Far East cruising holiday and travelling

 Far East cruising holiday.

We all know that travelling the world can not only broaden our horizons but it can also take you to far off distant lands that years and years ago would have probably seemed unimaginable. How often did we think that a simple journey to Majorca, Benidorm or the Costa del Sol, Costa Brava or Blanca would now develop into a thriving and highly lucrative tourist industry that could sweep us off our feet and take us much further than Spain or Italy?

We must have felt like pioneers or trailblazers because little did we know it at the time but, within the space of a couple of decades, the very concept of going on holiday abroad would undergo a radical facelift. Suddenly we were on another continent in another remote corner of the world where the time differences were entirely different and the locations were even more stunning than we could ever have dreamt of  in our imagination.

And so it was that my lovely wife Bev and yours truly have just returned from one of the most delightful, magical and spectacular holiday for many a year. Some of us were convinced that nothing could ever match the timeless Latin beauty and splendour of Brazil a couple of years ago but how wrong we were. It was our cruising holiday of a lifetime, a holiday that none of us would ever have believed possible way back then. 

We've come a long way since those halcyon days when both the BBC and ITV would give us a tantalising insight of packaged holidays to Spain that set us back the princely sum of £30 for 10 days in Majorca in circa 1974 with bed, breakfast, lunch and tea thrown in for good measure. And that included everything. As a kid you felt enormously privileged to be part of this great crusade, this exciting journey into the unknown. You were wandering around Luton airport at some unearthly hour with your lovely mum and dad and brother brimming with anticipation and wondering about what would happen next.

It only seems like yesterday since this wide eyed kid from a quiet suburb of Essex in Ilford would climb the steps of a Monarch aeroplane at breakfast time and embark on the most enthralling adventure into the Iberian peninsula. None of us knew what to expect and for a while it almost felt like some breath taking adventure into some country that you'd only heard about on elaborate TV advertising campaigns or the multitude of travel agency brochures available on the high street.

But then the likes of Cliff Michelmore on the BBC holiday programme or Judith Chalmers and Chris Kelly of the commercial ITV Thames channel would invite themselves into our living rooms. Chalmers and Kelly's programme was called Wish You Were Here but this had nothing to do with 1960s rock band Pink Floyd whose album title had exactly the same name. The Holiday programme and Wish You Were Here were our breezy introduction to Spain, our definitive guide book and learning curve into a world of fun, easy living and completely uninhibited enjoyment.

It was a world occupied by glamorous looking hotel bedroom balconies, pin ball machines in the main reception areas, warm sunshine that was guaranteed and the type of food and drink that none of us had ever seen let alone tasted. It was a world of bullfighting day trips, sangria tasting, excursions to caves, astonishing avenues filled with cafes, restaurants and bars, historic buildings in new territories and so much more. We were flabbergasted and once my mum and dad had settled my very young brother and your self by the hotel swimming pool, the day was our oyster to misquote another cliche.

And then it was that in your naivete and ignorance that you spent the best part of the day sunbathing in Benidorm, hour after hour of exposure to the unrelenting rays of hot tropical sunshine where the temperatures poolside would almost nudge 100 degrees Fahrenheit. By the end of the day some of us were red as beetroots or British post boxes, burnt as the traditional steak and crying out for soothing Calamine lotion that would reduce the severity of the pain our skin was quite clearly feeling.

In those days of course we had no idea how quaint and innocent those holidays were at the time. Some of us loved to swim for most of the day while my lovely dad would caress the discerning ears of the British tourists with a tape of Herb Alpert's melodious trumpet. We hardly moved at all from our position near the sun loungers which may have been accepted as the norm. From time to time, though we might have considered a gentle stroll around the local shops but then decided it was much easier to chill out and relax.

But almost 50 years later and our tastes and habits have changed to such a dramatic extent that even a holiday to Spain in May may be snobbishly dismissed as unadventurous. Now we have the disposable income to jump onto a plane or sail from a cruise vessel in the sure knowledge that countries like Japan, the USA, Brazil, Argentina, Australia and India are very much the fashionable di rigeur on our holiday itinerary.

We think nothing of travelling to exotic global locations where there are more palm trees than ever before and everything seems so much bigger and slightly overwhelming. The height of holiday culture and luxury is the Seychelles, Maldives, the Borneo rainforests, Bahli, the Caribbean, the Bahamas and Barbados, deserted islands surrounded by tea and banana plantations and former British colonies where the latest news may have to be relayed by the BBC World Service.

So with that thought in mind my wife and I left on our latest cruise vacation to the Far East, a place we'd only known as a result of revealing documentaries on the TV. We knew that the distinguished broadcaster, journalist and reporter Alan Whicker had opened our eyes up to geisha ladies wearing colourful kimonos and junk boats bobbing buoyantly by the quayside in some Hong Kong idyll. We were now living that dream, fulfilling it and then discovered that there was much more than met the eye. 

There were the local customs, the polite, deferential behaviour, the impeccable manners, the delicate tea drinking ceremonies and then the religious sanctuaries where everything was quiet, simple, undemanding, almost charming and, above all, immensely enjoyable as well as being insightful. There were the solicitous and attentively caring porters who carried our suitcases and bent over backwards to help us whenever assistance was required, permanent smiles on their faces.

My wife Bev and I landed in Bangkok on the first leg of our over a fortnight on the Norwegian Jewel cruise vessels almost beside ourselves with inquisitive natures and convinced that it could hardly get any better. For the best part of half a day we strode around the streets and roads of Bangkok and then just bombarded with glorious symbolism and mesmerising sights. But then we realised that it would probably have taken us the best part of the year to visit every single attraction that Bangkok had to offer and just absorbed everything and anything that made us smile and laugh. 

So there we were in Bangkok, taken aback breathlessly by bold, beautiful and eye boggling advertising hoardings, electronic interactive images that flashed and dazzled almost incessantly. Bangkok was simply a giant endorsement for everything that was commercial, instantly pleasing to the eye, immediately accessible and just gargantuan. The cynics might have called it vulgar, materialistic and garish but those were not the thoughts that entered our minds.

After a relaxing boat trip, we disembarked at another port for yet another river boat experience in the heat and darkness of another blissful day in the land of the mystical Orient. Wherever we looked there were the familiar red lanterns which will shortly be gracing the streets for the Chinese New Year. We proceeded to sail down a river helping ourselves to a lavish buffet. By now it all seemed barely believable but in the land of the rising sun we felt like honoured guests at some royal banquet.

And then there was Vietnam. The tragic catastrophes that have now befallen Vietnam are now well documented. There was the obscene savagery and bloodshed of the Vietnam war where much of the 1960 became the most horrendous killing grounds ever seen in recent history. We visited the famous tunnels of Vietnam where thousands of soldiers once hid with terror on their faces. We were told that those with any respiratory disease were not to be allowed or not encouraged to go into so we didn't. The one abiding image and sound of Vietnam of that first visit was that of the deafening gun fire and shots from a shooting range but this was beyond fascinating.

Our following day in Vietnam was dominated by religion. For most of the day we were guided around by gorgeous temples and seemingly hundreds of Buddha figures in gold. Now we were in chocolate box territory, our eyes transfixed by Buddhas decorating both inside the shrines and outside as well. Time was when this was the way it had always been for centuries. The fragrant smell of incense and joss sticks drifted past our sensitive noses, small tendrils of smoke curling gently into the air. We were then allowed to take as many photos as possible and the opportunity seemed too good to turn down.

And then it was the turn of Thailand, simply one of the most remarkable and memorable of experiences. Firstly it was another day of marvellous museums, more Buddha temples and thousands of tourists slowly immersing themselves in holiday paradise land. By the end of our day we thought we'd seen everything a holiday could offer but then one of the many outstanding highlights emerged and it was simply unforgettable.

Arriving in Phuket, our guide took us to some distinctly disappointing and underwhelming jewellery shop where quartz and diamond were displayed quite prominently. It felt like one of the most pathetic let downs of the holidays so far. Besides who goes all the way to a jewellery shop in Thailand when London can boast the ultimate displays of jewellery in Hatton Garden? But we persevered with Phuket because we knew what we were about to experience.

Just after lunch our coach stopped off an elephant sanctuary that just left my wife and I speechless with astonishment and wonder. A small group of elephants were just waiting for us to arrive and we knew would never let us down. There was Sidney, the baby elephant who stole our hearts, Grandma with her noble and imperious air and the playful Lucy who some of us wanted to embrace lovingly for the entire day. Now we got down to the serious business. Before we knew it we were mixing rice and chewy dough like substances and that's when we knew that nothing could ever match this sensation. And yet it did by a country mile. 

Soon we were being confronted with buckets of unpeeled bananas, thick sticks of sugar cane and everything to leave our elephant friends completely satisfied. These elephants were just ravenous but their appetites were simply off the scale. Every so often elephant tongues would loll out languidly and just swallow up as much food as it was possible to eat. This became a source of huge amusement to the visitors and we, as tourists, could hardly have believe what was happening to us. But that indeed had been a day to remember for the rest of our lives.

After a brief visit to seductively romantic stop off in Singapore, my wife specifically insisted we visit the famous Raffles hotel. Here many a classic author from the early 20th century had laid down their hats just to savour the rich baroque furniture, the marble columns and the restaurants that would probably have set you back a second mortgage had you thought about investing. There was the celebrated Singapore Sling, the poshest of cocktails, the five star treatment, the significant air of art deco and plush magnificence, the majestic history that now left us spellbound.

And then there were several more visits to Malaysia, exquisite Malaysia the one country in the world that some of us must have thought we'd never ever get to visit. This ticked off your bucket list of dreamscapes. Once again we witnessed yet more Buddhas but on one of our final days some of us genuinely felt as if you'd never again witness something that was so spiritually uplifting.

Lowering ourselves into a speedboat we sat down and then for whatever reason, raced at frightening speed across a river for a spot of island hopping. Now to say that some of us felt as our whole life force had been sucked out of us would be a gross understatement. You weren't quite sure how to react but at frequent points in our journey the top and bottom of your body felt like a washing machine being spun and bumped around at almost bewildering speeds. Your stomach was by now half way between Hong Kong and Japan but hey this was part of the fun. So we ventured to some forested adventure trail with thousands of steps where an elusive lake proved too far to travel. And then there was roughly half an hour on some sandy beach where we drank coconut juice. It sounds good, doesn't it and it was brilliant.

And then we were treated to what felt like the most amazing experience. We were now taken to the king's palace in Thailand. What happened to us next was entirely unexpected and wondrously surprising. Our tour guide had told us that the king of Thailand was about to go for a drive around his kingdom. So we were told to move to the side of this palatial building as King Abdul of Thailand glided serenely out of his residence in a small but perfectly formed palace. What an afternoon and what a day.

In a blink of an eye and finally there was the capital city of Malaysia. Kuala Lumpur means the river meeting mud and it was just a golden vision before us. We got out of our tour guide's car and stared up at  the kind of architecture that any other city throughout the world would be proud to be associated with. The Twin Towers is just the most extraordinary structure, a towering, glittering homage to wealth and finance. It was so tall and visually astounding that adjectives and metaphors would do it scant justice. Next to the Twin Towers were yet more buildings that soared beautifully into the blue summer sky of Kuala Lumpur, an Asian jewel that seemed priceless.

On our plane back to England we began to reflect on our cruise to the mystic East and were almost speechless. It was everything and more that we'd ever hoped it would be. At an airport in Malaysia we gathered our thoughts and out of the corner of your eye, dawn broke softly over the Far East. You reached out for yet more superlatives but then decided that life was and always would be sweet. 

National Healthy Weight Day.

 National Healthy Weight Day.

You know what's it like don't you? You wake up on the first day of a New Year and you take a long self critical look at your stomach, the midriff you believe is rapidly expanding every time you eat a flapjack, a bowl of muesli or the latest bar of chocolate that is supposed to be good for you but quite clearly isn't. So what do you do? There is a moment of self examination, a frustrated grunt of disapproval and then the guilt, the overwhelming guilt, the obsessive determination to cut out the carbs and then go on that legendary diet.

You beat up yourself mentally, reprimanding yourself severely, telling yourself off over and over again but it won't achieve anything because you're the one who got themselves into this state in the first place. You'd eaten vast quantities of Christmas turkey, roast potatoes, brussels sprouts, far too many tins of chocolate biscuits and sweets, eaten at least 10 Christmas puddings in just one afternoon and don't even get us onto the delicate subject of crisps and cheese and crackers. Here we have  everything relating to chronic cholesterol because that's just bad news and besides who needs that when pangs of regret are still gnawing at you? 

But what are you going to do about these raging, conflicting discussions on diet, exercise and stringent, disciplined and healthy eating and no more alcohol at least until next Christmas? You panic because you're suddenly confronted with so many private dilemmas. Do you just cut out bread, meat, cheese, full English breakfasts, fish and chips and pizzas for the rest of your life or do you slump despondently in the corner of your sofas and reluctantly accept defeat. That is the question why or so a literary giant by the name of William Shakespeare once said.

Now we've all heard about the art of moderation, finding that elusive happy medium of not eating so many heavy portions of food that just leave us feeling bloated and just eating the right amount. It's a difficult balancing act because although we blame comfort eating for our discomfort around the waist, we just love to reward ourselves for just the simple act of enjoying food and drink. But then after eating  seemingly excessively over the festive period we begin to think we've committed the ultimate crime. This has got to stop because if we keep looking for snacks in the fridge or that packet of peanuts which are surely harmless then things will get worse and the road to ruination can only follow.

So what to do? Yes let's think about that old chestnut. We'll take out our yearly subscription for the gym, the sweat factory, the exercise room, that clanking, metallic noisy sanctuary where the sound of heaving, growling and grunting, groaning and fiercely determined athletes let off steam. For decades now we go through that same familiar procedure. We empty our pockets of loose change, break into our accounts before embarking on that journey. It's time to get fit convincing yourself that the stones we've piled on almost inevitably over Christmas have to be removed immediately or sooner rather than later.

This is what some would regard as our customary vanity project. But surely not. We just need to feel better about yourself and if you get on that gym bike and rowing machine, those hundreds of dumb bells and machinery will strengthen the core muscle group in our arms, chests and legs. Before we know it, we'll all resemble Arnold Schwarzenegger at the height of his Mr Universe days as the most muscular man in the world. Get that six pack and that flat as an ironing board tummy before it degenerates into floppy flesh.

Oh but no this is just an urban myth. All of those remarkably popular gyms are just a smoke screen. There's nothing wrong with being slightly overweight and obese because all we need to do is stop eating these cheese and onion crisps at 9.30 in the evening. It's simple and straightforward. You will lose vast quantities of weight by the pound and stone, look like an Adonis, gorgeously proportioned, fit as a fiddle and ready to embark on several marathons around the world.

But the temptation is irresistible. Why kick those fast foods, drinking and smoking into touch since these are hard wired vices, things we shouldn't be doing but then do because we've always done this? Those cream cakes, Danish pastries, chocolate chip cookies and lashings of apple crumble with custard for dessert are just there on the dinner table and that buffet in a hotel has to be eaten in one sitting- the lot.

Then come the private concerns with our bodies, the desperate need for restraint, cutting out the sugary additives that are cunningly hidden away on the back of packets. There's the small writing which, if you look  properly will reveal that you shouldn't be consuming whatever it is that you must never eat again. Now we can't drink those Fruit of Forest bottles of juice because they're just overflowing with sugar, allegedly healthy saccharine. But we'll just accumulate the stones and pounds and we'll find yourselves wrestling with diet fads, reading recipes for healthy teas or suppers in newspapers, sticking to rigorous regimes and constant advice about eating more carrots, lettuces, tomatoes and cucumbers, plenty of vegetables and olive oils on our salads. It's enough to drive you crazy but it has to be done.

Eminent doctors, food scientists, nutritionists and educationalists are forever telling us that if we eat to bursting point we'll invariably end up at Accident and Emergency hospitals or clinics in the certain knowledge that you may have to wait ages before we're seen. The NHS and the unbearably onerous strain on their resources are just part of the news agenda. Soon they may never be able to cope anymore but  they did give us ample warning.

The experts are always telling us that we have to get out there and walk, run, swim, go to the gym, swim the Atlantic if possible. They accuse us of leading lazy, sedentary lifestyles and we refuse to exercise more regularly. They keep warning us about the dangers of over indulgence, of too many greasy chips, pizzas by the lorryload and an assortment of other fatty comestibles. We don't live in ignorance because the media advertising campaigns about physical health are now almost constant so let's be good to our waistlines. Or just an invigorating walk around the park a dozen times.

In a world where Alzheimer's disease, cancer and Parkinson's disease are now salutary reminders of our mortality and fragility, a healthy weight day has to be considered and acknowledged by all and sundry. We all need to look after both our mental and physical health because life is beautiful and the sanctity of life can never be overlooked. 

So let's get out there and just do those press ups, keep active, pre-occupied, take your dog for a walk and just enjoy the great outdoors. You've seen the campaigns so let's put it into practise. It's National Healthy Weight Day. The opportunity is there and let's seize the day as a gifted American comedian once said.

Liverpool move into the fourth round of the FA Cup.

 Liverpool move into the fourth round of the FA Cup.

Given their recent form it would have been perfectly understandable had Arsenal approached this FA Cup third round tie against Liverpool with both terror and trepidation. Two successive Premier League defeats at home to West Ham and away at Fulham had reinforced doubts and anxieties that none of us could have anticipated. But now Arsenal faced their first real contest of the New Year against a Liverpool side boasting a commendable crop of youngsters who would have had no knowledge of previous meetings between the two. The names of Kevin Keegan, John Toshack, Peter Cormack, Ian Callaghan and Brian Hall may just as well have been some historic throwback to them. Perhaps their parents might have informed them about their legendary exploits in detailed fashion.

The very mention of Arsenal - Liverpool has evocative echoes of three FA Cup Finals from yesteryear. In 1950 Tom Whittaker guided Arsenal to the FA Cup where they defeated a Liverpool side featuring Bob Paisley who was still a player learning his apprenticeship at Anfield. Then 21 years later Arsenal, under the quiet and studious Bertie Mee, who had been a well respected physiotherapist at the club, managed Arsenal to the first half of what would prove to be a momentous Double.

When Charlie George drilled a low drive past Ray Clemence with the crucial winning goal, Arsenal knew they had won one of the most entertaining of FA Cup Finals in injury time. The legendary Bill Shankly would enjoy more prosperous days with Liverpool with old First Division championships by the dozen but Arsenal had made one of their first conquests over a team whose attacking philosophies they would share from that point on. Allegedly Eddie Kelly was attributed with Arsenal's opening goal but the ball seemed to have a mind of its own and ended up crawling into the net. Steve Heighway, Liverpool's university educated winger, equalised Arsenal's opening goal but then George scored and then collapsed onto his back, hands outstretched to accept the congratulations of his Arsenal colleagues.

And finally 23 years ago Michael Owen, a young, coltish and energetic striker with all the trademarks of a typical Liverpool striker, scored the winning goal for the Anfield side after Arsenal striker Thierry Henry, Patrick Vieira and company had threatened to run away with the 2001 FA Cup Final at the Millennium Stadium in the Welsh capital of Cardiff. So football collisions between both Arsenal and Liverpool have always had a history and emotional resonance that went much deeper than met the eye.

Yesterday evening Arsenal once again lined up against Liverpool, primed and prepared for their latest battle of wits, an epic confrontation that almost had a classical feel to it. This time the whole appearance of both sets of teams would have led you to believe that both sides had just returned from a fancy dress party. Arsenal, in a  homage to the latest and most disturbing knife attacks in London, wore white shirts while Liverpool, for reasons best known to themselves, wore a brighter shade of purple. Sadly, both sides seemed to be at a loss to know why both the first half and second half had  followed completely different patterns, cases of mistaken identity perhaps or reversal of roles.

For much of the first half William Saliba, Declan Rice, Ben White and the unfortunate Jakub Kiowior had learnt the same lines, memorised them and then struck up the most idyllic of relationships at the back for Arsenal, defenders of immense authority and immaculate statesmanship. In the centre of midfield Martin Odegaard was proving once again to be one of the cleverest and most intuitive of all midfield playmakers, sewing together Arsenal's most impressive passing movements with poise and balance before smacking the crossbar with an early attempt at goal.

Then both Odegaard, Martinelli, Jorginho began to weave their own pretty tapestries with sharp, magisterial short passes in and around the Liverpool penalty area. But at some point it all became utterly predictable, beautiful to watch but somehow over elaborate. Arsenal built and then rebuilt gloriously constructed passing spiders webs around Liverpool but slowly and surely seemed to be achieving nothing of any substance. Kai Havertz should surely have been more decisive with his finishing when through on goal but contrived only to be hesitant when it mattered most.

As the match progressed it became more and more apparent that Arsenal, for all their pretty embellishments and silky one and two touch passes, were just heading down anonymous cul de sacs. To those who had seen West Ham erecting a monumental defensive barricade last week, shifting their battalions from one side of the 18 yard box to another, perhaps Arsenal would have been better served with the long, diagonal pass that splits defences and leads to panic. But you had to sympathise because fundamentally, Arsenal were playing the game the right way, expressing themselves with freewheeling fluency and abandon, a team with the perfect collective ethos.

Liverpool have been here before on so many occasions but have remarkably been on the wrong end of defeats to Arsenal on so many occasions that we may have run out of fingers. Joe Gomez and Trent Alexander Arnold were beefing up the flanks with stirring overlaps that, from time to time, sent shock waves through the Arsenal defence. Ryan Gravenberch, Curtis Jones, Conor Bradley and the dynamic Harvey Elliott, full of running and industrious headlong charges at goal, were all offering attractive and decorative touches and delicately skilful approach work in and out of possession.

With the sands of time running out for Arsenal and their powers of invention simply ebbing away, Liverpool grabbed hold of the attacking initiative and just took control. From a superb Alexander Arnold corner the ball was floated brilliantly into the heart of Arsenal's flummoxed defence who failed to pick up any Liverpool player before the hapless Gunners defender Jakub Kiowior stuck out his leg and deflected the ball into his own net. It was the beginning of the end for the home side.

 Then, after one of many lightning fast counter attacks, both Darwen Nunez and the ever influential Diogo Jota swapped two shrewdly executed passes on the half way line before Jota hurtled towards goal and then released the simplest of passes to Luis Diaz, now fully recovered after that horrific family incident involving his father, who simply took aim and fired home Liverpool's second and winning goal from close range.

So Liverpool are through to the fourth round of the FA Cup on a weekend which saw the Kentish orchards yield the ripest of plums when non League Maidstone beat Stevenage. The FA Cup has come a long way since those formative years of the public schools and universities. The names of Royal Engineers and Old Carthusians sound like ancient artefacts on an archaeological site but the FA Cup bandwagon rolls on relentlessly into its 21st century high tech age. Its magic will remain permanent.

FA Cup third round weekend.

 FA Cup third round weekend.

You do know what day it is tomorrow or, in a much broader context, the whole weekend if truth be told. Nowadays football has no specific time frame or any reference point. It could happen on the traditional, first week of the New Year and also on a Saturday afternoon. But that would just be an easy assumption since football, in recent times, now holds no recognisable kick off moment on our sporting itinerary. At some point all football supporters will have to rush through their breakfast of tea, toast or cereal and just be content with whatever their team are capable of producing on this day of days - the earlier the better.

Ladies and Gentlemen. It's the third round of the FA Cup and this is signpost territory for every professional team across Britain. From here football finds itself in completely alien territory, excited and perhaps even excitable since football has always aroused fierce passions. It is a day when the giant killers from the non League pyramid hunt down in packs and breathe down the necks of their supposedly loftier and superior brethren. Sometimes it has that wonderful capacity for shocking us, silencing us, leaving us dumbfounded and then leaving us mesmerised by its arbitrariness, the magical sense of the unexpected and then gasping with delight.

Because let's face it when was the last time the FA Cup had followed its original route and just stuck to custom and convention? Eventually the minnows and non Leaguers do accept their station in life and slip almost reluctantly out of the competition. But the FA Cup does know how to surprise us because the proletariat should always know their place. The little guys should just stick to their day job and never challenge the status quo since the Premier League monarchy always end up with a diamond encrusted crown on their heads.

But tomorrow the carpenters, builders, labourers, hod carriers, supermarket shelf stackers, post men and women, milk men and milk women, plumbers, mechanics and park keepers, combine their collective talents and just believe in the improbable and, often, impossible. They clock off from their factory gates, take off their boiler suits and knuckle down to the task in hand. They will know their place in the hierarchy because the FA Cup does occasionally get too big for its boots and sneers disdainfully at the part-timers, the tradesmen and women, the ones who always get up at the crack of dawn and just graft away industriously.

We all know by now about those well documented FA Cup giant killers, the minnows who boycotted the odds and refused to listen to all the alleged pomposity of the Premier League. But we love the Premier League and we stump up second mortgages for season tickets at Liverpool, Manchester City and United, Arsenal, Spurs, Chelsea and all of those aristocratic socialites who always think they know better than the rest.

So we'll all get up tomorrow morning and just scan the sports pages of our newspapers in case we've missed the latest developments in the transfer window. Then we'll notice that a vast majority of its coverage is devoted to those painters and decorators, the landscape gardeners and electricians who are the very lifeblood of football's heart, lungs, kidneys and blood cells. They're the ones who just want to be in the bag for the fourth round of the FA Cup and never hog the limelight because nobody notices them anyway.

But we know all about the magical and romantic nature of the FA Cup because those are the perennial themes every time the FA Cup comes calling and rolls into town, city and market stall around England. Of course there are no candle lit dinners to be awarded to any of the players whose wives, girlfriends or female companions fancy an early Valentines Day present. There is always a comfortable sense of democracy among football and the FA Cup. The fans, devoted supporters and lifelong loyalists are an essential part of this whole weekend's landscape because without them the game would be played in some haunting vacuum. 

So strap up for the great emotional roller coaster ride  that is invariably generated by the FA Cup. Its enduring air of mystique and mythology are now safely embedded in its rich history. Nobody feels left out when the FA Cup turns up on the doorstep of some lovely recreation ground next to a an allotment site or some non League outpost that just sits happily on the peripheries of the game. And yet they'll always feel warmly included  and embraced on third round day because the FA Cup is football's level playing field, their day, their place and their time.

Many of us will recall  the little clubs and their wondrous achievements when everybody had written them off as no hopers. There was Sutton, now a League Two side but back in 1987 they toppled Coventry City from their FA Cup perch. Coventry, of course, were a top flight team at the time but Sutton laid lethal gloves on their high society betters and knocked out the Sky Blues with the most clinical of punches. In 1948, Yeovil, guided by the cheerful and always upbeat Alec Stock, stunned the football world by beating old First Division Sunderland, a major force at the time. In 1973 Sunderland's Bob Stokoe galloped onto the old Wembley pitch overjoyed at his old Second Division team overcoming another formidable foe in Leeds United who were flying high in the top flight with Don Revie.

Wherever you go this weekend for your feast of FA Cup football be sure to take with you a plentiful supply of idealism, optimism and just a thought for those who may think Wembley is just a North London suburb with an arch and nothing more. But you never know. The FA Cup plays strange and mysterious tricks with your imagination and by the end of this weekend this could be a day to remember for eternity. It may be your team's memorable season. We're about to find out.

Wonderkid Luke Littler

 Wonderkid Luke Littler

In all of the diverse fields of art, culture, science and politics there are thousands and millions of talented people with a natural aptitude for excelling at what they do best. Every year the Nobel Prize bestows the highest award to the one person who simply stands out and is highly regarded for being a world class performer whose achievements should be recognised as the finest. In other words they are just outstanding and have to be respected.

Within the last couple of days a Cheshire born 16 year old darts player by the name of Luke Littler has blown away the opposition at the PDC World Championships at Alexander Palace, North London. He did so against a backdrop of stunned astonishment and wide eyed disbelief. The exuberance of youth is well and truly alive and the latest sporting prodigy has emerged from seemingly nowhere. In a world dominated by Instagram, Tik Tok, X or Twitter and Facebook, Littler belongs to a generation of fresh faced youth and a figure who carries his responsibilities around him like a mature and seasoned professional.

Back in the early 2000s another 16 year old made his winning Premier League debut and little did he know at the time that he would emerge as one of the most phenomenal of goal scorers for club and country. Wayne Rooney was a child of nature, hungry and ambitious, focussed and driven, ferociously committed to the cause and scorer of  goals that none will ever forget at Everton. Goodison Park would always remember the great ones such as Dixie Dean, Joe Royle, Graham Sharp and Gary Lineker, players capable of causing absolute wreckage and consternation among opposing defences.

During the 1980s a German tennis machine by the name of Boris Becker treated all of his opponents with all the destructive contempt that he felt they deserved. Becker was a 17 year old tearaway teenager who, on one memorable day in a Wimbledon Final, charged and lunged at every drop shot and cross court volley. Then there were the rasping drives down the tramlines against the esteemed likes of John Mcenroe. It was one of the greatest and most riveting of all Grand Slam tournament Finals that many had ever seen. In the end a rapt Wimbledon crowd had been spellbound by what they had seen and Becker had narrowly defied the odds with victory.

And then you remembered Luke Littler and wondered where you'd seen it all before. The critics and traditional cynics have always dismissed darts as just a pub game once engulfed by white cigarette smoke and then washed down with several breweries of lager. For decades now darts has tried desperately to escape the snide, malicious comments, the jokey wisecracks about its dubious claims to sporting excellence. In fact there are those who believe that darts is about as physically demanding and athletically competitive as bingo, dominoes or shove ha'penny and that's after only one game.

But with that bristly chin and a coltish adolescence on his side, it hardly seemed possible that a kid from Cheshire who looks as though he might have stepped out of a sixth form high school prom had just given his all at perhaps the most high profile and biggest tournament in the world of darts. Maybe he had just shaved and spruced up for the big occasion. Sometimes we can only sit back and admire those who dare to challenge the experienced, the mighty fallen by the little known.

Darts though has confounded all the doubters, the sceptics, the comedians who just sneer and giggle at its preposterous silliness, its boozy followers and general foolhardiness. There are far more compelling spectacles than darts and besides how does the throwing of tungsten arrows at a board with numbers around it constitute sport in any of its myriad forms? Anybody can chuck at a dart at a board. It isn't rocket science and there can be no intellectual and artistic pleasure to be gained from a game played in an alcoholic establishment. But hold on there are enormous amounts of money to be made from darts.

When the late Eric Bristow and Jocky Wilson strolled onto the oche in a vast hall or leisure centre in a major darts tournament it was commonly assumed that most of their supporters were just blotto, drunk out of their skulls and intoxicated by its alluring charms. Both Bristow and Wilson were excellent exponents of their trade, fingers beautifully poised, eyes like hawks, pictures of intense concentration and deeply hooked on their favourite pastime, sport or game. 

And then there was Luke Littler who has taken darts by the scruff of its neck and shaken it to its core. He had done so at the birthplace of TV broadcasting, the home of TV's very first black and white flickering images. Alexandra Palace, although a grand and venerable building, may find it hard to believe that somebody so young has stared directly into the eyes of history and remained undaunted.

Tonight Luke Littler finds himself on the brink of a truly remarkable achievement, a semi final against Rob Cross. Alexandra Palace will be at its most animated, excited in the extreme and barely able to contain itself for a night of raucous cheering, vocal encouragement ratcheted up to the highest level and ready to acclaim its youngest hero. The glasses will tinkle, high energy drinks swallowed by the many, packets of crisps doubtless consumed in huge quantities and infectious good humour will reverberate around this famous London venue.

Of course darts will have the snarling sceptics and those who continue to bombard it with relentless mockery and barely concealed derision. Darts should never be considered as a sport or so they tell us and belongs very firmly in the bars and old fashioned saloons of the world. It should always be accompanied by the green baize table of snooker and that's where it should remain. 

But tonight a 16 year old Cheshire teenager will endeavour to reach the final of the PDC World Championships of darts and we shall remember Eric and Jocky while still celebrating the breath taking accuracy of Phil the Power Taylor. For some of us the jury will continue to be out on darts continuing relevance as a sport if indeed that be the case anyway. But Luke Littler will don his purple silk shirt, grin and smile rather like the youngster who has just passed his driving test and then discovered that the world is his oyster. Best wishes Luke Littler. This is your moment.

New Year's Eve

 New Year's Eve

So here we are. It's the last day of the old year and a New Year beckons. The slates have been wiped clean, the doors will be shut and then open again for business when Big Ben in London strikes as resoundingly as it always has done for as long as any of us can remember. Of course there was that lengthy five year of silence in Westminster when time quite literally seemed to stand still for reasons that have now been painfully documented and have now been consigned to some medieval bin of history never to rear its head again.

All across the world champagne bottles will be popped, toasts will be raised and then the yearly pyrotechnical extravaganza will burst into the sky. The now stunningly colourful fireworks display by the Embankment on New Year's Eve has become an almost permanent fixture in the calendar. There were two years when there was neither sight nor sound of a Catherine Wheel, rocket or sparkler since the coronavirus had brought the whole of Mother Earth to a grinding halt and nobody was allowed to do anything celebratory of any description.

But here we are on the verge of 2024 and we're all being tactile and affectionate, cheerful and optimistic, clearly aware that nothing should be taken for granted. The huge crowds will gather in their enthusiastic multitudes huddling together as kindred spirits, pulling up the hoods on our coats, rubbing our hands together and wondering whether peace and goodwill will ever break out in the New Year. Sometimes it really does feel as though we may be whistling in the wind and just breaking our New Year's resolutions as soon as Big Ben has rung twelve times so dramatically.

For some of us the diagnosis of Autism was something of a mystery in 1962.Throughout your youth  you muddled your way through all of the festivities and joyous parties that were going on all around you. There was never any sense of detachment or isolation because, quite frankly, you had no idea what was going on inside your head nor had your consciousness been heightened by anything out of the ordinary. Of course in hindsight your behaviour was totally irrational, embarrassingly immature and just anti social in every possible way. 

As a young male, teenage years and adolescence were about to become so traumatic, problematic and challenging that it hardly seems possible that it could have happened but did. Your lovely mum and dad would prepare themselves for their yearly dinner and dance on New Year's Eve and nobody really questioned the status quo least of all me. You wished them the most enjoyable and satisfying of evenings and just got on with the traditional duty of looking after my brother who was six years younger than me.

So after seeing off my parents and wishing them a happy and healthy New Year, my mum would polish off the sweetest snowball, an alcoholic drink that seemed so relevant to the times. It was either that or a Tia Maria and that heralded the beginning of another year. My responsibility was to baby sit my brother and make sure that everything would run smoothly and uneventfully. So we sat down to watch the TV and while kids of my age and generation were abandoning ourselves to boozy bacchanalia and carefree enjoyment, my evening consisted of nothing of any consequence. There were no friends of my own age, nothing even resembling partying or dancing the night away and the evening just disappeared in a puff of smoke.

Suddenly you found yourself trapped in a no man's land where everything that should have been happening was just one missed opportunity after another. You didn't know it at the time but the realisation became obvious that the social network you should have established had become totally oblivious to you and nobody knew of your existence. Sadly the early 1980s were just a desolate hinterland with nobody to trip the light fantastic with me and share hilarious jokes and pleasantries with.

Now it was that you were introduced to Ilford B'nai Brith, a Jewish, vastly influential and global charitable organisation with charming and hospitable people who gave me that warm sense of belonging that will never ever be forgotten. It was a life changing moment that turned my life inside out and for much the better. By Christmas 1983 you had now become totally accepted as part of the family and it may have been that same New Year's Eve when you were invited to a party that was conveniently situated around the corner from where you used to live. These would become lifelong friends and your cup of gratitude would overflow.

You can still see yourself at first slightly wary and nervous at first, reluctant to make any kind of small talk or conversation with anybody. But once introduced you began to feel at home and comfortable. We would turn on Capital Radio, a London based pop music station, and all around me were people sitting on the floor, drink and food in one hand while those who preferred to simply stand, just stood around casually chatting and exchanging humorous observations about anything and everybody. 

It would be a while before you found yourself drawn into a world that had been so feared and ignored. Shortly, small private discussions would flow and the inhibitions began to fall away. My interest in writing had yet to be fully ignited properly and a cheesy poem about Summer would be the harbinger for greater literary efforts in years to come. But that was the year that changed your life, giving it shape and purpose, a body and framework, hope and structure. Where before you had struggled to cobble anything in the way of a coherent sentence or a purposeful paragraph, now there was clarity and creativity.

And so it is that along with my lovely wife Bev, always loving, glorious family, my rock and wonderfully supportive we'll be quietly celebrating New Year's Eve with several bags of crisps, a drink or several and just all the warmth and love you could possibly wish for. We must wish for a year that can guarantee peace, good health, happiness and just being open to all channels of communication because without that valuable resource, war may always be the insuperable obstacle that may never be overcome. So wherever you are tonight on New Year's Eve enjoy the company of the people around you and let's be good to each other.  A Happy, Healthy, Peaceful and Sweet New Year to you all. Oh of course welcome to the world our first grandson Arthur. We love you deeply little man. And the same to you King Arthur.

General Election next year

 General Election next year

As the old year draws to a close it's time to look forward to the New Year. Once the resolutions have been broken within hours of the first day in January it'll be time to analyse next year's General Election prospects which, if you were to listen to some of the experts and pundits, could be as early as next May. But this is not the time for hasty forecasts since no-one can possibly predict anything with any certainty. The fluctuating fortunes of the Tory party have become more or less a standing joke in recent times and still the nation awaits some credible opposition from the Labour party.

It could be said that Labour are simply putting their feelers out there, dipping their toes tentatively into the raging current of British politics. For the last couple of years we have endured the trials and tribulations of a Conservative government who have simply stumbled and staggered towards nowhere in particular. It didn't help when they were confronted by one of the deadliest global viruses ever to visit any of us. But then again none of us could have anticipated such an endless succession of grave announcements, death and heartache, suffering and grief on such a monumental scale.

But now we have the year of 2024 within our sights and politics is about to undergo the most gruelling session of arguments and counter arguments you're ever likely to witness. We'll have one yah boo sucks discussion after another as both the Tories and the Labour party engage in the grubbiest game of mud slinging and recriminations in the recent history of British politics. Maybe this has always been the case anyway but the fact remains that the government would seem to be heading for the most comprehensive drubbing of all time and even the market research polls that will be compiled in the months leading up to the General Election won't be able to save the Tories.

Within the next couple of months of 2024 they'll be going at it hammer and tongs, threatening, promising, guaranteeing, reassuring and then determined to do their utmost to ensure their party will lead Britain to everlasting glory and prosperity. It is without any doubt the biggest con of all time because we've heard it all before. Wool will be thrown across our eyes and quite frankly we'll fall into all the usual traps. We'll all be subjected to tedious conversations and impassioned rants about how much damage will be done if you vote for them rather than us.

So far Rishi Sunak, our helpless Prime Minister, is so convinced of victory in the General Election that a terrible complacency will set in and the air of presumption will just turn into outrageous arrogance. At the moment Sunak looks rather like somebody on a high wire trapeze circus act balanced precariously and knowing that he'll just breeze through it all to the other end of the wire. To some extent this is one battle the Tories may find it impossible to win since the country has had enough of double dealing, deceit, Punch and Judy shows, tomfoolery, hypocrisy, betrayal, smart alec talk, bolshy rhetoric and manifesto proposals that are bound to end up with people revealing egg on their faces.

So within the next month all three mainstream parties consisting of the Tories, Labour and Lib Dems will set out their stall and just whole heartedly canvass the public for their votes. At times it may just become so repetitive and boring that some of us will just turn down the volume, switch off and ignore them because this is their customary behaviour and things will never change. The result of the General Election will not be the one we were hoping for, since we were duped, sold down the river, and tricked into believing all the wrong type of hype. 

For the next couple of months, politicians of all parties will be pounding the pavements of our local neighbourhoods, knocking on doors, becoming soppy and sentimental because it's surely time for a new government and besides you have to trust us because you know you'll get to love us in time. All of those well intentioned and respected constituency members will take out their clip boards and note pads, smile simperingly at the Great British public and hope that deliberate brainwashing works.

It can't be denied that Rishi Sunak's Tory government have been put through the traumatic mill ever since 2019. When Boris Johnson was elected as Prime Minister some of us probably thought he was worth persevering with. He could hardly have done any more or less damage than his predecessors and besides Margaret Thatcher went through hell in her last years at 10 Downing Street. So this was just the accepted norm before every General Election. But this has been more than a long and winding road. It has been quite the bumpiest of thoroughfares for the Tories with so many pot holes and dreadful bungling that it could get ugly and unsightly for Sunak.

Already Sunak has been at the centre of one domestic row after another. He was entrusted with the responsibility of sending those fleeing persecution from war back to their own country. The whole migration issue has now become a full time pre-occupation for the Tories and before you know it, they may run out of boats and that'll be an even greater source of frustration. Then there's the crisis of living narrative where those in poverty may have to struggle even more desperately to feed themselves. Surely we haven't got to such a critical point but this is the reality we have before us.

It does seem that everything the Tories have got up their sleeve will just either fizzle out or just blow up in their faces. Every Christmas highlights the parlous plight of the homeless and those who are destitute, isolated, broken hearted and despairing. The sight of cardboard signs imploring enough money for a cup of tea and those dirty blankets, paint a picture of a London that tries to acknowledge their presence but then just can't think of any long term solution. The General Election may though prove the Tories ultimate undoing.

So here we are at the end of 2023 and who on earth in their right minds would want to become a politician with the right ideals and visions? Sir Keir Starmer, Labour's flag bearer supreme, will be hoping that his brand of confident and progressive sounding politics will just be too good for the  Conservatives. But then we remember the late Michael Foot and then we look at what happened to poor Neil Kinnock. Foot was just a scruffy, dishevelled figure who wore the wrong kind of duffel coats at Remembrance Day services and Kinnock presented the image of some King Canute figure who tried to hold back the tide along side his now sadly late wife Glenys and then just tripped over his own feet.

You find yourself wondering whether Labour can ever once again achieve a complete reinvention within the space of perhaps six months. All of those years of posturing in the wind and grand, rousing Socialist speeches never looked that impressive. Tony Blair did find a resurrection in 1997 when Labour romped home to victory but after a decade or so in power the shine lost its lustre and Blair quit. He did though leave a favourable legacy where education uttered three times did seem to benefit.

These are intriguing times and we love a good political thriller. After 13 years of Tory management or mismanagement whatever your angle may be, something has to give and probably will. Most of us are totally disenchanted with any one party in power because once they've been in power for about a month, everybody just gangs up on them somewhat amusingly and tells them that they're useless and their uncle and auntie could do a better job at 10 Downing Street.

What we have now is a familiar scenario that precedes every General Election year. Do we stick or twist? Do we continue to have faith and confidence in a party that thinks it knows best but quite clearly struggles to string a coherent sentence together that we may have heard a thousand times before anyway. Do we have to listen to the constant blathering, the orange crate speeches from our so called MPs who get so excited that none can either hear them properly or wish they hadn't bothered in the first place? 2024 could be the year when Labour finds its bearings again and charges triumphantly towards the finishing post or we just turn on the Tories in exasperation when things go wrong. This is a hard one to call but some of us privately know the outcome of the next General Election or at least we think we do. May the best party win next year.