Andy's Glasses

So we all have a bit of a giggle about Spain and its appalling standards of equalitiness because it’s fun to take the piss. Particularly as not many speak English properly so they’re not aware of all the insults and derisory comments being levelled at them. Si?

And then on Friday I happened to be speaking to a professor of Spanish History at Kings College and he told me interesting things, even though he wasn’t a football fan at all. Amazing that people who know so little about football can be seemingly quite knowledgable about other things. But he basically said that most of Spain’s ‘problems’ (ie of a social, societal nature) stem from the fact that they’ve never really gotten over Franco. Who died in 1975. But Franco was a dictator. The sort of person who generally occupies the right-hand end of the political spectrum. Not far along that spectrum from all those stupid American women who want to vote for Trump; the misogynist’s rapist. Because those on the far right like women ‘to know their place’. And it would appear that many of those who know it are the women. So whether this right winginess comes from the religious spectrum; the Taliban, Orthodox Jews, Hindus and certainly Christians, or from the political one, like Franco, they share an adherence to a particularly antiquated mindset about the roles of the genders. Of which, for their purposes, there only two.

And Spain suffered the horrible dictator from 1939 until his death 36 years later. And you don’t last that long because everyone hates you. He was supported by at least half of the population, who helped him overthrow the ‘republican’ government at the time. So there’s a lot of people in Spain reared with quite hard right wing attitudes. And from such a gender-polarised starting point comes sexism, misogyny and all the wonderful things which accompany them. Like feeling free to grab hold of the nearest woman and kiss her face.

I’m not saying that Luis Rubiales is a right-wing misogynist, nor that ‘society is to blame’ for his actions. I’m not even saying that half the world’s problems stem from adherence to extremist political or religious views. It just sounds a bit like I am.

Tottenham Hotspur have no fascist sympathies. But have moved on from being managed by the spawn of Italian and Portuguese dictator-lovers to now having a true republican Aussie freedom fighter at their helm. A man so dedicated to that freedom that he gives the players virtual autonomy on the pitch with just a few basic tactical rules to which they should adhere. Where possible. Only if they feel like it. And it’s working wonders. We’re playing more beautifully than any other team, possibly EVER!!! We’re winning games, scoring at will and are currently second in the league. Second, obviously, to Manchester City, but we’re a nice team. And they are managed… by… a SPANIARD!!!

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

In 1837, my ancestor, Shlomo-ben-Yaarnkel ha-Cohen, was walking the streets of Szypliszki and he was depressed. For most Jews depression is the default position, expressed with a big ‘oooyyyy’, but for Shlomo this was more defined. He was poor. Not just, like boat-person refugee poor, not like homeless-in-Britain poor, not even ‘how am I ever going to pay my energy bill’ poor. Shlomo had nothing. His family didn’t even possess a tv, they were so poor. Ok, so 1837 probably wasn’t a good year for tv anyway, but he wouldn’t have had one, even if they had been invented. Because he had no money. And no food. And a family at home. Who all prayed three times every single day to a God who apparently never came to visit their little shtetl in Poland. Probably got held up in Warsaw. Shlomo walked past a baker’s shop and the wonderful smell stopped him in his tracks. “But I have no money for bread!!!”, he thought, “and 14 hungry children at home with no food!!!” (contraceptives cost money in Poland and ‘go forth and multiply’ was a biblical imperative, even though basic addition and subtraction might dictate otherwise.) So this deeply religious, observant man, who’s morals came from that very bible itself, stole a loaf of bread from the store! O.H.G.!!!!! (that’s ‘oh His God’, because He was much stricter than My one).

And here I sit, just 17 generations later and now saddled with the immense weight of the guilt of his deed. How can I ever be forgiven? How can I repay? And should I just, like, give a tenner to every baker in Eastern Poland? Or just make one single payment to all of Poland of, say, 57 million quid?

Oh, but hang on, half my descendents were murdered in Polish pogroms later that century… hmmmm… I better work out a discount on the reparations I offer. And cousin (very distant) Avram had his house burnt to the ground in 1869 by drunken Cossacks, that’ll cost a few bob…

An ex-MP called Antoinette Sandbach has been ‘named’ on a list of ‘descendants from the slave trade’ and is demanding to ‘be removed from it’. And you have to ask ‘why?’ So she lives on a massive estate in Wales paid for with money associated with… the slave trade!!!! But ‘am I my great-great-great-great-grandfather’s keeper?’ Should the grandchildren of Nazis be imprisoned? Does the statute of limitations pass on through countless generations once the crimes reach a certain level of modern-day traction?

I’m not saying Antoinette should be proud of her ancestor or ’embrace her inner slaver’ but it happened. It can’t ‘un-happen’, so however you write your lists of ‘descendants’, and for the pathetically little they really represent, history is history. The slave trade was the most disgusting, terrible thing ever, but judging it by modern standards is unworthy and denying involvement is even worse.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

Have you had the ‘red light debate’ at a dinner party in a middle-class suburb near you? It goes like this: “well I saw cyclists today and they went straight through A RED LIGHT!!!, on their bikes, as if the rules don’t apply to them!!!”. Then everyone agrees whilst sipping chilled rose, and they get back to discussing schools as they tuck in to their vegetarian lasagne and rocket with spinach and anything else green they can get. They probably all drive electric cars and have clean driveways.

And I agree(d) with them, totally. Its terrible that cyclists seem to ignore signals, do what they want, go as they please and, generally, do absolutely everything that cars can’t, won’t or are unable to do. “The police should arrest them and beat them with long poles, that’s what should be done, if they weren’t so busy sexually assaulting vulnerable witnesses…”

And then I joined the biker fraternity. With my ‘leccy bike’, because proper pedalling is, like… hard. And I sat obediently at every red light as the pedestrians strolled across, I waited patiently to adhere to every last whim of the highway code. I was a model cyclist. And that lasted to just past Belsize Park. And I changed. Morphed into my alter-ego. I became… THE CYCLE BASTARD FROM HELL!!!

I was sitting at a red light, watching the pedestrian lights in both directions counting down, but there were no pedestrians to count them. And I thought: ‘fuck it’ and on I went. And, like your first murder, or first shot of heroin, it felt great. And I wanted to do it again. So I did. And again. And again. I stopped and checked; no-one wants to meet a 40-ton lorry coming across the lights at 30 mph, and if its safe and clear, I go. Making sure that if there are red-light cameras, I turn up my middle finger as I go, just to say ‘I have no registration number, no license, no insurance and bollocks to the rules’. Not saying I’m proud of it, it is what it is.

Then I dismount and become the perfect, police, law-abiding citizen I’ve always been.

But I know ‘he’ is in there. Waiting for the ride home. Waiting to be unleashed on the traffic lights. The force is strong.

Happy Wednesday

A & TCBFH xxxx

There can surely be few pleasures in life greater than high pressure hosing your driveway. Its right up there with wetting the bed (first 2.3 minutes only), not falling off a ladder and watching Arsenal lose to… anyone. The satisfaction achieved as the stones just glisten brightly, the joy of being soaked to the point of near drowning by mucky, muddy, gritty spray, the sheer pleasure of not doing your monthly accounts which are just inside the house, I’m now deeply in love with my Karcher. Joey’s loved it since I bought it. And I bought it the day I returned my brother-in-law’s which I’d borrowed to do the job last time. I just had to have one. My own. A burning need.

Joey heard I was deploying it and came running round. I had to fight him off. ITS MY FUCKING TOY!!! GET’CHER OWNNN!!!! Lila had to have a go too. But in a more demure way. Joey hasn’t quite grasped ‘demure’ with the same enthusiasm he grasps tools which can wreak havoc. You have to laugh.

No. You actually HAVE to laugh. It’ll keep you alive. They ran tests, so we know its true. Half a dozen miserable fuckers and six giggling morons… Ok, bit more scientific than that. They actually tested people with coronary artery disease, made them laugh, twice a week (wtf?) and the others were ‘subjected’ at the same time to unfunny documentaries. And the ones watching re-runs of Frazier or Monty Python, ended up with a whopping 10% better heart than those boring bastards watching Attenboro moaning about the whales. The ‘improvements’ were measured in terms of blood oxygenation, which is what the heart does. But what if laughing actually does nothing, but watching boring tv REDUCES your heart’s capacity by 10%???!!!! Clogs it up! Makes you unconsciously ‘want to die’ from boredom and depression caused by the plight of the arctic sea lions??? Didn’t think of that, did they?

And as someone who takes absolutely everything very very seriously indeed, someone who would NEVER make light of any situation when you could be angry or miserable instead, I resent having to spend two whole… errrr… 2 whole times every week being amused to the point of laughter. Although watching Everton could do it.

Happy, jolly, hilarious, gut-busting Monday

A xxxx

If the answer to the question is “James Maddison”, then what is the question? (Those who lack the love of the game of football, a devotion to all things Premier League, an understanding of the intricacies of ‘the beautiful game’ and an unnatural obsession with small, furry animals, best look away now.)

For years we’ve watched Maddison play for Leicester and thought ‘yeah, too good to play for the Foxes’. Or, ‘he’s ok, that Maddison, decent player’. But that was because he was mired down in Vardie-land with a bunch of no-hopers and losers. Ok, they did actually win the league, possibly the single most amazing footballing achievement in my lifetime, but, as they said in Life of Brian, ‘what have they ever done after that?’

For all the plaudits about our Jamie, he has thus far amassed a grand total of 3 England caps. And yet… and yet…

And yet put him in a Spurs shirt, pull off the handcuffs, set him free and he becomes… what Joey would call a Superhero. 3 games, 3 man-of-the-match performances, one goal, 2 assists.

And yet… there’s so much more he brings to our game. We’ve had fab players before. We’ve had 10 seasons with the world’s top striker. Who often found himself ‘dropping back’ because we had no natural ‘provider’ for him and Sonny to feed off. They did it for themselves and at times to stunning effect. But every team needs a playmaker. That person who can change a game with one pass. Someone who sees the game in its entirety and knows how to break it open. Kevin de Bruyne does it. Luka Modric was our past master, Christian Eriksen his wonderful successor. And that’s what we’ve been missing. And that is the real ‘answer’.

And if I sound like I have a serious man-crush on the scrawny northerner, then I have. And in Ange Postecoglu we have a manager who not only brings out the very best of everyone’s talent, but is brave enough to give it a free reign on the pitch. Which may become known, tactically, as ‘enough rope to hang yourself’. But for now, its working fabulously. And it feels so good to be unleashed from miserable, ultra-conservative southern Eureopean ‘special ones’. Which has had the most wonderful, liberating effect on the rest of the team too. Our midfield is magnificent, and Rodrigo Bentancur is yet to return from injury. Ahhhhhh.

Oh, and Manchester City are top of the league now. Just FYI. And to remember that there are a few other teams out there at the moment.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

Mel drinks ‘mint tea’. No idea why. I’d bathe in it, but drink it?? Not even ‘tea’, just mint leaves in hot water. Why? What’s the point? But she loves it so who can argue. So having had 47 mint bushes lost/buried/killed by slugs/died of unnatural causes in the garden, we had to concede that the plant that ‘never stops spreading and growing; it’ll be all over the garden!!!’ in fact won’t grow in our garden. So you can buy 14 leaves on 3 stalks from Waitrose for 75p, or you can visit the lovely Turks down the road and buy an entire tree’s worth, in a sack that needs two people to carry, for £1.49. Its so fresh it must have been picked that day by someone really happy and exceptionally beautiful. But unfortunately it doesn’t stay fresh. It withers. And if you drink 5 cups of mint-shit (can’t use the word ‘tea’, see above) a day, it would last 7 months. But unfortunately would be unusable within 2 weeks. So what do you do with mint?

There is only one use I can think of, which is that it is a vital ingredient in my patented, best-in-the-world, minty vegan lamburgers. If I say so myself, they are exquisite. And they really are ‘vegan’!!! Except for the lamb bit, so I may have overstated that a little to appear a bit more woke-ish and edgy than I possibly am. Anyway, mint is a fairly vital ingredient in ‘minty lamburgers’ so I decided to pre-empt my mint-need for the next batch I make and freeze some of this glut of mint.

But mint leaves have a central stalk, even the tiny leaves, which upsets the inherent feng shui of the eating experience. As you sit there picking stalks out of your teeth with a mouthful of meat and bread. So being a bit obsessive about food, I remove those stalks. Every one of them, before blitzing the mint in a blender. And it is what you might call ‘Labour intensive’. Place each leaf on a board and use a sharp knife to cut the stalk out. Repeat. And repeat. And repeat. Someone asked me how much mint to use for a pound of lamb mince, and I told them: as much as you have til you get bored.

So that’s what I’ve been doing. De-stalking mint leaves. For freezing. And I know in a months time I’ll defrost a sludge of green pulp and bin it. But I have to try. Because that’s what you do when you fuck up your already fucked up hip doing a knee-block at tai chi and you can’t play tennis.

I’m going to go out for a walk later and kill all the mint plants on the Heath.

But Spurs go marching on. Top of the bloody league!! (West Ham don’t count).

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

Everyone’s favourite ex-president, possibly future-president, has spent the last 3 weeks doing the Intensive Super Zoolander Course for ‘The Look’. At the end of which he had to pick The Pose which would define him, his election campaign and be The Image for making America even more greater-er than it was last time he spent four years repeating everything he said twice. And this was the winner.

Its called ‘No Surrender’. Which, when you are, officially ‘surrendering yourself to the court’, would be something of an irony, if Trump even understood what that meant. He had other options, after 2,317 hours in front of a mirror. He had ‘Tosser in a Trance’, but felt that lacked the sheer… edginess he wished to portray. There was ‘Wanker in the Wild’, which quite frankly requires virtually no effort, but was deemed to make him look not quite ridiculous enough. There was ‘The Fuckwit Frown’, the ‘Tit in a Trance’, the ‘Daring Dickhead’, so many wonderful options. But this one won it because of its wonderful grittiness, from which you can actually feel the complete lack of any logical or sensible thought coming right at you.

Yet best of all, legally speaking, is that if you’re on trial for basically being a serial liar, you should describe yourself as a ‘strawberry blond’ who weighs ‘215 lb’, when everyone knows you’re a fat ginger fuck weighing 300lbs of blubber.

And half of Americans love, believe and worship this criminal imbecile.

‘That kiss’ is now breaking the entire nation of Spain apart. Instead of celebrating their amazing World Cup win in the Ladies competition last week, they’re caught up in a woke-storm which threatens to destabilise the entire nation’s inherent insistence on a more Neanderthal set of societal norms, which has now resulted in the entire winning team refusing to play again until the President of the National Football Federation, Luis Rubiales, resigns. And all he did was grab a woman by both sides of her head and force his lips on hers. I mean, WTF? Not like he grabbed her crotch or anything. Which, according to him, would have been ‘consensual’. Like the kiss was. Though in fact he did grab his own crotch in celebration at the final whistle. A diplomatic act that not too many could pull off (the look, not his crotch, he didn’t pull that hard). Yet its not for us to judge the Spaniards. Not when we have Mason Greenwood to look up to. And when nations like Saudi Arabia don’t let their women drive without permission, Afghanistan prevents education for women, and going to parks and beauty salons, Spain could be viewed as having a really high level of equality. Because really, its only when you compare it to civilised nations that it appears to mired in pre-evolutionary sensibility. Leave Luis alone. He was just doing what generations of ignorant misogynists have done before him. Women should know their place. And in Spain, that would appear to be not a very good place.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

It wasn’t precisely a ‘Kennedy moment’ but there’s something about the death (allegedly) of Yevgeny Prigozhin which is universal. In that: wherever you were when you heard of ‘the plane crash’, whoever told you and by whatever means (news, phone message, internet), your first thought was ‘Putin done it’. And your second was, ‘I’m surprised he waited so long’. Because from the moment he set his private army’s direction of invasion to ‘Moscow’, even Waze told him ‘you’re a dead man walking’. Because however much power you may delude yourself into thinking you have, Putin has so much more it simply is no competition.

Ok, so ‘presuming’ that Prigozhin actually died in the crash (not proven yet) and ‘assuming’ that ‘the Kremlin’ had some kind of hand in this, what is really really awful beyond anything else is not that the state of Russia sanctioned or actually perpetrated the murder of the man. The real crime was the ‘collateral’ death of at least 6 other people, deemed ‘inconsequential’ for fulfilling the objective. Putin could have had him shot. Or just imprisoned him like he’s done to thousands of competitors. Even poisoned him with Uranium. But to take others with him is simply horrendous. And if you didn’t think of Putin as a callous, heartless, amoral fucking scumbag before, you should now. Not that any of your, or my, thoughts will diminish his power, nor his propensity for revenge.

Went to the cinema yesterday with the kids. School hols, rainy day… ya know. Went to see ‘Just Super’, a sweet little Scandi-cartoon. The sub-titles proved a bit tricky for Joey… ok, it was in English, but it still proved a bit tricky for Joey. Which you can tell because he starts climbing over the seats, looking for things to break, to eat, or both.

And its a lovely film with a sweet message. That you really don’t need ‘superpowers’ to be a ‘superhero’. Hence the title, I s’pose. That superpowers will only get you so far, but even without them, we can all be fabulous and do good things. And Lila got that and loved the film. But at 4, little Joey not only didn’t get the message but more, would rather they’d just kept to the superheroes, horrible villains and keep their fucking messages to themselves. Thank you very much.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

Have you watched ‘A Spy Among Friends’? The series on ITV? Its been on for a while but I just started. As is my way. Its the story of Kim Philby, the Russian spy in MI5 just and after the war. And it has pedigree. Written by Ben McIntyre, the best writer of non-fiction in the whole library. And a stellar cast including Adrian Edmonson, NOT as Vivian from The Young Ones, with studs in his forehead, but as an ‘older statesman’ of the secret services, all posh vowels and dinner jackets. Bloody sell-out.

And it is ‘dark’. But like really dark. You can’t see much on the screen because its all filmed in the shadows and the fog and in rooms with no lighting. Because that’s how people lived in 1951 and spies and agents hung out in the darkest places they could find. So they could… spy… and… agent. And its fairly quiet too, as they all mumble, with plums in each cheek, as everyone posh had in 1951, and whisper a lot because you wouldn’t want the Russians/Americans/baddies to hear secrets.

Basically, you can’t hear a fucking word nor see anything at all.

Yet it is compelling and wonderful. Damian Lewis plays a good spy, Nicholas Elliot, Philby’s best mate and possibly the man who let Philby escape to Russia (I’m only on episode 3, so I’m not in a position to offer spoilers. Or you know I would). Anna Maxwell Martin plays a fictional character who interrogates Elliot to find out what happened, and she is totally fabulous, as only really plain and dowdy women can be in a very powerful role set in a time when women just made the tea.

Philby was the last of the ‘Cambridge 5’, with Burgess and McLean and… the other 2. They all went to Cambridge, slept with little boys, then became communists, Russian sympathisers and worked for MI5 as ‘double agents’, giving away our secrets!

But its a really good watch. A Rolex amongst the drossy Timexes of TV.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I’m not the world’s best shopper. For clothes, I am absolutely the worst. But for food, I’m not so bad. Because I love food but would rather go around naked than try on 16 different shirts/trousers/socks. Food doesn’t need trying on. And because I moved, 37 years ago, from the deprived wilds of way out East to the gentrified and leafy suburbs of London’s northwest, our ‘local’ supermarket is Marks & Spencer’s food hall. We love it there. If we want a ‘bargain’ we have to cross the road to Waitrose. Ok, there’s a Tesco the size of Ipswich up the road at Brent Cross but its a 24 hour a day nightmare. We’re also blessed with the best really local supermarket 3 minutes on foot away, which sells everything the Turks can buy. Not the cheapest but they always have what you need, however obscure. ‘Do you have zataar paste? Not the powder, the paste, but the one with garlic and tahini?’ ‘Yeah, over there, next to the eggs with three yolks and the unicorn steaks’.

But no-one is ever that far from a ‘real’ supermarket in London. There’s always a Morrisons, Lidl, Asda somewhere a short drive away. I just wouldn’t know which direction to point the electric vehicle. Though I do for Aldi.

Possibly the cheapest and most downmarket of all. And yet brilliant. And the staff are always really nice and helpful. And pierced all over and covered in tattoos, but that’s an HR requirement. And we go there for drinks.

Because, f’rinstance, a 2-litre bottle of low-cal lemonade (yes, I don’t do ‘water’, so its for my health) in Waitrose is £1.75. In Aldi, 45p. How can anything be 45p? We buy Scotch there, because Aldi have their own distillery on Isla and its the best-kept and least-snobbish secret around that you can get a bottle of truly fab single-malt for £16.99. A truly fab ridiculous price. And apparently there’s lots of other bargain stuff there too, of the more edible rather than drinkable variety, but you have to rummage around for that. And as we came out with about 15 litres of liquids, that was sufficient on weight grounds alone to end the spree.

I love Aldi. And I’ve never seen Rishi Sunak there.

Happy Shopping

A xxxx