As he looks down upon a wondering world,

Crowds gather for the festive feast.

Epic entertainment is about to be unfurled,

And we know what should matter most, matters least.


From humblest beginnings, of suffering and sacrifice,

Comes a football story hence.

Such is the immensity that it defies,

A ‘keeper could keep such presence..


Oh how a modern empire once crumbled, in time borrowed

And left a debt never to be repaid.

Those who loved, then hated, then sorrowed,

Are left to beg and bleed and forbade.


Make him not the scapegoat

For what has gone before.

The greatest goalkeeper of the twentieth century, unquote,

The only goalkeeper to win the coveted Ballon D’Or.


It is said a goalkeeper is like a national border,

The defender of everything dear.

The last line of defence, the librium and the lauder

For the sanctum, the serendipity and the seer.



There can be no greater tribute

Than that which is paid to He

Who was, admirable and absolute

As a goalkeeper was ever meant to be.


How many penalities has he saved?

How many takers has he outwitted?

Far more than you or I could ever have craved,

Russia’s Black Panther was well acquitted.


History cannot be rewritten

But it can certainly be recalled.

The memory of  a man deserves not to be smitten

But to be endured, embraced and enthralled.


Hey, great goalkeeper, readied for battle trodden,

You’re a watchman by the gate.

Lest it can never be forgotten,

The front line of your battle always lies in wait .



I have given speeches all my entire life but never given one as I am givng you tonight.

Sixty years have I lived on this earth and dedicated myself to the scientific advancement of mankind.  Unlike others before me, I am not a maker of gadgets but pure in my experimentation of the mind.

A man can be at the very height of his career in his sixtieth year and yet it can take only a single moment of indiscretion to cause his fall from grace.

Sincerely friends, if it can happen to me, then it can surely happen to you too.

In another five years on a cold Good Friday morning in the north London parish of Highgate, I swear Iwill draw my last breath and the world at large will come to wonder of my legacy both then and for years thereafter, as you might wonder now.

You might visit St. Michaels Church in the city of St. Albans and look at both my statue and the crypt where I shall be supposedly be laid to rest.

You might visit the country estate in the environs of St.  Albans where I shall shortly go to write up my memoirs and the substance of my legacy.

I am a man of royal blood, of that I am absolutely certain, and I was born to be a king.

By the same token, I am the Queen’s bastard, conceived by a noble woman who would produce no natural heir to the throne of England and by her lover, Robert Dudley, a beast of a man who would stop at nothing to get his way.

What dastardly thing did the Queen contrive in the summer of 1571 so that no rightful successor such as I could ever be allowed to fulfil his destiny according to God.

Contrived by the Queen’s conjurer-in-chief, William Cecil, later his son Robert, who made things happen as only they could..

I cannot put to words how I felt when my foster mother, Anne Bacon, a relation of the Cecils, let it slip that we shared no common blood but in truth that I had always known,

My few years to serve as asssistant ambassador in France as soon as I completed my scholarship at Trinity College Cambridge ought to have been recognition and deserving credit of a mother’s pride for a son as well as providing training for his future regal role.

Alas, nothing could be further from the reality as she set about distancing herself from me as a mother and embarking on a sham which stills mocks me to this day as it did then and will continue to mock me beyond this night.

France and the ambassadorial travels I made across the European continent were a whole episode in my life which I cannot and I do not regret.

I would not have met Queen Marguerite of Dubois and experienced the youthful exuberance of infatuation and love.

I would not have written the 154 Sonnets – was it really that many? – that gave testimony to true love and which I kept preciously secret until a trusted housekeeper came upon them in my absence and saw opportunity to financially benefit from their publication in 1609.

If I did not go to France, perhaps I might not have been inspired to provide the source, the material and at times the collaboration to many of the theatrical plays which many of you here tonight have enjoyed in all their gore and glory by the Shakespeare name.

If my dear beloved mother Elizabeth Tudor had not seen fit to refuse her consent to my intended marriage to Marguerite, how I might wonder how different my life would and could have been.

My Queen Marguerite, and she will always be such in my heart, was the most gracious and ingraciating woman I have ever  known.

It matters not to me one iota that she was a catholic and would have  had to divorce her King in order to be my partner before God and challenge  the constitution of the English state which I always felt,  it was my duty to rule.

Marguerite ultimately chose exile and lived out the remaining years of her life from a quaint, modest hostel on the banks of the Seine, as I shall live out mine with equal modesty in St. Albans when this speech is done and dusted and the consequences of it have been addressed.

It be a little less than six years since her mortal demise and I miss her dearly, my dearest marigold now resting peacefully in the garden of her eden.

My foster father, Nicholas, the Queen’s senior legal adviser and keeper by another name, a man quick to get the bottle, passed away while I was amidst the French commission and I was hastily withdrawn back to England.

My foster brother, Anthony, forever a confidante, was always supportive, even when the news broke that I would inherit nothing from Nicholas Bacon’s estate.

If fortune favours the brave, then I would suggest that I was always at least one stop short of the grant of the favour, for whatever reason.

Debt has plagued me almost all my life, yet I have enjoyed economic privilege, been educated well and I am not a man without means.  I am possessed by a need to give away what I have and I must admit it is a need which I do not know how to control.

My thanks to Anthony for more than once coming to my rescue and securing my release from a debtor’s gaol, a shaming but humbling experience for any man, whatever his status and station in life.

Of course, the plague of debt  had an impact on my second attempt at romance and to get married, inevitably so.

It is true that I was very much interested for the hand in marriage of Elizabeth Cecil, grand-daughter of William Cecil, niece to Robert, widowed at 20 by Sir William Hatton and snatched from my eternal grasp by Sir Edward Coke, a rival in all aspects of life ever since we first crossed swords..

A few years later, a couple after the passing of Queen Elizabeth and on the persuasion of your majesty King James, I did eventually marry, Alice Barnham, the fourteen year old daughter of a London councillor..

Our marriage has produced no children, through no fault of mine or hers.  It may just be an indisputable fact that I prefer bedfellows but I dare anyone to say I have ever solicited rent-boys or been homosexual by nature.

Dear brethren before me, I am at heart a humble man and it has been my lifelong project to establish an intelectual community dedicated to the discovery of scientific knowledge for the use and benfit of all mankind.

Those who know me just a little know that knowledge is my province.

I am probably done as a lawyer, counseller, politician.  As Lord Chanceller, I have surely reached the highest station in life to which God is allowing me to aspire.

I vow to spend my remaining years devoted to the literary, scientific and philosophical cultural legacy destined to bless the modern world.

Edward Coke, I hold no grudge against you over the affair with Elizabeth or indeed the political humiliation you have had me endure for best part of twenty odd years.

Allow no man to challenge where my loyalty lies as I stand before you now and to deny that royal prerogative is superior to common law.

And yes, there is blood on my hands from the duties I have carried out.  I have played my part according to law to execute two people who were once good friends and who shared their genius so readily at the Good Pens Meeting I hosted back in Twickenham in 1596.

Richard Devereux, Earl of Essex, and more recently Walter Raleigh,

These sixty years, I have learnt to be vocal in so many different ways.  If I had been King on my mothers death, then certainly the name of William Shakespeare would not be up there in neon-flashy lights, if one day they ever exist.

Because I could not have devoted time to inspiring the Bard to write the plays and Ben Jonson, Earl Pembroke, to mention but two, would not be in the final stages of putting together a fantastic collection of the plays in one volume.

Yes brethren, good people, I am one just like you.

I have been a scholar.

I have been a lawyer,

I have been a politician.

I have been a diplomat.

I have been a scientist.

I have been a crytologist.

I have been a philosopher.

I have been a writer.

It is I, John Barclay, pseudonomously speaking.

It is I, Francis Bacon.  It is I.  Thank you very much.  And good night..


Henri Dunant is a very famous person indeed but hardly anyone knows who he is today.

He is the mentor behind the creation of the Red Cross.

He is probably and literally the fourth most famous Swiss national after William Tell, Henri Nestle and Roger Federer.

When as a thirty one year old journeyman he passed by the Battle of Solferino in northern Italy in 1859, he knew something had to be done to address the barbarity of warfare.

He wanted to set up a humanitarian movement which could and would protect human life and health, ensure respect for all human beings and also prevent as well as alleviate human suffering.

It was only a few years after the Crimean War fought by Britain, France and Turkey against Russia which was significant to bringing public attention the need for non-combatant trained medics to be available at the field of battle, the most famous of whom was, of course, Florence Nightingale.

Within the space of four short years, his vision came to fruition and the Red Cross institution was formed in Geneva Switzerland in 1863.

Its adopted symbol of a red cross on a white background is an exact reversal of a white cross on a red background for the Swiss nationaL flag.

Henri Dunant received the Nobel Peace Prize in 1901 for his important contribution to mankind and yet he suffered greatly in his life as a direct result of this due to poverty, ill-health and personal bankruptcy.

When he died an old man in 1910, he was an obscure rather than a notorious figure for history to record.

But the Red Cross plays an important part in times of war and world crisis today with no little thanks paid to Henri Dunant.


She lived all her eighty three years in a small cottage in the woods in the heart of the Norfolk countryside.

She was the ultimate spinster and wanted for nothing.

Some locals say that she was once engaged to an American serviceman who was based at a nearby air base.

Nobody really knows.

Miss Emily was the retired Infant School Headmistress who tended her beautifully cultivated garden and wanted for nothing.

The cottage has been her life. She is accountable only to nature.

The simplicity of the lifestyle of Miss Emily cannot be underestimated.

On the cool autumn morning that she died, there can be no doubt that she had prepared and anticipated Gods calling.

There she sat, sound asleep in her rocking chair and her beloved Hilda, an ageless black cat, watching over her from her woven basket in front of the television set.

Miss Emily would not wake.

She effectively lived in a single room which served for sleeping, cooking and living.

Her only luxury was the television set which had changed many times over the years and which was positioned in the centre of the room.

The treasured Coronation Cup and Jubilee vase, always vested with fresh flowers, sit in splendid isolation on either side of the set.

The box, as Miss Emily insists to call it, was her window to the world, but to another world so far removed from her own.

Miss Emily can best be described as a tele-addict when she was not tending to her garden.

She was not anti-social but rarely engaged in conversation with the villagers.  She never bought groceries or visited the doctor if she was sick.

She did receive visitors and she did get provisions, such as were needed.

She was a kind, gentle, caring woman, was Miss Emily.

Loneliness was not a word she understood.

One particular visitor did come as frequently as she was in residence at her country home on the Sandringham estate.

She had once been an impromptu babysitter for two of her young children and had taught the youngest on how to make and fly a kite.

She had once mended the heel of the shoe of her visitor in the most rudimentary fashion and many years ago, almost when the two first met, had offered advice to the visitor on marriage to a certain foreign prince.

Betsy, as she called her visitor, would call by while walking her dogs and share a cuppa and a chocolate digestive or a buttered scone while indulging in unbridled companionship with a joke or two, a stretch down memory lane and an addiction to watching Coronation Street, a long running English soap opera.

The ageless black cat was apparently named after the character Hilda Ogden who featured for more than thirty years in the soap opera.

This then is the story of two women of later years who had given a lifetime of service to their country and who had, odd as it may sound, a lot in common, yet their real worlds and backgrounds could not be more starkly contrasted.

The unoccupied cottage has become a silent refuge.

Hilda still takes her dormance in the cushioned basket beneath the television set and the rocking chair occasionally still rocks.

As frequently as Betsy is in residence at her country residence on the Sandringham estate in the heart of Norfolk, she walks her dogs in proximity of Miss Emily’s cottage and tends the country garden.


My name is Henry Jephson.

I first came to the small town of Leamington Priors in the spring of 1818 as a raw medical student with aspirations of becoming a doctor.

I was attracted by the prospect of what salted spa waters could do for healing and curing people with certain ailments and afflictions.

Back then, Leamington Priors was a town on the south bank of the river Leam with a priory extending to the Elephant Wash.

Nearby was a small post office on the corner facing the largest parish church in the county of Warwickshire and there was close proximity to the access of spa spring water.

Bath houses, Inns and a Pump room were established as one Bernie Greatheed looked to cash in on land he owned to the north of the river.

The potential for development of a parade of shops and residences constructed on a grand scale was obvious.

The Willes family owned a large swathe of land on their Newbold Comyn estate to the east with a corn mill right down by the river itself.

I qualified as a doctor and established my medical practice on the upper part of the Parade.

As my reputation spread, clients would come from far afield and stay at the nearby Clarendon or Regent Hotel.

Queen Victoria herself made an official royal visit to Leamington in 1838, just two years into her reign.

Not only did I have the privilege of meeting her but I had the honour of treating her for some of her ailments.

I am in no doubt that she fell in love with the town and returned many times subsequently, unofficially of course, for a holiday ‘to take the waters’.

Queen Victoria was instrumental, I believe, in persuading the Willes family, notably Edward Willes, to turn ten acres of the meadowland next to the river Leam into a public garden and park.

I was somewhat flattered to say the least when the gardens and park were to be named after me personally in 1846 for supposedly having put the town of Leamington Priors on the map as a health resort.

Queen Victoria did not return for another official visit until 1858 when the town was renamed as Royal Leamington Spa by royal decree.

A momentous day indeed which led to a marble statue being erected of the great lady outside the Town Hall in her honour.

How much more could I have done? … Or would I have done? ….. If I had not gone blind two years later which forced my early retirement.

I don’t have any regrets as such about my life but losing my sight so early in my life is one of two things which disappointed and saddened me as a professional physician.

Here was I advocating cures to the needy but I had to accept Gods will for the impairment.

The second thing is not experiencing parenthood with my wife Mary.  I had always hoped that the ‘taking of waters’ would fix the shortfall in my married life but it was never to be.

The compensation has been, I think, in being slightly ahead of my time and being able to educate ordinary folk, both the paying clientele and the town needy, about basic healthcare.

I lived out my life at Beech Lawn, the mansion house which I had built behind the Parade in the 1830s.

I understand that after my death in 1878, my home became a Ladies Finishing School for a few years before eventually being demolished in 1946.

The town’s Fire Station is located on the site today.

Though I say it myself, the Jephson Gardens are a wonderful sight to behold at any time of year and I am extremely proud that such a ‘green flag’ legacy carries my name for generations to come.

Thank you all very much indeed for listening to my ramble, for that is surely what it is.

Be sure to visit the Jephson Gardens whenever you are passing through Royal Leamington Spa.

Thank you once again most graciously from the bottom of my heart.


William Shakespeare put the immortal words ‘My Horse, my Horse, my Kingdom for a Horse’ into the mouth of a man as the battlecry of the last English King to ever be killed in combat.

Depending what version of the story you want to believe, the valiant King was pulled from his horse and hacked to death or came within relative proximity of conflict with the very man who stood between him and the continuance of his reign.

This is the story of Richard III who was slain at the Battle of Bosworth in deepest Leicestershire in 1485 by Henry Tudor who then succeeded him as English monarch and set the wheels in motion for the Tudor dynasty.

Fortune is said to favour the brave but ;perhaps that cannot be said for Richard III who remains accused to this day of murdering kin who were more entitled than he to the English crown.

His own personal woe was exasperated in the months leading to the fateful battle when his only son and wife died too.

A man can certainly dream and if Richard III did have a meaningful dream on the eve of the battle, it would surely have foretold of his inevitable doom.

Richard III only ruled England for two years and he was probably far from the character with physical deformity portrayed by Shakespeare in the play of his name.

The actual human remains of Richard III have fairly recently been unearthed in an archaeological dig on grounds of a former friary in the heart of the city of Leicester and today a public car park.

Modern technology and science enables us to know that he was a tall, blond-haired, blue-eyed boy with a slight scollosis to one shoulder but certainly no hunchback.

Shakespeare wrote Richard III the play in the early 1590s, fairly soon after being called ‘an upstart crow’ by fellow playwright Robert Greene and at a time when Robert Cecil held the upper hand in political influence over the ruling monarch Elizabeth I.

The backdrop to the story of Richard III was very simple indeed.

Elizabeth I was unmarried and of course without a child which could claim to be her successor.

Her own paranoia about the succession was the paranoia of the whole English nation.

Richard III, whether rightly or wrongly, was perceived as the usurper who could turn the natural order of succession on its head and plant a rightful heir for his own gain.

Shakespeare could smell a rat but it was not the unjustly discredited Richard III.

It was surely Robert Cecil, the living hunchback dwarf who no longer lived in the executive shadow of his father.

In reality and in fact, Robert Cecil won the day by supplanting the Scottish King, a protestant with limited catholic sympathies, James Stuart, as Elizabeth’s successor in 1603.

Nevertheless, Richard III is the benchmark by which judgment is exercised whenever a tenuous succession to the monarchy of a nation, any nation, not just England, is discussed.

Richard III came to rule by a number of events and circumstances.

It seems to matter not that his successor and victor Henry Tudor, crowned as Henry VII, had a lesser claim to the sovereignty of England than himself.

Such was the spoils of war.

It could be argued that William, Duke of Normandy, had no such claim to the sovereignty of England either when he came and conquered in 1066.

The One Hundred Years War between England and France from 1347 until 1453 and subsequently the so called War of the Roses from 1455 until Richard III’s death in 1485 had a definite impact on future English sovereignty.

From one of doubtful royal descent to Lord Protector of the Realm and King of England.

Richard III is alleged to have killed, amongst others, his Uncle Henry VI, cousin George the Duke of Clarence and the two princes, Edward V and Richard, his own nephews, who were mysteriously detained at the Tower of London, never to be heard of again.

Shakespeare contrived to tell the tragic story of Richard III with a sense of condemnation, distrust and disbelief.

Ghosts, curses and prophecies played no mean part in the hallowing story.

There may well have been a winter of discontent in the months that led to the Battle of Bosworth in 1485 but certain facts speak for themselves.

Richard III will now be reburied either at Leicester Cathredal, York Minster (for he was after all from the royal House of York) or quite possibly at Westminster Abbey in London.

If there is a place for him.

Whatever your take on Richard III, the last battlecry of an English King can still be heard today.


This is a purely fictional story about engagements between an English Knight named Sir John Falstaff and the French heroine Jeanne d’Arc in the fifteenth century.

The events to which I refer actually took place and inspired Englishman William Shakespeare to write a number of dramatic historical plays centred around the Kings of England during the Plantagenet period of reign and the knight called Falstaff.

This is my story about that and why I think William Shakespeare may have killed Falstaff off in the play of Henry V without a single line spoken by him.

Jeanne d’Arc was just three years old in 1415 when the battle of Agincourt was fought and won by the English against the French.

The English under King Henry V spent the next five years achieving dominion over much of northern France and asserting Henry’s sovereign right to rule over both England and France.

The French King Charles VI, weak both in terms of health and political effectiveness, conceded the French crown to Henry, virtue of the Treaty of Troyes in 1420 and proposed his youngest daughter, Princess Catherine of Valois, in marriage to Henry for a substantial dowry.

Jeanne was no more than an uneducated tenant farmer’s daughter from the small town of Domremy in north eastern France but she was nonetheless canny and astute.

And she was unavoidably aware of the English presence in her home town.

None more so than a larger than life knight named Sir John Falstaff who kept company with the officers of the Burgundian allies, boasted of his glorious success under Henry V at Agincourt, stole money, gambled heavily and drank alcohol to excess.

Two years later in 1422, events took a dramatic turn when both the English King, Henry V and the French King, Charles VI, died within a few months of each other.

It was probably at this time that the young girl started hearing voices and experiencing visions with bright lights about the future of France.

Now ten, she decided that it was her personal mission from God to drive the English out of France and to have the rightful King, Charles VII, son of Charles VI, delivered to the throne.

Many folk in high places would mock and show contempt to the young shepherdess who, without any military training, wished to lead a French army into battle.

When she was seventeen, she made the  two hundred mile journey across English held territory in France in just eleven days to meet Charles VII himself at Chinon castle and persuade him to allow her to lead the army.

Orleans was certainly an important strategically positioned city in the Loire valley.

She was quick to turn the French militia into a formidable fighting force and although not engaging in battle herself, she was an inspirational mascot and brandished her banner as a weapon.

It is here where she would meet the dastardly knight Falstaff once again and this time in conflict.

Jeanne was instrumental in inflicting a humiliating defeat on Falstaff and the English in the battle of Orleans and she was proclaimed by the French people for her heroism.

It was she who had dragged the disgraced and cowardly Falstaff from his horse in the finality of the battle, placed him into captivity and then released him back to the English for no small ransom.

This was no mean match of a giant of a man to a small petite young girl.

The military victory at Orleans paved the way for Charles VII to be crowned King of France in a coronation conducted at the cathredal of Rheims, the traditional place for French royal investiture.

This was the point when Jeanne could or should have said that enough was enough and gone home to her family in Domremy and to milk the cows on the pastures but she did not.

Just like a prize fighter who could not refuse one more bout, she went into combat at Compiegne with plans to re-take Paris to what she envisoned was the completion of her mission.

But the plan was foolhardy and things quickly went  wrong.

She got trapped outside the city gates, was thrown from her horse in the melee and was captured by Burgundian forces allied to the English who soon ransomed her to the English for ten thousand crowns.

This would prove to be Falstaff’s redemption for his abject failure at Orleans.

He had been on hand to bring about Jeanne’s mishap as an act of revenge and he vowed there and then with a raucous laugh that she would never again see the light of day.

The manner in which Jeanne looked Falstaff in the eye in that lingering moment was penetratable to the very core of the heart and would not be forgotten.

Jeanne faced seventy charges and was unfairly trialled in a lawless inquisition in Rouen, the northern French city adopted by the English as their provinciial capital.

She was accused, amongst other things,  of wearing mens clothes, of cutting her hair like a pageboy, of horse theft and being a heretic and a witch.

The charges were, of course, trumped up to have her removed from the fray and discredit France as a nation.

You can bet your bottom dollar that Falstaff was there as the indictment was read out to her.

We can only imagine that attempts were made to abuse her in custody but she remained until her last breath a young woman, just nineteen at deaths door, of unbreakable piety, chastity and humility whose courage and conviction could not be broken.

She was to be burnt at the stake in the old market square of Rouen at first light on the morning of 30th May 1431.

Falstaff’s remorseless face was the last Jeanne saw before she died and her echoing screech that they her accusers could take her life but not her heart could be heard for miles around.

Jeanne d’Arc.  La Purcell, as she preferred to be called.  The Maid of Orleans.  Call her what you will.  Heroine of the French people to this day.

The Hundred Years War came to an end in 1453 when the English realized that the French could not be defeated for  territory in their own backyard.

With some lamentable degree of irony, her face and voice was the last echo of humanity in Falstaff’s world when he finally kicked the bucket a few years after the end of the war in 1459.

William Shakespeare did not write history per se but he certainly interpreted it.

Falstaff may have had the last laugh in battle but Jeanne won the war for France.