The new football season

 The new football season.

There used to be a time when the new football season in both England and Scotland was warmly anticipated rather like a picnic in the countryside or a day at the seaside or some luxurious holiday  around a hotel swimming pool. Perhaps a lazy beachside retreat next to a turquoise coloured sea would set you up very nicely for the new football season in August. It was timed to perfection rather like a stopwatch. 

For fans who supported teams in the lower divisions, there would be an ever present dread and foreboding, a sense that there was no point in hoping for anything apart perhaps from a decent League or FA Cup run. In the Premier League, though, the algorithms and statistical data would mean something entirely different. You somehow knew that the season would be accompanied by loftier standards and expectations. There remained a real possibility that you might but probably not win any conceivable silverware but there was nothing new about that.

So here we are at the beginning of August and the new club kits are being prepared, washed and cleaned thoroughly. Both the home and away shirts look in pristine condition, preparations are under way for the great pilgrimage to every Premier League, Championship, League One and Two club and dad will iron out the creases of those retro shirts that occasionally date back to when Kevin Keegan or Clyde Best were but teenagers.

But every season, football becomes more and more trapped in a dizzying merry go round of financial madness and rampant materialism, a billion pound operation that becomes so money crazed, greedy and acquisitive with every passing year that you can hardly bear witness to this moral abomination. For year on and year we look aghast at a transfer window so obsessed with its million pound addiction that you somehow wish a rational speaking figure would just get hold of the game and shake it to its senses. 

And therein lies the enduring dilemma. In the old days when football was played against a sensible backdrop of pounds, shillings, tanners and old sixpences, football was pure, unblemished and grounded. It was a game, above all, free from corruption, endless vanity projects and players who were only worried by the size of their next country mansion and those gravelled driveways groaning with the latest Jaguar or Ferrari model. 

Of course, the traditionalists can vividly recall the decade which completely lost its wherewithal, its ability to look no further than the price of footballers, their marketable potential and maybe their capacity to perform in some outlandish reality TV show. They long for the days when Tom Finney, the Preston plumber, simply played football for fun and pleasure rather than the extra digit on his wage packet  which became as much an anachronism as the tram, trolley bus or the rationing of butter after the Second World War.

Still, although there's only a fortnight to go before the much reviled and despised referee blows his first kick off whistle of the season, there is much to look forward to despite the crass expenditure of wildly inflated footballers who still believe that they're genuinely misunderstood. But then you look at the game's outside influences, the dubious chairmen and those spivs whose only objective is to make a quick buck and then make as much money out of the deal as seems humanly possible. It is hard to look beyond football's darker boundaries since this seems so disreputable and unpleasant. 

And yet in two weeks time Premier League champions Liverpool will open their defence of their title with hopes shining in abundance and the usual suspects such as Arsenal, Aston Villa, Manchester City and Chelsea snapping at Liverpool's heels. Next week, FA Cup winners Crystal Palace meet Premier League champions Liverpool in the Community Shield in the customary curtain raiser to the football season.

Even now you can visualise the yearly build up to the start of the season. Groundsmen and women will be painting fresh coats of white onto new touchlines, goal-lines, nets will be lovingly installed on opposite sides of the ground and vast terraces swept and cleaned rigorously. Behind the scenes, legions of fans will be dusting down their cashless cards and phones where tickets of the day will be sold via a QR code or the yearly guarantee of the conventional season ticket. 

It all seems a far cry from the days when you marched confidently into the South Bank at West Ham United and then passed what seemed like a full paddock of horses with stern looking policemen gripping tightly onto their reins. The opening day of a new football season was like the beginning of a school term since in many ways you didn't quite know what to expect. You were familiar with old acquaintances but hadn't a clue how your team would fare throughout the season. 

You then squeezed your way through creaking, rusting and decaying turnstiles and then wandered out onto the hugely populated terraces and seats. At first you were awe stricken at the sheer size and volume of the ground even though it was still empty. Still, you stood there stoically on that famous day in the middle of August surrounded by vocal and vociferous kids with scarves amusingly tied around their waist. Some were still wearing the Adidas T-shirts of 1970s vintage while others were weighed down with several burgers and hotdogs dripping profusely with tomato ketchup.

You now took out the much cherished footballing literature of the match programme. Way back in the distant past, football match programmes consisted of a couple of A4 size pieces of paper with just a couple of notices for future matches and the obligatory advertising of local timber merchants or tyre companies. But your programme was your passport into a world of fantasy and imagination. Perhaps 90 minutes of sheer escapism would provide the most delightful of all distractions and, quite possibly, a victory for your team if they were in the right mood on the day. 

From late summer and right through winter, your feet would be constantly subjected to the ever changing climates. Through sun, rain, wind and snow, you simply didn't care because it was just good to be alive and still is of course. You were watching your team and who cared if they were thrashed 5-0 on a Saturday afternoon since this was the rich tapestry of life. You could read your team's body language from the kick off. Of course every team who visited West Ham's old Upton Park ground would lick their lips and salivate at the home's team's reckless and cavalier attacking style. West Ham were simply easy to beat, fallible and gullible, vulnerable and fragile when their defence was frequently broken into with consummate ease. 

But here we are at the beginning of August and the summertime revelries will soon be replaced by an autumnal cavalcade of brown leaved colours, the endless family picnics in parks now a distant memory, the outdoor pop concerts a barely audible guitar and family parties joyous gatherings that once gravitated into the garden before going back into the kitchen for a while. The ducks and geese will fly back over well cultivated fields and thousands of residential rooftops before soaring over beautifully medieval churches and peacefully idyllic panoramas. It is still very much  a microcosm of your life because it only occupies a small place in your weekly itinerary.  

Football will always have its natural place in the grander scheme of things and will always have the most important value and currency. It is of course obscenely expensive and unbearably repetitive at times since the Beautiful Game is virtually a seven day sporting event. Premier League games are now spread out over an entire weekend and the rest of the fixture schedule is a random manifestation, matches taking place on both Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays and, now ludicrously, on Thursdays.

Still, football fans really wouldn't have it any other way because it's in their bloodstream, their natural conditioning, their lifestyle and mentality, the way they organise their lives throughout the weeks. So, come on everybody, let's celebrate life and usher in the new football season. We would never have it any other way. Step aboard the fluctuating roller coaster of ups and downs that is the football season. It's football and we'll be there for them at every possible moment. You may be sure we will.    

It was 59 years ago today.

 It was 59 years ago today.

It happened 59 years ago today but it almost feels as though it happened yesterday which is clearly not the case but it is a date now firmly buried in the past, drifting hauntingly into the mists of time. There is a sense here that, for one day only, time literally stood still, that the entire population of England had joined together in one mass celebration of one event that has yet to be emulated  at any time since. Maybe we will get it right one day and quite, cynically, pigs will fly and the Loch Ness monster will be spotted at some completely unexpected moment.

Sadly, the truth is we are still here, patiently waiting, overcome with disillusionment at the Beautiful Game, beating ourselves up over something that had nothing to do with us and yet consumed with frustration and humiliation. Football has always played havoc with our innermost emotions, toyed with our delicate sensitivities, taken us on the most difficult and uncomfortable journey into nowhere. But, 59 years ago England achieved its most definitive of all achievements. The England men's football team won the World Cup in dear old Blighty. Yes, 1966 was the year and, of course, you were there to witness it. 

Some of us though were probably running around our loving parents garden or jumping into rain puddles or just making the most formative of all discoveries as a two year old child. The fact is we were totally unaware of the magnitude of the day, its iconic importance, its cultural meaning, its mind blowing profundity, its powerful resonance, the sense that something epic had taken place without any knowledge about its far reaching repercussions.

Of course we are now only a year away from the 60th anniversary of England's only ever World Cup victory and that's really painful and deeply embarrassing. It probably wasn't intentional and maybe we had no control over the speed of events that just raced past our childish sensibilities and  got lost in the translation. Maybe, bizarrely, we had no idea what was going on at the time. But for those who have now been suitably enlightened since that wonderful day in July 1966, this is a time for rose tinted nostalgia and reminiscence. 

There are times during our lives when we look back with fondness at the days when things worked out for us like a dream, ambitions were fulfilled and we would never forget where we were when they happened. And so it was Sir Alf Ramsey, that most repressed and phlegmatic of all football mangers who suddenly realised what all the fuss and commotion was about. For it was the late England manager who just sat there on a Wembley bench after the final whistle had gone for the end of the 1966 World Cup Final and just stared morosely into the middle distance, stunned and dumbfounded. 

While Harold Shepherdson, England's likeable and personable trainer, simply exploded off the bench like a Guy Fawkes firework, Ramsey just sat there as if somebody had just told him that he'd been sacked as England manager. The truth is that, while towels were being flown into the air and players were sinking to their knees in both fatigue and disbelief, Ramsey was slowly wrestling with a reaction that should have been so easy to express at the time. 

Perhaps Ramsey could never rationalise with how the day unfolded since everybody else was convinced that England would win the World Cup because we were fated to win it. So England had won the World Cup and, in isolation, it was the most exhilarating day in England's well documented sporting history. Besides, we had won the rugby union World Cup at the beginning of the 21st century so why was a football World Cup so beyond us. We'd won the cricket Ashes, the men had hitherto never won the men's singles title at Wimbledon but that could be rectified. 

So where were you on that spectacular day on the penultimate day of July 59 years ago. Were you discussing the possibility that one day the Beatles would record that celebrated and most innovative of all albums Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. We were probably wondering if anything could get any better after Hey Jude, Yesterday, Sergeant Pepper's, Please, Please Me, I am the Walrus, Love Love Me Do, Get Back, Back in the USSR, Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds and a whole art gallery of the great and good in popular music at the time. 

Maybe you were simply washing the car or dusting down your World Cup rosettes or banners, flying flags of patriotism and finding out much more about your identity and your place in the greater scheme of things. You might have just allowed the whole day to just go over your head, ignore the occasion because you couldn't stand football. But that day we established a relationship with the global game of football that none of us could really understand. 

There was Bobby Moore, the emperor surveying his defensive empire and gloriously inspiring to the rest of his colleagues. There was Jack Charlton, tall and imposing as a lighthouse at sea and just as visible. Bobby Charlton, Jack's brother, was just magnificent, here, there and everywhere, ubiquitous, battling for the ball, gliding across that vital central midfield area like the most graceful of ice skaters. There was Martin Peters, ghosting into positions like a man who we thought we'd seen and then just turned up like the most welcome of visitors at our party. 

Meanwhile, Nobby Stiles was at the back of the English defence, scampering, scurrying, gallivanting, gritting his teeth and tackling as if his life depended on it. Stiles was tough, tenacious, combative, abrasive, no nonsense, energetic and just concentrating on the task at hand. Stiles epitomised Englishness, whole hearted, committed, driven, no holds barred, in your face and ready to spill blood for the cause. Stiles jigged around the Wembley pitch when victory was England's to have and hold and then skipped around the national stadium as if somebody had guaranteed him a place at a university. 

Then there was Roger Hunt, an infuriating pest of a striker who kept running and dragging his persistent German markers all over the divots and green acres of Wembley's slowly deteriorating pitch. Hunt was the man who was convinced that Geoff Hurst- now Sir Geoff Hurst's sharp turn from  Alan Ball's nicely floated ball into Hurst's path did result in a legitimate goal.

 As we all know now, Hurst's shot rapped the bar and came down over the goal line. Or did it? The so called corridor of uncertainty rendered most of us confused and completely baffled. Hunt threw his arms into the air to acknowledge England's third goal but then, after a frantic session of West German arm waving, our friendly referee pointed to the centre circle. It was, officially, England's third goal but only after much remonstrating and objecting from West Germany. 

And then there were those last minutes of the the 1966 World Cup Final, almost a sub plot in itself. As the last minutes ticked down inexorably, two England players seemed to be pleading for the game to finish. When Bobby Moore calmly almost nonchalantly trapped the ball on his chest in his own penalty area, Jack Charlton, launched a cannonade of salty but good natured obscenities and ferocious invective. Charlton was not best pleased with Moore's deliberate attempt to slow down the game.

Moore promptly lofted a juicy peach of a ball over a now static West German defence straight into the path of his West Ham team mate Hurst. Hurst, shepherding the ball towards his feet, began to run like the clappers, puffing out his now drained cheeks and hurtling towards goal. With only the goalkeeper Hans Tilkowski to beat, Hurst pulled back the trigger and fired the fiercest of shots that could have ended up at Wembley Park Tube station.

But, joyfully, the ball bulged the back of the net and England were football World Champions for the only time in their history. And yet if Alan Ball had had his way, Moore's perfectly threaded pass would have been directed at Ball, whose desperate cries for the ball were rapidly ignored. Hurst wanted his hat-trick and nothing would get in his way. The hat-trick was in his possession and nobody would begrudge Hurst of his crowning moment of glory. 

Finally, England were declared World Cup winners of 1966 and the after match joshing and hilarious stories would proliferate by the many. Jack Charlton sunk to his knees as if barely believing the evidence of his own eyes and then ventured onto the Central Line Tube station. Worse for drink by now, Charlton would confidently head for a random house in Leytonstone, East London and kindly ask the family whether he could spend the night sleeping on their settee. Oh to have been a fly on the wall. 

Then the players, wives and girlfriends would gather at the Royal Kensington Gardens Hotel for a joyous dinner and dance celebration. Now a dilemma made its presence felt. All the wives and girlfriends were immediately separated from each other albeit temporarily. It must have felt like the ultimate insult to the delighted girls but then it was a different era and this was just the accepted norm.

The following day, everybody came down for a bleary eyed breakfast and both Bobby Moore and Geoff Hurst were photographed reading the Sunday papers. Nobby Stiles, by now back out on the road home to Manchester United, decided to stop off at a motorway service station for a hearty plate of egg and chips. You could hardly have blamed the rest of the England players for just a brief period of intoxication because downing a brewery of beer was the least the players deserved. 

Meanwhile in the Geoff Hurst garden all was normal service. That Sunday morning, the West Ham and now victorious World Cup winning England striker, just took everything in his stride and proceeded to mow his lawn with his trusty lawnmower before whitewashing the family fence. It was as if nothing had taken place the day before and the old First Division season had started a couple of weeks before it was due to begin. But you couldn't tell that to Moore, Hurst and Peters.

And now 59 years later, the painstaking wait continues. On Sunday, England's women won their second consecutive Euros tournament with a teeth clenching victory after a nerve jangling penalty shoot out. The men, of course, must have reflected very deeply on their obligations and responsibilities. Next year, they will be expected to bring home their trophy. It'll be World Cup year in the USA, Mexico and Canada and the boys have been ordered to win what would be their second World Cup. So be ready and waiting. If you could only just eliminate those terrifying nerves and conquer stage fright on the big occasion, then it should be plain sailing. No problem what so ever. 

But we are talking about England and, for all their woes and travails during the 1970s, 80s and 90s, England still have that invitation to rock and roll on World Cup Final day. It's another day and yet another opportunity to erase the misery of disappointment after yet another helping of the same old story of defeat and setbacks. Forget the near misses of Euro 96 in England, the World Cup semi final defeats in Italia 90 and Croatia in Russia 2018. This is a clean slate and fresh start and the whole of England will be privately hoping that, 60 years after that momentous day at the end of July, jolly England can do what the girls did with such wondrous aplomb and almost without blinking their eyes. Come on England, you can do it. 

India hold the ace cards against England in the fourth test.

 India hold the ace cards against England in the fourth Test.

By the time stumps had been drawn at Old Trafford to end Saturday's proceedings it looked as if England had grabbed the initiative against India in the fourth Test. But then somebody decided to throw a spanner in the works. India were clearly not finished with England and there was unfinished business to be dealt with. Sometimes Test cricket can be so wildly unpredictable that even the most straightforward of all contests can become very complicated. 

England were stacking up the runs like a hod carrier on a building site who keeps piling on brick after brick before deciding that enough was enough and the load is far too heavy. England had reached a mammoth total of 669 all out and that in itself looked a decisive and match winning margin of victory. So it was that at some point during this most extravagant first innings mountain of runs, that India would have been forgiven for throwing in the towel and were now ready to surrender. 

At Old Trafford, they can still hear the voices of yesteryear echoing through the years. Somewhere in the ether, they can both see and hear the likes of Jack Bond, David Lloyd, Clive Lloyd, Faroukh Engineer and Harry Pilling whispering words of encouragement and support for today's England. It is a fond thought but one that remains just an unspoken fantasy. Still, it was Old Trafford and, deep in the heart of Manchester, they still know a lot about the purities of English cricket. There is a strong emotional attachment to the England side in the fair county of Lancashire and the affection for the game persists.

Yesterday England attacked and then flung themselves into the game with wild abandon. There was a brutish brutality, an air of swashbuckling confidence about them, a riotously rampant England committed to wanton destruction, a bloodthirsty and bellicose intensity that at times looked unstoppable. In the distance at Old Trafford, you could imagine the fast train flashing past this most traditional of grounds and imploring England never to declare. Keep going England, let your mighty sixes and fours go free. Breathe deeply and just exhale. It's time for fun, freedom and runs, runs, runs, shots, shots, shots.

And indeed classical shots were very much order of the day, lofted to all four corners of the Pennines, over the Peak District and right into the heart of some distant location where the red ball could never be found. This was the currency of the day for England. If a ball was to be hit, then why hang around and retreat into their shell where caution and prudence might have been considered and then dismissed. And then there was Ben Stokes.

Ben Stokes is England's now deeply loved and respected English cricket captain. With ginger beard bristling with menacing intent and heart on his sleeve, Stokes was in no mood for leniency and clemency, an unforgiving figure who was determined to go on the warpath. He was in no mood to show any mercy whatsoever for an India side who were clearly steaming and sweating in the mid summer sunshine. Stokes, at one point, gazed into the warm Lancashire sky and thought he'd found a star in the ascendant. 

Stokes was brave, formidable, inspirational, a bold, cool and calculating figure, ruthless to his fingertips, leading from the front as perhaps you'd expect him to be. In another era, one Ian Botham can still be seen, a man seemingly gripped by the occasion, contorted with ecstasy, bounding down a Headingley pitch, wickets held  high, triumph glistening in his wide eyes as Australia were ripped to shreds in the 1981 Ashes. What a year that was and English cricket will forever be grateful for this pivotal moment in the history of the game.  

But yesterday the cream of England's greatest batsmen unfurled the most colourful of banners with a ruthlessly professional and devastating cutting edge. Joe Root clubbed the most stylish and scintillating of centuries, only departing the crease when he was at 150. It could have been far worse for India since Root pulled, hooked, and reverse swept the ball to all four corners of Old Trafford with just a smattering of sixes. And then Ben Stokes notched up his century for England as if to rub salt into India's festering wounds, eventually ending up with a handsome and gritty 141 much to the delight of the England fans.

India, to their eternal credit, did look threatening at times but after being bowled all out to a seemingly  meagre 358 all out but the contest ebbed and flowed back in England's favour. India were then faced with an uphill battle as captain Shubman Gill threw the strategic dice about, tinkering and tweaking with tactics, scoring a dogged 52. This though was not nearly good enough for an England team who could clearly see the chinks in the vulnerable India armour. 

Sadly though, Jasprit Bumrah, bowling with vivacious swing and seam that nipped back to a number of confused looking batsman, was but a helpless onlooker. Now it was that England's crack unit of bowlers began to assert their dominance. Chris Woakes found movement in the air and a ball that seemed to be behaving too disobediently for India. Woakes took vital Indian wickets at crucial times, while Liam Dawson contributed a healthy 26 before being skitttled out with a straight ball that kept low and was fast enough to send him back into the pavilion.

For England though, this was another yeoman and upstanding performance from Harry Brook again, with Ollie Pope as the consummate player who never disappoints when his country comes calling. Ben Duckett and Zak Crawley were always forceful and fiercely competitive while the backbone of the English attack never looked like cracking. 

By Saturday evening, India were facing the music, trailing by 120 runs but more than capable of a remarkable recovery from nowhere. Somewhere at Old Trafford, the trains were still rattling past the ground as if scenting a miracle. This match will go to the wire, with both England and India playing the most enigmatic game of chess. And Test cricket finished on a Saturday evening, a captivating game of cricket which either side can win and where the men who have followed cricket so hardily in these parts, will remember exactly where they were as the winning stroke is acclaimed by boisterous English throats. Oh to be in England when the last days of July herald the final chapters of the cricket season. It is always sweet. Life is always sweet.  

National Motoring Day.

 Cars from a non motorist perspective.

So there you were this morning, starting up the engine of your car, thoroughly checking how much petrol you've got left in the tank, finding out whether your car is ready for an MOT and then realising that it needs a good run out to the country and seaside. The car has assumed an almost spiritual significance to us throughout the decades because without it, we'd probably wonder why it wasn't there. A car was essential for family excursions and working up in town if you could find adequate parking spaces. Nowadays we'd be lost without a car in a way that would have seemed hardly credible during Victorian times. 

Way back at the beginning of the 20th century, horse and carriages, landaus and cartouches would trot merrily around the streets of London, clattering away melodiously, blissfully unaware of the fact that this would be our only means of transport. At the turn of the 20th century, you'd have been regarded as slightly barmy and a figure of fun had you suggested that the complex mechanics of the family car would dominate our thoughts. Then there was the internal combustion engine followed by these vast jalopies. 

Nowadays everybody has got an Audi Volkswagen, a member of the Ford family, Toyota, Datsun, a Kia Sportage, Fiat and a nice little runner from the Vauxhall Astra clan. Then there's the legendary Robin Reliant, notorious for being perhaps unreliable and laughable at times. Mercedes was always my late and lovely dad's preferred choice of car because it was big, sleek, aerodynamic and well designed. 

Above all though it was National Motoring Day, a day for petrolheads, as some affectionately call them, the motor, four wheels, your status quo, your class statement, your social position in the great hierarchy. If you just happened to have two sports cars, a Rolls Royce, a Daimler and a Bentley, you were rolling in wealth and highly esteemed by those with a considerable amount by those in the know. It is a day for the new registration plate on your car, to flaunt our latest model to our friendly neighbours. 

And then there are those who have in their possession at least ten cars in their gravelled driveway, a couple of vintage cars from the 1930s and some stunning chrome work, spray painted to perfection. If you're a lord of the manor on some opulent country estate, then you're probably spoilt for choice. Then there are the F1 cars, the grand prix Red Bull and the cars that fly around the F1 circuit in both Europe and the rest of the world with a highly valued chassis and carburettor and can do at least 200 mph around winding and thrilling chicanes and hairpin bends. 

But way back then, cars were always luxury fashion statements only affordable to the hoi polloi or the affluent elite. They stood in car showrooms or outside, gleaming radiantly in the sunshine with neither a scratch nor blemish. So you approached your local car salesman with wide eyed anticipation, carefully examining its potential, inquiring about its age, road worthiness and how many miles it does to the gallon. Then the negotiations and discussions would follow before the said salesman told you quite honestly that it was impossibly expensive, criminally extortionate and not quite the car you were looking for. 

But wherever you look nowadays, that huge network of motorways, B roads, roundabouts, junctions, hard shoulders, busy main streets and meandering country lanes provide the familiar backdrop to our everyday lives. And then there were the chronic traffic jams that stretch back for ages. As a non motorist, you find yourself helpless with sympathy for the predicament that is the bottleneck,  that immobile procession of cars, lorries, vans and buses that simply look statuesque. They say patience is a virtue but it does look like an unenviable daily ritual and none that you would be tempted to engage with. 

Still, there are arrivals and destinations and once you've adjusted the Sat Nav or, possibly, the Atlas road map, you slow down to 20 mph and discover yellow grids. Driving on, you're confronted by a forest of those celebrated red and white cones with sandbags draped over the top of the cones. Cars are forever competing against each other in some bizarre race to find out who can go the fastest. They sprint down the M1 or the A1, topping almost 80 or 90 mph before slowing down from time to time just to make sure that they're heading in the right direction.

Then wide lanes of vehicles begin the whole process of darting and weaving from slow to fast, desperate to beat any obstacle that may look insurmountable. So my dad, on our way to Southend or Westcliff, would lean his elbow quite casually on a comfortable spot, flick away the ashes from his faithful cigarette and proceed almost naturally closer to the coast. It may have taken him goodness knows how long but this was just a temporary hindrance and besides there was no point in complaining. 

The fact is motoring has undergone a major revolution and evolution throughout the decades. Of course it has because we might have taken cars and motoring for granted. It does make travelling from A to B so much easier and far more pleasant particularly if you have to be on time or just in a hurry. Cars are extended members of our family, the massive saloon car or the Land Rover more suitable for safaris or treacherous journeys where mud can often be a pain in the neck if you're at the end of your wits. 

Then there are the well air conditioned coaches that take you out into the middle of England, the Lake District or the Cotswolds, historic castles on the hill and museums for all. There are the vans occupied by rock musicians with all the necessary equipment. And we mustn't forget the unmistakable Eddie Stobart lorries loaded with all manner of  paraphernalia such as sofas, chairs, tables, rocking chairs and every imaginable piece of domestic furniture. 

But today is National Motoring Day folks. A vast majority of the global population drive cars for both pleasure and of course work if you happen to live within sight of your office or warehouse. You remember your dad's almost lifelong passion and sigh lovingly and reflectively. How my wonderful dad would wash his grey Ford Cortina as if sluicing bathroom tap water on his face.

So if you've woken up to the morning to the sound of your purring car in your garage, your day will be complete.Then you'll turn on the ignition, look behind you, gradually reversing out into the road, smiling with enormous satisfaction. You'll test the brake, manoeuvring gracefully into the road or street before moving into first gear effortlessly. You may put your foot on the accelerator just to show off to your neighbours again.

Wherever you're going today, whether it be the local supermarket, garden centre or cherished visits to aunties, uncles or cousins, cars are ready and waiting for you. They are remarkable testaments to longevity, sometimes still going after years and years and a mechanical masterpiece into the bargain. They have lived with you throughout your adolescence and never let you down. On second thoughts they may have broken down annoyingly and required the services of the AA. But be sure this is National Motoring Day. So fear not. Your motor is in impeccable condition, so it's time to hit the road.    

Keep on rocking Jeff Lynne's ELO.

 Keep on rocking Jeff's Lynne's ELO.

It's only a couple of weeks ago that Jeff Lynne's announced his withdrawal from his last ever concert at Hyde Park. He did so because he knew he was fighting a losing battle with a broken, damaged hand that would never be fit enough to perform with a guitar that became his essential livelihood and therefore Lynne's ELO wouldn't be able to perform before their  thousands and millions of loyal fans. 

It was with immense regret that Jeff Lynne had to cancel what he promised would be his swansong, his final bow on a major stage, a group of men who had established that warmest of rapport with all those who'd followed his band all over the world and enjoyed the most fervent hero worship. For the aficionados who had suspected the worst before the concert last week, this may have been an even more bitter blow. But sadly this was not to be and, of course, we all send the speediest of recoveries to this remarkably modest singer, musician, innovator, pioneer, prolific lyricist and song writer of the highest quality. 

For well over five decades now the Electric Light Orchestra have wowed their audiences with songs of the most avant garde originality, startlingly poetic lyrics and the kind of imaginative instrumentation that few of us had ever seen or heard. They have travelled the world, broken down all of pop's occasionally one dimensional barriers and then given us both visually stunning graphics and futuristic science fiction optics. Their stage performances and dazzling stadium appearances will continue to linger in the memory for ever. 

After a happy childhood growing up in Birmingham, Jeff Lynne was always single minded, fiercely driven and motivated. He knew he wanted to be famous, a celebrity rock guitarist with a freshly conceived and executed approach to the pop music industry. From his earliest days with Roy Wood's the Move, Lynne tells the story of how, waking up one morning, he told his mum quite emphatically that he never again wanted to be subjected to the toil and drudgery of a job in his local factory.

He was now proud to declare that he was now a musician with hundreds and thousands of pounds in his pocket and would never have to observe the tedious nine to five routine of mundane work again. So his mum agreed and that was that. A star was born and some of us were convinced that works of art were about to be portrayed quite magically and simply. Of course there were the dark days of traumatic setbacks when the dream had to go on the back burner but eventually by the end of the 1970s, the ELO became one of the most distinctive and recognisable bands throughout the world.

And then overnight we were suddenly aware of some of pop music's broadest of canvases, the most astonishing revelation ever seen at any concert venue. The Electric Light Orchestra were a brilliant profusion of double basses, huge cellos, a massive ensemble of colourful violins and keyboards whose acoustics  provided an extraordinary accompaniment to Jeff's lively vocals. All around Lynne were a thousand sounds, dynamics and, increasingly prominent space ships of the most kaleidoscope range.

So the ELO had arrived with a vengeance, a stupendously ambitious musical project in every sense of the word. We must have felt enormously privileged to be associated with such ground breaking music. There were the masterful albums and singles, a gold and platinum plated global record phenomenon without any equal. And yet there was Lynne, a thickly bearded, denim jacketed, guitar man with so many key chord changes that at times it was all very fantastically bewildering.

When Mr Blue Sky was first played on every radio station throughout the world, we knew we were listening to something quite remarkable, a rock and opera masterpiece that took the commercial mainstream pop world by storm. Nobody believed you could possibly produce a single that encompassed everything that was so inventive and unique that it would blow away all the contenders.

 Mr Blue Sky took rock music by the scruff of the neck and revolutionised both the structure and content of any 45 vinyl single that had been released up until that point. It followed the developments of the British weather and an aching yearning for a permanent summer sun even when the greyness of winter had hung over him for so much longer. To a conventional hard rock theme throughout, Lynne created fairground effects, dramatic violins of the most classical kind, a stimulating backdrop of yet more hard rocking guitars and double basses carried across the stage with bizarre and mesmerising effect. 

And then there was Turned To Stone, Sweet Talkin' Woman, Telephone Line, the brilliant and much underrated The Diary of Horace Wimp, Livin' Thing, All Over the World, the magnificent Rock Aria and Roll Over Beethoven. There was something both sublime and exquisite about ELO, a visionary quality that saw much further into the future than had ever been thought possible. 

So it was that we expressed our natural disappointment about the cancellation of last week's ELO concert.  Lynne said that he was heartbroken and devastated at standing down from appearing in front of a Hyde Park audience who had last seen him in the same place 11 years ago. But we understood and extended the warm hand of compassion to a man who had elevated the rock music genre to an entirely new level. Thankyou Jeff Lynne, for those delightful voyages of discovery, Out of the Blue and those wonderful space crafts. Get better quickly and be sure that you'll always have our appreciation and understanding. Take a bow, rock legend. 

Childhood summer days

 Childhood and summer days

So here we are on the threshold of the great school summer holiday period for millions of allegedly bored and irritable children who always find ways of occupying their time quite constructively but then decide that there's nothing to do. We know this to be not the case since of course there are loads of activities they can engage with and participate in. It may be the time of the year when every mum up and down the country privately dreads. But then again they must be ready and prepared for the great onslaught of youthful complaints and disgruntled kids wishing, quite ironically, that the six week summer break would last for ever. 

For as long as you can remember now, children love to get up to mischief when mum and dad aren't watching, sneaking into private property, climbing trees, trespassing on forbidden territory and generally creating mayhem. Now though of course they don't have to worry about what felt at the time like comfortable familiarity. You spent all day on your bikes, cycling frantically through dense forests, woodlands, back roads and main streets, doing wheelies as they were called if memory serves you correctly, then running across verdant parklands, chasing each other constantly and then pausing for breath. 

There were those of course who loved nothing better than to nag mum persistently and, quite possibly annoyingly for ice creams, money for the summertime pageant of movies and cinemas and so much more. Then we'd get back on our bicycle, pedal at some phenomenal speed before stocking up on innumerable bottles of Tizer, endless helpings of burgers and chips before embarking on another exotic expedition. Eventually we'd end up at our local Lido or outdoor swimming pool and by now we were totally exhausted. 

But almost 50 years ago, some of us were privileged to witness the hottest summer in England since records began. At the moment, Britain is basking in the kind of glorious summer heatwave we all love to embrace but in 1976, we felt as though we'd literally hit the jackpot. Before 1976, your wonderful parents had already given you a revealing insight into the newly emergent tourist industry and Spain. You could hardly believe the Mediterranean charms of Majorca, Benidorm, the Costa Del Sol and Costa Brava. It was the epitome of cool, seductive and quite the most exciting childhood adventure of them all. 

Now though in 1976 we didn't need to go to Spain for fiestas and siestas, sombreros and donkeys in shopping bags. There was no necessity whatsover for flamenco dancers, intrepid bullfighters with swaying capes, sangria by the bucketload. In Britain we had it all. There were blue skies every day and after an early May spell of breath taking warmth and heat, it just kept going and going. Throughout the whole of June and into July, we must have thought the warm fronts and isobars were destined to stay for an eternity. 

Throughout the land, parks and gardens began to resemble brown haystacks on English farming land, once green grass now burnt and parched by the relentlessly beautiful sun. Our family garden certainly looked like a concrete bowl with only straw rather than the grass we'd become accustomed to. But you didn't particularly mind because, in a way, you hadn't really experienced this climate before but we had because as children, subconsciously perhaps, we do remember a time when the sun always shone. Nothing mattered though because we spent all day at Valentines Park lido jumping into a light blue coloured swimming pool for weeks and months on end, oblivious to the tempestuous wars and politics in our peripheral vision. 

We would jump, dive bomb, slide, scream and shout, dive athletically once again just to impress our friends. We would then just spend hour upon hour, absorbing the healthy and invigorating atmosphere around us. And then we'd notice that we were in water that was positively freezing and that if you didn't know any better, you'd have sworn you were floating in huge blocks of ice from the kitchen freezer. Those days of simple, innocent pleasure and fun packed hours, weeks and months would simply fly past and in no time at all we were back at school, the academic toil and drudgery of swotting for exams still in front of us. 

But from the end of July to the whole of August time seemed to go on interminably and so blissfully. By  the end of the 1976 scorcher in Britain, we were still bathing in the reflected glow of hose pipe bans, people lining up in suburban streets with buckets and water now rationed. We still had huge gatherings of storm flies next to our kitchen boiler that were constantly sprayed with white powder by your beautiful, much missed and loved mum. We still watched Wimbledon tennis in our garden, exploring thick clumps of green leaves in what can only be described as some dreamland of bushes.

Then in both 1977 and 1978, although your adolescence and teenage years were lonely and introspective ones, you could still relate to the outside world. You watched your mum lovingly pruning our immaculate rose beds, secateurs merrily clicking away and then you discovered that the outside world wasn't quite as intimidating as you might have thought it would be. There were still the cinemas to visit, cafes to drink and eat at, scenery to admire and somehow a sense of liberation we'd never felt at school.  

At the local picture house there would be the record breaking, blockbusting Saturday Night Fever, a film so immensely enjoyable and feelgood that we must have thought we'd never ever see a film like it again. It was stunningly produced and directed, wonderfully choreographed and just delightful fun. It starred the then unknown John Travolta, that smart teddy boy dressed teenager who wows the girls with his flash dance moves, terpsichorean fleet of feet and then frequents every nightclub and disco with his extrovert bolshiness and flamboyant demeanour. Saturday Night Fever epitomised the American disco at its headiest and giddiest high.

The following year Travolta returns to the silver screen with some good, old fashioned high school rivalry and fierce competition. In Grease, Travolta swaggers into high school, cocky, arrogant, leather clad, conceited and full of rebellious intent. But then he meets and falls in love with the sweet, winsome, cute and innocent Olivia Newton John. The now sadly late Olivia Newton John falls in love with Travolta aka Danny and then goes through the familiar routine of flirtation and adoration and then wrapping his loving arms around his sweetheart at a movie drive in against a cartoon backdrop. 

So there was the summer of your childhood or maybe it was completely different and of course it probably was. You were never really aware of what the future held for you because none of us are. Chilhoods were voyages of discovery, rites of passage, inevitable adolescence, learning how to cope with the world at large and addressing the gauche awkwardness of teenage years. But if you're on your school summer holiday, you'd be well advised to just go with the flow, enjoying the summertime festivities and remaining upbeat, healthy and happy. And never forget your mum and dad.

 

England beat India in the third test at Lords by 22 runs

 England beat India in the third test at Lords by 22 runs. 

In the ancestral home of English cricket, England marched forward across the matchless meadows and fields of its illustrious history and Lords sighed with a perfect summertime reverence. Throughout the centuries and decades, the England cricket team have always regarded Lords as their spiritual home. It is the place they come back to reminisce on the valour and gallantry of the Compton brothers Denis and Leslie, who, during and after England's grimmest years of wartime, brought so much happiness and pleasure to those who sit in the seats with their yellow and red ties enraptured by cricket's art and beauty. 

The members of the Lords most knowledgeable of cricket observers know their cricket inside out. They've seen Botham at his most breathtaking, Dexter at his most dexterous, Cowdrey at his most organisational, Boycott at his most patient and methodical, Hutton, spreading goodwill and oozing regal batsmanship at its most destructive and now the present day England team. At times English cricket has been too spoilt for words. 

Last night we were reminded of English class, English grit and determination, English stubbornness and sheer strength of character. At no point was this Test match against India ever likely to be a meeting of lifelong friends and long standing, mutual respect for each other. This one was spiky, vengeful, angry, antagonistic and no holds barred. It was, at times, ugly, spiteful, malicious at times and then just plain unpleasant when the stakes were at their highest. There was no love lost between England and India in the third test at Lords.

There was angry finger wagging, deep seated animosity and almost utter contempt for each other. And yet this was not an Ashes contest between Australia and England so you had to remember what you were watching here. This was a novelty moment in Test cricket. England and India were on a war footing at Lords and that didn't really begin to make any sense. Still, this was what we got in this feisty, confrontational almost bloodthirsty Test match. Well, not quite perhaps but it certainly felt like it. 

By the time leg spinner Shoaib Bashir had twirled down a delivery and just left Mohammed Siraj all tangled up and forlorn, you knew this was the end for India. But then you noticed that the ball had beaten Siraj all ends up but he had still played the shot. And then there was the agonising sight of the ball dropping onto the ground, creeping unobtrusively towards the wickets and bails which simply fell like a deck of cards. Suraj was out and England had won the third test at Lords by 22 runs. It seemed like the ultimate act of cruelty. 

Lords may never have seen anything like this since the good Dr WG Grace dug his intellectual bat into the ground for the  national side, a pillar of stern reliability and English devil may care doughtiness. Somewhere perhaps Grace may have been out there, judging and severely reprimanding today's craftsmen and draughtsmen. He may well have been looking down on the likes of the wonderful Ben Stokes, the thoughtful and analytical captain Joe Root who hit the most majestic of centuries. Root's 104 runs tore India's bowling attack to pieces and then the superbly maturing Harry Brook announced his stately presence 

During England's first innings, the skipper Joe Root built up his unforgettable century in a way that his fellow Yorkshire and England batsman Sir Geoff Boycott must have been impressed by. Surely Boycott would have had words of wisdom and flattery for Root who is slowly carving out his legendary status. Once again, Root punched his ferocious cover and straight drives down the wicket before blasting the ball into the Lords pavilion with fours and sixes that shone like diamonds. This was Root at his most commanding, powerful and influential, breathing leadership qualities in a way that Boycott would surely have appreciated. 

Then there was the admirable supporting cast of Zak Crawley, Ollie Pope, Jofra Archer returning to the England team after a seemingly interminable four year absence and Chris Woakes. Here was an English cricket team desperately trying to prove themselves as a team to be feared and never forgotten. Archer was bowling at his fastest and most business like. The Archer eyes were flaring, the number on the back of his shirt rather like an identifiable warning to all comers. And so it was Archer who created havoc whenever he hurtled into bowl like the proverbial steam engine. 

And yet this was a real roller coaster, classically well balanced, nail biter of a Test match. By now India and England were in each other's faces, boiling over with genuine resentment and indignation. This was personal now and England had to do it for not only themselves but the whole of Lords. Lords has now come to expect English victory as a divine right, compulsory and essential, nothing less than routine. So it proved. 

Yesterday evening after England had beaten, the Indian playmakers Rishabh Pant and Ravinda Jadeja looked almost helpless but dogged to the end. Jadeja had scored a commendable 72 and Pant had kept him valuable company with 74 runs. But although the last overs of this Test match had faded into the most beautiful evening sunset, you could still see the evidence of needle, angst, a thousand grudges. England had beaten India but the Lords pavilion was still shivering and seething. Cricket though had won the day.