Andy's Glasses

I’m thinking that City Airport is my absolute favourite airport in the whole world. But is having a ‘favourite airport’ a bit like having a favourite ‘incurable disease’? Or a favourite ‘London football club which isn’t Spurs’. A favourite poem by Chaucer? Because let’s face it; although we all need airports, they are fucking horrible places filled with queues and stress. The younger daughter doesn’t get stressed. She flies more than anyone I know. Arrives 10 minutes before take-off, breezes through, gets a free upgrade and a glass of champagne. Security, the bane of every flyer’s life, simply parts, like the Red Sea before Moses when she saunters through, with not a care in the world, even though she’s now 5 minutes from take-off and half a mile from the plane. She’s never missed a flight. God only knows how. But I have missed a flight. Therefore my stress levels are even more heightened than usual at the mention of the word ‘airport!’ BA have offered me counselling. I accepted and turned up, only to find a 3 hour delay because the counsellor had only just left his last appointment because of bad weather.

The ‘airport process’ was designed by sadistic bastards intent on making the process as intolerable as possible, as stressful as it can be and with as much queuing up as they can arrange. And they’re always ‘tweaking’ the system to make it just a touch more hostile, a little nastier, giving a little more uncertainty to the innocent traveler. Like when they invented the ‘naughty lane’ after the carry on is scanned. The legal stuff comes out down one lane, ready to go, whilst the items of warfare, terrorism and murder travel down the naughty lane to be examined by a customs dude pulling on rubber gloves. And no-one EVER wants to see rubber gloves at an airport. Mel got stopped once for carrying a lethal pair of tweezers. In Florence it was a forgotten can of Sprite. Which, I grant you, could do a lot of damage if you rammed it up someone’s nose. But a shoe-bomb it ain’t.

City Airport has all the same shit. But with about a hundredth the number of passengers. So you don’t queue. You don’t wait. You don’t take out your liquids. They don’t call stud earrings ‘weapons of mass destruction’. They just do it all quickly, calmly and efficiently. The DLR stops right inside the airport and that’s the most fun way to travel across London other than an e-bike. So the whole experience is different. It’s… pleasant!! It’s (almost) stress free. Though we did arrive about two and a half hours before our flight due to… recent flight issues.

Unfortunately, most flights from City are small planes going to European destinations. Maybe that will change to a broader offering. Or maybe, just maybe, someone from some airline, probably one as yet undiscovered, will start a process to restructure ‘air travel’, to make the ‘customer journey’ (that everyone bangs on about, in the metaphorical sense) a little nicer, more pleasant, more considerate. LESS FUCKING AWFUL AND HORRIBLE than it is now.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

Gianni Infantino, football’s favourite slap-head, was called in to run football’s over-ruling international body, FIFA, because his predecessor, Sepp Blatter, was a corrupt and self-serving nest-featherer who spent his time as boss in running the biggest gravy train in sport. And unlike other trains, it always ran on time. Blatter worked out that of the 211 nations who are part of FIFA, about 150 are piss poor. Some you’ve never heard of. Ok, I’ve never heard of. Like Eswatini. New Caledonia (clue: it ain’t in Scotland). São Tomé and Príncipe. San Marino is a ‘country’. We’ve all heard of it but it has a population the same as Kensington High Street, but obviously not such a posh one. But Blatter’s modus operandi was that he could ‘sell’ the World Cup to a host nation. Who wanted the ‘honour’ for credibility, for ‘advanced sports washing’. To improve their international status massively. Thus Russia was ‘awarded’ the World Cup, even though it was under sanctions worldwide for human rights issues. Qatar was ‘awarded’ it too. Even though the primary criterion is that the host nation must be a ‘footballing country’. Qatar isn’t. Its a camel country. An oil country. Its the country of sanctuary for Hamas leaders and other terrorists. But it ain’t a footballing country. Its too fucking hot to play football there. But Blatter took… however much (a lot), knowing he could use a big chunk to offer bribes to the 150 poor countries, most of which are corrupt anyway, to win the vote. The rest of the cash was his.

Suffice to say: this wasn’t really how FIFA was intended to be run. So they booted him out. And sent in… The Saviour!!! The Son of God!!! Gianni Infantino. Brilliant. Clean up the mess. Perfect.

And ten years later, we’re seeing what the man is really like, and how his new proposal to ‘sell off commercial rights’ of the World Cup, will use that same Blatter methodology of, basically, giving loads of money (relatively) to piss poor countries so they’ll vote for the proposition, with the ‘national heads’ of their associations inevitably being enriched in the process. Sadly, in the current structure, its unstoppable.

“The world cup in America was a massive success”. So say FIFA and so say America. Because they made $18billion from it. Wow! Which inevitably means a few hundred thousand dedicated football fans were ripped off, royally, to generate that figure. Ticket sales were hiked, transport costs outrageous, hotels charging exploitative rates. So a ‘massive success’, other than for the people for whom the game exists. For the parasites who run it and organise it; its all their Christmases come together.

Now he wants to sell FIFA. To Donald Trump’s mishpucha (distant relation). Because Infantino is already ‘in bed’ with Don, to an embarrassing degree and now he wants to let a bunch of unfootballing Yanks control our game.

Which will ruin the World Cup, forever. They’ll have it every 2 years, maybe every year. Tickets will only be affordable to Beyonce and Taylor Swift, a 20 minute train ride will cost $120 and a cup of coffee at the stadium; £25.

I just fucking hate this. I just fucking hate Gianni Infantino.

Otherwise: HAPPY WEDNESDAY!!!

A. xxxx

Italians were put here, as a nation, for aesthetic purposes only. They look good. Some of them, really good. A few, breathtakingly good. But that’s ‘form’. As for function, Italy is fairly useless. Always has been. Shops close up so they can rest or fornicate in the afternoons, factories close for 6 weeks every summer, you walk past a group of soldiers guarding the US embassy, and they look like they’re modelling the new, Gucci-camo line, but would you want them guarding your back in a fight?? Jesus, NOOOOOO!!! So it’s pretty amazing anything ever gets done here. The only activity that is guaranteed to overcome the country’s deep-lying entropy is eating. Which they do very well. Long as you love Italian food, as previously mentioned. Pizza, pasta… well that’s it. Pick a carb, stick some tomatoes on it, maybe some cheese and that’s the meal. Every day, twice a day. Occasionally throw a lump of meat in, for ‘variety’. Sorted. And they drink. Oh my, do they drink. Mainly Aperol Spritzes. I had ‘one’ at the wedding. Ok, I had 19. I get the point.

But where function actually meets form, around here, is in Renaissance art. Specifically, in ‘Shmackel Square’, depicted here today.

If you’re not versed in Yiddish, a ‘shmackel’ is a penis. And, ok, the Florentines probably have their own name for the Square, and it will be a saint’s name, rather than anatomical description. But I’m a literal kind’a guy. I calls it as I sees it.

Years ago, the (now ‘late’) Anthony Sher, the actor, director, writer, knight of the realm and veritable GOD of the theatre, directed a play, in which he starred, (obviously; its all about MEEEE), about the making of Michaelangelo’s David. In which, a group of ‘models’ stood around on the stage, naked and a’danglin’, whilst Sher (Michaelangelo) lusted after ‘David’. Both of whom were, for the purposes of that play, gay. Whether the greatest artist of the entire Renaissance was in fact gay or not was beside any point. It was how Anthony Sher ‘understood’ and ‘interpreted’ the world’s most famous sculpture. It’s like me doing a version of West Side Story in which the rivalling factions are Spurs and Arsenal fans and Spurs win. (I had Alan Gilzean playing Maria). The play was awful (Sher’s one; my West Side Story was brilliant and still spoken about in revered terms all the way from Park Lane to Bruce Grove). Possibly the worst play I’ve ever seen. We only stayed the distance because Anthony Sher is guaranteed watching, even if what you’re watching is shit. (You can see why no-one’s ever asked me to become a theatre critic).

Today we’re going to see ‘the origianl’ David. The one in Shmackel Square is a reproduction with all missing bits replaced and yes, an exceedingly small Shmackel. But ‘the twins’ want to see the original and I want to see if that has is better endowed. It’s a boy thing.

Then we fly home. The wedding’s done; totally fabulous event out in the Tuscan hillside with views all over… well, Tuscany, I’m guessing. It was beautiful and a really wonderful day for all. Aperol Spritzes notwithstanding. And thus will end the ‘grand world tour’ of Florence. I’ve loved it here. There again, I love everywhere when you can eat pizza. Without the normal guilt associated with such an activity.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

So here we are. In Florence. Italy, innit. In fact, at one time it was the capital of Italy. Not for very long, obviously; how long does it take to piss off a bunch’a Romans. But it was rich and powerful and it had full sponsorship. From the Medici family. We all need sponsors and these guys ruled what is now Tuscany to the point where they became the de facto Kings of the region and even had two members of their family become Popes. Power breeds corruption. Even in the 15th Century.

But sometimes, the wonderful randomness of the universe and all its billions of ‘players’ and constituents converge on a particular place at a particular time to quite amazing effect. It could be four musical Liverpudlians meeting up with a little Jewish poof in Soho. It could be an open-minded English theologist and hobby scientist visiting the Galápagos Islands. It could be 11 amazing Brazilians playing in Mexico City in 1970.

Or it could be a bunch of artists and scientists in Florence in the 14th and 15th centuries. The Renaissance. Because these dudes changed the world. Or art. Of science. Of pretty much everything, certainly according to the people round here. Da Vinci invented a helicopter 500 years before anyone came up with any kind of ‘motor’. Galileo’s telescope was so ‘ahead of its time’ that’s its still the model for all telescopes which aren’t ‘reflectors’, which, due to the size requirements, preclude you and me having one. So we’ll stick with Galileo. Architecture changed during the renaissance too. The duomo-mania was always the acceptable form of art to the Spanish Inquisition, so carried on when most science had to stop (Galileo was imprisoned.for even suggesting that the Earth might circle the Sun, rather than the other way round.) And building 40 metre domes needed engineering never before done. So it needed to be invented.

And then there was art. Pure art. Art for art’s sake, money for God’s sake. The money was provided by the Medicis who encouraged a ‘bunch’ local artists’ to do their thing. People like Raphael, Michaelangelo, Botticelli. Who ‘invented’ perspective, realism and all of art, as we now know it. I must admit to not being the greatest lover of Renaissance art, but I can appreciate it. To a degree. Because it was game changing. Doesn’t mean I need to spend 14 hours agonising over it; I can do my appreciation from anywhere.

Dante was from round here too. Bit before the renaissance but his poetry and literature probably inspired a lot of the artists who followed.

Florence is beautiful. Filled with everything, but mainly pasta and pizza, the most important legacy of… errrr… the Renaissance. Because before Galileo invented the circle, pizzas couldn’t exist.

Again, if I’m honest and even though millions will disagree with me, (Spurs Paul, for one), I find Italian food a little too… too Italian. Lacking in sufficient external influences to make it really interesting. Don’t hate me.

Now I’m off to a wedding. It’s about 38 degrees outside but luckily; I brought linen.

Mazzletov to the bride and groom.

A xxxx

Remember that dance track by Haddaway; ‘what is love?’ Well, I’ve been thinking lately about that most over-used, much-abused and completely ambiguous and unhelpful word: ‘love’. What is ‘love’?? When did it change from being an absolute and complex set of emotions for another person for whom you would die; to “I love cheese and onion crisps”. I love Eastenders. I love my children. I love football. “Thanks; love you lots!”, to the Amazon delivery man. Is love a finite quantity? Like blood. You have so much and when it’s gone there’s none left. You can bleed out but can you ‘love out’? You love your partner (I fucking hope you do, or I’m tellin’) and then children come along and you realise you suddenly need more love. And I mean a LOT more love. Then, later, sometimes, grand-children come along and you turn on the love-tap once again. This time all the way to 11. Does that mean you have to get this new love from old loves? Like the budget? Cut immigrant benefits to pay for a bus-fare cap? Stop loving Spurs because you’ve just had a new grandkid? Stop loving marmite??? It used to be that the wonderful word, love, was whispered in reverence to the very few people in your life to whom you were emotionally and physically attached. Nowadays we end calls with ‘love you’, after arranging a new electricity contract.

But I love City Airport. Where I’m sat, sitting, waiting for my flight to Florence. Nephew’s getting married on the weekend, so over we all go. Because we had a lot of warning about the date (‘command’ really rather than just information), I got flights on Air Miles. The outward one was business class, because that was all they were offering for people Avios-rich; pound-poor. So this morning, off we set.

We managed to shoe-horn everything into carry-on cases; ok, I did have a pair of Mel’s shoes in my ruck-sack, but a summer wedding in Italy; you gotta be thinking ‘linen!’ No suit, so easy peasy. Which means we can go by public transport to the airport. The totally fabulous roller-coaster ride on the almost cartoonish DLR. Which takes you, basically, right to the plane. Cos City AirPort is so wonderfully small. And there’s no queues!!! It’s all so easy. And after the Krakow Flight debacle of June, missing a flight for the first time in my life!!!, this is relaxation and joy just to be here, early and easy.

Yesterday we had messages from BA. “Sorry, cock-up on the catering front; can’t give you food on the flight. So here’s 20 quid each to buy some”. I won’t bore you with the hours it took to download the app and load it with the voucher, or you’ll think me a techno-spaz or something. Anyway; we went to Pret and bought 40 quids worth. Which sounds like it should fill a wheelbarrow, but it really isn’t. Not at ‘airport pricing’, cos they’ve ‘got you’. But as the flights, along with the Air Miles, only cost 26 quid, for both of us, I almost feel like I’m ‘winnin’’! Because you don’t get much out of BA, the world’s most hated airline (in my whole house). The love I once had for them is now redistributed around my children, grandchildren and doner kebabs.

Happy Flying

A xxxx

Apparently, Andy Burnham’s form of… I’ll call it ‘neo-socialism’ because he’s implicitly opposed to the ‘neo-Liberalism’ of the last 27 governments, is a singularly 1970s concept. So everyone keeps saying. And to be honest, I’d be happy reliving the 1970s which, as they always say, is the decade which, if you remember it, you weren’t really ‘there’.

It was hippies. It was free lurve. It was the decade I learned to drink (I was 14 in 1970 and if you’d started shaving they served you in pubs. Don’t know how women ever got served. Other than very old Greek women, obviously). I also learned the effects of excessive drink. So it wasn’t all good. We listened to the best music ever made, the decade when proper ‘rock’ came into its own. We learned to drive. Too fast, too loudly, too often. You almost needed to ‘drink and drive’ to cope with the stress. Spurs used to win, back then. And everyone had long hair and flared trousers.

So that’s what Andy Burnham needs to do if he really wants a ‘re-think’ of our entire societal re-structure in 1970s style.

Firstly; we need drugs. Lots of them. ‘Stoned’ was how the 70s was forgotten.

Going to football back then cost very little. Getting into virtually any musical ‘gig’ was a minimal expenditure. So that’s what we want. Burnham’s proposed bus fare ‘cap’ of 2 quid is way shy of 1973 when they cost about 6 old pence a ride. And I fully expect to get tickets to see Beyonce, in Manchester, obviously, for 2 quid. A pint was 35p and a packet of fags about 25p. And as for petrol????

Now here’s the problem. Its all very well ‘capping’ things and taking the tax off other things, all of which, on an individual level, amounts to approximately, 2 thirds of fuck-all. But the cost of those ‘minor cost of living’ savings, is measured in the hundreds of millions. Again, a 70s problem. Well, one of them. When Harold Wilson was PM and we had power cuts every day because the miners were on strike. And the more companies you re-nationalise, as he intends, the more will strike for more pay. And that’s fine. Because if trade unionists cause a cost of living crisis its totally acceptable. Train drivers need to own villas in Portugal too, ya know!!

Happy 1976

A xxxx

We have a new Prime Minister!!! Our 7th in 10 years. Possibly 6th but quite frankly I’ve lost count. But this one is ‘different’. He told us yesterday. He’s going to do ‘change’. They all say that, it’s the standard first speech from outside Number 10. And it generally means we are exchanging one clueless plonker for a different one. Anyway; Andy’s our plonker of the moment so for me it’s a heartfelt and totally committed ‘GO ANDYYYY!!!!’

First job. The Cabinet. The people who run the country. The big jobs. Or big jobbies, depending on how they perform. So Andy sacked everyone except Shibana Mahmood, who stays as Home Secretary. A good call because she actually seems to know what she’s doing (which, in reference to politics, means: does what I, personally, like and agree with). The rest got reshuffled or just booted out. And it’s the reshuffle I particularly like. “You’ve done a brilliant job for Kier in Housing, so I’m going to make you Health Secretary”. Miliband was head tosser in Energy and Environment so they’ve made him Foreign Secretary. It’s like Thomas Tuchel saying: “Ok, Jude, you’ve done such a great job at number 10 (different ‘Number 10’, obvs), we’re promoting you to right back. Harry; you’re holding midfield and John Stones is now on the left wing”. Though I get that Ministers have lots, and lots, and lots of advisers and researchers and minions and gofers, which Harry Kane doesn’t. So they advise the Chancellor and do the sums, leaving him to implement it within ‘policy’. Which we don’t know yet. Andy’s not saying. Its a secret.

But he was determined to ‘reduce the cost of living crisis’ and he’s already done that. He’s removing vat on heating bills. Which saves us £47!!!! Ok, that’s £47 a year, approximately 4 quid a month. Pound a week. That’s massive.

So we can see already that, unlike his predecessor, he’s a ‘man of action!’, with an exclamation mark (subject to removal as his term progresses).

But Andy must realise one very important thing: Britain is NOT Manchester. (For which we thank the Lord). For a start, it’s much bigger. Much bigger. And its filled with people, some of whom speak ‘normal’.

My main reservation about ‘Andy’? He spoke last week how he was unhappy when Kier Starmer announced, soon after the Gaza war started, that Israel had a right to defend itself, when it cut off most of Gaza’s water. (You generally are not under any obligation to feed, nor clothe, people you’re at war with, but this was a bit different). Anyway… I just wondered why, of all the totally stupid things Starmer did and said, all the ridiculous u-turns he made throughout, and all the dubious decision which came from his government, Andy only mentioned specifically ‘Gaza’. Hmmm…

Happy Tuesday under the New Regime. Remember ‘CHANGE!’ Like Starmer said too, but this a different ‘change’. A better one. (???)

A xxxx

So its ended. The World Cup. Seems like it was with us foreverrrrrr! And now there’s a massive void in my life. Massive. And for 4 weeks it won’t be filled.

They’ve all come home. But ‘it’ hasn’t. Unless your Spanish, then ‘it’ has.

This weekend we were blessed with two games. Which, I think its safe to say, ‘no-one gave a shit about’. Unless maybe a few Spaniards and Argentinian Falklands refuseniks.

First came the ‘battle’ for 3rd place.

No-one ever cares who came third. Second possibly, just for piss-taking purposes, but third? No interest.

As reflected by the French players and their attitude to the game on Saturday. They didn’t want to be there, there was no ‘national pride’ at stake, I want to be in Paris eating croissants and horses, not here in the U.S of A, playing meaningless football.

So England to a 4 nil lead. Why not; we’re here, might as well play. But not just ‘play’, play with a freedom and a joy of the game which had been missing for the previous 4 weeks.

Then the French woke up. Remembered who they were. Oh yeah; we’re the ‘best team in the world’, shit, I forgot, let’s play and keep our transfer values up.

And play they did.

I was in the bath for half the game. I like a long bath. Went in at 3.-nil, came out at 4-3. And watched the last 20 minutes of the best match produced in the tournament.

All credit to England, eventual 6-4 winners. Jude Bellingham’s stock rose 10-fold as he came on produced a comic-book cameo of footballing brilliance.

But even though they lost; those fucking French…

Were simply beautiful to watch. Every pass, every flick, back-heel, dummy and every movement was simply magnificent. They were playing with total freedom and really enjoying it. Because it really didn’t matter. So they just took the restraints off of Mbappe, Olise and Dembele and they ran riot.

A testament to ‘the beautiful game’. Not sure Americans can really appreciate such thing, but who cares.

Yesterday’s final again was ‘neutral’ for me. I just wanted a great game. A good game. Ok, a fairly decent game. I’d have taken a mildly awful game.

But got much much worse. The most horrible, ugly, cynical, destructive 120 minutes any bunch of Argentinian thugs have ever inflicted upon the world. It was just vile. No attempts on goal, no purpose other than ‘stop Spain at any/all cost’. Even though that precludes things like scoring goals or playing football. It was painful to watch, so many really talented guys reduced to near-assault on the pitch.

If Argentina had won, it would not only a travesty, it would have sent a message across the whole game of ‘the way to win against superior opposition’. It failed. Miserably. They should hang their heads in shame, Messi and all. (Malvenas flags optional).

Well done Spain. And I think, in the circumstances, well done England. Not for coming third but for forcing the French to play the best football of the whole month.

Happy ‘now its her turn with the remote’ Monday

A xxxx

Manchesterism sounds more like a disease than a political and economic philosophy. It sounds like the condition when you wake up one day talking like Liam Gallagher, drinking pints of warm beer and supporting your ‘local’ football team, which happens to be owned and run by an Emirate. There is no known cure, but euthanasia must be considered in severe cases.

Yet this is what we’re faced with in 2 days time when Andy Burnham gets the keys to Number 10. The present one, in Westminster, not the new one, oop’t’road from t’Piccadilly Centre. That comes later. Apparently at a cost of hundreds of millions a year in staffing and security. Just so he doesn’t have to get the train or stay in the local Premier Inn.

Andy has a fabulous ‘long term plan. He’s just a bit low on short-term methodology. Oh, and people. He’s the PM on Monday and hasn’t decided on his cabinet yet.

His plans are fab! Increasing the social care system. That needs doing. At a cost of… to be declared later.

He’ll ’help with cost of living’. Phew. My Waitrose bill is getting so excessive I only got 6 bottles of Champagne for the whole week! Maybe these cut-backs will be relieved by ‘Manchesterism’.

Utilities are going to be re-nationalised. Taking away Maggie Thatcher’s horrible privatisation which condemned us to 35 years of being phoned 25 times a day by people from Delhi trying to reduce my energy costs. Where will all those people go? What will they do if electricity is privatised??? The cost of buying back all the utilities will only be… we’ll let you know.

And we’re going to devolve power away from London. Send it ‘local’. Improve the socio-economics of the rest of England. Leaving London to turn into Bolton. Closed shops, Oxford Street will become a local fly-tipping site and drug-crime centre. Fitzrovia will become Wigan and they’ll re-build the walls of The City and use it as a prison. Or refugee centre. Or both. Because London is an unnecessary extravagance. Ok, it generates a few bob in revenue but that can happen in the north as we re-industrialise and make more steel at 10 times the cost of buying Chinese, dig up coal again, even though Ed Miliband doesn’t want it and have a British Leyland renaissance to build cars again!!! Hopefully this time cars people want to buy. We can subsidise them! That’ll only cost… we’ll get back to you.

So great plans. Wonderful plans. Making Britain better!!! Everyone will be richer, happier, more evenly distributed!! Except the ones paying for it. Because his plans, like all airy-fairy fair-world concepts, will cost billionSSSS.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

England is in tatters this morning. We are collectively… GUTTED!! Horrible word. Overused. But just drop those two ‘T’s in the middle in a horrible glottal stop and you’ve captured the feeling of the entire nation. WE IS GU’’ED!!!

The national feeling last night at 7.59pm was 9.6. We were ‘up for it’, we were ‘primed and ready’, we were… ON IT!! Get the beers in!!

Me mate and me left the gels in the garden, chatting about… childbirth, or make-up or whatever women talk about, and we took our beers (compulsory) to the tv for the biggest match in the entire history of important matches. Since 1966, obviously. And we watched.

We watched some Argentinians kicking, elbowing and kneeing players in the groin. We watched other Argentinians rolling around on the ground in agony. The cause of the agony was not clear at the time as video replay showed nothing whatsoever had happened which might cause such death throes. And we watched England. Our England. Who, it must be said, for the duration of the entire first half, were dull-as-fuck. It was all about controlling Lionel Messi. And, to their credit, between Elliot Anderson, Jude Bellingham and Djed Spence, the little fella was rendered impotent. Though in doing so it reduced our attack to producing just two attempts on goal in the entire 45 minutes (plus hydration break; we all love them).

So in the second half we went ‘at them’. We had to. Thomas Tuchel is experienced enough to realise you can’t win a game by putting all your players on defensive duties. So we ‘liberated’ our boys. And scored a goal. A great goal. I screamed. Me mate screamed. Every single person in England screamed. Except a few ex-pat Argies, obvs. National feeling went straight up to 11. I know, impossible. But I measured it. Honest.

But then… but then…

But then our manager chose to pretty much ‘shut up shop’. ‘Park the bus’. And just try and stop Messi and co. What was decided, by the pundits and the press, before the match had even ended as ‘The Catastrophe’. Headlines were being written as the Argie’s first goal went in: “Tuchel FUCKS IT ALL UPPPP!!!!”, for the Daily Mirror, “England manager commits fundamental judgmental errors in selection and substitutions”, for the Telegraph. “CAPITALIST CONSPIRACY DEFEATS ENGAND!!!”, in the Socialist Worker, “Ban ALL FOREIGNERS from the World Cup” in Tommy Robinson’s blog.

The problem really was that Lionel Messi is, by some massive distance, the best player on the planet. Even at 39 years old, his speed is barely diminished but his vision and ability have ‘matured’ to stratospheric levels. And you can hold him back for half. But he will always find a way through. And he did. With catastrophic effect on us.

National feel good plummeted to (a record) -25 and everyone went home to sulk.

Was it Tuchel’s fault; as the press seem to have decided? Or was it that the greatest footballing magician just weaved his magic over Atlanta last night? How would YOU have played the match? If you were the manager?

Djed Spence has been a revelation in the tournament. Simply outstanding. Best English player last night. Ok, he plays for Spurs, but still…

Miserable Thursday

A xxxx