opposition to the UK Government by now. Besides, nobody takes any notice of them because their views are simply not credible, convincing or impressive sounding enough. They represent the Shadow Cabinet and we're all conversant with their recent history. They once boasted a leader whose antisemitic, despicably racist pronouncements almost certainly rendered Labour unelectable at the last General Election.

And so it was that Jeremy Corbyn walked shamefully into the dark hinterland of British politics and nobody regretted his departure from the Westminster debating chambers, his voice now silenced. Every so often he was caught on camera by the Press marching out of his home with a serious and business like face before climbing into the back of a cab complete with bags of documents and a tattered copy of Socialist weekly in his hands. There was that distinctive look of a guilty man who knows he may have transgressed but was never prepared to admit  that he might have got it desperately wrong. So he shut the front door gates and that was it.

Yesterday Corbyn's successor Sir Keir Starmer stepped up into the limelight as the new leader of the Labour party and what happened next came as not only a shock to his system but entirely unexpected to those who may have known how party conferences work, a strange incident met with looks of stunned disbelief. If you didn't know what these political gatherings were all about then this was quite the most remarkable departure from the norm. In fact it was a bolt out of the blue since for all their faults and foibles politicians are normally respected for being totally on the ball, well informed and, in most cases, charming. But then again there are the odd ones, the eccentric individuals and ones we can't figure out.

Suddenly from nowhere a gentleman with a grudge to bear, let out all of his frustrations on Starmer. The said gentleman rushed onto the stage in Liverpool, fury etched on his face. He then sprinkled what looked like Christmas glitter all over Starmer and the world held its breath. For a moment Starmer looked totally startled before he realised that there had been a disturbing breach of security. It could have been a knife or even a gun as my lovely wife Bev pointed out, but order was restored and Starmer just brushed himself down and got on with eloquent speech making.

In the old days the Labour party represented typical working class values. They were the party of  the nationalised industries,  hard graft, militant trade union ideologies, beer and sandwiches with Harold Wilson, progressive socialist ideals and just pillars of reliability. They were communists, radical thinkers, industrious and always believed that Wilson's White Heat of Technology speech during the 1960s was years ahead of its time. 

Then Tony Blair came to their rescue and won the 1997 General Election, the Tories running scared or maybe that was just a misleading impression. Blair, according to some cynics, was just a Tory in the red clothing of Labour, a leading advocate of everything the Conservatives were discussing at the time. His principles belonged to Thatcherism and never the twain should have met. There were three renditions of Education, Education and Education and then he tackled the British economy with a cool aplomb that none of us could have seen coming.

Blair surrounded himself with Cool Britannia, an applicable slogan that seemed to fit in with the popular mood of the country. Blair invited Oasis Liam Gallagher and all of those leading celebrities who fervently supported Blair's philosophies. Suddenly Labour were in the driving seat and would remain at 10 Downing Street until 2010. There was that awkward patch when Gordon Brown took over from Blair and that pre-election grumble about one of the disenchanted locals, may come to haunt Brown. Brown simply didn't do confrontation so he was left to lick his wounds.

When Brown left Downing Street it spelt the beginning of the end for the Labour party until the present day. The way was open for the Tories to assert themselves as the party of trustworthiness, the rich and wealthy elite who were stakeholders in blue chip companies and banking heavyweights who loved to escape to the country over the weekend with vast country estates. They had millions in their accounts and the rest of Britain was just lazy and work shy. Who cared about the downtrodden proletariat? Just roll up your sleeves and just get a job with peanuts for wages. You're hardly worthy of any help.

Then in 2019, weeks before the first outbreak of Covid 19, one Boris Johnson became Prime Minister and the rest is just farcical history. In fact from the very moment Johnson walked into 10 Downing Street the troubles turned into catastrophes before things hit rock bottom. Johnson, in the end, just became a caricature of a leader, poised to fumble, stumble and bumble his way through his leadership years with utter incompetence. Week after week he stood at his lectern surrounded by well qualified doctors and scientists and just fell apart inside. At some point he began to resemble Charlie Cairoli with the traditional clown's red nose. Eventually Johnson left the building and the nation sighed with relief.

After a brief flirtation with the controls at Number 10, Liz Truss became another laughing stock and almost left the country dumbfounded with some of the most ill thought out policies ever formulated. And so we come to the present day and Rishi Sunak, a man who looks and sounds like a university undergraduate who can't wait to mix with eminent stockbrokers and big City financiers. Now Sunak fraternises with England football captains and tries to be down with the kids.

And so we find the Labour party in excellent nick this week. We didn't think we'd be saying this but they do look organised and comfortable with their identity. When Yvette Cooper came to the microphone yesterday to talk about the youth of today and knife crime we began to see the first buds of a major comeback for the Labour party. There is potential here but at the moment just untapped and lacking clout or credibility. 

Then there's Wes Streeting, Stepney's finest, a young careerist, ambitious, forward thinking and just what the Labour party needed or maybe not. And then we remembered the sheepish look of defeat on Jeremy Corbyn when he entered his Labour General Election hall in Islington. The next year looks positively intriguing for the Labour party. There may be bridges to be crossed and then built. There may be difficulties and complications just around the corner but then Labour should know what to expect. We wish a human rights lawyer named Sir Keir Starmer the very best. This could be fun.