Andy's Glasses

(Fucking) Nigel Farage is a RACIST!!! Oh no. I won’t be voting for him then. There again, I had no intention of voting for him before. But Farage, alleg-ed-ly, abused a Jewish person and was nasty to Indians. Allegations which, firstly if true, and secondly, if they occurred in a restaurant in Mayfair last week, would be positively horrendous. But they weren’t. They were ‘allegedly’ perpetrated in a school playground 50 years ago. Oh. Furthermore, they are being made by The Guardian.

The Guardian accusing someone of ‘antisemitism’ is like Kier Starmer accusing someone of being wet. It’s like Gordon Ramsay accusing someone of swearing too much. Like an Arsenal fan accusing you of being smug.

The Guardian has, since October ‘23, become the most anti-Israel, anti-Zionist, so close to anti-Semitic newspaper that it could possibly get away with. It follows the hard-left narrative on everything, including effectively supporting Hamas. Offering ‘justification’ for October 7.

And here they are, accusing far-right hate-figure Farage, who represents the absolute antithesis of everything they hold dear, of the anti-Semitism which, when spouted by the Corbyns of this world, they applaud and agree.

I don’t like Nigel Farage, certainly don’t trust the man, but I fucking hate The Guardian. Which, like all ‘left-of-Labourites’, fears the Reform party’s progress and successes in all the polls. Leaving Nigel with the obvious defence of ‘political motives’ to the allegations. Trying to discredit a man who’s past is always viewed as a bit shadowy.

But, like it or not, even the most super-woke, PC-obsessed, probably HR consultant, dickhead, simply HAS to realise that there are places, and times, when all types of verbal abuse happen. It certainly did in the 70s and 80s. I was there. I was guilty. And the ultimate banter-arena is a school playground. And if, in the sole quest of ‘scoring points’, the lines which would be drawn in 2018 were crossed, no-one gave a shit. No-one knew how the world would develop. Thus they didn’t care. Some of us don’t care now. And seek out un-PC environments. Not to abuse. Not to hurt anyone, or cause offence but just to say what you like without tossers like The Guardian taking humorous ‘banter’ as ‘opinion’, taking ‘taking the piss’ as ‘offensive’. Not understanding the context of such comments.

So whatever Farage said when he was 14 years old in a school playground is simply irrelevant. Why waste the print space on that when Spurs are in such deep trouble?

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

I’m sure you all remember the golden rule: ‘all statistics is bollocks’. I have it tattooed on my right arm, just in case I’m ever tempted to think, “ooooh, 95% of people under 52 whose names begin with Q find tying their shoelaces difficult; that’s amazing”, it reminds me to ignore it. Someone pays for all statistical analysis, therefore it has a ‘bias’. A bit like the BBC but possibly more subtle. ‘Subtle’ here being an euphemism for ‘underhand’. That’s how we get VW car exhaust and economy statistics, that’s how new drugs, ‘trialled and proven’, manage to kill half the people taking them.

But some statistics you can’t question. They’re paid for by neutral parties. And they can’t be ‘manipulated’ in the way that industry and economists distort them for their own wicked ends. (cyinical? moi???)

In football, where you used to say: ‘ere, Portsmouth are on a good run, played really well and have won about 4 games out’a their last 6’; you now say, ‘ere (because you have to when starting any type of football mansplaining), Portsmouth have won 4 out of 6, the highest win ratio of any team in the top 12 of any league, they have an average goal difference in excess of that of PSG and Barcelona and their xG figures are over 7, whilst maintaining a consistent 62.4% possession.

Yes, it IS still all bollocks, but it is accurately and precisely quantified bollocks. No-one wants to be mansplained inaccurate rubbish.

Its now all about the “xG” figure. Stands for ‘expected goals’. Which is basically a measure how many times a player/team is in a position to score and the likelihood of him/them scoring from that position. So, basically, it is just one more method of persecuting my football team. Another rod for their back. Like we didn’t know how bad we were before they let a bunch of actuaries loose in the analysis box.

And so to the disaster which occurred at the horrible Emirates stadium yesterday afternoon. When our ‘expected goals’ dropped to an insanely low 0.07. No teams play with that. In fact, arguably, you’re not actually ‘playing’, but just turning up and standing still.

Therefore we shall now invent a new metric. uG. For unexpected goals. Like Richarlison’s. He had to score it from pretty much the half way line, as Thomas Frank had insisted that the team spend as little time in ‘their half’ as possible, so they can all stay back to defend ineptly. The expectedness of a goal from there is minimal. The expectedness of our errant Brazilian ever scoring a goal is minimal.

Thus his goal, as totally unexpected as it was, perhaps because of that, stands as a beacon of minor contentment (we were way beyond ‘joy’ by that point) in an afternoon of abject misery. A real uG.

Happy miserable Monday (how many Arsenal fans have YOU spoken to today?)

A xxxx

Well yesterday was the outdoor tennis player’s nightmare. Rain. More rain. Then more rain. The worst of all worst days. When it never even got properly light. I don’t suffer from SADS, but on days like that, I wish I did. Glad it’s over. So I can enjoy today. Which may be a bit limited… by the football.

So I shall enjoy tennis, now it’s stopped raining this morning. And I shall definitely enjoy lunch. Then the football’s on. The nakba. Usually. There again, I don’t usually speak Arabic. But when Spurs play Arsenal, my mind leads me to catastrophise. I try to think positive, try to imagine great outcomes, try to convince myself that ‘you never know with derby matches’. But you do know. About this one. When Stephen King wrote ‘Misery’, I thought it was a history of North London Derbies. I was wrong. As it happens, seriously wrong. Not the first time.

The north London derby creates ‘bragging rights’. And as Arsenal fans do ‘brag’ better than the Gallaghers after a sell-out concert, better than the Aussies after an Ashes win, better than Donald Trump after… well, anything he does, it bodes ill for the immediate future. And I’ve been to my fair share of Arsenal games. Some good, some wonderful (the 4-all game at the Emirates the day after Harry Rednapp joined us) and some so horrendous I needed therapy for a year afterwards.

So even though I do not ‘hate’ Arsenal (when they’re playing other teams), like I ‘hate’ Chelsea, West Ham, all the others, this is match I dread. Basically, if you offered me a draw now, I’d bite your hand off.

Went to see the movie Nuremberg last night. Whilst not exactly a ‘fun flick’ it’s good. Russel Crowe as Herman Goering is unrecognisably wonderful and exceedingly fat. And Remi Malik, as ‘the psychiatrist’ (a real life character, as they all are), looked like Freddie Mercury doing ‘shrink’. He always looks like Freddie Mercury. Or he just looks like another really odd-looking bloke. It’s actually distracting. But the movie was almost as good as the pizza we had ‘pre-match’, with ‘Lovely Lynda’ and ‘not-so-lovely-Jeff’. Certainly worth a view. If you’re not necessarily looking for ‘feel good’.

Happy (GOD HELP MEEEEE) Sunday

A xxxx

What a brilliant deal! Struck up by Donald Trump. The great peacemaker. A man so keen on acquiring the Nobel peace prize next year, that he’d sell his own mother if she gets invaded by rampaging Cossacks! And the tragedy of that metaphor is indicative of the great unfairness, the moral disgrace and the complicity with a murderous tyrant, which Trump has condoned so he can ‘do the deal’. The only ‘deal’ which Russia would be prepared to accept. When they said on the news that ‘Russia is keen on this deal’, you immediately know that it was drawn up in the Kremlin and that Ukraine is going to get stuffed.

Trump presented this to the world, and to Ukraine, who’d been given no input whatsoever, obviously. They don’t count. And he presented it just after a really positive and friendly meeting with Zohran Mamdani, the Mayor of New York, who Trump has been slagging off for the last 3 months. Calling him a ‘communist’ (that’s not a political comment in America, it’s the gravest insult you can level at anyone. The shadow of J.Edgar Hoover is long and deep.) Threatening to cut off funding for NY City. And now they’re bffs.

The problem with Ukraine is that there are very few options. You give Russia what they want or they just keep going. They don’t care how many of its young men die in that process. They’ve never cared about that. It’s always been the way Russia does ‘war’. By massive sacrifice of its next generation. In fact Russia are shit at war. Always have been. They just do ‘war by swamping’. Wave after wave of kids getting slaughtered until the enemy run out of bullets or fall asleep.

Russia invaded in the first place because Ukraine had aspirations to join NATO. Basically, American military on the Russian border. Also, having ‘stolen’ the Crimea a few years back, Putin had designs on the Dombas region because it spans a lot of the border. So it would create a ‘buffer’. Vlad was also never keen on having nuclear NATO so close they could lob a bomb across the border by hand.

So here’s ’the deal’. Give Russia the Dombas, promise that Ukraine will NEVER join NATO, and have it reduce its army significantly. Great deal for Ukraine.

They don’t have to agree, of course. But if they don’t, America will ‘cut them off’. From arms and more importantly from ‘intel’. Without which, you can’t fight a war.

‘Europe’ is in deep disagreement with America on this. Which is akin to a flea on a dog going on strike. Because unless Macron (wimp) and Starmer, temporarily included in ‘European’, just for the duration of this fight, and Georgia Meloni (bit of a babe, but, like all Italians, better at running than fighting), intend to put boots on the ground, which is tantamount with declaring war on Russia, it just becomes so much hot air. As usual.

Basically, Ukraine is slowly but inexorably becoming swallowed by its evil neighbour. And Putin is rewarded for starting the war. Great message to China, Iran, North Korea…

And we lost the fucking cricket in Aus.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

We’re in the final countdown for the THE BUDGET!!!! Not just any old budget but a MASSIVE one with block capitals and exclamation marks. Because never before have a government, however incompetent they may have appeared at the time, spent so much time, effort and energy on dithering around speculating on every single facet of our financial well-being and considering how many ways they can ruin it and lead us into penury. We’re 6 days away from disaster.

But moronic, incapable, unqualified chancellors aside, we need to discuss ‘the leader’. The Boss. The Prime Minister of all England and a few other little countries too. Known collectively as ‘the liabilities’. Because we’ve all realised that we have a leader who can’t lead. A statesman who can’t state. A man with all the gravitas of a deer-in-the-headlights. Who puts fear into… no-one. A weak, pathetic… Arsenal fan!!!

So obviously he has to go. To where, that’s not my problem. And although the rumours have abated somewhat this week as to ‘a take-over’, a de-throning, they remain never far from the surface. As they would when the guv’nor is a wet rag and is greatly, unelectably unpopular with voters as well as his own party.

Yet in the last rounds of speculation over ‘the new leader’, we’ve had the Wes Streeting brigade, we’ve had the ‘bring Ange back from her shame and her six houses, none of which she’s paid stamp duty on, and make her the leader she should be because she was pregnant at 16 so therefore knows how to run the country’.

But the man originally tipped as the true heir to the throne of Labour Britain has gone all quiet. Though on tv this morning he refused to deny his leaderly aspirations.

Andy Burnham. Mayor of Manchester and professional northerner. He just hates ‘London’. Not just the City and the people, but the entire concept of ‘London’ in all it encompasses. When it rains in Manchester (every fucking day), it’s the fault of ‘Westminster’. He hates London, he resents it, he has a chip on his northern (narrow) shoulder about six km wide and he hates the fact that London generates a third of Britain’s GDP. That’ll be all those ‘non-working people’ then. According to the nonsensical and stupid definitions used by his party. These not-working-people seem to subsidise all the workers. Go figure.

If Burnham becomes PM Parliament will no longer be referred to as ‘Westminster’ because he’ll move it to the Wheeltappers & Shunters Club meeting house in Barnsley. Buckingham Palace is going to Burnley. Windsor Castle will become Widnes Castle and…

God help us all.

Happy Thursday, from here in LONDON!!!

A xxxx

It’s snowing outside my window. Remember snow? That white stuff we used to get at Christmas when Bing Crosby was still alive? Well, its mid-November, following the ‘mildest’ autumn in the entire history of mild autumnal things’, when just last week we were sunbathing on Tower Bridge and diving into the River to cool off (metaphor. BIG metaphor. Approaching hyperbole), and now we’re building snow men. Who look like Kier Starmer, particularly as they start to melt and lose their facial features. And then we go outside and KICK THE SHIT OUT OF THEM AND BEAT THEM WITH SHOVELS!!!

Sorry, where was I?

Oh yeah. Snow in November. Not unheard of but quite unusual. Like temperatures of almost 20 degrees in October. Unusual, but not unheard of. Floods in Wales. Ok, the water didn’t get all of it; they managed to play a football match in Cardiff last night, so it can’t have been that bad. Hurricanes in Jamaica, destroying half the country. Well, its hurricane season, what d’y’expct?

But when you add up all these things, you have a choice. Its either ‘coincidence’ that about 120 really rare meteorological events occur almost simultaneously, (remember, we’re talking geological time here, measured in millions of years, so ‘within a few weeks’ is ‘simultaneous’), its just ‘the cycle of the planet’. Or you can actually start to think that in some ‘small’ way, we are influencing the environmental changes in our planet to the extent that the weather is really shitty today. We (I’m speaking for all 8.1 billion people in the world) have created… global warming!!!! And it’s real and its here and…

And we kind’a have to learn to live with it. Because for all the Greta Thunberg shit, before she joined Hamas and is following a new agenda, trying to make ‘environmentally friendly suicide bombs’, for all the Ed Miliband bollocks about ‘net zero’, at some point you have to realise that humans produce carbon. We exhale the fucking stuff. And we want to keep warm in our homes and we need to drive around sometimes and don’t want ‘range anxiety’, and we like the idea of AI, the world’s most energy-consuming… thing!!! So really, pragmatic limitations aside, we’ll have to learn to live with ‘global warming’ and snow in November.

But other things change too. Like ‘truth’. That’s changing. In fact it changed yesterday.

The old version of ‘truth’, was ‘whatever Donald Trump believed’. But then Mohammed bin Salman (MBS) visited him yesterday and I realised that this ‘truth’, as opposed to all the ‘fake news’, which is what Trump doesn’t agree with, can in fact be bought. Because for just a $1trillion trade deal, MBS has bought absolution from a horrendous crime. Previously, after the horrible murder of Jamal Khashoggi in Turkey, the American security and intelligence services declared that the ‘hit’ was approved, possibly originated, by MBS. Although that was only based on extensive research and physical proof and evidence. So fly a 12-digit sum in front of Donald and it becomes “MBS knew nothing about it. Things happen”. The new truth.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I’d just like to say, that if you’re blessed with footballing skills, if you are ‘sheer class’ on any footy pitch, if you’re a Sunday league Glenn Hoddle, more skilful than Liam Brady, more elegant than Zidane, stronger than Vieira, more aggressive than Roy Keane (that would involve weapons), then it is enduring. That is me. I put shorts on because I have to get ‘in character’, even for a 1-on-1 with Joey in his kitchen. Ok, I’d come from tennis, but proper attire is essential! Unfortunately, I lost. Not because of any lack of artistry, great goals, wonderful tactics or even not scoring enough. But the first rule, in his kitchen, is ‘Joey wins’. He manipulates numbers like the most skilful tax-avoidance accountant; he cries ‘foul’ when the only such thing going on is the chicken his mother is cooking. His ‘goal area’ is marked clearly, by precisely where he is on the pitch, allowing him to dive on the ball and grab it. Similarly, the ‘goal line’ is subject to interpretation. His interpretation. If we’re playing up to 5 and I get the 5th, then we’re playing to 10. Or its ‘half time’. But this is not ‘cheating’, how fucking dare you!!! My grandson!!! No, this is being competitive (good thing), its ‘creative’, its… sheer genius!! This action photo was taken by one of the press who’d turned up in droves with their long-lens Nikons. I probably fell over after the shot. Or needed medication of some sort. Whereas Joey is like the Duracell bunny. But rechargeable. Just insert a ‘snack’ and he’ll go on forever.

And I’d just like to say that even though I haven’t watched any of England’s amazing run to the World Cup finals, basically because for some reason, I don’t give a shit about my national team, they are impressive. Played 8, won 8, goals conceded: none. Not one, in 8 games. Ok, one of the countries was Andorra, so that tells you lots. Serbia? Albania?? And Latvia. Not exactly Spain, Germany and Brazil. But you know what, you can only play who’s in front of you. And if FIFA put that sorry lot in front of England (Beckham probably paid the 3 million Euro bribe) then that’s who you play. And beat.

But the rugby? Oh. My. God. England beat the All Blacks. For about the third time in my lifetime. We were indeed brilliant. But they were indeed crap. For an All Blacks team. There’s no Dan Carter. There’s no Tana Umaga. They have Boden Barrett but he can’t do it all. And in fact had a rotten game. Thankfully. We were lucky to have played them in a year when they simply don’t have the 15 superstars that they’ve managed to keep producing for over 50 years. Even the Hakka was lacklustre.

Yet I missed the game. Because it was on TNT. And I don’t have it. The most annoying channel on tv. I refuse to pay a penny more than the £697.23 a week I currently seem to pay for ‘every fucking channel in the world except the ones I actually want to watch’. If I had any mates I could have gone round to watch it. But I don’t get invited. Because I eat too much, make a big mess, shout a lot and break things. But Joey does all that regularly but we still seem to invite him round.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

I still haven’t quite gotten over dinner in Narbonne. I don’t think I’ll ever fully ‘get over it’ really. Last night at dinner time I emptied the freezer, cooked the lot, set it along the entire kitchen worksurfaces with the entire contents of all the larders and declared the buffet open. I’m scarred by the experience. And I’m not just talking about the stretch marks around my waist.

Today’s pic is one of the meat ‘stations’. Ok, we’ve all seen roast meats before, not so much pressed duck (fucking amaaaazing), but it’s the presentation of the place. At most ‘all you can eats’ I’ve been to, they’re staffed by miserable Lithuanian students or depressed Syrian refugees, wearing jeans, last night’s t-shirt and a grim expression. Whereas at Les Grandes Buffets, they’re in full livery, they are indeed all foreign, but because they’re French.

There is, literally, tons of food in big heated ‘servers’ all over the place, but then there’s loads more which, although unlimited, is cooked individually. Like my tournedos Rossini. There is quite literally a wall of seafood; everything you could imagine, and quite a few more unusual sea creatures that you couldn’t. There were the most amazing pickled whitebait I’ve ever eaten. Probably because I’ve never eaten them before. But I will again.

And there’s cheese. Fuck me, is there cheese. I must confess I’m not the bravest or most adventurous cheese-eater on the planet. Any trace of blue, green, black, grey, purple or pink and I wouldn’t even touch it. But if it’s shades of white-to-beige, I’m in. So I took four extra statins on Thursday night, with my pre-match whisky in the hotel bar. Ok, I didn’t but probably should have, thinking retrospectively at all the cheese I consumed.

The meat was outstanding. I had a ‘stew de boeuf’ which was basically great big steaks casseroled until amazingly soft and wonderful. Then I had a steak anyway. Because I could. I ate it in protest. Just not sure who I was protesting at.

There was some lettuce there, but I didn’t want to be a pig, eating everything, so I passed it by. And tried to moderate my bread intake, because it’s so filling, but alas, equally wonderful. And you can’t really eat foix gras, nor cheese, without du pain. I can’t anyway.

Then there were desserts. Oh. My. God. So many, so wonderful. And a geezer in a bow tie making crepes, and a little ice cream ‘shop’. I sampled (it was the size of a small car) the tarte tatin , because you have to. In France. It was magnificent. So was the ice cream.

Listen, I can’t go banging on about food for the rest of my life, over one little meal. Maybe just a week. Or so. Especially as there’s no proper football going on.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

This was an incredible experience. Food. Mainly. But the whole deal was quite remarkable. And this place is rammed full. And it books up months in advance, with seating for about 500 people. All in wonderful, cut-glass, shiny silver comfort. They even have a dress code. To avoid grotty French plebs from rolling up dressed like the crowds in Les Mis. Or British over-eaters bringing down the tone of the place. As it happens, I was wearing my gold taffeta cocktail dress, purple moon boots and a diving mask, so I was ok.

There is just so much food, it would be obscene except… because its food, the excesses become wonderful rather than grotesque. There’s a tower of lobsters. How they managed to climb it, I’ll never know, on those feet. And how many do you need? But this place was never about what you ‘need’. It’s about what you ‘want’. And it’s about going the extra mile. And acting like a real MAN! (Read: ‘a real PIG’)

There’s foix gras. But, like, loads of it. And in many flavours. There’s ’goose dying in pain with truffle’, there ‘goose in agony and port’ flavour, all of them uniquely wonderful. Another ‘station’ gave roast meats, lots of them, in all types of cooked-ness. They even had fish on the menu! Obviously catering to the more vegan types. I know, I know, fish aren’t strictly on the ‘glat-vegan’ menu but relative to everything else there, they’re almost a vegetable.

There was ‘veal head’, tripe, kidneys, all manner of everything which once owned space on an animal’s body, and a fair bit which didn’t. Cheeses. Miles of them. Most of them, I’m guessing, French. And everything in the place is simply outstanding. Can’t speak for the veal’s head, it’ll have to speak for itself. Miles of desserts, cakes, tartes, ice creams, crepes, freshly flipped.

We paced ourselves. Ish. Ate everything in sight for the first half hour, then let it digest. Which means drinking wine, obviously. And here that also means probably French stuff. Ok, we all prefer Stockport Malbec to a genuine Bordeaux, but you have to compromise. Because the wine list there started at less than 15 Euros. Loads and loads of fab wines between 15 and 30 a bottle, in a very upmarket restaurant. Something you never, ever find in a London restaurant.

We never got to see Narbonne itself. A sweet (I’m guessing) little seaside town between Montpellier and Spain. The restaurant is basically in the industrial area with very little around it that is in any way endearing. Yet it attracts 500 people in twice a day to eat from its amazing and vaaaaaast offerings.

We loved it. It was best 70th birthday me mate Mark has ever had. In Narbonne. Without doubt. If only the gods of the airways were not conspiring against ME, agaiaiaian.

Happy Friday, Maybe Saturday by the time I get home, FFS.

A xxxx

I’d just like to say that I have no desire to be the leader of the Labour Party. I’ve spoken to Wes Streeting and he doesn’t want the job either. In fact, I think it safe to say, no-one wants that fucking awful job whilst our proudly Labour government is doing such a terrible job of running things. And the funny thing is: no-one has stated that they want to get rid of Kier Starmer. Even though he is about as popular with the general population as a rapist asylum seeker with a knife. But less effective. And within our party he’s even less popular. Yet no-one has actually stated intentions to depose him. The ‘rumours’ all came from number 10. The work of Morgan McSweeney, Starmer’s chief-of-staff, in an attempt to pre-empt the inevitable. Coming out to thwart a rebellion which doesn’t in fact exist. Until those thwarted realise it’s not a bad idea. Hmmmm… Starmer gone… hmmm…

So to avoid all the bollocks, I’ve taken off for a day. I’m going out for dinner. But that’s also a problem. I mean, it’s just too easy, ‘going out for dinner’. You can jump in the car and be at a McDonalds within 5 minutes in any direction. Or you can get on the tube and go into town and choose from any of the 95,366 restaurants available. Or you could go into ‘the countryside’, loads of lovely pubs and restaurants there, but is that really where you want to go?

No. Where you really want to go is Narbonne. Yes, Narbonne. South-west France. Because there they do ‘dinner’ like nowhere else. Well, a bit like everywhere else, but much, much better and infinitely, much bigger. Iss French, innit, so it must be better. But this is the world’s finest ‘all you can eat buffet’. It is magnificent. And you just eat your way round it. But its posher than your normal ‘all you can eat’, so you have to use a plate, rather than rubber gloves and a bib. And apparently you’re not allowed to push people out the way to get at the lobsters.

And all you have to do to get a table is, get yourself to Stansted airport where Ryanair will take you, with all speed but not a lot else, to Toulouse. Where you just jump in a car and drive it for 161kms and you’re here!!! It’s so easy! Who needs to limit their horizons and go to The Villa Blanca in Hampstead or the Rising Sun and Lion in Highgate, when Norbonne is ‘like, literally’ just around the corner??? Ok, quite a few corners.

I’ll let you know how it goes. It’s like every food challenge ever, all at once. With really good wine.

Happy, hungry Thursday

A xxxx