Andy's Glasses

This promises to be the best weekend ever! It’s like the carnival has come to town! Not only is it the Eurovision Song Contest final!!!, which is the world’s finest exhibition of diversity, inclusivity and various degrees of abject poofery, but now we have the Labour leadership competition AT THE SAME TIME!!!! Totally brilliant. Though unfortunately I have to turn the tv OFF for the Eurovision because Israel are involved and I’m part of the BDS movement so feel I have to make a stand. And when Benjamin Netanyahu hears I’m not watching, in my bedsit in Dalston, he’ll think again about all these bombs!!! I used to be a Labour supporter but then The Lord, Jeremy Corbyn, was kicked out so I had to go Green to keep up with the levels of antisemitism I’d grown used to.

But the leadership campaign for the Labour party is just sooooo brilliant. Even though it hasn’t really started yet. Because no-one’s actually made ‘the challenge’. Because it involves getting 81 MPs behind you and currently, if you can find 6 Labour MPs to agree on anything, you’re beating the odds. But it’ll happen!

Wes Streeting appeared to ‘throw down the gauntlet’ when he resigned heroically from his job as Health Secretary. He lauded his own massive achievement in massive improvements in the massive service provided by the massive NHS under his stewardship. Numbers don’t lie. But he found that rather than get more doctors, it was cheaper and much quicker to get different accountants. Who could perform different statistics which showed INCONTROVERTIBLY!!! that waiting lists had come down and operations gone up.

But the main contender is Andy Burnham. The man who invented radicalised toxic Northernism. He’s resigning as Mayor of Manchester to become Mayor of All England. And he’ll make the whole country… NORTHERN! No more divide, no more ‘Westminster bubbles’, we’ll all be ‘northern’, from London to Exeter, Norwich to Brighton. And all he has to do is win a ‘safe seat’. Hmmmm.

It was ‘safe’ at the last election. Labour stronghold, 5,000 majority, blah, blah, blah. Then last week, all 22 council seats at the local election there went to Reform. Oh. So, possibly, not quite as ‘safe’ as it once was. If Burnham gives up Manchester, as he has to, and loses the by-election, he’ll be driving an Uber for 2 years waiting for a new seat to fight.

Or Angela Rayner. The thinking man’s slag. I say that in all proper correctness. Big, brash, northern and NOT a tax avoider in any way, other than avoiding tax. Which they then made her pay. But no fine!!! You’d have been fined. I’d have been fined. Ange; no fine. Thus perfect to run the country.

So you can see how exiting this all is. Eurovision, Labour, I’m glued to the tv all weekend, except during my protest time.

Very happy Friday,

Zack. xxxx

I live in a conservation area. Rule 1. You MUST have a hedge. No little brick walls, no iron gates with attack dogs, but a hedge. And for about 8 months of the year we have a kind of ‘apology’ for a hedge. Because it’s not ‘normal’ hedge stuff, but beech trees. And they’re deciduous (oh, look it up, FFS) so they drop their leaves in… they do it slowly, we spend most of those 8 months picking up/blowing/sucking/raking fucking beech leaves. And then… and then…

In May: this happens. It’s like the ugly duckling. It becomes the bestest, greenest, loveliest hedge in the world. Of course, by June it’s infested with aphids and greenfly and all manner of little fuckers, but I’m ready with my spray gun and my shotgun.

And by July the local trust, or the council, the ones who ‘insist on a hedge with the full power of the law!!!’, come to tell me it’s too thick. Encroaching on the pavement. Makes it hard for the dog walkers to let horrible pooches crap underneath it. “You have too much hedge”, they tell me. And rather than just tell them to fuck right off, we have to have it ‘trimmed’. Which takes 3 men a whole day. Lazy men. Who sleep a lot. Coffee breaks. Long lunch. But a whole day.

A few years ago I decided I wanted the two sides to meet and create an arch. Andy’s Arch. So I groomed it. In a strictly non-Epstein way. I like hacking.

Anyway, thought I’d ‘share’ (you can join me in a little bit of ‘sick’ at that phrase). Because I just spent 20 minutes opening up the sides otherwise if we get any fat people coming round they have to enter by the driveway. Might scratch the cars.

And I especially liked hacking this morning because I’m bored to fuck with Kier Starmer and Wes Streeting and took my aggression out on the greenery. The dullard and the pre-pubescent numbskull with delusions of grandeur. And much as I hate Starmer with more than mere passion, Streeting is a nob. The nob’s nob. And even if he is ‘a bit better’ than Starmer, is it really worth the entire country with all its current woes being put on hold for the 4 or 5 months it will take to endure the leadership protocols and all the boxes being ticked by each and every member of each and every trade union in the country, in accordance with the laws on Diversity, Equality and Inclusivity? Just for a change of plonker? Starmer is dull but at least you know he has a fully functional brain under there somewhere. Streeting? Not so sure. Running the country?? I am sure: he’s not fit for purpose.

But he resigned as health minister this morning. The first (of many, many) towards taking over in number 10.

I feel a bit bad having slagged off Starmer relentlessly ever since he became leader of the opposition, now offering him my unconditional support, but that’s politics. If Angela Rayner or Ed Miliband or even, God forbid, Andy Burnham enter the fray, I’ll be Wes Streeting’s poster boy. Until then, fuck off Wes, let’s get on with running the country. Especially as we ‘enjoyed’ a ‘growth’ this quarter of 0.6%!!!! Wow. The way Rachel Reeves was banging on this morning, you’d think it was 60%. But no, 0.6%. If my pension pot grew by 0.6% in a quarter I’d sack the fund manager.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

So I was listening to LBC phone-in radio this morning. Because I like winding myself up into full angry mode before I eat my peanut butter on toast. Its just the way I am. But I truly deeply madly love Nick Ferrari because he manages to call people total moronic assholes in a lovely, charming way. I’ve never mastered that. I’ve never tried.

This morning they were talking about Eurovision. The most irrelevant song contest in the world. And latterly, the foremost platform for antisemites who ‘boycott that horrible, apartheid state’, by withdrawing a tone-deaf, cross-dressing hermaphrodite in gold lamee with bad breath from the competition. In protest!!! Against Israel being always included. A tragic loss to the music industry. Yet Israel is there, into the final. Yaaaay, go Israel.

A… thing came on the radio to speak to Nick. Name was ‘Crystal’, his/her/its stage name, or ‘Mr Seymour’, ‘their’ given name. He is a drag queen. So, obviously, overly qualified to discuss international politics. And he was just sooooo pro-Palestine, he ‘quite literally’ can’t sleep until Palestine is free, that he is doing his own ‘boycott’. He’s not going to be hosting his/her normal Eurovision night in some dodgy bar in Shoreditch. And nor are loads of his mates!! Another tragic loss to our national culture.

He demands Palestine to be free. Whatever the fuck that means. So Nick pushed him, as he does. And; no, he doesn’t really want a 2 state solution. He just wants Free Palestine. Ok, said Nick, but what about Israel. Silence. Do you see a future for Israel in this. More silence, a few uhms and ahhs, but basically, this tosser(ess?) is a ‘from the river to the sea’ literalist. Jews out. Gone.

And then, the sweetest irony of all for such people. The essence of their moronic misunderstanding of all their virtue-signalling nonsense. If Palestine was ‘free’ and ‘Crystal’ bowled in there, the conquering, freedom-fighting, boycotting, media hero of the cause… they’d throw him off a rooftop or stone him to death. Sorry Crystal, facts are facts, they don’t tolerate pooftahs, even ones dressed in Chanel.

Because if ever ‘Palestine is free’ (whatever the fuck that even means) it would not look like Amsterdam or Berlin. It would look like Iran or Afghanistan.

Can’t wait for the song contest; highlight of my year.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

There was a little girl, who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead. And when she was good she was very, very good, and when she was bad she was horrid!

And thus: Mathys Tel.

When he was good he was very very good, and when he was bad he was a TOTAL FUCKING, FRENCH PIECE’A SHIT, INDECISIVE, CLUELESS LIABILITY!

Tel in fact serves as an almost perfect metaphor for Spurs this season. The (very) occasional brilliance surrounded by play that is directionless, deranged, verging on completely insane. I’m not blaming Tel for all of Spurs woes; no man is big enough for that. But last night, in ‘the most important game of the season’, until the next one, he exemplified the deep-rooted problems at my football club in terms of their buying of players over the last few years of the Levy reign. Players who can impress with little superficial skill but simply lack what it really takes to play in the English top flight. And we’re so good at finding these players. If we paid a bit more, we could have an Eze, a Deku, a Foden. But due to either Levy’s ‘astute’ negotiating limits, or those imposed by the Lewis family, we passed those up for ‘cheaper options’. I’m not saying all our buys were bad. There’s many I really love and admire. But Tel’s performance last night was an exemplar of the class of poorly researched acquisitions.

He first ‘attracted my attention’ (a euphemism for ‘had me screaming at the tv whilst squeezing my daughter’s hand so hard it bled’) when defending near our corner during a Leeds attack. He had the ball and was shielding it from a couple of Leeds players. He didn’t ’clear his lines’ when he had the opportunity. Instead, he dribbled towards his own goal line. And then, finding himself stuck with giving away a corner, he ‘made a decision’. To cross the ball across his own goal. Whilst there were still Leeds attackers hanging around. W. T. Actual. F.??? Ok, I’m not saying it was his finest decision made last night, that came later, but it was simply moronic. Something players know you NEVER do. We survived it. Play on.

And from that insanity/excitement, the game went back to the exceedingly mediocre. Again, Tel found space, ran the lines, beat a player or two and… and… AND!!!… stopped for a rest. Looking around. Forgotten what to do. Wait for help. Phone a friend. He’d have Richarlison flying alongside, pointing where to put the ball; Udogie on the overlap, players running to the near post. But he waits. There’s no rush. Only 32 minutes played. I’ll plot my options on a spreadsheet.

But then he scored!!! A goal of such beauty, such elegance, such class; it was as if for 5 seconds I was watching Glenn Hoddle, back in 1979, with braided hair.

And late in the game; the disaster. The tragedy. The shipwreck. An overhead scissor kick in his own area with Leeds players looming. Ok, he only actually kicked one in the face, but that, for the referee, was somehow sufficient to award a penalty. Harsh but that’s life. Well, that’s my life. And the life of all the other Spurs fans around. 1 all.

So next we go to Chelsea. And, depending on how West Ham do beforehand in Newcastle, our visit to SW6 will be the most important thing since they closed the Strait of Hormuz. Since the invention of the steam engine. Since Hiroshima!!!

Fucking miserable Tuesday

A xxxx

Once again I feel compelled to invoke all the superlatives laced with abject hyperbole to put across how important the match at White Hart Lane tonight is. “The most important, critical, essential, must-win game EVER PLAYED” is a tragically insufficient description. Because with West Ham losing to Arsenal yesterday (more about that later; much more), this becomes our golden opportunity. Not to ‘become safe’, there’s still way too much of the season left to play for us to be completely safe; but to give us a serious lifeline. A rope to haul ourselves to safety. For want of a metaphor that isn’t stupid.

The problem is this. That although Leeds are pretty shitty and themselves have only just reached ‘safety from their own relegation’, we really couldn’t want for a better team to play. Or, in this case, a worse team to play. But its a home match. Which, for any other team in the world, bestows great advantage. Not Spurs. For some unaccountable reason we just win at home. Having 52,000 of our fans, out of the 62,000 present, simply doesn’t seem to give the team much of a ‘boost’. In fact the opposite occurs. They remain seriously un-boosted. Perhaps because 47,000 of our fans do way more whingeing than they do singing encouraging little ditties. Like ‘YID-ARMEEEE, YID-ARMEEEE’. Though you can’t blame them. They’ve not only suffered but paid small fortunes to be allowed that suffering.

Yesterday’s match at the London Stadium (so named because ‘London’ pays most of the running costs of that God-forsaken cesspit) was special. West Ham (our rivals for ‘the drop’) against Arsenal (favourites to win the league). Both teams desperate for a win, for completely opposite reasons.

And thus I, along with many other Spurs fans, was deeply conflicted. A West Ham win would put us in even deeper doo-doo than we’re currently enjoying. But an Arsenal win makes it virtually impossible for them not to win the Premiership. An horrendously unthinkable outcome. Was it possible for both to lose? I Googled that. A draw would have been perfect. I can’t sacrifice my own team just to prevent Arsenal winning. Though I thought deeply about it.

As it happens, I never had a chance to influence the result anyway. Arsenal won. They cheated. VAR depriving those poor Hammers of what would have been a vital point. The referee having to make a decision that King Solomon would have struggled with as he ‘quite literally’ held the immediate fates of both teams in his hands. After a 5 minute delay whilst the VAR boys were presumably struggling to remember their passwords or whatever takes them so long, he chose Arsenal. They paid him. He couldn’t face Arteta’s rage if he said otherwise. And simultaneously he condemned West Ham to oblivion. We hope.

When I say ‘cheated’, that’s always my default when VAR decides anything. Unless it works in Spurs favour. Then its a ‘correct and proper’ decision. The West Ham player didn’t so much ‘prevent the keeper from getting to the ball’ as held him forcibly to the ground whilst holding both his arms. Is that a crime? When he, himself had been assaulted, almost raped, by an Arsenal player immediately before?

So now its down to ‘us’. Can we capitalise on West Ham’s misfortune? All I can say is: WE FUCKIN’ BETTER DO!!!!

Happy, somewhat tense, Monday

A xxxx

So it all got a little ‘Citizen Smith’ today. They had the rivalries between the Socialist Worker’s Party and the Party for Socialist Workers, with the Working Socialist Party disagreeing with both of them. Well we had a ‘march against Antisemitism’ today, in Whitehall. Organised by the Campaign Against Antisemitism. But the Board of Deputies of British Jews arranged a ‘rally’, same day, same place, an hour earlier. Oh. Then the Jewish Disruption and Argumentative Society organised a ‘Mally’ (a marching rally) an hour before that. The time was largely irrelevant because we are culturally opposed to time constraints. And the venue was pretty much the same for all the ‘events’, so they eventually came to an accord and joined the three together. And we didn’t ‘march’. We did last time but really, for policing, a rally is much easier to control.

The whole thing was beautifully summed up by a woman’s banner which read: “I can’t believe we’re still having to protest against this shit”. But we are. As antisemitic attacks still plague the community, something has to be done. Not sure a large crowd of Jews hugging and kissing each other outside Downing Street is the precise answer to the question but it kind’a makes you feel better whilst we wait for the ‘powers that be’ to decide how to rid our larger society of the curse of antisemitism.

And because this was not a ‘pro-Israel’ march or a campaign for Zionism, this was more kind’a an open invitation to non-Jews, non-Zionists even, who are just sympathetic to our cause. An opportunity for those in our nation who don’t have ‘skin in the game’ but are just decent people who oppose the exponential growth of antisemitism. An opportunity for the ‘silent majority’ to speak. Alas it didn’t really happen. They remained silent.

So the Iranians turned up. In numbers. The nice Iranians. ‘Our Iranians’. They love Israel, love Jews, love pretty much everybody other than the Ayatollahs and the IRGC. And there were a few Christians (note the capital ‘C’), because bible-bashers love Jews too. But not many. So you couldn’t help thinking: well, ‘we’ already hate antisemitism, and no-one much else is here, so the speakers are indeed ‘singing to the choir’. Good speakers too. Richard Tyce, bathing in the Reform Party glory, said his piece without mentioning his team’s inherent dislike of Muslims. And a bishop gave a great speech too. As did Boy George. A friend indeed. Prepared to stick his head above the parapet to support his friends and call out our nation’s disease.

Kier Starmer would have come; he wouldn’t have had far to travel, but he was busy trying to work out how to cope with the fact that his own party consider themselves completely unelectable whilst he’s at the helm. Creating an horrendous shit-show in the Labour ranks. Because most of them see Andy Burnham as the King-elect, that natural successor. But he’s not a viable candidate because he’s not an MP. So they want to ‘set a timetable’ for Kier’s departure that would enable Burnham to win a by-election somewhere where he might actually be able to beat a Reform candidate. Others want him gone now. Can’t wait for the ‘King of the North’ (‘tosser of the north’, more like) to gain a seat, they want ‘change’. Probably just the ‘change’ that Starmer was banging on about before the last election, having that as his chosen word to the point of nausea. Still, his ‘wife’s Jewish’ (when it suits) so he should have made an appearance. He’d have come if someone had brought rugelach.

Happy marching/protesting/rallying Sunday

A xxxx

The thing I like about politics is that I love satire. And normally, you have to work out the satirical things and illuminate or illustrate them to get a cheap laugh. Whereas politics does it all by itself. All you have to do is say what actually happened and everyone falls about in fits of laughter.

Starmer’s out. Gone. Yesterday’s man. (Barely a ‘man’ in any real sense of the word). And the posturing, the positioning, the jostling has begun. Wes Streeting, the snake in the grass’s snake in the grass, has been aligning himself towards pole position for a long while. Takes the odd pot-shot at the PM just to keep us aware of it. In any other world you don’t slag off the boss. Angela Rayner has given up vaping so she can be PM. If only she could give up being obnoxious and northern, she might stand more of a chance. And then there’s ‘THE NEXT PM!!!’, Andy Burnham. Other than the current PM blocked him standing for a parliamentary seat so he’s not actually eligible. Never mind, he can be the Mayor of Manchester for life. Mayor of anywhere, so long as its not where I live.

Ok, Starmer hasn’t actually packed up his Nespresso machine from number 10 yet, but looking as the local election results come in, the ‘nation hath spoken’ and what its saying is: “FUCK OFF KIER!!!” in no uncertain terms.

And its not just here either. ‘Over there’ in America, they can’t actually sack a president. Unfortunately. But the daggers are presently coming out for the ‘next Republican candidate’. Assuming Trump doesn’t do a Put’n and change the constitution so he can become a dictator for life, he only has a couple years to go. After which, the assumption has always been that the prodigal ‘son’, JD Vance, would inherit the crown. He’s a lot like Trump but nastier, nigglier, like the school bully’s best mate. But now there are rumours that Secretary of State, Marco Rubio, from his previously understood role of ‘VP-2-be’, may not be happy in the underling role and is building his status up. And as Rubio, unlike Vance, can sway people with charm and intellect, rather than snide comments and knuckle-dusters, its now looking like he may not be happy being the future bridesmaid and is right now (I love a metaphor, however stretched) trying on white dresses.

Back here, the results keep coming in and, unless you’re Nigel Farage, they don’t make very good reading. Its a bloodbath for Labour, a tragedy for Starmer and, if they ‘lose Wales’ for the first time since Cardiff was born, that may be a vote too far even for Sir Kier to survive.

I think I’d rather have JD Vance than Angela Rayner.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

I’m a political animal. Probably a cross between a skunk and a hyena. Maybe a bit of rat in there. Oh, and tiger. I like tigers. But I ‘quite literally’ (NB, when used in any political sense, the term ‘quite literally’ means whatever follows is seven million miles from ‘literal’; it may be metaphorical, hyperbolical, nonsensical but never ‘literal’. Politicians are totally illiteral), absorb politics. I eat, sleep and drink politics. And today is the high point of any given year. Polling Day!!! The day when it all becomes real. The day you actually get to exercise your democratic right to try and create a better world. That’s quite a burden when the only tool you have to ‘make the world a better place’ is a fucking pencil. When what you really need is a Kalashnikov.

Today’s local council elections (do I care what happens in Scotland? Wales?? Mayoral elections in Wandsworth??) are the nation’s opportunity to express its love and confidence in the incumbent government. Or not.

And that is a ‘not’ of such immense proportions that I ‘quite literally’ am exploding with excitement. Because everyone hates the government. They always hate every government in power but this time it’s something special. Because we are being led by a bunch of wishy tossers who get everything wrong. So because today is only voting for ‘local councils’ which ‘don’t really matter’, the vote is purely an expression of, in this case, hate for our leaders. And we do hate them, and with very good yet very varied reasons.

Labour was voted in as a much-needed antidote to our 14 years of Tory farce. 10 minutes after Sir Kier entered Number 10 everyone realised what a massive mistake we’d all made. Well, not me, I would never ever vote for such a weak, wet, Arsenal-supporting tosser. But you did, so it’s your mistake.

So with the Tories now catastrophically weakened, even though their current leader is the best thing in politics, possibly in the whole world, and Labour totally disastrous, our political spectrum is widening. And I have a big problem with that.

I’m a centrist. But like dead centre. Which should make me a natural Lib-Dem, but I hate them. They’re too centrist. And led by a clown. The ‘main’ two parties are 1.5 degrees to the right or left of centre. Where they should be. Where I like them. Tony Blair and David Cameron. The same person.

But discontent with the Tories and Labour have opened up the field to the… extremes! Well, another 5.7 degrees off centre anyway. Reform and the (fucking) Greens. And I’ll be impartial and non-judgmental in my assessment, as I always try to be.

Should either of these two fledgling parties ever come to power in this fine and (potentially) wonderful country, I’m going. Although diametrically opposite in political positioning, both are toxic.

Nigel Farage (because HE IS the Reform Party, and only he) is a brilliant speaker, the best there is. And he’s a populist and knows how to maximise his words to engage… well, white British people. But he’s not a million miles from the far Right, where he started. And once he’s ’sorted out the brown people’, then he’ll revert to the original bete noir of the Right; Jews. But other than that (??) he’s impressive.

The Green Party has become ‘the party of the young’. Who were lured in by their promises of a cleaner, brighter future, full of trees and flowers and no diesel fumes or coal burning; a world where vegans don’t have to feel ashamed (which is no world I live in). But once lured in, new boss, Zack the Rabid, swayed the whole lot of them over to Palestine. He realised that there are a lot of Muslims in this country passionate about that cause (25% of British Muslims agree with Hamas) and they all have a vote. In fact, in local elections, many have several votes. Just ask Lutfur Rahman. So Zack abandoned his Jewish roots and even his family (who all hate him; as we all do) to engage anyone around who holds a ‘free Palestine’ or ‘death to all Jews’ banner and embrace them into his ‘family’. And his ‘vetting process’ is as good as Kier Starmer’s, as 30 of the Green’s candidates are under various stages of police intervention for posting antisemitic shit on social media. The only saving grace is that on the eve of the local council elections, Zack has been accused of not-paying his council tax.

But unfortunately, these elections don’t seem to be about councils, pot-holes, local services, as much as Palestine, antisemitism and people arriving in small boats.

Where shall I put my ‘X’?

Happy polling day

A xxxx

In the days before the gambling industry took over the world, offering betting from the comfort of your own anywhere, you needed to ‘go to a gambling establishment’ to place your bet. You could ‘just pick up your phone’, back in 1975, but only to call the bookies. That phone had no other capabilities. And he’d tell you to come on in because they don’t offer credit. Oh. You could bet at football matches, on the ‘first goalscorer’ or the final score, or you could bet in casinos. That was it really. No apps? No Betfair, no Bet365. You actually had to steal money from your mother’s purse to go to Joe Coral, rather than just ‘borrowing’ her credit card whilst you’re watching Sunday Afternoon Football. (SPONSORED BY BETFAIR; WE MAKE IT EASIER FOR CHILDREN TO GET ADDICTED TO GAMBLING!!!).

I was never a gambler; it didn’t appeal. But I like ‘odds’. Just statistical probabilities of possible outcomes. You can say: “Spurs are great and Arsenal are shit!”, and even though that is possibly, currently, somewhat incorrect, the ‘odds’ would quantify it. They would put the odds of a Spurs win at 55 to 1. Or thereabouts. Bet a quid, you win £55!!! A good bet? Or is it easier to throw a fiver down the toilet?

And the best bet, which I never made, but which people spoke of with reverence, was ‘an accumulator’. On the app sites they have all manner of complex betting schemes on every outcome from every event, even ones pretty unrelated to the outcome of the game in question. Like you bet on ‘how many corner kicks a team has’. Who cares? But an ‘accumulator’ was great. You made three bets. If your horse won the first race, your winnings would go as your stake on the second. And if THAT won too, the whole pot would go onto the third and final. Meaning for your original, say, fiver bet, if the first won at 8 to 1, and the second at 5 to 1, there’d be 200 quid going on Right Slag in the 3.45 at Haydock Park. And if she won at 6 to 1, you’d win 1200 quid for a fiver stake. Brilliant. If any lost though, you got nothing. The usual outcome of an accumulator. But gamblers live to defy the odds. Which always favour the bookies.

Last weekend was for me an ’emotional accumulator’. My first ‘bet’ (my heart) was on Brentford beating West Ham. And they did!!! Which we needed so badly. My next, (my soul) obviously, was for Spurs to win at Villa. AND THEY FUCKING DIDDDDDDD!!!!!! Yet to capitalise and reap the total and full benefit, all that heart-and-soul-ness went onto the Manchester City game, that they beat Everton. That would put pressure on Arsenal and give me all my organs and stuff back to use another day. They bloody drew. Arsenal had already won. And then last night they won again.

Not only did they win, they actually looked on a different level from Athletico Madrid. They were, quite frankly, just brilliant across the entire pitch for the entire match. So much so that my emotional accumulator was torn between recouping some of the losses from the Man City game, and just totally losing all my stake because Arsenal winning never gives me anything but upset and annoyance.

Does this make me a bad person? Or just a good Spurs fan? Is there any difference between the two??????

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

You hear gym people (tossers) saying how they ‘bench twice their body weight’, as they pose their oiled-up ‘roid-ridden bodies in the mirror. Well real men don’t fuck about with pushing a few kilos around. We shlep 20 tons of boat along with a tug-of-war rope! Not saying I won every time, when the currents decide otherwise, who’s gonna argue, but generally I won. I am a human barge!!!

Me and the Boatman sailed from Runnymede to Windsor. From where they sealed the Magna Carta, in 1215, to where they built Windsor Castle, in 1070. So fuck you, Donald Trump, if you think your country has some kind of ‘history’. And because towns always grew up around water, any trip along the Thames, unquestionably the most important river in the world, takes you on a tour of history. You can’t stop in the middle of nowhere to take a piss (flushing the boat’s toilet uses water, so why waste it?) without there being a plaque in the middle of a 975 acre wooded field stating it was exactly where some Lord was ritually disembowelled, or some Queen happened to be born, or there was a famous battle against the French right there. On most fields you watch your step to avoid cow dung. Fields by the River you watch your step to avoid stepping on historical monuments.

We sailed 3.5 miles. It took about 5 hours. Ok, we weren’t rushing. Mainly because you can’t. Even I have to leave my ‘chronically impatient’ gland in the car when I park up and enter the much more relaxed karma of ‘boat-world’.

The boat is 65 feet long. You start to ‘turn’ about 10 minutes before you get there. Its ‘reaction time’ is glacial. Everything is in sort of slow motion, except the tree you’re about to hit, that’s very fast. So parking the thing ain’t easy. It involves at least 2 people, lots of ropes and about 20 minutes of very careful manoeuvring. The parking is very very skilful. But the real skill is the geezer with the ropes. (See above).

Rivers have locks. Roads don’t. If they did, I would travel on different roads. Because to negotiate a lock with big boat takes an hour. But no-one’s in a rush. We’re all happily strolling round, tying big knots in our big ropes, waiting patiently and pleasantly for locks to fill, or empty, and no-one mentions things like ‘HOW LONG DOES THIS HAVE TO TAKE, FFS!!!!’ Because that wouldn’t be a boaty thing to say and you’d get excommunicated from the… errrrr… boat-people. They have protocols. Which are, in fact, really nice and pleasant. And thus pretty much go against every fibre in my Londoner body.

But I love it there, on the river. It’s just beautiful. Peaceful. Who knew there were birds other than pigeons? No, me neither, but there are. Kites and kestrels and… albatrosses (though not necessarily in Windsor) and all manner of flying things. Fabulous trees, incredible houses but most of the way it was just me, ‘im, the river, fields, nay-cha and a fucking great 20 ton boat spewing out diesel fumes. What a fab day we had, on the open waves. Yes, thank you, you’re right, there are no waves on the river.

Happy Monday

A xxxx