Andy's Glasses

As a celebration of my 70th birthday, various events have been planned. Not by me; we went to Cadiz, that was my planning done, these celebrations, on the actual birthday itself (like The Queen I seem to have more than one birthday; well, more than one celebration; same difference). So I spoke to Gianni Infantino and he’s given me a World Cup. Well, it cost me a few bob, in cash, in an alley in Dubai, but he arranged it. And it starts TODAY!!! Or, more accurately, tonight. Because of the time difference between Europe and America/Mexico/Canada, the ‘early’ matches will start at 8.00pm. The later ones; in the middle of the night. I’ve set my alarm for 3.00am on a nightly repeat. I simply can’t miss Zaire vs Cape Verde, Haiti vs the Faroe Islands.

I’ve bought 2,400 cans of extra strong lager. Went to Costco. Picked up 500 bags of crisps (cheese and onion), 420 packs of toffee popcorn and 50 tins of salted peanuts. I’ve created an app with Deliveroo and McDonalds which can get me three cheeseburgers in 10 minutes with just one click.

I’M FUCKING READY!!!!!

I would have gone, but the hotels charge £750 a night, the tickets are 3 grand each and the bus to the stadium is 85 quid. Each way. I don’t see that as in any way exploitative or cynically, disgustingly AMERICAN, it’s just commerce. Supply and demand. Fuck the fans. This is about making money and selling advertising space. Hence the term ‘first half’ will NOT be used in reference to the football. We’ll measure in ‘quarters’. It sells more ads. Every ‘hydration break’ earns $50mil in advertising revenue for the tv companies. (Infantini’s cut won’t be known until we see next year’s tax return).

But Infantini is really not just open to the highest bidder, like his predecessor was, that’s an awful thing to say. He was sent to ‘clean up’ the horrendously corrupt and vile FIFA under Sepp Blatter who sold Qatar a World Cup. And Infantini is strict. He’s banned the Iran flag, the ‘old’ one, the Shah’s one, from being waved in the stadia. That’s the flag of those deeply opposed to the Islamic regime. Who are sending the team. Who aren’t allowed to stay in America, because they’re at war. So the players are based in Mexico and only allowed into the US to play the matches, then straight back to Mexico. So no ‘opposition’ flags. “They’re political” and not football.

Whereas Palestine flags ARE allowed in stadia. Because, according to Infantini, ‘Palestine is recognised by FIFA’ (whatever the actual fuck that means). ‘Palestine’ aren’t playing in the World Cup, don’t actually have an international football team and haven’t been officially recognised as a nation by the UN. So flying a Palestine flag at a match between Scotland and Brazil is absolutely NOT political. No, it’s ‘football’. It’s… patriotism. Errrrr. Ok.

Wimbledon starts in the middle of the wonderful month of endless football. I’ve bought an extra tv screen. Had to move some of the beer crates, so I can watch both sports simultaneously. And at the same time.

England will do what England do. Which, generally, for those too young to remember 1966, is disappoint. But for purposes of World Cups, I’m Brazilian. As I have been since 1970. Which was also in Mexico. And was a ‘proper’ World Cup. A brilliant World Cup. Not only was it the best ever, it was actually ‘about the football’. It was not viewed first, foremost and above and beyond all else, as an exercise in rampant commercialism.

Mexico vs South Africa tonight. That’s a ‘big one’. They’re all big ones from now on. 8 o’clock simply can’t come round quick enough for me! So I’ve opened my first beer in readiness.

Happy World Cup day

A xxxx

I always thought that people from Northern Ireland had no faces. I felt sorry for them. Because whenever they were interviewed on tv during the endless years of ‘the troubles’ (read: ‘the period of civil war, bombings, murders, maiming and untold violence against their neighbours and against US!!!), they spoke through black balaclavas and wore black hats. I never saw an Ulster face until I was 42 years old and the ‘Good Friday agreement’ was signed. And then, of course, I thought they’d worn those masks because, frankly, they’re not a beautiful bunch. And I kind’a missed those masks, having to look at Gerry Adams ugly boatrace as he emerged from being an abject, knee-capping, pub-bombing terrorist into his role as ‘statesman’ with one swoosh from Tony Blair’s pen.

But in the interim, I’ve made my peace with the people of Northern Ireland. Basically, like everyone else in the UK, I just ignore them completely. When George Best died, I had no further use for them.

Then last night happened. Ok, we’ve had a little ‘previous’ in recent months. When imm-i-gray-shun becomes an issue. And yesterday’s was particularly horrendous. Not just the stabbing of a perfectly innocent man by some Sudanese nut-job, but the response. As it was a few weeks ago after another awful event involving refugees. And the response is, as always:

Grab your balaclava and hat; pick up the petrol cans, bring some old tyres; WE’RE GOING OUT BURNING!!!! This seems to be their default.

So they fish out the old hats, rip off the ‘Provisional IRA’ stickers and replace them with ‘Reform UK’ ones and go hunting asylum seeker hotels.

I’m happy to see these faces covered once more. But FFS, is this going to solve anything?? What we call the Tommy Robinsonism of the Province. Even though they invented it decades ago.

Meanwhile, back in South Hampstead, the car is almost ready!! (thanks for your concern!!!) For just one King’s ransom (I’d provisionally budgeted for two) I should be picking up later. The gearbox was, in fact, fine. The messages from the car to the contrary were the result of fucked up communications between the computer chips and sensors. So the ‘mechanic’, probably without using one spanner or getting any oil on his hands, re-programmed all the shit and its fine. Though I need a new battery. And a sensor. Oh, the joys.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

So who voted Donald Trump as the world’s referee? Who voted for him to be anything? Not me. But he’s just ‘told Israel and Iran to stop shooting’. And, surprise, surprise, they haven’t. Mainly because his ‘ceasefire’ has not included Lebanon so the Iranians are retaliating on Lebanon’s behalf. Well, not Lebanon exactly, but Hezbollah. Who occupy Lebanon and pretty much govern it. And, like Hamas in Gaza, have quite a massive support from the ‘civilian’ Lebanese people. So now, Iran are sending missiles to Israel, part of their ‘week long bombardment’ and Israel are bombing Iran, whilst simultaneously attacking Lebanon as well to destroy Hezbollah.

This is what Trump has been describing, all week, as ‘talks are going real good, really, really good; possibly the best talks ever. Ever…’

Israel, for many years, has lived with Hamas in the south and Hezbollah in the North. This is like England having ISIS in Wales and Al Queda in Scotland. People really don’t understand that when they talk of ‘apartheid’ and ‘building walls’ and non-crossing of borders. But even without the constant bombing that Israel endures (since long before 7 October), on both fronts, they had to prevent terrorists from entering their land, if possible. And by building walls around the West Bank and closing the borders at Gaza, terrorist attacks dropped massively.

Both Hezbollah and Hamas are funded and fuelled by Iran.

So Israel’s attacks on Hezbollah and now Iran are not part of this great “expansionist operation” that anti-semite conspiracists speak of, it is defending itself from existential threat. From Iran, who want Israel gone, via Hamas and Hezbollah, who share that same ideal.

Donald Trump is now caught between looking like a total tosser with no control over anything, having started a war he never wanted and can’t get out of, and further losing standing in the States where his popularity, even among Republicans, drops daily. And there’s elections coming up.

Worse still, this is ‘the most worrying day EVERRR!’

My car is in having some TLC on the ‘gearbox issue’. I couldn’t be more worried if one of the family (God forbid; pth, pth, pth) was in hospital. Mainly because they’re covered by the NHS and my car isn’t. What kind of Mickey Mouse health service are we running in this fucking country, FFS??? But we are self-funding. I’m, metaphorically, pacing the floor, chain-smoking. My baybeeeeee!!!!

Happy Monday

A xxxx

This picture is the standard ‘evolutionary progression’. There were many such images. Lots from the Victorian times put an unambiguous black man in the line-up, just before the white man who was always the ‘apex’ of evolution (such a phrase that has absolutely no validity; there is no ‘apex’; evolution continues, its what it does. If the world is still here in 1000 years people will all have USB sockets in their abdomens). Because science in Victorian times was the pursuit of rich white men. Like Darwin. If you were paid to ‘do science’ in the 19th Century, you were paid by rich white men to help them. And the presiding view was that black people were under-evolved white people. Egocentricity always places ‘you’ at the top of anything, unconsciously or otherwise.

They were wrong, obviously. Once Mendel came along with ‘genetics’, Darwin’s theories had acquired a mechanism for his brilliant theory. And showed that ‘men’ (I’m using this in the Victorian way to describe all the genders; don’t report me) are men. Regardless of colour.

You can’t find those images now. They’ve been cut. From science. From history. They’re unacceptable.

As are many things when judged in the wrong context. You shouldn’t judge ‘back then’ by standards of today. I have the same issue with slavery. The most awful, wrong, evil, horrendous thing ever. It is wrong now and it was wrong then. But it was not illegal. It was pretty much ‘state-sanctioned’. Locking up Galileo for proposing that the world was round was similarly ridiculous, in hindsight, but no-one died so it’s viewed with amusement rather than disgust. But basically; its is ALWAYS wrong to make judgments using today’s values on historical issues. They should only be judged within the context of their own time. Women couldn’t vote. I’m not saying that’s always a good thing, but that’s what it was. There was no DEI in 1900.

And thus to David Sullivan. The ‘co-chairman’ of West Ham United. Now the ‘ex’. Not sure who the other ‘co’ might be since David Gold died, but Sullivan has now ‘stood down’. Because a bunch of women have accused him of ‘historical sex offences’, over 30 years ago. When he was a ‘pornographer’. He published dirty books. Smut. Porn didn’t arrive in the click of a mouse back then, it came in magazines which paper shops kept ‘under the counter’. And the allegations against Sullivan are from the women who went to ‘star’ in his magazines and sleazy ‘movies’. And in his own words: ‘why would you own a sweet shop and not eat the sweets?’ There are no allegations of ‘rape’ or abuse, but, ‘looking back on it’ it could certainly NOW probably be seen as some form of coercion, that the boss offered ‘incentives’ to sex workers to possibly have sex with him, in return for a starring role. Which itself would be having sex with strangers.

I don’t like David Sullivan; he’s horrible. But I can’t help thinking that this is just cynical opportunism by judging what was probably voluntary behaviour then by today’s more obsessive standards. Jumping on the ‘me too’ bandwagon. Against a very rich man. Hmmmm…

I make no judgments. Historical or not.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

Just one question to ask Elon (fucking) Musk and ‘the (fucking) office of Donald Trump’. Its this:
ARE YOU ‘AVIN’ A FARKIN’ LARFFF, OR WOT???

The Henry Nowak murder has reached across the Atlantic. Though, obviously, they over there don’t seem to realise that such news travels in both directions. So for every tragic murder they hear of, which has occurred here, we get to hear about the 947 which occurred on their watch, over there, (that’s not including the weekly ‘high school mass shooting’).

And it may be that our policing methods are less than perfect; that fall short of the mark on occasion, that result in tragedy now and again. But theirs? THEIRS????

There’s a big difference between dying in police custody after a stabbing and being murdered BY the police. Like George Floyd and so many others. We generally don’t arm our police. They not only arm all police but then introduce groups like ‘ICE’, the ‘illegal immigrant brigade’ who are, in the most part, just government-sanctioned hit-squads who go around shooting illegals and anyone who protests on their behalf. They seemingly answer to no-one.

Yet we have a ‘2-tier policing policy’.

For Trump to criticise our police is like the Taliban criticising our DEI policies. Its like the City of Las Vegas having a go at our gambling laws. Its like getting budgetary advice from the Saudis. Or getting European football strategy from Arsenal.

Trump’s comments that ‘this is how civilisation declines’ is just more Farage-esque hyperbole. I’m not saying that immigration isn’t a big problem for all of Europe, but not every problem is about or is a consequence of that immigration. Like the murder of Henry Nowak.

So, thanks guys, but we really don’t need your advice about policing. Though if we should ask for it, it’ll be for a combined advice to include how to arm everyone in the entire nation regardless of age, criminal record or mental state.

Anyway, I managed to cycle in this morning due to lack of rain forecast, and I managed to break 146 road traffic laws in one trip. That makes it more, kind’a ‘no tier policing’. The best type for us criminals.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

The terrible murder of poor Henry Nowak was indeed a… errr… a terrible murder. As opposed to a ‘good one’, or a ‘fun one’. Henry was killed, as are so many kids today, unfortunately, by a nutter. Anyone carrying around a big knife, with a burning desire to use it, not in an eating dinner way, is a fucking nutter. And Vickrum Digwa was a fine exemplar of the class. A knife obsessive. Of whom there are tragically many. He happened to be a Seikh. Many such nutters aren’t Seikhs. They come in all flavours.

Henry met Vickrum and was stabbed numerous times. Then Vickrum’s brother called 999 and reported that he and Vickrum had been subjected to a ‘racist attack’, by Henry. Who was by then lying on the floor dying from stab wounds. When the police arrived they found the 3 guys, with Henry writhing on the floor.

The police have no information, no ‘intel’ to work with, other than ‘a white geezer attacked some Indians’. There’s nothing ‘racist’ about that, nothing ‘two-tier’, just the ‘facts’ as they were given them at the time. They were lies, told by ‘the brother’, but that’s all they knew.

They ‘handled’ Henry terribly, ignoring his pleas of inability to breathe and that he’d been stabbed, which was wrong in a big way. But it was absolutely nothing to do with Henry being white.

I’ve never been a policeman, or a policewoman (I could have been!!! Don’t fucking ‘pre-suuuuume’!!!). But every day they are faced with scenarios which are not ‘cut and dry’. There’s ambiguity. They’re never sure who did what to whom. And they can only act in accordance with what they know and what they see. And they have to act instantly. Intuitively. It’s not science.

So Nigel Farage immediately pours fuel onto a tiny spark and accuses the police of victimising white people, giving the breaks to anyone ‘dark’, or imported, even if they happened to be born here. Because Nigel is a horrible, racist, right wing thug who happens to be in a suit and is allowed to speak in Parliament.

The police have a history of racism. Unsurprising when you get a group of essentially white, fairly right-wing guys and gels together. And that has been reduced over time to the extent that in some instances, there does seem to be a prejudice in order prevent accusations of ‘Islamophobia’. Like with the Rochdale rapist groups who nobody would ever dare to call ‘Pakistanis’.

But the Henry incident was nothing like that. It was a police cock-up, that’s it.

Farage calls his mate, Tommy Robinson, who gathers the troops, the fascists, the proper racists, the skinheads, anyone who is capable of hurling rocks at the police, and down they go to Southampton to protest against this ‘horrendous 2-tier policing and victimisation of proper, English white people’.

Precisely what Henry’s poor, grieving parents didn’t want. Their tragically dead son becoming a political football between the hard right and the sensible. Specifically what they begged not to happen.

But Farage is the opportunist’s opportunist and Henry was too good to ignore. Or even just show some compassion about. Not when you can whip up a storm of ‘poor little white boy’ protest, riots and yet more division. Like we need more fucking division right now.

Poor kid. Terrible tragedy. Poor police. Leave them alone.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

You know those Japanese, right? Stiff, polite, buttoned up, neat, precise, smart, formal. Right?

Actually it’s wrong, it’s just a façade; a veneer, to cover an emotionally repressed, sexually deprived bunch of perverts and deviants, who sit in cafes in their Armani suits sniffing schoolgirl knickers.

Ok, not all of them. But the ‘take away’ from Japan (a truly amazing country filled with magic) is that ‘all is not what it seems’ with the people. There are hidden depths. Of depravity, frustration and suppressed feelings as a result of their overly oppressive cultural restrictions. Which cover all aspects of ‘hooking up’ with potential ‘mates’. Its their way.

But now, in a new initiative called: ‘Tokyo Cool Biz’, they’re trying to change the image of their white collar workforce. ‘Where appropriate’, they should ditch the jackets and ties; wear polo shirts (shock! horror!!) and even… wear shorts!!!

But this initiative has met with some protests. Mainly, that ‘oyaji’ and ‘ojisan’ shouldn’t be allowed to wear shorts. Who are these people? Banned from displaying their lower legs in public?? Literally the words mean ‘dads’ and ‘uncles’, but only in the derogatory. Its an insult. To dads and uncles. Essentially, middle aged men (and presumably older) shouldn’t wear shorts because they have horrible, hairy legs.

Well, a message to the Japanese nation from an oyaji and an ojisan: JUST FUCK OFF!!!

I wore shorts in Tokyo. Even in Kyoto!! And my legs were always admired. Ok, mainly by me, but there were no sniggers. No accusations of ‘oyaji’ or ‘ojisan’, just swooning admiration. Possibly lust, even. Mel loves my legs. Almost as much as I do. I have a long list of fabulous physical features (I keep it on my phone, with copies in the cloud, just in case) and my legs are right up there with the hairs growing out my nose and my fabulously endowed ears.

So how dare those young Japanese dare to try and exclude me from the bare-leg brigade!!! Ok, I don’t exactly live there. But I’m filled with empathy for all those uncles and dads who, like me, possess a pair of enviable pins which will forever be banned from public display because of rampant ageism!!!!

Who cares?

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

(written yesterday; can’t send from a plane).

I write this from seat 17C of a Boeing 832 or 485 or whatever, en route from Gibraltar. To my left sit Lila and Joey, plugged in, headphoned up and wired for two and a half hours of unrestricted ipad time. Or ‘quality time’ as they call it. They’re living their best lives. In their eyes. And ears. Their mother is always insistent that ipad usage can only begin AFTER TAKE-OFF, like taking a piss or reclining your seat or buying a cheese sandwich for 15 quid. Or a few thousand avios. Which is why, as we sit on the pre-launch tarmac, they’re sitting with me. Mum’s a few rows ahead. What happens in row 17 stays in row 17.

We’ve had the best holiday. Fabulous place. Well, fabulous resort; the place was just like any other ‘middle of nowhere’ which happens to be on a super bit of wonderful coastline, incredible beach, unbelievable food (read: QUANTITY), with a perfect climate. And with the kids you need a resort. You need big, you need variety and you need lots of adults to keep them amused.

Great, job done, birthday celebrations complete, even though it’s 2 weeks to my birthday, and we’re on our way home. And that’s when the Rock of Gibraltar comes into its own. We flew there because Cadiz doesn’t have an airport and Jerez, nearby, only gets, like one flight a week. So we Gibbed, got a big taxi and went that way.

And all week on the news they’ve been taking about how ridiculous, how impossible, how hostile and prohibitive are the new regulations in the EU for ‘non EU countries’ passport holders. Otherwise known as the “Fuck You, Brexit!!!” laws. In which every Briton returning home has to get his/her/their fingerprints taken and… compared to… errrrr… the average, Eurrr-oh-peaeaean’s fingerprints, for the purposes of yet more unnecessary queuing at all European airports. Fuckers.

Except Gibraltar. Because it’s not really ‘European’. It’s really British. But like REALLY British. They take Euros there, but everything is priced in ££££s. It’s on the southern tip of Spain but claims allegiance to Britain and only Britain. And never, ever, EVER wishes to be any part of Spain. They want nothing to do with those paella-eating, sangria-drinking, Barcelona-supporting SPANIARDS!!! Even though the Spaniards want them. They’re desperate to own what is, a big rock. Ok, its a rather beautiful rock, but a rock nonetheless.

I think we should boycott all those horrible countries who are insisting on these new regulatory, stress-inducing, time-wasting, anger-generating border routines. They’re not mandatory, Greece have refused to implement them, so the rest can be viewed as purely Anglophobic and obstructive. So fuck ’em. They can keep their beaches and pasta; I’m off to Athens.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

You see; it’s all about aspirations and expectations. It’s all about appreciating your place in the world and not overstepping the mark. Ok, it’s good to pursue higher goals, stretch yourself and challenge the greats. But to pursue higher goals, you have to score them. (See below, after the obligatory motivational speak-bollocks, soul-searching, target-driven, philosophico-marketing bullshit). Yes you set your targets high, but achievable. Otherwise the effects of the failures may impact morale and future performance, detrimentally. And no fucker wants dat.

As football fans we aspire vicariously. We commit our hearts and souls and emotional stability to a bunch of tattooed scumbags because they’re kissing the badge of the clubs we love. For now. Until a better offer comes along, then they kiss a different one. And we have ultimate faith in our manager(s). Who guide our teams, buy and sell the players, select the line-ups and set the game plans.

At this end of the season, well, its kind’a finished, but for the last few weeks, any two teams could have vastly different goals. F’rinstance; take Spurs and Arsenal. The former fighting for survival in the top league. The latter fighting to win the thing as champions. But then more. Because Arsenal were in the enviable? position (see below in the ‘fuck ups’ section) of winning the Champions League as well. A double only achieved by two English clubs. And to be honest, all the European clubs who win the Champions League have always won their domestic one six months ago. Such is the standard over here in Euro-land.

Arsenal didn’t so much ‘win’ the league as ‘take control’ of it. They played their early matches with a flair and speed and, yes, even beauty which, at times seemed unplayable. Then the change. Arteta turned from Pep Guardiola (under whom he trained) into Sam Allardyce. He became attractive football’s nightmare. The Pragmatist! His team ran out, scored one goal, in the 6th minute, then shut up shop for the day and let their truly awesome defensive unit just run the other 84 minutes down. Altogether now: “1 nil, to the Ars-en-al, 1 nil, to the…”

The problem? You meet a team who will find a way through. Were always going to find a way through. Spurs played PSG and were 3 nil up before eventually losing. Because they don’t stop. And by giving them 75% of possession is really never going to end happily.

Out of respect (such as exists in football) for my Arsenal friends, I won’t go into details about last night in Budapest. But it didn’t end well. In fact it ended terribly. You can never, ever lose ‘well’. And so the Arsenal fans, so ‘high’ on their winning of the Premiership, feel a massive deflation on losing the final last night. Little Harry over here, in his ‘Saka 7’ shirt, was crying as… as the shit happened. Gabriel happened. The player of the match, probably the league player of the season, yet he’ll be remembered for that penalty miss. Which is a shame. It’s all a shame. It’s all tragic. Open topped buses down the Holloway Road just won’t feel… as good as they should.

Whereas at White Hart Lane, there is only ecstasy. Only the incredible joy and immense relief that our short time goal of ‘staying up’ was achieved. That we hit the bottom and survived.

We alone can enjoy total, unconditional joy and happiness. Because we were never the best at anything this season. And in fact, only needed to be a bit better than West Ham. Whereas Arsenal fans had a different world view. Which last night in Budapest (or even Cadiz) came a’crashing down.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

So we head to the beach, Lila, Joey and me, with our buckets and spades and moulds and… and shit. And we dig. And we build, and we create, and we throw sand around and watch water drain away, and its all great fun. And then everyone says to me: oh, that’s so nice you play with the kids and take them to the beach. Yeah, right.

Because the fact of the matter is that IIIIIIIII want to play on the beach and build sandcastles. But I’m not allowed. Unless… unless I have some justification for being there. You’re just not allowed to build your own sandcastles when you’re 69. You need kids with you. For two reasons. Firstly, it validates the exercise. You’re doing it for ‘them’. Whereas in fact I want to do it and need them for a socially acceptable context. Secondly, I build big. So I need labour. Cheap labour. And grandkids are nothing if not that. Although I may have to reconsider ‘cheap’ in the wider scheme of things. I even borrowed my mate Freddie’s grandson as well, for extra ‘muscle’.

That was yesterday afternoon. In the morning I built the first part of a Lego Ferrari. Ok, it’s nominally Joey’s, one of his birthday presents from one of his friends, but the reality is, it’s mine. I get to build it. And I fucking love Lego, especially the really intricate things like cars. And again; no-one’s going to buy ME Lego for my birthday, so I have to hi-jack Joey’s and with Lila as my ever-eager assistant and ‘find-the-right-pieces’ operative, the construction began.

This place is fabulous. Most wonderful resort. Ok, it is pretty much ‘in the middle of nowhere’, but aren’t all the best places? Hence, 2 buses and about 80 minutes to get to Cadiz. But its a beautiful resort on a massive and extremely long fantastic white sand beach. It’s a very big resort, so there’s tons for the kids to do, just in running round the grounds. So I shall both thank MMM (me mate, Mark) and also put him out of his misery, as I love it here. (He’s been most concerned). We all love it here. Though I shall tell him ‘it’s awful’, because he recommended it and (even though he’s unaware) offers a full money-back satisfaction guarantee.

And tonight we get to watch the Champions League Final. Right here, in (ish) Cadiz. Probably with Spanish commentary, so how do you spell ‘goal’ in Spanish? More importantly, how do you spell ‘PSG’ in French??? So I know how to write it on my banner.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx