Andy's Glasses

Listen: we coped with losing the football on Saturday night; we can cope with a little snow, FFS!! We are England!!!

However, once I’ve put down my 6 foot cross of St George flag, covered up my ‘BNP’ tattoos and changed out of my steel-capped Doc Martens, I realised that there may in fact be a few minor issues. Weather-wise. In London. Though its not our fault, we just don’t, kind’a ‘do’ weather. We’re fine when there is no weather, then its all just great. Even a bit of frost and fog won’t keep the heroes off the tennis court. But when the weather comes, that, kind’a ‘foreign’ type weather, we don’t do so good. We struggle. Too hot, too cold, too wet, too dry, too snowy, too… not enough snowy. Then it all turns into a perfect shit-storm. Like it did this morning.

The kind of morning that is truly ‘picture postcard’. The kind that is absolutely beautiful to behold. Full of majesty and brilliance. When viewed through the bedroom window. It’s when you go out that the trouble starts. Unless you’re Lila and Joey, then its when the fun starts.

I swept off the 6 inches of snow from Mel’s car so she could go swimming. Then swept the path and driveway because… its actually fun. And you can only do it when its powdery. Give it an hour and its rock hard and requires dynamite. Then I checked the trains.

Transport for London’s website just said: YOU’RE JOKING, RIGHT? on the home page. So I clicked on the underground section and it stated ‘JUST FUCK OFF’. Well, not in those precise words, but so much of everything was ‘suspended’ it appeared to be a day only fit for going on strike. Maybe working from home. Best of all would be striking from home but I’m not sure that’s legal. Lila’s school was shut for the day because… well… you wouldn’t want… its not safe to… oh bollocks, just close, that won’t be very inconvenient, will it?

And so I set off. And eventually, circumventing the closed stations, getting buses, trudging along like a polar explorer, I arrived in the City. As usual, snowless and clear and business as usual, but without any people (see above). If/when I get home tonight, I’ll be back in Greenland. So its whale blubber for dinner. Again!

Happy snow day

A xxxx

Oh no, its the tragedy or tragedies: England are OUT of the World Cup. Even though it was ‘coming home’ (stupid fucking expression), it has decided to stay away for another 4 years. Possibly somewhere warmer. Argentina or maybe Morocco. Hopefully not France because… well, just on principle. But not England. Won’t be coming here. It’s just like 2018 all over again! 2014… 2010, 2006, 2002… 1974, 1970 and 1962. (The World Cup did exist before tv but not in any meaningful sense). In fact it only ‘came home’ once and the Beatles were on the throne at the time. I do think Spurs fans are best placed to deal with this catastrophic national calamity, because this is our world. We excel at not winning things. But doing it really well. Stylishly.

If Harry had just scored that second penalty…

Then it would, in all likelihood, have just delayed the agony, going to extra time, penalty shoot-out and giving the rest of the team the opportunity to feel as shitty as he does today. We have a bit of a ‘history’ with penalty shoot-outs.

My dirhams are now on Morocco. Not because I like them in any way, heaven forbid. But because they’re just amazing. They beat Belgium, Spain and Portugal, whilst fielding just one player I’ve ever heard of. Ziyech from Chelsea. Not a good omen. Argentina lost a lot of fans by choosing to celebrate their penalties victory over Holland by taunting and laughing at the crest-fallen losers. Nice. And Croatia… have a lot of players whose names end in -ic. All of their players, in fact. Management… fans…

Anyone can play tennis on a hot sunny day in Wimbledon. Only real men (and total fucking idiots) can play in the ice, fog and frost. I wore a sweat band under my beany hat. And then you get really hot and a bit sweaty, so you take the hat off and your heads a bit damp from sweat so it instantly freezes. Thus I took one glove off, went the (not quite) full Michael Jackson, to try and regulate my temperature, left the scarf on and removed my jacket. That worked. One hand, my feet and head were then at -5 Celsius, my body and neck were at 48 and my legs at 39. Which averaged at 37!!! Perfect body temperature! Job done.

Happy cold Sunday

A xxxx

Tonight England play France in the biggest match since matches began. Mainly because the game being played is always the most important ever because nothing in the past is relevant and even I can’t predict the future. And I’m brilliant.

So why do I waste my time and efforts reading the pundits, the analysis, the player ratings, the history, the averages, the aggregated results over the last 100 years, the prices and/or salaries of the teams, the number of tattoos per square cm of skin, fucking EVERYTHING? But taking all that into account, running the statistics, performing my own analysis of such a deeply mathematical nature that I can’t even spell it, and using the full Tarot, I have come to the absolute and unarguable result:

No one knows.

When the match is played, we’ll know who’s winning at any particular time, and even that isn’t always a valid predictor of who’ll end up the victor. It’s football. Anything can happen. Brazil should beat Croatia. Manchester City should never lose. It all depends on immeasurable contingencies at the time. A good bounce here, a tug on a shirt there, the eventual result is the outcome of 237,493,091 various incidents and events during the match. (Using my special maths… stuff). Therefore the answer to ‘who’s gonna win?’ is meaningless until the final whistle blows.

So we shall have to wait and see. Like they did last night when Argentina, eventually, beat Holland, sparking the third mass brawl of their evening as Lionel Messi dragged his otherwise mediocre team to the semi-finals.

All I hope is that we set up a proper attacking line-up, in a manner which will enable Jude Bellingham to strut his stuff, rather than making him the 7th defender. Because we need to score goals. As you feel France probably will. Can Kyle Walker tether his man? Doubtful but it’ll be a good race.

Happy Quarter Final day

A xxxx

So there it was. Finally. After literally months of eager anticipation. In front of my very eyes. Harry and Meg: the Series!!! Full of venom, hatred, lust, death, violence, accusations, implications, devastations and repercussions of a truly royal nature!!! Except… it wasn’t. I was expecting Reservoir Dogs of the Monarchs and got Love Story goes Limp. I mean, I get how Harry could have deluded himself that the stirrings in his regal loins were ‘love at first sight’, because we all know how that phrase translates directly from the gonads. But for her to feel that too? When ‘their eyes met across a crowded room…’ she would definitely have looked somewhere else. Unless he was wearing a crown; that shifts the whole ‘love’ dynamic.

And that’s half of that entire, exceptionally long episode (I couldn’t handle the second part, not sure I ever will, might just jump to 6 when its released); how in love, in tune, two hearts beating as one, on song, yin and yang and every other clicheed phrase they could get from the Thesaurus. Had me reaching for my bucket.

The other half was slightly more interesting. A touch more revealing.

Harry and his mum.

Because not in an Oedipus way, Harry was and definitely still is, obsessed with his mummy. Her life, her death and the Press wot dunnit. That night in Paris defined Harry completely, possibly his brother too, to a slightly lesser degree (but how would ‘we’ ever know? Like really?), and still does. His hatred for the media runs understandably deep and enduring. Not sure that making the ‘boys’ walk behind the coffin did them any favours either, especially as they had to walk with Di’s brother who’s a tosser. Lord Tosser.

So here’s Harry; fucked up and confused and punching photographers, getting pissed, taking drugs and going wild. Like most other 18 year olds. Who’ve just left Eton. So he goes to Africa to find himself. But instead found loads of Africans. Then he found Meg and… aaaahhhhhhhh, (deep sigh, followed by gag reflex).

But this ‘match’ is barely 15 minutes old. (One sixth of ‘a match; stay with it, FFS), nowhere even close to half time. I’m going back for the penalty shoot-out.

Happy Friday

Your Candle in the Wind. xxxx

“Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you”.

That phrase was invented by Black Sabbath in nineteen-seventy-whenever after the release of their only ever single: Paranoid. It’s a brilliant song. All their songs were brilliant. Really ‘dark’, fucking LOUD and totally brilliant. They had to be played loud. If you turned the volume down below ‘9’ they turned off. No point listening to Iron Man or War Pigs at a whisper. Ossie Osbourne didn’t do ‘whisper’.

But Black Sabbath had a right to be paranoid because everyone was out to get them. To try and ban them. For being ‘dark’, ‘satanic’, ‘demonic’, obviously. But also, following the suicide of a young woman who’d was playing their album at the time of her death, the accusations of evil against the band went exponential. Not only were they subversive, not only were they really long-haired and rebellious, not only, if you played their records backwards Bealzibub would enter the room, but worst of all: they were working class.

Four scumbag factory workers from Birmingham who changed music forever. Of course once those accusations started flying and calls for having their music banned got under way, their fame and fortune similarly skyrocketed. No such thing as bad publicity. And the more ‘from the devil’ they were accused, the more kids wanted to embrace that, to stand out, be different.

I was watching a rockumentary about ‘the birth of Metal’. No shit. I know, with the World Cup on how do I find the time? But I make time. For what’s important. And once I’d enjoyed the exquisite moment when Ronaldo came on as a substitute, that match could never get any better, however many Portugal scored. So I went in search of the sound of my youth. Played at volume ’11’ in my brother’s room. But what separates Black Sabbath from all the other bands of that ilk, Deep Purple, Led Zeppelin, Nazareth, was that Ossie and his merry men always seemed to be laughing. Mainly at themselves, but not exclusively. And I love that they never took anything too seriously.

Happy listenin’

A xxxx

Who’s your hero? Batman? Einstein? Weinstein? Churchill? Primrose Hill? Gary Linneker? Gary Neville? Gary Glitter? Emiline Pankhurst? Bob Dylan? Bob Hope? Nelson Mandela? Lord Nelson? Donald Trump? Donald Duck? So many worthies to elevate to the very top of one’s personal list. Mine is Pele. No competition, no-one even close.

I was 10 in 1966, when England won the World Cup. Brazil were fab but I didn’t really notice them much. But by 1970, I was… errr… (plus 3, add one, take away 7, divide by…) 14 and I did take notice. Of the team which, to this day, was the absolute best ever. The heart and soul of which was Edson Arantes do Nascimento. Pele. Then 30 years old and at the total peak of… everything. You should just binge on all the Brazil matches from 1970 one day (and night, and another day) rather than wasting time with Peaky Blinders or Desperate Housewives. To learn the sheer majesty of the man. It wasn’t just the goals. Not even the amazing things he did which no-one else could or would or has ever done since. It was the poise. The balance. The sheer nonchalance of The Ultimate Footballer. As exemplified by his pass in the final that year to Carlos Alberto to score the best goal ever scored. And he was always smiling.

He was beyond ‘good’ and so far above ‘special’ that His name must be revered. And as he lays dying in a hospital in São Paulo, I’m with him in spirit.

But whilst he’s there, he’s got fuck all else to do but watch football. And last night, he’d have been proud of his legacy. Because I’m sure Brazil had great footballers before Pele and they’ve definitely had more than a few since. But he infused that nation’s football psyche with an enjoyment and joy which endures to this day. No Brazil team is ever ‘pragmatic’. They all play because they simply love to play. Ok, they showboat a bit, at times, no names. Although Neymar springs to mind. But they only do that because they’re so good and they’re enjoying themselves so much.

And how much would Pele appreciate Richarlison’s goal last night? A goal almost obscene with cheek, with guile, with style, with flow and precision. The fact that the scorer is a Spurs player is (almost) irrelevant here.

I want Brazil to win the World Cup. For Him. And for Me. And for football. Which, with the corruption and politics and all the shit surrounding it currently, has become a little too cynical. But not for Brazilians. Like me.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Well, the excitement in our house last night was positively palpable. Pulsating. Possibly psychologically psychedelic (I know, but I ran out of ‘p’-words which sound like ‘p’-words). It was pspectacular. Even Mel, not the world’s keenest football fan, was so moved by the occasion that she actually looked up from our latest jigsaw puzzle for seconds on end. During the second half. And the last 5 minutes of the first half. Before that there was quite literally nothing to distract her from sorting those little pieces. It was horrible.

Because Senegal started like men possessed. Almost as if they were a World Cup team intent on winning a round-of-16 knockout match! I mean; who does that? At one point during the (what felt like) 3rd hour of the first half, the daughter messaged me ‘this is like watching Spurs’, as England knocked the ball around, quite comfortably between the back 4, never venturing anywhere near the half way line. That was after Senegal had inevitably decided that ‘high press’ might be a good idea but if you’re knackered after 10 minutes, the rest of the game might become a problem. But still England looked like a team without a plan.

Then something happened. It was called ‘Jude Bellingham’ and he just sort of burst into life. A 19 year old kid running like a veteran, bouncing off tackles and he set up the game’s most unlikely scorer, Jordan Henderson, for a goal just before the 40 minute mark. Hooray. Nerves were settled (except for Spurs fans, ours never settle) we had a lead to take in at half time.

But the first half wasn’t over. Not by a long way. Bellingham again, powering his way upfield as England broke out of defence. Pass to Phil Foden on the left, first time to Harry Kane, powering up from the right and if you want an emphatic finish, Harry delivered. So we had a 2-nil lead to take in at half time.

We scored one more, Foden again, this time assisting Saka for a very classy goal.

And being a football fan, thus able to make a definitive judgment based on 5 minutes of play, but relying completely on hyperbole, the blinkering effects of national pride and alcohol, wishful thinking and a blind spot 6 miles wide, I would say Jude Bellingham is the best player in the world.

Because I just don’t get the hype about Kylian Mbappe. What’s all the fuss about? He’s French, FFS. Just because he’s explosively talented, unbelievably skilful, scores for fun, is fast as fuck-on-steroids and quite possibly the inheritor of Messi’s crown for brilliance, why is everyone making such a big deal?

Maybe he’ll get Covid before Saturday.

Happy “it’s comin’ ‘ome” Monday

A xxxx

Everyone has their ‘ambulance’ story. My aunt had a heart attack and waited 73 hours for an ambulance. The undertaker only took 42 minutes. My grandma fell over and broke her hip. She died of starvation waiting for paramedics. Even us, when Joey banged a big hole in his head, his dad said to call an ambulance but we decided that we love Joey and didn’t want him bleeding out for 36 hours so took matters into own hands.

And the problem is not with the ambulance drivers. Nor strictly with there being a vast number of sick people. The problem starts with people being well and healthy.

They go to hospital, get treated, sewed up, repaired and then they’re better and should go home. But they can’t. They might have a leg in plaster and need care but live alone. They might be all sorts of things requiring constant assistance but don’t have such support at home. And the ‘care system’ can’t cope and offer help. So they have to stay in hospital until something can be arranged.

But until they leave they can’t put sick people in their beds. So the afflicted lie on stretchers in the A&E until that’s full. Then they put them in the corridors, waiting for beds. Waiting for a well person to finally go home or a sick one to die. Same difference.

Because until they do The ambulances can’t bring anyone new into the hospital. There’s simply no-where to put them. So the patients lie in the back of the ambulance waiting for space. And that can take hours. During which the ambulance obviously can’t go and gather up more afflicted. So those who’ve fallen, got sick, had a heart attack or just don’t feel well, sit at home and wait for someone healthy to go home, for hours and hours as the ambulances all sit outside the hospitals waiting interminably to unload their wounded to allow them to go out again a’gathering.

The obvious solution is that as soon as people are better you make them leave their bed. No help? Tough shit. Need assistance? Your problem. We need the fucking bed!!! Alternatively, as soon as people are well, you kill them. But that’s an ironic loop too far. Possibly too surreal for Dali. But the alternative is at the other end of the cycle, with the ill dying in ambulances, or waiting for them. Effectively, the current situation.

None of it the fault of the ambulance teams. Yet they’re the ones who have to live with it and suffer the massive mental consequences of their collective, institutionally-created impotence.

And all this when England are playing tonight, when it all gets a bit more ‘real’.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

So here we are, on our favourite subjects of the Royal family and prejudice. Brilliant. Love both of them. And then they combine, so sweetly, coincide, so perfectly… in Meghan.

Very few people ever admit to being racist. And the ones who do generally belong to Combat 88, the Not-very-nice-Nazi-ish Party, UKIP or other right-wing type organisations. The rest of us claim no racism whatsoever, no prejudice for colour, creed, gender (other than the really confusing ones, everyone hates them), religion or class. And on a conscious level we may be completely correct.

But there is always a degree of stereotyping, when hearing stories on the news. ‘Oh, that’s typical’, kind of internal, visceral almost, reactions that everyone has in certain circumstances. And that is how we define ‘racism’ or ‘sexism’, by the views no-one says or states, but are inherently there. We all have such thoughts. It’s not a perfect world.

And thus my own personal prejudice. And Meghan Markle/Windsor/Sussex. Oh no, its nothing to do with her (mixed) race, nothing at all. But its all to do with her being a ‘babe’.

You see, I just can’t help but unconsciously wanting to find good in her. Because she looks so fab, I can’t see the bad. Or I see it and try to justify it, without even realising. I’m prejudiced towards her, rather than against, like everyone else in the world seems to be. Me and Harry; her sole defenders. Piers Morgan would have her strung up and pilloried. Another good reason to love her. Maybe I have a thing for Canadians? I am married to one. Who knows? But being a fair, decent and never prejudiced kind of uber-mensch, I will always love Meg. Until she gets really fat, old and ugly, obviously.

But after all, I’m just a man.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

“So where are you from, exactly?”, asked Lady Susan Hussey, 82 year old former something-or-other to the Queen, to Ngozi Fulani.

“Hackney”, came the honest reply from the dreadlocked black lady.

“No, but what’s your nationality??”, pressed her Ladyship.

“British. I was born in Hackney”.

“Yes, but before that? Your people? Are you African?”

And so it went on. The question was basically: ‘why are you that colour?’ But you’re not allowed to ask that. In fact, you’re not really allowed to ask any of it. It’s, apparently, ‘racist’. That’s what the accusation is all about. As is the consequent resignation of Prince William’s Godmother. She didn’t resign as Godmother, not sure you can do that, you’d need to ask God, but resigned from her post of… something for an 82 year-old to do in Buckingham Palace to keep her out of the rain.

Prince William immediately issued a statement saying there is no racism in the Royal anything and we’re all about inclusivity and diversity, blah, blah, blah, which you can actually see if you look at his family history and the portraits of monarchs past, how wonderfully ‘diverse’ they really are. Of course, there is but one person of ‘mixed race’, cropping up about 2018 but they managed to make her a hate figure and exiled her to America.

The problem is that people are too fucking sensitive, too sodding literal and too bleedin’ defensive for anything meaningful to ever be said. If someone were to approach me and ask me, as a Jew, ‘where I came from’, I too would say ‘Hackney’, cos its where I was born. But if pushed (as above) I would only be too pleased to bore them to tears with tales of Poland, pogroms, boats to England, 10 people living in 1-bedroom flats in Petticoat Lane, with the diaspora, the Holocaust, world anti-semitism, safe havens, for fucking hours on end.

What her Ladyship said certainly lacked any kind of woke sensibility. But she’s eighty-fucking-two. She’s from another time. Another era. Her grandfather was probably a slaver. Everyone who knew the Queen for 60 years had a grandfather with dirty hands. So cut her some slack. Rather than getting upset and offended at every clumsy question, why didn’t Ngozi, a highly intelligent woman, simply see the question that was really being asked, something like: ‘tell me of your heritage’. The question we all quite like answering. The interesting bit. Rather than being ultra-pedantic about an old lady’s grammatical lack of accuracy.

I don’t think any real fight against racism is enhanced by ‘crying wolf’. Whatever colour the wolf may be.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx