Andy's Glasses

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

As you know; despite my love of the ‘beautiful game’, I simply couldn’t ‘engage’ with the World Cup. Ok, few snippets on the news, the last 12 minutes of Zaire vs Madagascar, but generally: nyah; can’t be arsed. And then it changed. Wonderfully, totally, fabulously and yes, ENGAGINGLY!!! The reason for this metamorphosis from Johnny Peripheral to THE BIGGEST ENGLAND FAN IN THE WHOLE FUCKING WORLD!!!! is down to just one man. No. He’s no longer a man. He was (in footballing parlance), a ‘legend’. And now he’s just a God. With a capital ‘G’. Because a lot of people don’t believe in God. But after last night; we all believe in Harry Kane. Like Jesus Christ who died to save us; Harry became our national salvation at the end of what had been a rather abysmal game last night in Atlanta. Can’t blame the heat; it was air conditioned. But whilst England were in their customary, first half, nap time, those pesky DRCongolesers scored a goal. And England could seemingly, for the next hour, do nothing in response. But then, cometh the hour, cometh Harry Kane. And he did what he always does, and found a way to score. Like he has on the 70 previous times he’s scored, THIS SEASON. And we were saved. And yet… there was extra time and penalties looming. Hmmmmm… penalties. All English football fans love a penalty shoot-out, even if its not against Germany. GOD HELP US!!!

And he did. The God that is Harry. If the first goal was good, and it really was, the second was the very essence of the purest distillation of every facet of the ‘perfect strike’. And he made it look easy. As brilliantly gifted people always do. Well, there were only 4 defenders on top of him, to make his job easy. I won’t go on. Ok, I’ve already gone on. If you haven’t seen it, you’re not living in England. If you have; you will see a thing of magnificence, worthy of any deity.

I don’t know what’ll happen on Sunday night in Mexico City. 88 games have been held at the Azteca and Mexico have lost only 2. Because it’s intimidating? Because Mexico are great? Or because normal people can’t breathe properly at the high altitude, let alone run around for 90 minutes plus. I suffered altitude sickness in Bogotá. It’s horrible and totally debilitating. You think you have flu. I thought I had flu. Until our plane landed on the coast and I was instantly ‘cured’.

Anyway, England, football, I’m in!

Yet part of my engagement with the tournament was later last night. When I looked to see Belgium 2 nil down to Senegal, 77 minutes played. Oh dear. Goodbye Belgium, the team which has the most superstars but always fails. So I watched the news. And turned back to see it was 2-all and in extra time. That was a wow in itself. But then, just one minute away from penalties, Belgium were awarded a penalty. Holy shit. The VAR didn’t want the responsibility so told the poor ref to look himself and use the judgment of Solomon. He did what he absolutely had to and gave the pen.

Senegal have a bit of form with late penalties. After the one awarded against them in the African Nations final this year, the whole team walked off in protest. Anyway, Youri Tielemans scored, and the Belges won 3-2. Amazing. Exiting. What football should be about.

COME ON ENGLAND!!!!

A xxxx

I went to the Albert Hall last night. Went to see Jeff Goldblum and his ‘jazz ensemble’. Which weren’t really that ‘jazzy’, but were definitely an ensemble. Loads of ’em. And they were really superb. Whilst Jeff walked around, mainly chatting, joking, laughing, generally… just being Jeff Goldblum. But with a bit of singing and a tinkle or two on the massive piano which I think was a collaboration between Steinway and Winnebago. It was great in that Jeff’s brief was just to have some fun, which we all did.

And I was in a box. I don’t mean wrapped up in the corner brought by DPD and dumped in the rose bushes, I mean ‘a BOX’ at the Albert Hall! Of course I was. Man in my position wouldn’t sit in a mere chair!!! And here’ a pic of my mates in our box. Ahhhhh. BUT!!!!…

If you look on my pic, past the Wolf-man, beyond Scouse-Shazza, there’s just a little white-haired head poking out in the adjacent box. Whatever device your using; zoom in.

Yes, it was an ‘OMG!!!!! moment’. Dustin Hoffman, real and live and in person sitting next to us. Holeeeeeee shitttt! A God of the screen.

I didn’t talk to him. Which is odd as, according to my permanently embarrassed daughters, I’ll fucking speak to anybody. But Dustin gave off a really strong vibe. Which emanated as “keep away or FUCK OFF, whichever you prefer”. He was sitting with his wife and Twiggy!! and her husband. And Dustin didn’t say much to them either.

At least I didn’t have to watch the tennis. Where, at Wimbledon, 10 British players got beaten on Monday and another 6 yesterday. All the (relatively) ‘big ones’ have gone, with Raducanu and Draper not even starting due to injuries or not being bothered to play. Out of the 16 who went out, I could possibly name 1. And only because I find Katie Boulter rather attractive in that fit, lean, blonde… kind’a way. The good news is we still have about 6 players still remaining in the Wimbledon tournament.

Tomorrow will doubtless be a different conversation.

Where’s Andy Murray when you need him?

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx