IF the bookies have got it right, then England will win the Euros ten days after Keir Starmer’s Labour Party win the General Election.
But which event will electrify the nation?
It will not be the result of this dull, dispiriting General Election.
It will not be the Tories being put out of their misery as we sleepwalk our way to years of knee-taking, wealth-despising socialism.
It will not be a Prime Minister with the charisma of a speaking clock.
This is hardly 1997 for Tony Blair’s Labour. This is hardly 2019 for Boris Johnson’s Tories.
But our young, triumphant England heroes will present an ageing Prime Minister with the kind of photo opportunity that has not come along since Harold Wilson, then aged 49, nominated The Beatles for their MBEs at the screaming apex of Beatlemania.
If the bookies’ predictions come to pass, then it will be the robotic Starmer, 61, who bathes in the reflected glory of Jude Bellingham, Harry Kane, Phil Foden, Declan Rice and the rest.
It will be a Prime Minister who stirs no great passions who gets to pose with England’s first football trophy since that magical, rain-soaked summer of 1966.
And yes — we will feel the presence of a great leader.
A man who galvanised the country.
A man who never stopped believing in who we are — and who we can be again.
A leader of vision who made this country feel good about itself.
Gareth Southgate.
In the first leaders’ debate, Rishi Sunak and Starmer were asked what advice they would give the England manager on the eve of the Euros.
Surely Gareth should be giving THEM advice?
He has animated our nation in a way that neither Starmer nor Sunak has managed.
For what we yearn for at a General Election is HOPE. To believe that — yes, things can only get better.
Neither Starmer nor Sunak makes us believe.
If you want hope — if you want excitement, national pride, some raw belief — then you are going to have to turn on the football.
Keir Starmer is a human sleeping pill, only showing signs of life when he squirms after being reminded that he tried to get Jeremy Corbyn elected as PM.
Meanwhile, after 14 long years and multiple Prime Ministers, the Tories are widely despised, and make even their own supporters despair.
From Bojo’s Partygate to Rishi going home early from Normandy, the Tories are now the natural party of the unforced major cock-up.
But look upon this glorious England side. They represent the best of us.
A change of Government that will touch all of our lives for many years seems to leave us curiously unstirred.
But a football tournament — when we have gone a lifetime without winning one — is invested with huge national significance.
It is difficult to escape the belief that neither Starmer nor Sunak is going to improve your life.
We are an unhappy nation with an uncertain future.
What an unholy mess.
But there is the football. There is the summer’s defining event. That old spark of national self-belief endures.
When we win the Euros — as we will, even if it goes to penalties — then all the disappointments will melt away.
The nation will party like it’s 1966.
And the General Election will have bugger all to do with it.
FRANCOISE HARDY, who has died at the age of 80, was one of the great icons of the Sixties – perhaps the greatest female icon of the time.
In her native France, she sold records by the millions.
In the rest of the world, Hardy defined what the perfect woman should look like in that swinging decade.
A wistful, faraway look in her huge eyes. Long, straight hair.
An air of doomed romance.
An acoustic guitar held like a faithless lover. And endless legs.
Everyone fell in love with her at first sight.
“My ideal woman,” moaned Mick Jagger.
“I was passionately in love with her,” sighed David Bowie.
Brian Jones invited Hardy to have a threesome with him and Anita Pallenberg – high praise indeed.
Bob Dylan took Hardy back to his suite at the George V in Paris and played her I Want You from his new album, Blonde On Blonde.
Incredibly, it didn’t work.
Francoise later said she had no idea that Dylan had been trying to seduce her.
Her enduring fame is really a testament to her belief in music.
She was photographed for the cover of Vogue by David Bailey.
Roger Vadim, Brigitte Bardot’s husband, cast her in a film when she was 19.
Francoise wasn’t interested in any of it. She believed in music.
Hardy saw herself as a serious singer-songwriter, a Gallic Joni Mitchell, but because she sang in French, the English-speaking rock world was immune to the full melancholy charms of her records.
The rock stars of the Sixties wanted to win her love.
It was a later generation, Air and Blur, who wanted to collaborate with her.
Francoise Hardy was the Brigitte Bardot who could sing.
And infinitely more than a pretty face.
IN care homes across the country, elderly punks are raising a wry eyebrow at news the Sex Pistols will be playing Never Mind The Bollocks at gigs this August with a young singer called Frank Carter standing in for John Lydon, the former Johnny Rotten.
But the Sex Pistols were always a band.
And bands frequently get along famously with a new singer.
AC/DC, Genesis and Fleetwood Mac all spring to mind.
For a brief period in late 1976 and early 1977, the Pistols were a great band.
Then, after chucking out Glen Matlock for Sid Vicious – replacing their songwriter with a sweet dunderhead who could not tune his bass – they became a novelty act.
But the Sex Pistols were never a lead singer and some disposable musicians.
They were never Diana Ross And The Supremes.
The Pistols were always a real band.
They have every right to play gigs without their old mate.
But I totally understand why news of the gigs has made John even grumpier than usual.
If that was possible.
HOW are “activists” allowed to deface works of art at will?
Jonathan Yeo’s newly unveiled “red” portrait of King Charles has already been vandalised.
How do these gormless, virtue-signalling goons get away with it?
Don’t these galleries have security guards?
NOBODY ever did more for the health of this nation than Dr Michael Mosley.
Michael had the courage and the intellect to question all the orthodoxies of the medical profession.
He was a mainstream, prime-time star – but also a true radical.
Michael introduced us to the benefits of fasting.
He taught us about the value of cold showers.
He questioned everything. Unnecessary medication. Unnecessary surgery.
His father had invasive surgery for prostate cancer and Michael watched the profound side-effects ruin his dad’s final years before he died of something else – heart failure.
If we listened to Michael’s theories about weight and nutrition then our obesity crisis – and the billions it costs the NHS – could be overcome.
Michael took his own advice, reversing his Type 2 diabetes not with medication but a rapid weight-loss diet.
Michael Mosley had a brave, brilliant, inquisitive mind and he will continue to improve our health decades after his tragically early death last week, at the age of 67.
What a legacy.
JENNIFER LOPEZ is convinced that husband Ben Affleck could run for US president.
But God knows how Ben will cope with kissing all those babies on the campaign trail to the White House.
Moody Ben doesn’t even look very comfortable when he is giving J-Lo a quick peck on the cheek at a basketball game.
THE scariest thing about President Joe Biden’s painfully obvious mental decline are the reports that Joe is now often inaudible in meetings.
Shouldn’t this terrify all of us?
“Sorry, Mr President. Was that nuke Moscow or DON’T nuke Moscow?”
America – what a mess.
I AM a sucker for dogs doing adorable stuff but German photographer Christian Vieler’s book of dogs catching treats feels like a coffee table book too far.
I am sure that Christian himself would look funny if someone threw a sausage at his head.
