Andy's Glasses

(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

I love a European city. All of ‘em. So Cadiz qualifies therefore I love it. They all have fabulously long and intricate histories involving invading hordes of pretty much everyone who had a boat, wars, Royalty, more wars, armadas, castles dating back thousands of years and tapas. Ok, I suppose only Spain gets the tapas and armadas, because both were invented here, in Cadiz! I made that up. No idea where tapas originated, probably in Mrs Fernandez’ kitchen in Bilbao, but this is where the Spanish Armada sailed from to fight the English (there were no British then, Nicola Sturgeon hadn’t even been born in 1532; she just looks like she was).

We left the kids, cos the hour + each way on two buses was a lot for me, let alone Joey. And we set off for Cadiz. Where we did a ‘free walking tour’, as we do in every city we’ve ever been to, all over the world. Because they’re great and better than organised ‘tours’. You pay what you like at the end, so the guides try much, much harder. I had today’s one polishing my sandals for me. And you learn lots of details. Which survive, in my mind, intact, for approximately the time it takes to think ‘I’d love an ice cream, right now’. But the key points: Cadiz has a history dating back over 3000 years. And because it’s a tiny little ‘island’ (it was, but now is attached to the mainland) rich in minerals, everyone came to get a piece. Starting with the Phoenicians, from… Phoenicia? Phoenix?, anyway, them. Followed by some Arabs, then all manner of others. Building castles and cathedrals (bloody Christians), mosques and all manner of lovely old buildings now mainly gone. King Philip 2nd got in a row with Queen Mary and all hell broke loose, so Francis Drake came over and invaded on her behalf. Lots’a shit like that. All fascinating. All keeping me longer away from ice cream. And its 35 degrees here. And windy.

Cadiz is the windiest place on earth. Other than the few places which are possibly windier. Yesterday we had a wonderful walk along a stunningly beautiful beach, but every time the wind blew, your legs get ‘quite literally’ sand-blasted. It’s horrible and painful and you’re so busy protecting your eyes, your legs feel like they suffering the torture of 1000 needles. Nice.

Anyhow, the take-away is: Cadiz is a really beautiful little city. Charming, lots of lovely little plazas, almost like it’s in Spain. And they take Euros here. Now where the fucking ice cream shop and get me back to my swimming pool. Because you now know everything about Cadiz.

Happy Wednesday,

A & L xxxx

(Lila chose today’s picture and put it on the post. Obviously more quickly and efficiently than I could ever do it).

So the plan is; you’re having a big birthday sometime soon. Very big birthday. So fucking big that for the first time in your life you’re suddenly aware of certain realities which may have been sort of ‘ignored’ on the rapidly moving conveyor belt of life which had brought you this far. Like: I’m very old. Like: I have had way more time than I have ‘left’. Like: those were the good years; it’s all uphill from now on. But heh, its ‘only’ 70, rapidly approaching, that’s the ‘new 45’ (I have unilaterally and fairly randomly decided), so each day is a blessing, and thus must be celebrated accordingly.

That’s June 16th. The ‘big day’. If I make it, obvs. No guarantees at this age. The day before is our 40th wedding anniversary. Holy shit! Don’t even ask how that one happened. No-one saw it coming. Anyway, we need to celebrate. So we’ll do what we do best; go on holiday. Otherwise you feel obliged to spend 10 grand watching people who claim to be ‘friends’ eating your food and getting pissed on your dollar, whilst you’ve spent 6 weeks fretting about flower arrangements and the music play list, only to find half your friends are pollen-anaphylactic and the other half in fucking wheelchairs.

So we’ve brought the gels and the kiddlies over to Cadiz. Why? Because MMM (me mate Mark) did it last year and said it was great. Simple. No agonising on the where/when/the transport/rooms, all sorted. Other than the ‘when’.

Because to actually be away on the 15th/16th of June would be just too ‘appropriate’, too ‘coincidental’ or ‘punctual’ and the fascists who run our country’s junior educational system wouldn’t want that, WOULD THEY???? No. So instead of putting a half term holiday which would have suited us perfectly, those bastards put it now. This week. Ok, we could have just all come without Lila and Joey. Left them in ‘care’ for the week, with social services. Or we could have just brought them anyway and faced the armed police that would have met us at Heathrow on our return. Or we could do now instead. Which, coincidentally, meant we travelled, yesterday, on Joey’s 7th birthday. Which was fun.

So here we all are. In the sun (just like those of you still in England), and by the beach, and in the very strong winds that they get round here. But I’m not complaining. Not yet, anyway. In fact I don’t need to complain. I’ve brought some professionals with me.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

I never doubted my team, not for a moment, all season. Even when they were throwing away every game in the last seconds, finishing every game with 9 men on the pitch and slagging each other off in the press as we ploughed through a new manager every 3 months. I never doubted their skill, their commitment, their passion. Which would, by sheer force of belief, result in ‘success’. (There are many measures of ‘success’).

That’s why I haven’t been nervous, even concerned, about the end of the season. It really was ‘no big deal’ for me. I was chilled. Faith in the ‘program’, blah, blah, blah. Any kind of ‘fear’ you may have taken from these pages was just your imagination, and projection of how YOU would feel if the team YOU loved had GONE TO FUCKING SHIT AND WERE DESCENDING LIKE A BROKEN FUCKING LIFT!!!!! Whereas I was simply chilled about the whole thing.

And my calmness and low heart-rate and intact fingernails was totally proven justified yesterday afternoon. Where, at the Lane, Spurs breezed past Everton in the season’s finale, calmly and without fuss, anxiety or concern. Job done, game over, nothing more to see here. No relegation, no catastrophe, we’re safe and sound.

We scored what turned out to be the only goal of the game (but you don’t that at the time!!!) just before half time. It was fantastic. White Hart Lane exploded as if a cup final had just been won. Which, in so many ways (including financial benefits) it had. And the mood lifted, the uncertainty took a strong stop towards ‘certain’ and the party began.

Then West Ham scored against Leeds. Oh. Then they scored again. And thus were unlikely to now lose or even draw. They had 3 points. So Spurs fans had to dig deep and ask themselves a serious question: would you put the house on Spurs not conceding 2 goals in 10 minutes, plus (a shitload of) stoppage time? The question was answered by the general nervousness around the Stadium, and in my lounge. Because this current team of ours has the capacity to snatch defeat from the most advantageous of positions.

Anyway, Everton didn’t score, West Ham scored a third, but who cares? We were safe and sitting pretty (17th???) whilst they are sitting in the Championship.

Yet certain journalists were unimpressed that the mood after the match was ‘celebratory’. Well, if I’m honest, they may have a point. But, basically, fuck ‘em. We had done better than win a cup; in financial terms alone, we ‘had it off’. What we’ve done is assured our clubs place at the top table. For at least another year.

The future is bright. We’ve just arrived in Cadiz, but more about that tomorrow.

Very very very happy Monday

A xxxx

So sang… Maria?, possibly Tony, maybe both, in West Side Story. Neither were Spurs fans. And therefore knew absolutely NOTHING!!! about pain, suffering and uncertainty of the future. That movie did come in 1961, however, when Spurs won the double. So maybe that song was a premonition… of TONIGHT. When we’ll learn the fate of my beloved football team. Whether they can, probably undeservedly, manage to cling on to the Premiership by the skin of their neck tattoos, or if they’ll tumble into the Championship with all the shame and suffering that we, the fans, will have to endure as a consequence. A consequence of events totally outside our sphere of influence. We remain impotent to the whims and fancies of a bunch of tossers unable to manage OUR football team, despite all those millions and millions of pounds available to them.

I’m not bitter, as the beer ad. says, no. I’m fucking furious.

So at 4pm today our agony starts. Watching Spurs, praying, whilst keeping 70% of our attention on events at the London Stadium, where West Ham play Leeds. And West Ham fans will have probably similar feelings to ours, but quite frankly, they’re a scummy bunch and in all likelihood are more concerned with the price of beer in Aldi and whether they can beat any northerners up, than the fate of their sorry club. Which endures this same agony most years. They’re hardened to ‘final day frenzy’ in a way us fans of such an ‘elite’ club (phah!!!) simply can hardly imagine.

But there are parallels everywhere. Symbolism. As Spurs play Everton. The club beloved by Andy Burnham, the ex-mayor of Manchester and quite possibly our next Prime MInister. If he wins the by-election at Makerfield. His ‘local’ area. Well if he’s a man of greater Manchester, why does he support a team from Liverpool? Probably because much of his ‘local working class lad’ persona is a sham. A skin he dons to be ‘one’a the people’. In reality he’s a middle-class, university educated posh boy from a leafy suburb in the Greater Manc. Rain belt. But that doesn’t fit his narrative. He’s northern, that’s half the battle, but his poshness must be secreted away along with Angela Rayner’s houses and Kier Starmer’s clothes sponsorship deals. He’s no better than Zack Polanski whose own personal story changes by the day, with the only consistencies being the totally undeniable; that he’s Jewish (a Jew-hating Jew, in fact) and that he’s a poof. Probably hates gays too, if he was consistent in his hypocrisy. Anyway; we need to beat Everton, for the SAKE OF THE FUTURE OF OUR COUNTRY.

So tonight. We learn our fate. We just need to draw. A win would be super, take that awful pressure off. But if West Ham should take the lead against Leeds… then panic would ensue. Thankfully our players respond well to pressure. Oh, sorry, must have been thinking about some other players.

GOD HELP US. PLEAEAEASEEEEE…

A xxxx

I’m standing outside the toilets in Debenhams, simply ‘bustin’ for a piss. I’ve been waiting here for 14 months, for the equality guidance report to be finished, so I know which toilet I can go in. None are currently marked ‘super-heroic, totally manly, testicles essential, boys-only, condoms sold here, geezers-with-nobs’ or anything vaguely alluding to what I might find inside. Then, YESSSSSSS!!!! The report is finished! Brilliant!! I can go!!! Ahh, gotta read it first; 300 pages long. Ooooohhhhhh…

So what it says is…

Basically, boys in boys toilets and changing rooms, girls in girl’s ones. Oh, thanks for that. Well worth the time and millions spending on that. Producing 300 pages? Just for a few guidelines which are fairly ‘loose’ anyway.

Actually; its BIRTH gender that tells you which toilet you MUST use. A problem for trans people. And although these are the ‘rules’, you shouldn’t actually ‘ask’. Because if I say to an ugly bird “‘ere! Are you a bloke????”, it could cause upset. As would “are you a poof???” So the rules aren’t really rules, but ‘guidelines’ for companies and institutions. Gives the HR people something else to obsess about, and the ‘inclusivity lawyers’ new basement conversions on their mansions.

Will it stop, (and it has to be stated in this way, for which I apologise), people in possession of dicks going into the ‘ladies’ toilets? To have ‘birth women’ roaming around in the ‘Gents’ is really not a problem, not for me anyway. But ‘blokes in dresses’ in women’s changing rooms is the real issue. The feminist issue. The one fought by JK Rowling in support of ‘women’ and their rights to be spared penises at moments of non-consensual visuality.

Trans people have the right to use the toilet too. Apparently you don’t stop weeing just because you’ve had your… bits removed. And they need spaces too. Yet, obviously, not quite so many spaces. Because, roughly, 49.9% of the population are men, 49.9% are women and 0.2%… aren’t. But what will they do? Wait around for the ‘recommended’ ‘gender neutral’ stalls to be built?

Or they can do what I’m about to do. Piss against your car tyres. I just can’t wait any longer.

Happy relieved Friday

A xxxx

Not only my football team are ‘on the brink’ of DESTRUCTION!!!, but this morning my beloved car presented me with this message! That car to me is like a third grandchild; a second wife (possibly first!!!). I would say a third daughter but this is the first time it’s given me any trouble so it’s not an appropriate comparison. Every time I drive my car I grin like… like… ok, like some kind of simpleton, I’ll give you that, but it makes me happy. This morning I got in, smiling, took the roof down, still smiling, then pulled away and got this message. Then I looked like the ‘shocked’ emoji with an open mouth and hands on the sides of my face. But I wasn’t yellow. Amazingly. And the car handled like a 1967 Ford Anglia. Clunky gear changes. Sluggish. Awful. Because my car uses a PDK gearbox. Oh. Well, to give it the full title: Porsche Doppelkupplungsgetriebe, is just one ‘vorgsprung Dorsche technique’ too far, for my liking. And the PDK is simply the best thing ever. Until this morning when it became the worst thing ever. I’ve booked it in. This is emotionally and, I feel, financially, very distressing. My poor babe!!!! (Gushing tears emoji).

So I wondered, as it’s Lila/Joey day and they’re at school, what the best way to relax and chill might be after such a trauma. And I decided that the best thing you can ever do to find your karma, to pull the yin back from the yang, is to phone a massive company. And in fact I decided to phone two. First British Airways and then Santander. Why? Because their on-hold music, which you’re guaranteed to hear for at least 20 minutes, MINIMUM!!, is so great. About 3 hours later and I’m ready to end it all. I will never phone either again. Ever!

And that’s where we are now. Do I feel better? Have I achieved anything? Was it worth the (massive) bother? Possibly. Next Thursday I’m going to spend three hours abusing myself with a claw hammer, see if that feels any better afterwards.

Though I’ve decided I’m going to stand in the Makerfield by-election on June 18. Why not? Everyone else is. Though not necessarily because they give a shit about Makerfield or the fine inhabitants thereof. They all have ‘agendas’. Andy Burnham; we know his. The short-cut to No.10 lies in that Wigan suburb. Nigel Farage reckons by using a local plumber (again; there’s a pattern here) as his candidate he can further humiliate Kier Starmer. And Andy Burnham. And although Burnham is (horribly, catastrophically, disastrously) Northern, ironically, it’s a future in London SW1 that he craves more than Eccles cakes and flat caps and the fucking Gallagher brothers. So I figured, me… Wigan… why not? I could patronise the local people with tales of Shoreditch, with lists of restaurants, with speed cameras in your own driveways and the magic of tube trains. I would pledge allegiance to their pot-holes (everyone’s local obsession), claim Britain to be ever-Europe-free and summon their inner Zionists.

How hard would it be?

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

You’re driving along the motorway, maybe listening to The Eagles, when two tyres simultaneously blow out, the car rolls, smashes into a wall. But miraculously… you’re OK!! You manage to climb out of the wreckage, shaken but not broken, feeling so lucky to be alive. And a dog comes by and bites you on the leg. Then it starts pouring with rain. You slip on the pavement and break your leg. When you get to hospital you learn that your mother-in-law has won a Nobel peace prize and Zack Polanski is prime minister.

As metaphors go, I’ll admit, that’s excessive. But mere words cannot describe the total disaster, the abject catastrophe, the sheer brutality of the agony caused by the series of events in last night’s footballing shit-show.

We needed just one point from last night’s match at Chelsea. One measly, fucking point. But, obviously, failed to get it. Spurs apparent tactic of sleeping for 80 minutes then suddenly waking up to reality in a total “WTF? Holy Shiiiiiitttt!!!” moment and starting to play something approaching ‘football’, failed yet again. Too little too late. We were already 2nil down. Could’a been different. If Madison’s late shot hadn’t been amazingly, fantastically (I have to admit) blocked by the Chelsea defender, then who knows. But it was blocked. Though the recent ‘late game awakening’ by Spurs does seem to coincide with Madison’s introduction to any match. I say ‘play him’! I know he’s not 100% fit but if his injury returns he has the whole summer to get over it. Or we’ll buy another one for next year.

But by the end of the match we already knew that the ‘worst case scenario’ had happened. All the way down on the south coast, in Bournemouth. Where Man City failed to win. And thus Arsenal became… (I hate to write the words…) League Champions!

On the same evening that Spurs took one foot off the ladder which MAY keep them up, Arsenal won the fucking league. There is no God, there is no hope. There is just pain.

Its all about Sunday. Just one point. Well, at least its at home. Where we never ever win games and play them just to show that magnificent stadia do NOT automatically generate magnificent football. Quite the opposite. Oddly, Everton are aware of that too.

Happy fucking Wednesday

A xxxx

(This pic is for Lulu)