Andy's Glasses

I had an ‘incident’ on my bike yesterday, coming home from work. I turned a corner, ‘banking’ as you do on a bike, and my left foot hit the road and my motion yanked the foot under the pedal, pulling it under like they do to bind feet, in Old China. But I wasn’t in China. I was in Kings Cross. And it fucking hurt. I managed to stay upright on the bike and although my foot and ankle hurt a bit, pedalling wasn’t painful. So I pedalled home.

By bedtime there was swelling, there was some icing (not ‘on the cake’, more ‘on the foot’) and it was fucking agony. After going upstairs to bed on all fours, I messaged Spurs Paul to cancel tennis for this morning. In fact as I lay in bed with my really painful foot/heel/ankle, my only thoughts were ‘X-ray’; I need an x-ray. So I kept Mel awake pondering the merits of Finchley Memorial Hospital against the Royal Free and the St John & Elizabeth.

This morning it was ‘fine. Ok, still swollen, feels bruised and tender, but there’s no hobbling, no apparent ‘disability’ that I could claim benefits for. Shame. I’d sacrifice my left foot for a blue badge so I could park in Golders Green. I’m right footed. But anyway, it seems to be healing by the sheer force and power of my immaculate body and exceptional masculinity. Not the toxic type, more the self-healing, superpower, superHERO type masculinity. So no need to come rushing round with chicken soup, ibuprofen or to just have, like a vigil of love on the front garden. You’ll spoil my lawn.

We’re up to 37 cases of meningitis in Kent. I blame the students. They’ve come up with 29 ways that students, basically, exchange bodily fluids by merely attending a night club. And that’s not counting having sex or kissing. So I think this little epidemic is punishment by the gods for basically acting in a grossly unhygienic way. They should take all those students, University of Kent, Canterbury, Folkestone Polytechnic, and move them into the army to fight Iran, who are going to attack us now for allowing US bombers to take off from our little island, on their way to the Straits of Hormuz to protect the oil tankers. Which won’t go anywhere, no matter how many planes and boats they send. Because the owners of oil tankers are not stupid. They wouldn’t exchange bodily fluids in a nightclub.

Spurs are playing tomorrow in what is possibly the biggest and mostest importantest game ever played in the entire history of the game since some poncey, upper class twat at Rugby put a ball on the floor and kicked it. In 1726. That’s how important it is.

Happy, healing Saturday,

A xxxx

I feel sorry for Muslims. Because Islamophobia is real and it’s common. And like all phobias, it’s not particularly rational. Britain, along with all ‘patriotic’ nations, especially ones filled with white people, houses more than its fair share of xenophobes. And you can’t do anything about it. Its inbred, its ‘hereditary’, its learned and its so deeply entrenched that you really can do very little to change it. Which is why the Farages and the Tommy Robinsons play on this in ‘middle Britain’ because we always need scapegoats and forriners present the easiest target. Can’t get yer kid into a school? Blame the immigrants. NHS waiting lists? Boat people, innit, all with sprained ankles from jumpin’ off the boats, cloggin’ up the A&E. But that’s all ‘people of colour’, whereas Muslims present a special case.

In my mind there are two types of Muslims. There’s the rotten, evil Islamist terrorists, intent on death, destruction, intent on taking over the entire world into a Muslim state, something like Iran. And then there’s the vast majority who are just Muslims because they were born Muslim and adhere to some or all of their cultural or religious customs. A bit like me being a Jew. I do the bits I like. Ok, which doesn’t involve praying very much, but does involve chopped liver and haimishe cucumbers (they’re pickled, but the Polish way; buy them, they’re life-changing, made by Mrs Elswood and available on this site!!!, just send cash).

So these Muslims are the people you work with, the ones who’s kids go to your kids’ school, the ones who give up their seat for you on the tube because they think YOU’RE OLD!! They’re just normal people who happen to be Muslims. And their lives have been tainted by the actions of the ‘other lot’, the jihadi lunatics. What the Farages and Robinsons of this world do is blur the boundaries. A Muslim’s a Muslim, make the presumption of terrorism unless they prove otherwise. Whereas I, naively, possibly stupidly, just like Jesus Christ himself(!!), believe in the good in all men. Except the total motherfuckers, obviously.

And the other night, they had a ‘pray-in’ at Trafalgar Square. Mainly for the decent Muslims but they let Sadiq Kahn in so obviously tossers were allowed too. And they prayed. What else would you do at a Pray-in? Well, actually, it was Iftar, the prayers at the end on Ramadan days, so there’s food given out; that’s ’what else’. So all in good spirit. And the ‘believers’ all threw themselves on the floor as they do, facing Mecca, which happens to be the same direction as the London Stadium, so maybe they’re West Ham fans too. Then they got up, brushed off, and gave out food, even to the non-believers who were standing around the Square, probably thinking: free food!! WTF?

Nick Timothy, the shadow justice minister, then said, on Twitter (the go-to vehicle for out of line political comment) that such a thing is ‘an act of domination… and division’. Then he said its not appropriate to have a ‘male only thing’ going on publicly. Has he never been on a stag night? Or worse, a hen night. And really, I think Nick was seriously over-reacting there on the Square. People lying on the floor in vast numbers just doesn’t bother me. Its when they get up that I start to worry.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

Don’t panic. And don’t go to Kent. Then you should be fine. Ok, don’t talk to anyone who has been to Kent in the last 5 days. Or anyone who’s been to Club Chemistry, in Kent, ever. In fact, be careful of people who know people from Kent. Or those who knows someone who knows someone who once went there.

Meningitis B is a real fucker. I realise that anything that starts with the word ‘meningitis’ is something to be avoided, but that B is for ‘bummer’. Because it can kill you. And it did kill two kids last weekend. Its a very invasive infection around the brain, leading to septicaemia and other fun things.

Of course, you can vaccinate, as they do to babies now. But anyone who was a baby before 2015 is… basically… fucked. Especially if you’re a teenager, and even more so if you’re at the University of Kent. Or thereabouts. Going to clubs, exchanging bodily fluids, snogging, clubbing, passing joints around, any kind of close proximity fondling. Though its hard to fondle from afar. So if a student down there tells you ‘he got fucked last night’, you’ll need a clarification. Whether to call Andrew Tate or an undertaker.

The government could then have rolled out a vaccination plan for those pre-2015-ers, but… didn’t. Nah. Not a big problem. Not now. Expensive. Don’t need it.

Because you never need something until you do. The you REALLY need it. And it would have been nice, because if this thing spreads we’re all doomed. This is like Covid with a vengeance. This is ‘bring out yer dead’ all over again. The second time since 1665.

John the Postman (lovely geezer… red jacket… green van… all round the City) watches ‘GB News’. Well someone has to. Nigel Farage and Tommy Robinson and Steve Banon can’t keep it going by themselves, ya know! And he learned that the meningitis was probably brought over by immigrant boat-people. Possibly. Which is why its in Kent. Where they land.

Oh, that’s ok then. Cos Covid was local. Well, China. Pretty local. And look how that turned out.

GOD HELP USSSSSSSS…

A xxxx

I haven’t really mentioned anything about football since last Tuesday, the day of the apocalypse. The day when the farcically catastrophic degenerated into complete hopelessness. And its all about hope. I don’t know who actually invented hope but I reckon it was a nasty, vindictive Arsenal fan. Called Billy Hope. In 1426.

So when we went to Liverpool yesterday it was a foregone conclusion. It wasn’t a matter of losing, that was a given. It was a matter of ‘by how much’. We have but one tiny advantage over the other teams fighting us for the right to get relegated, and that is goal difference. Ours is much better than theirs. Yet, if Liverpool had beaten us 12-nil (on current form it would have surprised no-one), then we would no longer have ‘the last remaining comfort’ in place.

But Liverpool have had their issues this season. Which all stem from the inevitable sense of Scouse-entitlement which asserts that the league is theirs and theirs alone unless its stolen from them. So they blame Mo Salah, then they blame their manager, as not being good enough, or Alexander Isak for breaking his leg.

And onto the revered Anfield pitch limped my (once) beloved Tottenham Hotspurs. Buoyed by the confidence of gaining their last league point (singular) on the first of Feb, having been trounced by everyone since, having lost half their players to injury, suspension, both or failed suicide attempts when Romero and Palhinha dived headlong into each other in Madrid, expectation was fairly low. The new manager’s on the way out before the paint has dried on his name plate, losing four out of four.

Talk to fellow Spurs fans (you can always tell them; they’re the ones in the corner either crying or with a noose), and we were all in agreement that there is no way out; we’re doomed. Can’t see where any points might come from, unlike West Ham and Forest who seem to be mass-producing them in China and importing them.

And then we drew the match. An event as unexpected as Donald Trump apologising. As seeing the King in Starbucks with Meghan. As shaking hands with Jeremy Corbyn in synagogue.

Unexpected. Actually, we deserved to win, but heh, I’ll take that point. Not only take it, I will love it like my own child, embrace it like… well, I can only say ‘my wife’ if I want to stay alive, and nurture it like a tiny puppy.

Because a point’s a point, right? Doesn’t ‘propel you up the table’, or even ‘make you safe’. But its a start. It shows we don’t have to lose every fucking match, every fucking week. It shows we are, to some extent, masters of our own destiny. It gives confidence, it gives encouragement. It gives… HOPE!

The last thing Spurs fans need. But we fall for it every time. So yes, I’m now hopeful. I can’t help it. One point out of the last 18. But we’ll take it. We’ll bite your fucking hand off for it. Because it is symbolic of what can sometimes happen.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

The world’s at war. We’re joining in; slowly, reluctantly, obediently, and a bit pathetically. But war it is. Because the cause is so noble. Even though the people who started it can’t really put their fingers on the precise reasons for the war, the Orange One changes that particular goalpost every couple of days. Along with His view of the success. On Monday America ‘don’t need your fucking help! The war’s won already!!’, yet by Saturday he was demanding (he never merely ‘asks’) that Britain and France and China join him in the Straits of Hormuz to fight the enemy.

Even ‘the enemy’ has shape-shifted a bit. It was originally ‘Iran’, whereas now it is the price of gas at the pumps. Because that can seriously affect the results in mid-term elections in a way the nuclear potential of the Ayatollahs never could. And it’s this new enemy which has Trump calling for help in the water to try and get oil tankers moving safely through the Strait. An easy sentence to say. ‘Safely’. Because if you own an oil tanker, worth 100 million quid, and it has a cargo on board worth 20 million. And the insurance are not gonna pay you in the event of a war. Even without considering the crew, which, generally speaking, owners of oil tankers don’t, are you going to roll the dice on the US/British/Chinese defences stopping every single drone and missile attack from Iran?

Its war. So therefore I’m approaching ‘bunker mode’. Under my shed at the back of my garden is a bunker. I dug it myself. During the Cold War when we were just one John le Carre away from nuclear attack. I think the 270 tins of tuna may have now passed their sell-by and so probably have the potential to kill you quicker than a nuke, but I can re-stock. I’m buying bottles of water, all I can get in the car, before the panic-buyers take all the supermarket stocks. Because there’s nothing a panic-buyer hates more than panic-buyers. The problem is, the bunker’s not big. I only had my seaside spade to dig it with. So really, it’s more ‘large burial plot’ than a true ‘bunker’. There is room for 2 but only if we lie on top of each other, and move the tuna outside.

Actually, what I really did was fill up my car. When it was… half full!!! I never do that. I drive about 10 miles a week. And that’s a busy, rushing around week. So to fill up probably 3/4 weeks earlier than normal, I decided was ‘panic buying’. I’m not concerned that there won’t be petrol available, but the cost. Petrol has risen by… how can you even tell? They change the prices at the pumps every fucking day when there’s no oil-starvation war going on. Now it’s stupid. Soon they’ll hook up the pumps to computers with live feeds from the commodities exchange and the price will change constantly, as you’re filling up. But I don’t want to spend 1.57 a litre, which was what they wanted in Belsize Park, so I went to ‘downmarket’ Highgate and paid 1.43. A saving of such magnitude that I’m effectively getting free coffees for half the week!!!

Ed Milliband was on Laura Kuensberg this morning, and those profiteering, greedy, rip-off oil company executives better watch out. Because the man who showed just how difficult it is to eat a bacon sandwich, stated this morning, quite clearly and strongly, that errrr… well… errrr… this… errrrr… g-g-government will not st-st-stand for… errrrr… that… errrrr… sort of thing and we’ll… errrrr… probably… errrrr… do something about it… possibly. And you can’t get tougher than that!!! What a total tosser.

4.30. This afternoon. Anfield. Be there. Not so much a ‘must win’ as a ‘can’t possibly win under any circumstances imaginable or otherwise’. I might go to my bunker.

Happy Sunday (if fucking ONLY!!!!)

A xxxx

Sent from my iPad

So I only travel into town on my e-bike on ‘zero days’. Every hour on the BBC weather app marked zero chance of rain. If numbers appear. I take the tube.

Until today. There’s lots of rain forecast for this afternoon, but… the tube is suffering major fuckage. On the Northern Line. And, just to rub sulphuric acid in the wounds, at East Finchley. My station.

So I was left with a choice. Try and squeeze onto the trains which are running, once every 98 minutes, along with 42,000 other unwashed, garlic-eating sweaty bastards, or take the bike. And risk… getting wet!!!

I don’t have ‘weather gear’, its too pervy. I’d rather be soaked to the skin than look like a child molester. But I DO have a ‘kagool’, which no-one ever talks about these days. They are the clothing equivalent of Prince Andrew. And as I NEVER throw out old clothes, I went to the ‘pre-1997’ section of my wardrobe… ok, my whole wardrobe is ‘pre-1997’, except for the old stuff, and there it was. All shiny and waterproofy and only a fraction of the ‘deviance-appearance’ of other practical clothing.

And I’m praying for no rain.

There again, I prayed for a Spurs win on Tuesday night and where did that get me.

I’ll tell you where it got me. It got me thinking of the difference between being ‘humble’, being ‘humbled’ and being ‘humiliated’. I don’t know why, other than I love words. And they all come from the same root. Yet being humble is a good thing, being humbled, not quite so good, and being humiliated is what happens when you go to Madrid. It happened to us, then it happened again last night when Man City went there.

Its also what happens when you have a manager who is a wrong-un. We got Igor Tudor as a ‘short-term’ fixer. And we got a short-term fuck-up. Played 4, lost 4. And what he did to both our goalkeepers on Tuesday night was positively disgusting. Ok, neither of them did precisely what their job description states, but it was awful. And blaming the keeper when your defensive plan is inappropriate and ill-considered, is not a great way to ‘manage’.

Happy, hopefully dry Thursday

A xxxx

An algorithm is a device for solving problems. Finding solutions. It will follow a set of rules to find the best way to solve that problem. Simple. You wanna drive from Luton to Manchester (though no idea why you would want to), an algorithm will work out distances, the speed of the roads, factor in roadworks or accidents, if its sufficiently ‘live’ and come up with your answer. Probably ‘don’t bother; there’s nothing there’. Or creating a recipe so that every step is in the right order, maximising use of time.

That’s what Ronnie Algorithm invented them for, back in 1857 or 1972, possibly 1653.

What he didn’t envisage, when he created the first one, working out how to kill a Tyrannosaurus for dinner without getting killed, was that they’d be used by unscrupulous tech giant companies to lead our children towards suicide or our little boys towards… the manosphere!!!

Yet that’s what they do. Because if you take the algorithm to ‘make me as much money as you possibly can’ and hook it up to a supercomputer, you end up in the world we currently occupy. Well, in fact, not the world I occupy, but the one our children and their children do.

We all know about Molly Russell, the lovely little 14 year-old who killed herself after being bombarded with self-harm and suicide options on her phone. And now Mark Zukerberg is being sued by some parents because his social media platforms are addictive and destructive. And they have lost children too, like poor Molly’s dad. .

As professions go, this was not particularly an option when I was a kid, but there’s a geezer who plays video games online and monetises it by having over a million followers. That’s one million no-hope, brain-dead total fucking morons who spend their hours watching someone else kill aliens and monsters with the assorted weaponry he picks up along the way. I mean: really? But the point is that this ‘gamer’ dude, has now shut down. He makes millions and millions from it, but he’s disgusted that whilst watching him, the kids have to see adverts. Nothing’s free in this world. And those adverts are directed by YouTube’s algorithms for the target market. The young. Predominantly boys (girls are generally not as stupid and can find a better use for their time). And the ‘ads’, chosen by the algorithms, direct these ‘kids’ towards either porn sites or to the ‘manosphere’, that toxically misogynistic region filled with Andrew Tates and other muscle-bound ‘roid-monkeys pumped with testosterone who encourage these minors into the abuse of all women. Except their mums. Love yer mum, screw all the others, CONSENT NOT A REQUIREMENT. IT IS YOUR RIGHT!!! Just watch these porn movies and you’ll learn how women love to be strangled and tortured. LOVE IT!!!

The social media companies have the power to control their algorithms. And their advertisers. But for them its just an equation. Cost of potential law suits (few mil) vs the gain from toxic advertisers (loads of billions). Something needs to change. Kids are dying, FFS.

My football team’s dying too. In its death throes. I’m not sure what medical advances can save them, but it sure ain’t Igor Tudor. God help us.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

We all love that song. When the last night of the proms cries out ‘Rule Britannia!!!’, waving their little Union Jack flags, and holding their hearts, showing their collective pride in our national glory. Guaranteed to bring tears to the eyes of… well, certainly Nigel Farage, but to a lesser degree to the eyes of those who aren’t overtly nationalistic to the point extremism, xenophobic or out-and-out racist.

But they don’t sing it any more. For two reasons.

1. It offends people. No, I don’t get that either. If you can’t celebrate being British in Britain, something’s fucked, but the presence of all those flags upsets many jihadis, lots of communists, loyal to Moscow, a whole trough of hypersensitive ass-wipes, and Zac Polanski. Obviously.

2. It’s hard to ‘rule the waves’ when you have no boats. And currently, we have virtually none.

HMS Dragon is a fab and sophisticated Destroyer. But there’s a bit of a delay getting it over to protect the Cypriots from Iranian drones, so they’ll just have to manage for a couple of weeks whilst we finish the paintwork. No-one likes a shabby boat.

We have no 2 aircraft carriers, but they’re not ready. We have no battleships. Well, there’s one due for completion any time soon and another which isn’t working properly.

And then we’re sending our ‘armada’ over there to put the FEAR OF GOD!!!!, into those Iranians. HMS Dragon, plus the Cutty Sark, which is being readied right now, in Greenwich, even though it hasn’t sailed for 200 years and will take 3 weeks to get there. And they sending my mate, The Boatman, in his houseboat out there too. He’s got an arsenal of air rifles, pistols, crossbows and knives. So the Ministry of Defence asked him if he’d join the battle, for King and Country. He can be there, armed and ready, probably by June. July the latest.

We’ll show ‘em who rules the waves.

So why the dithering? Over everything. As someone pointed out, Starmer is more worried about the ‘process’ than the act. And we know he is a lawyer, so is obviously concerned about legal issues. And yet…

Britain is pretty much unable to defend itself from an attack. Not saying there’ll be one but hy-per-fett-ically, were we to come under attack, America would defend us. They’d have to. We are, in terms of our military ‘assets’, incapable of defending ourselves until the boats are finished and the aircraft updated in proper numbers. Ok, Europe and NATO are duty-bound to help us, but they are all a bunch of lily-livered Starmers, procrastinators and tossers.

America would have ‘our back’. We know they would. So when even an imbecilic US president like Trump calls to war; YOU FUCKING GO TO WAR. Especially when it was only the refuelling of US aircraft from our bases.

Starmer is shackled by his back benches, filled with former Corbynites who hate America, despise Israel and find themselves rather uncomfortably supporting the most toxic, evil, misogynistic, homophobic, repressive regime the world has ever known, just to defend their anti-Americanism and antisemitism. But Starmer needs these people. He needs their votes in parliament. So he’s always very measured in everything he does and says.

Tony Blair is right; when ‘they call’ you turn up.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

This beautiful picture shows a group of devout Christians, joined together as they harness the power of Jesus into their lives. Because Jesus died to save us. And if ever a group of people needed saving, you’re looking at ‘em. Because the alternative view of this photo is that it’s a group of hypocritical sycophants worshipping the Lord Trump. Himself a total fucking hypocrite unless you can reconcile ‘grabbing ‘em by the pussy’ with a life of adherence to the moral standards laid down in God’s laws.

I have no trouble with ‘true believers’ and their rights to pray. Whether that’s on your knees at bedtime, prostrating yourself towards Mecca 5 times a day, beating yourself with thorny sticks or tying little boxes on your arm and head when you wake up in the morning. Live and let live.

But what makes me cringe is a posed ‘pray in’. A photo-op for your Instagram page. Or Truth Central page. Why are they all holding Trump, FFS? As if he is the re-incarnation of Christ. Which he may believe, but no-one else does. Other than the suck-ups in the Oval Office. These are the people declaring wars all over our planet. Ok, I’m not necessarily opposed to any of those wars. But they can’t be about religion, or driven by prayer. Then it all becomes a ‘crusade’. And praying to God before, let’s face it, murdering lots of people, seems a bit desperate. It’s like Spurs fans praying to God for help, as we’re all currently doing. The difference is; we know He has abandoned us. And Pete Hegseth, for all his alleged devotion, looks like a man abandoned by God too. Maybe he’s a closet Spurs fan.

You wanna pray; be my guest. But I don’t think you need to show the world. We’re not impressed. It wreaks of insincerity. And HE will know. Amen.

So much has happened this week. War started, planes grounded, travel disrupted, football teams (almost) relegated. And yet, I went into work four days on my e-bike. That makes up for a shit-load of missiles dropped on Tehran. And I only prayed every time I rode a red light (praying that there were no police around) and every time I overtook a bus on the inside. Actually I don’t do that. I’m daft but not stupid.

And my prayers must have been answered in some way because it was just about dry enough for tennis this morning. So He looks after me, but not Trump. As it should be.

Happy Sabbath Day

A xxxx

You know when you hear something really horrible and it puts your mind in a total spin. Like someone’s disease; a tsunami in Rochdale; plague in Nairobi; stock market crash in Tangiers, war in Iran. At first you deny it could be possible, then you look for what can be done to make it right, or make it a bit better and, eventually, you just have to accept it for the tragedy it is.

And so it is with Spurs. I’ve reached acceptance that we ARE going down this season. I just can’t see any way we can possibly win a match. And thus I no longer care. Phah! Easy as that. Spurs are in the championship and I shall look forward to hosting Hull City and Swansea and Stoke and all the other third-rate mud-hoofers and brawlers who play in our ‘lower leagues’. We, obviously, don’t do ‘mud’ at the Lane, but maybe next year, we’ll rise to the occasion. If we can afford to buy some.

Because they reckon the net loss to Spurs if they go down will be about £250million. That’s all. TV rights, loss of gate receipts, merchandising, European stuff (unless we win the Champions League!!!), all manner of add-ons, or in fact ‘add-offs’ in this case. The players will be clamouring for the door. I’ll volunteer to carry their bags out and even pay for their Ubers out and away. There’s none I’d want to keep (other than Djed Spence and Archie Gray) but the problem will be one of ‘who will buy them?’ Who will pay their ridiculous salaries. When asked their qualifications they’ll answer: ‘well, I played total shite for 2 years under 3 managers, 2 owners and five captains’. Oh yes, they’ll say at Manchester City and Barcelona and Inter Milan; that’s just what we’re looking for; a worthless, talentless moron with 3 Range Rovers and a massive sense of entitlement.

Our next game is away at Liverpool. That’s surely 3 points in the bag.

So I’m ‘accepting’; doesn’t mean I can’t be fucking miserable.

Not quite Happy Friday

A xxxx