St Andrews Day

 St Andrews Day

Across the moors and hills of  Bonny Scotland, they are celebrating St Andrews Day, a yearly tartan homage to everything that is quintessentially Scottish. They'll be dancing on the streets of Edinburgh, Glasgow, Aberdeen, the Firth of Forth, the Grampians, Dundee, the Highlands and practically every football team at the end of the Pools Coupon who wouldn't normally receive the kind of exposure or publicity at any time of the year apart from now. In Montrose, East Fife, Cowdenbeath, Queens Park, Inverness Caledonian, Queen of the South, Celtic and Rangers naturally, the eyes of the world are on Scotland.

Every year on the final day of November the good and noble citizens of the Scottish islands far and wide will abandon themselves to drinking, feasting, imbibing huge quantities of indigenous whisky, several tots of brandy and then jigging between swords at the White Heather club. Scotland will always be synonymous with Hogmany which ushers in the New Year and of course wild celebrations followed by several plates of haggis. 

But today the whole of Scotland will remember their most recent past; the persistent cries for independence from England, devolution and now continued involvement at the heart of any argument against or for Brexit. We love the Scottish bulldog spirit, the stubbornness in the face of any kind of adversity and just a fondness for producing one of Scotland's most finest poets Rabbie Burns. In a sense Burns is an embodiment of everything the Scots so treasure and will always do so.

My wife Bev and I paid a visit to a Burns museum in Dumfries a couple of years ago and the literature on display was truly priceless, beautifully written love letters, sonnets, poems and verses that genuinely came from the great poet's heart. We admired the man's enduring legacy for this was a man deeply proud of his identity and never afraid to express the depth of his feelings with a honeyed lyricism that may never be forgotten. 

But it's perhaps Scottish football teams who hold such an extraordinary appeal to those who barely acknowledge their existence and should know better. Scottish football has always been notoriously bad at times but then irresistibly brilliant when the mood takes them. Their now celebrated heritage has been well documented and extensively chronicled over the years and doesn't make for pleasant reading. Scotland were always the team everybody admired for a while during the 1970s and then allowed to fall into rack and ruin when the songs dried up and the boasts became nothing more than wishful thinking. 

In 1978 Ally Macleod became the face of Scottish football, a manager so blissfully deluded and overly optimistic that even his most neutral supporters would have advised him to choose alternative employment. The Macleod face during the 1978 World Cup Finals in Argentina was a picture of brooding melancholy, so desperately broken, sad and crestfallen that even his most sympathetic family members thought he should have taken the first flight home at the first opportunity.

At the end of a humiliating 3-1 defeat to Peru, Macleod buried his head in his hands in sorrow and just wanted a hole to swallow him up in the process. He grimaced in utter despair, the eyes sinking down towards the ground in gradual stages of suffering and inconsolable desolation. But Macleod was the one who confidently predicted with an almost arrogant assertiveness that Scotland would win the World Cup. And maybe he had a point because the Scots were valiant triers and nobody could blame them for lack of effort or purposeful endeavour.

Four years before, Willie Ormond had guided Scotland to their first World Cup Finals since 1958 but then struggled embarrassingly to beat Zaire before briefly redeeming themselves against Yugoslavia who themselves couldn't stop the mighty Brazil  qualifying from the group stages. The hosts West Germany would go on to win the 1974 World Cup against a criminally unlucky Netherlands in the World Cup but by now the Scots were back home contemplating the summer's Highland Games.

There were of course those notable landmarks in Scottish club football that could never be erased from the memory. Celtic and Rangers had always dominated the whole footballing landscape to the exclusion of any other top flight Scottish team. For decades the two Glasgow powerhouses would sweep all before them until Rangers fell from grace as a result of financial skulduggery and found themselves trapped into Scottish football's wilderness.

In 1967 Celtic set the precedent by becoming the first British club to win the European Cup, now the Champions League. Both the likes of Tommy Gemmell and Bobby Murdoch became the leading standard bearers and on a warm night in Lisbon both Gemmell and Murdoch would feature handsomely and prominently in a famous victory against Inter Milan of Italy in the European Cup Final.

Scotland of course, has always prided itself on its comedians, the most outstanding of whom was one Sir Billy Connolly, the man who came from the Glasgow shipyards and docks and carved himself into the Hall of Fame with the kind of outrageous behaviour that would become his trademark. Those of a sensitive disposition would be quick to dismiss the expletive laden vulgarities in his act as a sign of loose morals and little class. But Connolly, now sadly laid low with Parkinson's disease, will always be highly regarded as the most stunningly accomplished comedian Scotland have ever produced.

But for those who remember those days of yesteryear, Scotland was all about New Year's Eve and Hogmany on BBC One and ITV when British TV had to content itself with only three channels. There was Andy Stewart bedecked with tartan kilt and accompanying bag pipe players who would then be joined with much merriment and boozy laughter by various folk singers and general jollity, with Moira Anderson on the other channel. So to Scotland we hope you've had the most magnificent day and hope that St Andrews Day was just as warmly satisfying as it's always been.

Antisemitism out- peace in

 Antisemitism out- peace in

The white wintry mists of an early winter day were gathering en masse rather like the ghostly spirits of a haunted house. But this wasn't that kind of a day. It meant so much to so many people that you could have sworn that our faith in human nature had finally been restored. Of course we love our families and friends but here was an afternoon that demonstrated quite clearly that all is well in the human condition. We knew it was an auspicious day because around us over 100,000 people were of like mind and we were together under the same umbrella, the same mindsets and the same temperaments. It was an occasion like no other.

In fact by the end of yesterday afternoon the shrouds of dark clouds seemed to have been metaphorically lifted quite markedly. Here we were bound together by the ties of deeply uplifting solidarity and a real sense of moving camaraderie. We were Jewish and we were united in the midst of suffering and adversity, sympathy and empathy for our fellow Jew. We were proud of our lifelong Jewish identity, the belonging to a race and religion that never allows hatred, intolerance, prejudice or bigotry to ever interfere in the continuing quest for peace, reconciliation and mutual understanding.

We were Jews linked together in a common cause, devoted to our families, wives, girlfriends, cousins, aunts, uncles and those who just want to live together in harmony without being terrified in case bombs, gunfire and destruction wreck our gentle equilibrium. Of course this will never be allowed to happen in the United Kingdom because we are mightier and stronger than they think, a people who cherish their freedoms and privileges. 

Yesterday we witnessed a huge antisemitism march across London and the crowds were just immense, vast multitudes of singing, chanting folks, holding placards and banners, flags and messages of support and succour. Together we met in unison from all four corners of the globe or seemingly so. We emerged from Holborn Tube station in London's West End and walked towards our destination rather like pilgrims searching for the promised land. It would prove to be one of the longest if most rewarding walks we'd ever complete but it was worth every single minute of our Sunday afternoon. 

We met our adorable family, brother in law, sister in law, beautiful members of our extended families and we just kept walking. It seemed certain that at some point during the afternoon that an emotional outpouring of love would just engulf us rather like a warm blanket that embraces the soul. Complete strangers would smile at us in mutual appreciation and recognition. We didn't know them but for one glorious Sunday afternoon they were our kindred spirits. This was a relatable moment, a time for sharing good natured pleasantries and maybe a sweet slice of humour to break the tension.

At first we wandered towards the Strand where perhaps the whole world would greet us although that might be a ridiculous exaggeration. We finally stopped outside what looked like a sandwich shop and cafe, waiting patiently. The march was scheduled for a 1.30 start and, somewhat amusingly, we were still there at roughly 2.00. Now under the circumstances the delay may have been unavoidable since there were so many nationalities, religious groups and inquisitive observers who were just swept along by everything around them, that everything had to be timed to perfection.

So for roughly three quarters of an hour we were crammed together in a corner directly outside the cafe and hemmed in somewhat claustrophobically. There was a slightly disturbing pushing and shoving for a couple of minutes while others sorted out the confusion with orderly organisation being the operative words and intentions. There were those who were understandably concerned for our dog Barney since he was a pup and they probably thought this was just a leisurely walk in the park. Far from it.

Once we'd got going there was no stopping us. The Jews of the world came together and waved flags, banners, yelling out, pleading and imploring those who could hear us far away to bring home the Israeli hostages. BRING THEM HOME! BRING THEM HOME! they cried plaintively but forcefully but you couldn't be sure whether anybody was listening to us. Every so often we sung poignant prayers for those who were still being held in captivity, innocent civilians who were, we prayed, still alive.

And so we continued to slowly saunter along the Embankment, optimistic in our outlook and just unstoppable. Across the River Thames, there were faint spots of rain in the air, then a mizzle descending on us while the general greyness and bleakness of a late November afternoon hung over us mournfully. Still, we were alive and nobody was going to stop us. We could see the tall, commanding figure of Big Ben, recently washed and brushed up for the best part of what seemed like a lifetime. Here was the ultimate rehabilitation, a London tourist magnet that would always be a genuine attraction even when times were grim.

Then there was the London Eye, the new kid on the block, a wondrous piece of architecture that, to all outward appearances, does look like one of those giant Ferris wheels that you'd normally see at your local fairground but that must have accompanied the designer's thinking at the time. And then there was the Mother of Parliament, the House of Commons, now a murky outline on the landscape but still there after all those centuries.

 And finally last but not least there was the House of Lords where experienced veterans on the political stage now sit contentedly on their seats rather like learned and articulate lecturers who have seen it all before. They just love to pass legislation on anything the House of Commons may have up its sleeve. London by now, was overcast and drizzly at times but that did nothing to dampen any of our spirits. Then we just kept walking at our own pace until we eventually reached Parliament Square.

Here was our final rendezvous of the day. Whitehall had just been host to two successive remembrance services and once again we were in contemplative mood, honouring those who had been tragically killed on 7th of October, the Israelis who just wanted permanent peace as we all do. Eventually after a circuitous whirlwind tour of the West End we arrived at Parliament Square. Here voices were raised and the mood was even more reflective than it had been before.

In the distance there was a stage with musical instruments on it. An impromptu concert was about to be launched and the music drifted across Westminster comfortingly and easily across the capital city like a mini West End musical. The music would become our salvation because we knew this had been one of those days when any kind of mirth, laughter and merriment would have been totally inappropriate. They belted out Israeli songs with delightful conviction and purpose, they made their heartfelt speeches and they had the most substantial impact. It was a day for proud Jews to get together and announce themselves, assert their authority and just think of those who were not quite so fortunate.

You thought back to those historic wars and flare ups in the Middle East when Israel simply swotted aside those evil barbarians who just wanted to wipe out Israel for good. Your mind settled on Syria, Lebanon, Hezbollah, Isis and Egypt admittedly much further back in time. The sound of deafening gunfire, the thumping explosions that blew up schools, hospitals, homes and shops, the mad savages who tried to kill off all Jews wherever they were in the world, provided the most horrific soundtrack to our lives.

Deep down inside you is the admirable belief that one day man will stop being cruel, murderous, wicked, destructive and just plainly despicable. Of course it sounds like wishful thinking but having seen and heard all of those demoralised and grief stricken families, the beating of chests, the crying, whimpering, sobbing, the barely believable documentary images on our TV screens you'd be forgiven for thinking that humanity has indeed lost its way completely.

At the moment most of the world is paralysed with disbelief and shock, not knowing what to do next or who to feel sorry for. Israeli hostages are now being released into the outside world thankfully in gradual numbers but there is an over riding sense that there can still be no ceasefire. What on earth can Israel do if once any potential ceasefire may be declared, Hamas just send a relentless barrage of more rockets and deadly grenades that just flatten the whole infrastructure of everything Israel hold so dear?

We are now at a critical stage of this latest Middle East conflict and everything has to hinge on Hamas next moves, its cunning manoeuvres, its deadly intent once again. For this is the truth of the matter and any hint of a compromise from Hamas has to be now and immediate. From all the evidence we've seen so far this is not even a remote possibility so we may have to whistle in the dark.

You find yourselves helpless and beyond appalled at the severity and gravity of this now wretchedly catastrophic Middle East war. As a Jew you're bewildered, dumbfounded, gasping for those familiar responses to any kind of war. You will continue to observe Shabbat, the Sabbath, sit peacefully in synagogue(shul) at Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Simchat Torah, happily enjoying family seder nights of Passover during the spring. Pesach is  a time of rebirth and regeneration but at the moment there seems to be nothing to cling onto.

So every morning you privately pray for peace. You look across the holy capital of Jerusalem, Israel's most religious of all cities and hope that one day that nobody will wake up in their beds with the most horrific din of ammunition ringing in their ears. You long for the day when the dominant news agenda is not one of ruthless murder of the human spirit and when the generations of today and tomorrow can look forward to a positive future without fearing for their lives at every waking hour of their day. It is a gorgeous thought and one that has to be taken seriously.

Football at three o' clock on a Saturday afternoon.

 Football at three o'clock on a Saturday afternoon.

Crikey! What a revelation, what a very rare spectacle, almost an endangered species, something we'd almost forgotten about completely. There was a time when English and Scottish football used to kick off at three o'clock on a Saturday afternoon almost simultaneously, give or take five minutes in case there was a logjam of heavy traffic on the roads and streets around the football grounds. So then allowances were made and the general consensus was that it didn't really matter. Besides, Dixon of Dock Green on BBC One could wait for a while and the buses were fairly regular while the trains were utterly reliable. 

The fact is that the whole unvarying structure of the day would never be disrupted by some unsavoury event that couldn't really be helped but that was how things were back in the old days. We still knew where we were in relation to the rest of the world, huddling together on the seething terraces, standing and then sitting down in readiness for the thrills and spills, the high octane action, 90 minutes of fiercely competitive football that never disappointed. Of course we were familiar with all the game's nuances and cadences, its trials and tribulations, its entirely different set of notes and chords, its tribalism, its earthiness and its invigorating authenticity, the lows and highs, the goals that were or weren't or should have been.

But above all football would always start at three o'clock on a Saturday afternoon as regular as clockwork, customarily and traditionally, punctuality itself although who cared about that anyway. Nobody bothered to check their watches in case it was a couple of minutes late. Besides it was a lovely, warm afternoon in August or September or alternatively, a brisk, cold but beautiful afternoon in October, November or December and the seasons just seemed to merge into each other.

We would wake up on a Saturday afternoon observing all of football's hard wired rituals, its normal functions, its automatic reflexes, its familiar dynamics and acoustics. We'd get dressed quite enthusiastically, shirts, ties, coats firmly attached to our persona, rattles and rosettes festooning our coats and lapels, jackets and hats neatly stashed away in snug chests of drawers before heading for the front door. After a quick shampoo and wash of the car and a fleeting visit to the bookmakers to put on several bets on the horse racing, extended families would all walk towards our footballing shrines, yelling, cheering, biased and partisan. You'd have hardly expected anything else.

The stadiums were invariably situated next door to our shopping emporiums, huge, towering edifices that looked like monuments to time itself. Our grounds were slap bang next to our butchers, bakers and candlestick makers. They were right on the corner of corner shops, greengrocers, five minutes away from those supermarkets that would keep growing in size throughout the ages. Football was our non judgmental friend but our critical cynic who would just tell you to keep away from football on a Saturday afternoon because this constituted a major disturbance of the peace and those policemen would never tolerate those thuggish hooligans of the late 1960s and 1970s.

Essentially football was securely entrenched in the world of the working class proletariat, the folk who would clock off from their early Saturday shift before sprinting towards Anfield, Old Trafford, Highbury, White Hart Lane, Goodison Park, Brammall Lane, Hillsborough, Ayresome Park, St James Park, Highfield Road, Loftus Road and Villa Park. Football was their blissful escapism, that detachment from the every day realities of working life, a place where you could unashamedly unleash four letter expletives and obscenities without any self reproach whatsoever.

But everything was conducted in a fashion that almost became second nature to our parents and grandparents because this was the type of behaviour we'd been conditioned to for ages. Saturday was the weekend and therefore the perfect opportunity to slow down, winding down from the stressful exertions of work, forgetting supposedly tyrannical bosses we hated or maybe bosses we loved to do business with. Football on a Saturday afternoon was the day we were drawn together as friends or families at the same time, the same cafe, the same chippie and the same location every time.

Admittedly we still congregate together in unison since we always have and had done so. Our hair was longer in those days and our jeans much tighter than perhaps they used to be. In fact during the 1960s dad always seemed to wear formal, starched white shirt and tie with a clip and trousers that were dark or navy. Nowadays T- shirts with amusing messages emblazoned across them and trainers on our feet are very much the fashion of the day.

But football always kicked off at roughly three o'clock on a Saturday afternoon. You followed your team home and away, by long and short distances, patiently longing for that explosive release of dormant emotions that were so vitally important to us. Suddenly football grounds would bear an uncanny resemblance to rowdy trade union conferences, bearpits of fierce rivalries, huge political demonstrations where vast crowds gather together just to prove that they were there to see that championship winning victory on the last day of the season or just get their frustrations off their chest.

And so today those immensely popular British conurbations of Manchester, London, Nottingham, Sheffield  and Newcastle will play host to football on Saturday. These sentences may never be uttered for quite a while because the FA, in their infinite wisdom, has finally decreed that the last November weekend of the Premier League season should be reserved for football on a Saturday. The Kinks once extolled the virtues of this almost cherished day and time and how right they were.                                                               

How we find ourselves worshipping at the altar of Saturday football in the middle of the afternoon. We know that by this time next the probability is that we'll be forced once again to change the time of our social engagements and move our meal times to some random hour that may not be of our choosing. However, we'll still remember what it was like to be witness that occasional weekend throughout the football season when all is synchronicity, more or less a level playing field but then again why ever not. It might be worth considering doing this more frequently during the Premier League season. You'll never hear any objections from some of us. 

The assassination of John F. Kennedy

 The Assassination of John F. Kennedy.

Sixty years ago today a sobbing, heartbroken Walter Cronkite, America's most distinguished of all news readers and broadcasters, informed the entire population of the United States of America that their adored President John F. Kennedy had just been assassinated by a callous sniper with a gun that killed instantly. The shots were fired from a distant office building in Dallas and the perpetrator of the unforgivable crime was later revealed to be Lee Harvey Oswald, an evil ex Marine who thought he'd seek his fifteen minutes of notoriety and fame, achieving his objective with deadly efficiency.

A couple of days former American president Jimmy Carter lost his wife of 75 years Rosalind in a marriage made in heaven. But today marks a significant landmark in the history of American politics. In 1963 America fell deeply in love with Kennedy, a handsome looking man with immaculate hair, eyes, suits, shirts and ties with influential connections, a vast network of friends and, so we were led to believe, dubious acquaintances. The names of Carter and Kennedy may belong to an entirely different generation but the occupants of America's top job at the White House have certainly held our attention.

Even now 60 years later the memories of that tragic day still resonate with today's Americans, a day so heavy with loss and such unspeakable devastation that you'd be hard pressed to find any American who wasn't touched by one single event that would shape the country's future. It would lead to a whole sequence of explosive incidents that would revolutionise and antagonise the whole country. Kennedy though was seen to be the definitive answer to the problems that were rapidly tearing the American dream apart.

During the 1960s violent racism and divisive prejudice on quite the most disruptive scale, would make life for the poorest American citizens almost intolerable. When Rosa Parks chose to sat in a bus in all innocence, it almost felt as if the blue touch paper had been lit. Parks was black, bold and defiant, an ordinary member of the public who was simply minding her business and hoping to get anywhere without being bothered and troubled. But then she was approached by people who simply detested the colour of her skin and ordered to leave the bus immediately.  It was a seismic moment in American politics. Parks became an active and heroic figure who would now be portrayed as a freedom fighter, a radical voice.

The dark days of segregation and intolerance would continue to haunt the corridors of most American establishments. There were combustible street riots, aggressive fighting, gang warfare, bloodthirsty murders and frightening clashes of personality. By the time the late Martin Luther King made that famous, rousing speech to a transfixed audience of law abiding black people, the social and cultural shifts of power had become readily apparent. The dramatic assassination of Luther King bore dreadful echoes of Kennedy's horrific downfall.

But when a handsome young President came around the bend of a road in Dallas happily pondering on what he hoped would be a golden future for the United States, none could have foreseen what would happen next. Of course Kennedy fraternised with the Mafia and of course he mixed in the wrong company but who could have predicted what happened on that late November afternoon in Dallas? Kennedy, stylish car and motorcade in full flow, swept his hair for the last time, smiled warmly to his hordes of male and female admirers and then the crack of a shotgun's bullet from the top floor of an office window, rang out and hit Kennedy's back fatally? A nation wept uncontrollably.

We all know about Kennedy's very public relationship with Marilyn Monroe. Kennedy did like his women to be sexy and voluptuous and Monroe of course was no different. In a famous birthday celebration for Kennedy, Monroe sung the most flirtatious version of Happy Birthday ever heard. It was hard to know how besotted Kennedy was with Monroe but there did seem to be a chemistry between the two. Kennedy's wife Jackie was a massively supportive influence on her husband. However, you suspect that she wouldn't have been deliriously happy had somebody told her that her husband was sharing any time with Marilyn Monroe.

But it is fair to point out that very few Presidents have possessed anything like the infectious charisma and charm of John F. Kennedy. Today America is faced with the most limited choice when it goes to the election polls in exactly a year. For a number of years one Donald Trump, a failed then successful businessman with fingers in all kinds of unsavoury pies, dominated conversations in New York bars, cafes and restaurants. By the end of what some of us regarded as the most traumatic ordeal the country had ever known, Trump had amused and entertained us with some of the most hilariously worded Press conferences any of us would ever hear. 

Nobody had really noticed Trump's age at the time but here was an elderly veteran who should have been regretting and lamenting his busted businesses. But then the delusions of grandeur grew with every day. Then there were the diplomatic grenades that just blew up in our faces and left the charred remnants on the White House carpet. Trump then became the alleged, bumbling buffoon, Jerry Lewis's dotty professor and general oddball in a vast majority of our eyes.

For well over two years Trump trod on so many political feet that most of us thought we'd never witness such gross stupidity and banality again. Trump polarised and then lost favour with everybody who didn't agree with him. The American media thought Trump was some classical Dickensian character, a frustrated comedian and a loose cannon determined to cause havoc and consternation. The orange haired one seemed to spend most of his time compiling his one man comedy material for a nation who was convinced he was completely bonkers.

Finally Trump lost the election a couple of years ago to one Joe Biden, another man of very advanced years who now seems to struggling to laugh let alone be the leader of the free world. It is at times like this that you can only sympathise with a country that used to pride itself on its energy and dynamism, the face of youth that Kennedy had come to represent. There is an aching void here that may never be filled.

Perhaps America will one day wake up to a President who doesn't make tactless comments, deceive his country with reluctant admissions of sexual indiscretions and infidelities and then one who implores his country to pour bleach onto your hair in the face of a global virus. But sixty years after the most abhorrent of all political assassinations, we now turn to the quietly spoken Joe Biden as the current incumbent at the Oval Office and wonder if they'll ever have another Kennedy only without the assassination of course. America we salute you.

England edge past Malta in penultimate Euro qualifier.

 England edge past Malta in penultimate Euro qualifier

It almost felt as if time had been frozen, a real sense that not a great deal of any significance had happened which was indeed the case. This was a phoney war with the sound turned off and vision totally obscured by some imaginary obstacle. England did beat Malta in an anti climatic Euro 2024 qualifier that was so flat and lifeless that if somebody had revived this match you'd have probably wondered why they'd gone to all that bother in the first place.

In fact this was the most dreadful international footballing horror show you're ever likely to encounter. England have qualified for Euro 2024 in Germany next summer but you would never have known it. There was a moment last night when you felt ever so slightly sorry for the ball boys and girls, such was the appalling tedium on offer last night. Even Gareth Southgate, England's always respectable manager, would have been forgiven for a 90 minute sleep and some of the 80,000 crowd who were unfortunate to witness this ghastly shambles must have been longing for the final whistle.

It is hard to know why England find it so hard to summon up enough enthusiasm for these pointless exercises in futility. Their Euro qualifier group had been done and dusted while Malta looked like whipping boys ready to be punished for just turning up at Wembley. But the hardened cynics will insist that even though England had already established their destiny there was nothing to suggest last night that when they do get to Germany everything will be plain sailing and tickety boo. Sadly, England were in almost cruise control, snooze control, going through the motions and quite clearly anxious to get back to their cars before racing off at speed.

You remembered the story your late and wonderful dad once told you. After the Second World War, the legendary American comedian Jack Benny appeared at the London Palladium in London's lively West End. Benny, who had already made his name in the biggest comedy theatres, would stroll onto the Palladium stage before just staring at his enraptured audience with a blank and bewildered look on his face. What the public didn't know was that a stunned silence would last for the best part of 10 minutes or until Benny was ready to speak. 

That's pretty much how it must have felt for the assembled hordes at Wembley yesterday evening. They knew England were playing because the white shirts were about to perform. Benny used to simply roll his eyes and just wait for the right moment to launch his memorably funny act. England, for the best part of an hour, would just wallow in self indulgence, unsmiling, just content to move the ball around amongst themselves effortlessly in tight clusters and generally look totally disinterested. 

At no time during this stultifying apology for an international football match did England ever feel inclined to participate because everything that had gone before had rendered this occasion almost surplus to requirements. England did what they had to do and did it competently. Nothing though seemed to galvanise the national side into any kind of action. This was toothless, worthless, irrelevant particularly after England had scored their second and inconsequential. By the end of the game England were reminiscent of a crowd of sea side day trippers traipsing along the prom, whistling a merry tune and devouring candy floss with a portion of chips. 

By the time England had opened the scoring- which they hadn't since the opposition scored for them- most of us sensed that it wouldn't be long before hordes of patriotic England supporters would just converge on the Wembley bars and drink themselves into a drunken stupor. This would never be a case of drowning their sorrows but there had to be an alternative distraction to this messy dross masquerading as an international football match.

For most of the 90 minutes both Kieran Trippier, Marc Guehi, the superb Trent Alexander Arnold and Harry Maguire seemed to be metaphorically twiddling their thumbs at the back, defenders of class and assurance but you often felt that their idea of a Friday night would not have been the one they experienced against Malta. Once again Trent Alexander Arnold excelled, drifting perceptively into midfield every so often if only out of idle curiosity. Alexander Arnold is turning quite rapidly into a beacon of all round versatility and his display last night merited effusive praise.

But generally England spent most of their time against Malta, just gathering their thoughts, once again recycling the ball in ever confusing and increasing circles. There was a private fear that, given their vast majority of possession of the ball, England might have found themselves growing ever so giddy and dizzy with every single pass but the passing monopoly seemed to be getting them nowhere.

So we turned to England's stale looking midfield of the ageless Jordan Henderson, Phil Foden and the ever willing Conor Gallagher only discovering something they probably knew anyway. In front of them there was a formidable brick wall and they weren't shifting for anybody. They were missing Jude Bellingham who would probably have made a noticeable difference in England's waning attack. Bellingham is the new sensation, a 20 year old with the maturity and footballing intellect of a player ten years older than him.

True England had opened the scoring very early on but not from one of their celebrated ranks. Phil Foden, who once again looked commendably dynamic and influential in every area of the pitch, cut a low ball back across the Malta penalty area and Enrico Pepe, the hapless defender, turned the ball accidentally into his own net. 

It was at this point that the England fans must have expected the floodgates to open. Malta were clueless, out of petrol and ideas, completely lacking in any kind of imagination while all around them white England shirts were just keeping the ball like excitable teenagers about to paint the town red. They passed the ball with delightful accuracy and some intensity but then paused for breath almost indefinitely as if somebody had told them a lavish party was just about to get underway. There was a disturbing complacency about England which suggested that the job had been done and there was nothing left to prove.

Admittedly, England did increase their lead with a goal of exquisite execution but then perhaps they had presumed this to be their right. A lightning quick movement of  one- two passes between Foden and Kyle Walker culminated with a lovely and straightforward pass into the net from Harry Kane. It was a goal of honeycombed sweetness, a classic demonstration of impulsive artistry that was totally out of the character with the rest of the game last night.

And so North Macedonia await England in their final Euro 2024 qualifier and its business as usual. Germany awaits next year. England will continue to make giant strides towards something like the finished article that made France sweat in their intriguing World Cup quarter final in Qatar at the end of last year. But any more performances like the one Wembley was subjected to against little Malta and sooner rather than later the critics will be sneering disdainfully once again. Some of us will be hoping that England's stage fright at major tournaments will not get the better of them again. We can but hope. 

 

National Fast Food Day.

 National Fast Food Day.

We've always had those moments or maybe not but most of us have had that insatiable craving. You get peckish, you can't resist the temptation of biting into that elusive bar of chocolate when you're stuck out in the middle of nowhere and the sweet shop is quite literally miles away. So you then indulge in comfort eating, raiding your fridge for something or anything that can properly satisfy your immediate appetite. You're hungry, you've had a gruelling day at work, school or university and you're just stressed out. You need a gastronomic break, you'd give anything for a large packet of crisps, a small portion of chips or a sweet and savoury snack that keeps your hunger at bay and does the trick again.

Guess what everybody? It's National Fast Food Day, a day of super indulgence, pleasures of the palate, grabbing a bite to eat and just wolfing down something excessively unhealthy and induces feelings of permanent regret. If only you'd settled for a quick sandwich, sushi or a juicy salad. Now that would do very nicely. Only it won't be enough. You think you deserve a treat, a cholesterol delight, something naughty and full of calories and guaranteed to add several stones to your midriff. You just want a delicious burger and chips followed by a delightfully sweet smoothie strawberry or chocolate flavoured drink, and perhaps a chocolate chip biscuit just for good measure.

For as long as any of us can remember fast food has always provided with the most obscenely excessive amount of fattening calories, food so bad for you that if your doctor is informed about your hedonistic lifestyle then they may be inclined to give you one of the sternest warnings you've ever had. Throughout the centuries our tastes in food have become so remarkably diverse and eclectic that it's hard to imagine a time when anything was actually good for you.

During the 1970s we were suddenly confronted and spoilt with the ultimate in fast food. After years of fast food restaurant supremacy Wimpy was suddenly knocked off the top spot and its global domination challenged by a certain Ronald Mcdonald whose more popular brand name became Mcdonald's. Now to say Mcdonalds is a fast food phenomenon would be the greatest understatement of all time. Mcdonalds swiftly displaced both Wimpy and Burger King as one of the most satisfying meals for those in a hurry.

Suddenly, burger bars, fast food restaurants ranging from pizzas to a dramatic proliferation of yet more hot dog stalls and, more recently, Subways sprouted up all over the country. Here we were given the luxury of choosing  nutritious baguettes with all manner of flavourings, cheeses, turkey fillings, olives, onions, tomatoes accompanied by crisps and chocolate chip cookies. Fast food had never it so good although we were still embracing our favourite fast food meal of them all. It had been around for simply decades and ages but we'd always known about its warm place in our hearts and stomachs as one of the greatest dinners of all time. 

Fish and chips had always been regarded as the guiltiest pleasures of them all. Fish and chips shops were liberally sprinkled all over the United Kingdom from the local high street to the sleepiest village in the countryside where all the residents would converge on their chippie with a ravenous relish. Fish and chips had beautifully battered fish such as cod, haddock, skate and any other fish from the sea that just looked irresistible on the plate. So we devoured the said plate famished and ready to eat yet more given half the chance.

So there we are folks. It's National Fast Food Day, a day of divine decadence, mixed grill kebabs with lashings of sauce, thousands of chips and very little in the way of anything could be even remotely considered as beneficial to your waistline. And before we forget it should be remembered that Indian takeaways have always been regarded as spicy, hot but full of addictive nan breads, onion bhajis, curries, chicken masalas and all manner of sauces that set your tongues on fire relieved by jugs of beer and lager. 

Oh and then there's the traditional Chinese fast food fixation, a feast of rice, egg fried rice, noodles, chicken chow mein and a vast variety of good, old fashioned food that gives you that wonderful feelgood factor. So folks. It's time to ring your Deliveroo outlet and gorge on your delectable diet of the kind of food that would be otherwise forbidden if you were training for the London Marathon or hoping to be chosen as late candidates and participants in next year's Olympic Games in Paris. Go on treat yourself. Of course you'll put on tons of substantial weight and you'll be full of self reproach but this is not the time to blame yourself for the one food alternative that always leave us with the broadest of smiles on our faces. 

More Tory upheaval

 More Tory upheaval.

Most of us thought  we'd seen it all. When Boris Johnson was finally driven out somewhat shamefacedly from 10 Downing Street there was a private hope that we'd never see such blundering incompetence ever again in any form. Johnson was farcical, comical, seemingly oblivious to the outside world and convinced that everything which needed his serious attention to detail would have to be reduced to anecdotes about children's character theme parks. 

Then when Covid 19 finally departed our everyday news agenda and things had returned to some semblance of normality Johnson was once again exposed as a sham and charlatan. He fumbled and bumbled his way through another sleazy succession of cock ups, criminal misdemeanours, hesitation, feeble excuses, delaying tactics, lousy timing and just an embellishment of the truth. In other words he was a blatant liar. 

Eventually he was whisked into hospital with severe symptoms of Covid 19 and the nation was worried about the first Prime Minister dying while in office. But Johnson pulled through and just carried on with the business of standing by his Downing Street lecturn trying desperately to make head or tail of viruses, complex graphs, medical science and a global virus none of us could get our heads around. So he muddled his way through the labyrinthine complexities of the dreaded virus and expected the great British public to just listen, wait very patiently and at some point, things would get better if only very slowly.

Then a woman by the name of Liz Truss shoved aside Johnson quite unceremoniously and, just a touch, sadistically it might be said, and we all know what happened next. Truss, or so it seemed, quite embarrassingly, was Prime Minister for all of five minutes. But hold on that's an exaggeration. It was about a month or a month and a couple of days but by now a majority of us were despairing of everything connected to British politics. What is about politicians and their innate capacity to shoot themselves in the feet? Truss, we discovered, revealed a whole succession of dodgy financial proposals which were so shockingly unacceptable or feasible that she had to go and go quickly, pronto. In fact immediately. 

Yesterday the latest Prime Minister of the United Kingdom Rishi Sunak, who always looked as if he couldn't wait to get his hands to the keys for 10 Downing Street, did his own dramatic spot of sacking one of his Cabinet ministers. It always looked ominous for Suella Braverman since Braverman had so antagonised and infuriated Sunak that he probably had no alternative. Braverman was one of those ambitious careerists who felt the only way she could climb up the greasy pole to political power was by sneaking behind her boss's back and writing a damaging and derogatory newspaper article about the police. 

This morning Braverman was out on her ear and it was time to sling her hook. You know which way to go Suella. That's the exit door and out into the world of political obscurity she went. Earlier on in the year she'd compiled the most radical solution to illegal migration of people fleeing war and persecution. Send them to Rawanda. Now that's a good idea. How very inspired. There was no room at the inn in Britain and the accommodation would have been spartan and basic anyway. So off you to go to Rawanda and we want nothing to do with you.

For the next couple of months she stood her ground defiantly, enthusiastically supported Sunak's repeated mantra of Stopping the Boats at source and just became an annoying troublemaker. Yesterday she was attacked by the cynics who believed she was just a pain in the neck. She wrote her deeply hurtful and insulting piece to the Times newspaper and thought she'd shake everybody up again. 

What she may have overlooked were the consequences of her actions. Amid accusations of virulent racism and hate crime, Braverman was regarded as a loose cannon just waiting to go off. Yesterday represented one too many controversies. Today she was replaced by James Cleverly as Home Secretary. Cleverly is the bearded politician who may well be one of the few figures to emerge from this fiasco with his sanity intact and if anything an enhanced profile. This may be the right time for conciliatory bridge building with the Metropolitan police.

Now if this had been a TV sitcom you could have sworn this was the very latest development in the history of British politics. This morning David Cameron who used to be Prime Minister some time ago, today became Foreign Secretary but he committed the cardinal sin of disagreeing with Brexit and all its repercussions. Cameron was the one who stood by his principles and dug his heels in when the whole of Britain couldn't make up its mind about Britain's continued presence in the European Union. So when he lost a referendum that he knew would follow, he swallowed his pride and just admitted that he may have got it completely wrong.

So David Cameron, he of the Eton school privileged educational background, is back on the front green benches and you simply can't keep a good man down. With a year to go before a General Election in the United Kingdom the chances are that the Tories will have to get cracking on the pressing issues of the day because this doesn't look good at the moment. The Conservative party have been in residence at 10 Downing Street for 13 years and may have outstayed their welcome.

The game of political musical chairs seems to be getting funnier by the day. No sooner than one crisis seemed to have cleared then the Tories find themselves in another humiliating predicament. The truth of course is that the Prime Minister is running out of allies he thought he could trust and 13 years in Government is more than enough for those who are rapidly running out of patience.

You remember that iconic day when Margaret Thatcher left 10 Downing Street in a pool of tears as she ducked into the back seat of her Prime Ministerial car for the last time. Thatcher had trudged her way dutifully through 11 years as Prime Minister and was then the subject of the classic betrayal. Her gang of hitherto loyal Cabinet ministers had taken enough and couldn't bring themselves to back her again. So she drifted away into the night like a woman scorned and back into the world of critical observer from the back benches. For 1990 read 2023 although current incumbent Prime Minister Rishi Sunak may think that barring the most unlikeliest of scenarios, Labour leader Sir Keir Starmer may be walking into 10 Downing Street sooner rather than later.