Andy's Glasses

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

Ok, England, this is IT! There is no tomorrow; only tonight.

Because tonight we are in the semi-finals for the first time since… NINETEEN SIXTY-SIX!!!!! The year ingrained in everyone’s mind as ‘the year it happened’. I was ‘there’. Meaning ‘alive’ as opposed to ‘at Wembley’. And it was brilliant. But that’s history and we must deal with the present. Namely:

Argentina.

Against whom we have a ‘bit of history’. Both footballing and political. The funny thing is: most England fans, of any age whatsoever, know ‘the hand of God’ goal. Which I watched, with my wife of just 15 days, in Zakinthos. The hilight of our honeymoon. But basically, we’ve never forgiven Maradona for that goal. Even though we all loved the late (possibly) great(est) player (of all time??) And we all remember 2002 when David Beckham was sent off as we lost to them so tragically.

Yet most England fans have no idea about the Falklands War. It was something their parents talk about, nothing happening here; move on. It was an event; it happened; it finished; consigned to history books. And who can be bothered to read them.

Yet in Argentina, its different. It has become part of their cultural story. And they hate us for it. All of them. Even the kids and grandkids of those around in 1981 have had that conflict spoon-fed to them every day with their olive oil. So their ‘songs’ are full of ‘Malvinas’ this and Malvinas that and our fans just thing ‘huh?’ Though they do that for most of their songs because they’re not great at Spanish. They’re not really that good at English, if the interviews shown on the news are any guide.

They have Messi. Another contender for ‘GOAT’. A worthy contender. But a little older, wiser and, inevitably, slower than of old. But still just brilliant. And they have… errrr… hmmm…

Ok, Enzo Fernandez is pretty good, even though he plays for Chelsea. Julian Alvarez is ok, at least until he joins Arsenal any day now. And they have Christian Romero, the sometime captain of my very own Spurs. Sometime because he generally only plays between 20 to 45 minutes before getting sent off, but he’s great when he’s on the pitch.

And we have Harry. And we have Jude. And, quite frankly, nothing else matters.

I’ll be watching the match and sharing insights with a miserable lawyer. As everyone should. And could this be 1966 all over again????

So COME ON ING-ER-LUND!!!! LET’S DO IT!!!

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I like to think I’m a ‘nice person’. I smile a lot. Even if I grimace on the inside. I’m quite friendly. Ok, ridiculously friendly, I talk to strangers on the tube, ffs That’s normally cause for calling the Psychiatric help-line. So I’m nice, Ok??? But when I get in a car, I’m not so nice. Not so friendly. No more ‘mr nice guy’, I become ‘that bastard’ who’s shouting, swearing, moaning, overtaking on a mini-roundabout, tail-gating, hooting, flashing… person we all hate. I always want to go just a little bit faster than the guy in front. And I let him/her/they know.

On my e-bike I’m probably worse. I stop for absolutely nothing; not traffic queues, not traffic lights, pedestrian lights, roadworks, I ride on the pavement, through shops, anything to keep moving. Though I’m always careful. And considerate. Particularly to those pedestrians. I never run any light when people are crossing. I don’t hassle them, as so many do, I allow them to cross, I even smile at them. To let them know I’m not a killer like the Lime bikers.

And this morning I was tested. Unfortunately I failed the test.

I stopped at a zebra crossing for 3 people to cross. I was being nice. Although some would say I was being uncharacteristically legal. 2 of them walked across, the third was a woman texting on her phone. Consequently she wasn’t ‘walking’ but dawdling, as texters always do, otherwise they get too many typos. There were cars waiting on the other side of the road too as this lady was casually putting a ‘like’ on her instagram, or messaging her friend about her new shoes.

And I thought: you selfish, entitled, inconsiderate…person. (My actual thoughts may have been slightly different and probably unprintable). And I told her. Not in those words. Much ‘nicer’ words. Told her to take her time; check her spelling; no rush.

Does this make me a ‘bad person’? Ok, a ‘worse person’?? Or am I JUST HUMAN!! and a little impatient? Very impatient? I’ve made inquiries about the practicalities and legalities of having a machine gun fitted to my bike.

I didn’t watch all the tennis final yesterday. I went out for about 3 hours in the middle. And I’m not saying that those two guys are not brilliant players, which they emphatically are. And it was incredible to see how, over the time (more than 4 hours!!) they’d gone from hardly seeing each other’s serves, to being able to return them consistently. So they’re not just ‘robots’, but AI robots!!! who learn as they go along! Hate to be all old and nostalgic, but I preferred watching humans who weren’t quite as good at tennis, but were much more fun.

What do I know?

Happy Monday

A xxxx

I’d like to completely deconstruct England’s amazing victory last night against Norway. In the World Cup. Quarter-FUCKING-final!!!! The semis now await my boys. Argentina. Who last night struggled to beat Switzerland. A country constructed from the ‘bits’ of Italy, Germany and France which no-one else wanted. All those horrible fucking mountains. Who needs ‘em. Then, of course, they invented skiing and Switzerland seemed a better bet. Meanwhile they’d declared ‘neutrality’, although they have a big army and loads of weapons, but no-one’s allowed to attack Switzerland. Because it’s a bank. Not only does it hold a massive proportion of the world’s money, it has never been too fussy about whose money they’re holding. Rothschilds, fine. Elon Musk, great. Nazi stolen loot; Vatican treasures of unspecified origin, no problem there. Laundered funds from Chinese scams; welcome to Zurich.

But heh, let’s stay with football. For a while. Because I’m having the world’s biggest man-crush for Jude Bellingham. Who has progressed in the time-honoured footballing manner, from precocious teen prodigy with a horrible attitude and who’s nascent skills were only matched by his pure arrogance, to the fully developed man we see now. The attitude has diminished into the realms of confidence and he uses his God-given talents for the good of the team.

So my deconstruction of last night’s match is thus. Without Jude, we’re fucked. Ok, he’s gorgeous, even for a totally cis-male, hetero-sex-God!!! of the normal persuasion. But it’s not just about beauty. He is just, by approximately 2.63 million miles, the best English player around. Ok, I love Harry Kane and he scores fab goals and he too can get us out of trouble when required. But Bellingham is just the complete player. He defends, he attacks, he scores goals, he creates, he just sees everything and has the amazing capability to execute what he sees. He’s strong, quick, agile. What else do you wanna know? Kind to animals? Looks after his mother??? Loves Spurs? Hates Andy Burnham?? I don’t know. I only care about the 90 minutes (plus a lot of plus-es) he spends in an England shirt. Fighting for ME!

Erling Harland paled into insignificance against Jude the Mighty. I wonder how Messi will stand up?

I’m now watching the Wimbledon final. Between an Italian who looks and acts like a German (not in a good way; if there is a good way) and a German who sounds like he should be a Russian. Alexander (Sasha) Zverev?? Both are as cold, calculated, robotic and humourlessly inhuman as advertised by their national stereotypes. I’m watching a serving competition. And, as anyone who knows anything will tell you: serving is for poofs. Real men don’t waste their time.

Happy sporty Sunday. That’s sports watching rather than playing, unless you walk round the room whilst watching.

A xxxx

Our Prime Minister-in-waiting wants to ‘devolve’ the nation. Let the ‘locals’ run their regions. Great plan. I like it.

Who’s paying?

Oh. London pays. Which, to be honest, no-one in London minds. Most don’t even think about it. But I do. Not because I’m clever, but because I’m annoying. So when I heard that Andy’s own patch, ‘the North West’, is ‘doing really well’, including Manchester, of which he was mayor for 10 years, Liverpool, famous for the Beatles and car theft, and a few other places like Wigan and Bolton which no-one is really interested in since their football teams were relegated, other than a ‘useful’ by-election now and again, I wanted to be impressed.

Then I heard that ‘the north west will get investment and improvement’, I thought he meant North West London. Where I live. So I was very happy. I didn’t realise that there was another one. Up there!!! Where the ‘King of the North’ has held the reins for more than a decade and always proclaims his running of greater Manchester to be a ‘massive success’. Well done, Andy.

Except…

I saw a chart. It showed the difference between the tax revenue raised, minus the money spent in that area on public services, for each region of the country. London was at the top, showing a surplus of 48 billion quid. Next was ‘the South East’, which was 18 billion in the black.

No other region was in profit. They all spend much more on ‘public services’ (doing good causes for the people and pissing the rest away on lost causes, spongers and people on benefits for their ADHD or dependence on spectacles) than they earn in tax revenue. They’re ’in the red’.

And at the very bottom of that list. The region overspending a massive 39 billion over its meagre income, was the North West. Andy’s patch. Of which he is proudly effusive as to ‘the success of the region’.

If that’s his measure of ‘regional success’, then on behalf of our whole nation: God help us.

Last night was the first in a month when there was NO football on tv. What the fuck are FIFA thinking!!!! However, the story of little Arthur Fery continues as the ‘wildcard’ Wimbledon entry has made it to the semi-finals. Quite brilliantly, exceptionally modestly, overpoweringly cutely and he now carries the weight of the nation’s hopes on his sweet little shoulders. That’s the hopes which aren’t over in America with the football team. The other ones.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

When Lila was born, 9 years ago, I became somewhat… besotted. I put a photo of her on these very pages. To share the celebration of her very existence. Because she was the most special grandchild EVER born. Ok, because she was mine, I get that, but… she’s breathing!!!, gurgling!!!, feeding!!!, pissing!!!, it was all so special. Even though, as we all know, for about 6 months, not a lot happens. Yet what does happen is enough. For any total obsessive, to obsess about. So I continued sharing photos. Through the magical ‘early years’. Then Joey came along. More cause for obsession, more of my general ethos of ‘love by total and relentless suffocation; never let them go, never stop engaging’. Even when they don’t want to engage. Anyway, my babes have adorned virtually every post I’ve done. But no more. And its all because of you.

Because I’ve been told that what you do is take photos of babes and send them to some monstrous AI vehicle who returns them in a greatly abused, violated and sexualised context. Its what AI does, apparently. Takes a pic of Lila and Joey on the swings and publishes it as Linda Lovelace and Gary Glitter. And I don’t want that. If I find a photo like that someone would die. Many would die. So, I’m sad to say, there’ll be no more Lila/Joey pics. Ok, there’s (by my reckoning) about 2000 already out there, but no more. What a sad fucking world we live in.

However, whist we’re talking grandchildren, we have news. Lila has declared herself pescetarian. No more meat for Lila, no more animals suffering because of her. Its a moral issue. Plus she spent last weekend away with a bunch of vegetarians and she was corrupted. Though apparently has been bothered by this for some time. Fish don’t count. They’re less ‘animal’ and more, sort of ‘fishy’. And I’ve been told to respect her decision. Mainly because at 9 years old its like arguing with a shrunken Kemi Badenoch.

But I thought: “NOOOOOOO!!!!” Not vegetarian! I thought, take drugs! Drink excessively! Join a cult! Support Barnet FC!!! Find Jesus!!! But not this. Though I suppose we’ll find an accord. Between me, Lila and the fish.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Football has become too unruly, the rules too ambiguous, too subject to contextual interpretation by highly qualified individuals, (and no-one wants that), too inconsistent. Even, or perhaps because of, VAR, which hasn’t really solved anything. We need certainty. We need clarity and consistency. So here are the NEW rules, which will be adopted totally by FIFA, EUFA, The Premiere League and any other footballing entity that people can be bothered to watch.

1. The showing of a red card can ONLY mean sending off and suspension IF the nearest fat blonde agrees to it.
2. Red cards against MY team must be immediately overturned.
3. Red cards against the opposing teams are to be encouraged.
4. Any breaking of these rules may be considered ‘rigging’ of the game.
5. The ultimate court of appeal for footballing offences is the President of the United States.
6. Footballing knowledge or experience is NOT required for the implementation of these new rules. Just any old fan saying ‘that was never a red card!!’ is sufficient for the offence to be rescinded. If he’s fat and blond, obviously.
7. Anything the President is unhappy about must IMMEDIATELY be changed. Including goals scored against America.

Gianni Infantino, the head of world football!!!, is in full and final agreement and, as soon as he finishes supervising the furniture arriving at his new Miami mansion, he will implement the new regulations.

Donald Trump is the world’s worst loser. He doesn’t lose. He can’t lose. He’s the rich kid in the playground who pays the bullies cash to beat up wimpy kids. He’s the fat fuck who gropes women and then pays them for their silence. Any bad evidence against him is automatically ‘fake news’; yet he puts out real ‘fake news’ regularly. And seeing his star striker sent of for a horrible foul, he immediately called upon his understanding of the game which was… nothing, and his mastery of refereeing rules, which was… nothing, and decided that, “that decision was rigged”. So he called Infantino, the man called into FIFA to break the horrendous culture of corruption, and a day later a quite literally never before used rule was invoked so that America’s ‘star’ could play in last night’s game against Belgium. Because Trump said: “that wasn’t a bad tackle, I know about these things”. Whereas, as we all know; he knows fuck all about anything, but about ‘soccer’???

America lost 4-1 in last night’s game. Which is brilliant. And yet in some ways irrelevant.

Infantino should not be able to survive this. It just stinks. He just stinks. There is no way back.

Today’s picture I call ‘nob with a medal’.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

So I went to bed last night, wearing my England shirt (its quite old; has ‘Styles 6’ on the back) at 10.30, read my book, then turned off the light, went to sleep and woke up with my alarm at 12.30. I Rushed round to the Clissold Arms, ordered two pints of Guinness, and joined the masses for… THE MATCH!!! Which was BRILLIANT. I did have a few, recurring sleep issues but the first half was so exiting, I woke up, sipped some beer and join the other 7 people there in screaming as God’s own child, Jude Bellingham, scored two amazing goals. Ok, 4 people, the others had fallen asleep into their plates of nachos with melted cheese and jalapenos. Then they scored! The Mexicans. Dammit. I took the half time interval to have a quick ‘power nap’. Which turned out, at 2.00 am, to be a lot more ‘nap’ than ‘power. But was screamed awake as the ref was sending off our player!!! NOOOOOOOO!!! It was David Beckham all over again. Ten men just can’t beat 11. Its too hard. But then a penalty. To USSSS!!! Up steps Harry Kane, this time with none of that stupid, poncey, off-putting ‘stutter-step’ bollocks, which I hate more than I hate the Ayatollah, and slams in our third goal. OK, Harry then gave away a penalty a bit later but its 3-2 and surely we can hold on? There’s only 20 minutes left, plus stoppage time (which turned out to be a further 10 minutes in keeping with the new FIFA guidelines of adding up all the time lost and adding your birth month to the total), that should be ‘fine’.
But of course, 10 men, tired men, tired men at high altitude craving normal levels of oxygen. I bought another 2 pints of Guinness; it was going to be a long and stressful 30 minutes for all of us. Except Mrs Serendipity from number 32 who was still asleep from the first half exertions.

We won. Heroes were made. Only the third time in 60 years Mexico have lost in that stadium. I was singing Wonderwall with the barmaid, tops of our voices. “…you’re gonna be the one to saaaaaave meeeee…”, it was brilliant. We all hugged each other. Well, me and the barmaid and Mrs S hugged each other as the sun started to rise over Muswell Hill. It was the best night of my life…

Never happened.

I slept. Never got up. No alarms. Was so sure we were going to lose I just didn’t want to miss a night’s sleep for yet more disappointment. Woke up, looked at my phone and… HOLY SHIT!!!, we’d won. Watched 12 minutes of highlights. Brilliant. MY boys. They did it, even without me. Quite a spectacular result. And they were just brilliant. I’m starting to love the World Cup. Well, I was until Donald (fucking) Trump had the American striker’s red card rescinded by demanding it of Infantino. Probably bribed him. Threatened him. My love of the tournament seems in indirect proportion to my love of FIFA. Which was a ridiculously low bar to start with.

Deliriously Happy Monday

A xxxx