Andy's Glasses

There was an interview on tv, either last night or possibly tonight (the report may have been from a press preview), with Donald Trump (vile and obnoxious) talking to, or probably shouting at, Piers Morgan (revolting, slimy and obnoxious). And guess what? If Trump was still president, the Ukraine crisis would never have begun. Fuck!! Just think, all that death and suffering and destruction and migration would never have happened because Donald Trump would have… errrrr… well, he’d have, apparently ‘done a deal with Poot’n’ and countered the Russian’s nuclear threat with a proper John Wayne reaction telling him ‘our nukes are bigger than your nukes and we have MORE!!!’. The precise nature of ‘the deal’, which Biden should have ‘done’ is a bit more obscure. As it would be from the master of his wonderfully detail-free world. The man whose entire life is a tweet. Everything being reduced to 35 words. Just enough to make a loud statement but insufficient to provide any substance, detail or explanation. In fact Trump only uses 17 words because each one has to be repeated.

And speaking of misogynists, apparently Westminster is chock full of them. Which is why the now national debate about Angela Rayner’s thighs is so important, politically. The facts, as we know them, though there aren’t many, is that a Tory MP, who remains nameless, accused Ms Rayner of crossing her legs in sufficiently repeated manner as to destabilise the Prime Ministers thought patters, which really needs not much help from her. But the very fact that some Tory, probably a closet-rapist, they all are, and ex-Bullingdon boy, entitled, maybe minor gentry and in possession of testosterone without a license, has brought this shameful matter to light is sufficient to question the entire nature of women in parliament. Whether they should even be viewed as ‘women’! Rather than just ‘MPs in very short skirts, crossing their legs’. Or the suggestion that women have to take much more care with simple actions just to avoid any suggestion of ‘being suggestive’ or ‘naughty’, JUST because men’s minds are so sick and leery.

If Ange was doing this accidentally, then this whole matter is simply a manifestation of typical misogyny and objectification of females in a decidedly pre-Emily Pankhurst manner. If she indeed intended to bother Boris and his famously libidinous disposition, then this is ‘female empowerment’ at its finest, used to fine effect of making the Prime Minister look stupid. But due to the way Boris looks and acts normally, how could we tell?

This story will run and run. At least until someone spends $40 billion buying Twitter.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Sometimes I love football and sometimes I hate football. And I don’t just speak of my relationship with my team. Itself something of a unique relationship in its total and absolute one-way-ness. I give them love and loyalty and total dedication and they give me… basically contempt. I’m just a number on an email list of people who sometimes give them money for things. And if I don’t buy things, my data is there’s forever. A few bytes among the millions they hold.

But the current malaise is not just because ‘we blew it’ against Brentford on Saturday, much as we ‘blew it’ the previous weekend against Brighton. 200 minutes of football without a shot on target. From the team who’ve scored more goals in 2022 than any other. The team with the ‘best attack in the world’, possibly, as described only 3 weekends ago. By some pundit or other. I’m hoping that next weekend we’re not playing a team beginning with ‘B’. Yes, that’s what its come to. Wearing my socks which are unwashed from both legs (pun) of the 1981 Cup Final!

But the problem is money. Too much of the stuff in the game. So Paris St Germain are in pretty much a meltdown of discontent and unharmonious chaos borne of Qatari funding giving a sense of entitlement which requires IMMEDIATE satisfaction. Their current head coach, the wonderful and lovely Mauricio Pochettino, will be sacked this summer. The latest of 5 coaches who have delivered the French league title and then been sacked. Because of delivery failures on all other competitions. Which translates as ‘didn’t win the Champions League’. The Qataris, as we’ve learned at great cost (both in human lives and blatant corruption) like to spend their way out of a problem. If they throw enough cash around, then WHY CAN’T THEY GET WHAT THEY WANT????? The answer to which is actually ‘because they’re spoilt, entitled fuckers who need to grow up and the world don’t work like dat’. They bought Neymar, they bought Messi, FFS, and still their ultimate prize remains elusive. Their fans are up in arms about the owners, their best player, Killian Mbappe, is walking away in the summer, probably to the Bernabau where he’ll doubtless be paid several trillions of Euros, dollars, whatever, because Real Madrid don’t care and have seemingly no limits.

The irony is that probably the most successful, certainly the most enduring, manager of all time was Alex Ferguson. Manchester United were patient, allowed him a few fallow years to establish his own team, left him in control, and he returned them untold riches over the following decades of his stewardship.

That would never happen today. The Russians, Qataris, Americans and Emiratees who own our clubs have more money than patience, more greed for prestige than love for the game, more cash than class. So they get what they deserve. Mainly. Which is disappointment. Spurs fans get that for nothing. So whose laughing now???

Happy Monday

A xxxx

Just when you thought it might be of some, minor, educational or informational benefit to actually read the Daily Mail (in this case the Sunday version but its definitely the same beast) then you really need to think again. You should only EVER read a Mail publication to laugh at its stupidity or get really angry because it is so awful. And worse still, its read, as a kind of gospel, by an awful lot of people.

That sorry newspaper reported that whilst Boris speaks in parliament, he is being distracted, titillated, provoked and possibly aroused. By the Shadow Chancellor who apparently crosses and uncrosses her legs repeatedly when Boris is speaking, in a move reminiscent of Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct. There’s a photo of a gorgeous Sharon Stone, in that gorgeous white dress, from the movie. In case you’ve forgotten it. Which no man who saw the movie ever has. Or anyone who identifies as ‘male’. He. Him. His. Nob.

And I can understand how easily Boris gets distracted, that is possibly the source of all his current woes. And we all know how he has an eye for the ladies. Possibly other body parts beyond an eye too. He has a history. A long one. History, not sure about anything else.

But Angela Rayner? ANGELA RAYNER??? I think possibly that Kier Starmer is more attractive and he’s the ugliest labour leader since Michael Foot. The very thought of that great northern lump of Corbyn-idealising, Bolshy, gobby horse doing anything with her legs fills my mouth with bile. Boris maybe desperate, but Angela Rayner??? She’s unworthy to share a page with La Stone.

But at least the time spent in my indignation over this farce was time spent away from the sports pages. Where depression lies. And upset. And tragedy. And horror. And a level of pear-shapedness which my football team seems to unconsciously crave. The match itself was beyond abysmal. I don’t need a bunch of Daily Mail Man United fans telling me how bad Spurs played. I KNOW!

Happy Sunday. At least the sun’s shining.

A xxxx

This evening Spurs go to play at Brentford. The magnitude of this match simply cannot be overstated. Bigger than the moon landing. Bigger than Elvis. Bigger than the war in Ukraine. Bigger than anything ever. Having lost to Brighton, stupidly, laughably, ridiculously and so annoyingly, last weekend, we now find ourselves balanced precariously in 4th space, separated from Arsenal in 5th by mere goal difference. Because the Arse came off their 3-match losing streak (which we all loved) to beat hapless Chelsea (which we all hated). The only other viable team with realistic hopes for that massively important 4th place, is Manchester United. Who play Arsenal right now. I wish them luck. Not just because they’re playing Arsenal, but because they showed on Tuesday night that they are a totally shambolic rabble of uselessness with no cohesion, no spirit, no fight and no clue leaving luck and God as their only possible chances. Good luck with both.

When Man United lost at Liverpool they were useless. But Liverpool were simply sublime. Possibly even divine. The classiest team performance I’ve seen since Danny Blanchflower retired. And tomorrow Liverpool play local boys (but never really ‘rivals’ in any real sense, I’m afraid) Everton. Who, with Burnley on something of what passes as a ‘winning streak’ among the bottom 6, are in deep shit. Could get relegated. Which would, in normal circumstances, make me sad. But not since Frank Lampard became their manager. Now all bets are off, all niceties suspended, let ‘em fucking drop.

But Brentford. More importantly, more Christian Eriksen. Who, since his heart attack on the pitch and subsequent re-birth, has rightly been elevated to the status of God. Hero. Untouchable. Jesus did similar and they’re still talking about it 2000 years later. So Christian is ‘protected’. Every fan saw his ‘demise’, felt for him, sent love through the tv screen and thus retains part ownership of the player. It’s the way it works. Wherever he goes, whatever shirt he’s wearing, he is cheered, given ovations and, because he has bounced back amazingly, he commands the ultimate respect from all of football. Something that can never be achieved without dying, unfortunately, but no-one said football was about kindness and consideration.

The Spurs fans who go to Brentford will definitely show the Dane their love. For how brilliant he was when he wore our shirt, for the ‘event’ and because we want him back in the summer. The problem is that Brentford have won 5 out of 5 when he’s been playing and, basically, lose every game when he’s not. And he’s playing tonight.

Sentimentality has no place here. We must win. And win big. Because if we don’t… Mummeeeeeeee!!!!

Happy saturday

A xxxx

The French presidential election is on Sunday. The candidates are, in order of least obnoxiousness: Emmanuel Macron and Marine Le Pen. (Accounts of obnoxiousness may vary). That’s it. Just the 2. Beauty and the Beast, without the Beauty. And the contest is close. Alarmingly close.

The French don’t generally do a lot of ‘re-electeds’. They’re such an ungrateful, dissatisfied nation that any president lasting his full term without a sex scandal or surrendering his nation to any would-be invaders would still be turfed out of the Elysee Palace to make room for the next hopeless case. Which would bode ill for Macron.

But France are currently suffering the same malaise as England. That of ‘no viable alternative’. Thus ‘the devil you know’ becomes, if not exactly desirable, then the lesser of evils. And in Le Pen’s case, true evil. She may call her party ‘National Rally’, like a movie with Terry Thomas in a vintage Rolls Royce running out of petrol outside the casino at Monte Carlo, but its not. The ‘national’ falls short of ‘nationalist’ because of implications towards all of France’s immigrant population. Most of whom she has offended and hated, all of whom she’d love to repatriate or just drown, with the remainder banned forever from wearing any traces of origins which may be not-French in any way. Her father was a nazi, her mother was (probably) a nazi, so apples, trees, etc, it doesn’t take Isaac Newton to guess. Not about gravity, the other ‘apples, trees’ thing.

And that’s why Macron is still in the race. Not because he’s any good, not because anyone likes him, not because he’s very tall, but just because he’s not Marine Le Pen. The smug little shit is electable just because the person standing against him simply isn’t. Or hopefully won’t be. Because although ‘populism’ is just another way of saying surge-to-the-far-right-ism and was big in ‘the Trump days’, she is basically stupid. Her brand of ‘populism’ involves ‘reducing the cost of living’ whilst lowering taxes and increasing public spending. The sort of numbers that only Diane Abbot could make agree. But no-one with any real understanding of… numbers.

Like in Britain where the Tories won’t oust Boris simply because there is no viable alternative within their own party, nor anyone else’s, France is in the same predicament. Another term of office for a worthless tosser with a Napoleon complex or the spiritual daughter of Adolph Hitler.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

What happened to all my Easter Eggs? Like, WTF???

Ok, not mine, the ones I bought along the way, that’s a rhetorical question. Long gone. But the rest of them. The ones I didn’t buy. Which, normally, over Easter weekend are lined up, piled up, amassed in pyramids in all the supermarkets waiting for me to rent a van and buy the lot. But this year? It’s all gone a bit ‘Man United’ on the Easter Egg front.

Just to recap. I love chocolate. But ONLY ‘proper’ chocolate. And you can tell its ‘proper’ because it comes in purple. Nothing else will suffice. I don’t define ‘chocolate’ by its cocoa percentage, nor its ‘purity’, fatlessness or how much it costs. I just want Cadburys. Milk chocolate. In pretty much any form (flake, Dairy Milk, twirl, Freddo…) but the best, the ultimate, the definitive mouth-fill of my favourite foodstuff, is Easter Eggs. Maybe because of the texture, maybe because they’re only available for about 3 months a year. Maybe because they’re big.

Except this year. When there weren’t any to fucking buy.

My typical shopping trip between February and April, just ‘popping out for some milk’ will see me return with 8 Easter Eggs. And, in all likelihood, no milk due to the sheer excitement. Because every Supermarket, Corner shop, petrol station, has piles of them. And always ‘on offer’. 2 quid, maybe 4 quid for a bigger one, and only Cadburys, obvs.

But this year was different. Waitrose didn’t stock any smallish eggs. M&S didn’t but I’m not sure if they ever have. I did make a major acquisition at Aldi, but its a horrible place and I didn’t return. But last night we went ‘for a walk’. Because yesterday was the first day after Easter. Last year on that day I went into my little Tesco on Fleet Street and bought half their display. All half price. I just put my credit card in the machine and told them to stop ringing up eggs when I’ve reached my credit limit. This year they had not one. Same at the Sainsburys Local, the Iceland (FFS) and Budgen.

Have Easter Eggs become the new Petrol? Pricey beyond belief and not always available? Or like gas? Do they come from Russia and are thus sanctioned? Were they sent to Ukraine to help the troops, along with the anti-tank missiles? Or is this part of a sinister government conspiracy related to the national obesity problem so wonderfully exemplified by our Prime Minister??

All I know is, as we enter the Spring period, when my normal problem is storage of overstock, I’m down to my last 1-and-a-half eggs. Another fucking crisis. Just what we need.

Unhappy post-Easter

A xxxx

There’s a lot of football coming up. The season is drawing to a close. The Premier title race is reaching its conclusion, the fight for top 4 looking like Lviv on a bad day and relegation battles are being… well, lost really. Liverpool and Manchester City can both win the league and Champions League but Liverpool already have the League Cup and are in the FA cup final next month too, going for an ‘unprecedented quadruple!!!’

Ahhhh, silverware, who needs it? Well, it does make you feel better. And now that Emma Raducanu has come out as a Spurs fan (wearing a named replica shirt in training, increasing her gorgeousness 10-fold) there are moves that we can have a copy of the American Open tennis trophy in the Spurs cabinet. Just because…

My team didn’t do very well on Saturday. They went all ‘Spurs’ again. Taking on what should have been ‘straightforward opposition’ and losing. Not because Brighton were so fantastic but because we were so awful. However, with Arsenal losing (agaiaiaiain), it was not all doom and gloom in 4th spot. But Manchester United winning was a bit of a problem. Well, as has happened a lot at Old Trafford recently, Manchester United actually lost to ‘can’t buy a win’ Norwich, but Ronaldo won and gave them the points.

United play Liverpool tonight. And we desperately need the Scousers to win. Although its almost unthinkable that slick, consistent Liverpool could lose to arch-rivals and currently clueless Man United (probably without Ronaldo who tragically lost a baby yesterday), you must remember that ‘this is football!’ And anything can happen. United winning would be a catastrophe for us and for Liverpool. But then United play Arsenal on Saturday (draw would be nice) and Chelsea the following Thursday (Russian missile would be nice). About which the Mancs are moaning, obviously. Probably pull the ‘Covid card’ and ask for a deferment. Oh, but we’ve got toooooooo many games to play, its not faiaiaiaiaiaiairrrrrr. But, quite frankly, fuck ’em. They really don’t deserve to be anywhere near 4th place this year so the further away the better.

Much as I hate football when Spurs lose, it is getting a bit exciting up there.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

We had a little ‘tea’ yesterday. For the exceptionally old and the extraordinarily young. We’re in the middle. Much nearer the latter, obvs. We brought ‘the dads’ (combined age 193) to see their great-grandchildren (combined age 8, nearly) because its good for generations to mix. Beneficial to all. So the old’uns get to fall asleep near children and the kids have 2 more ‘things’ to ignore as they run around breaking everything in the house. We’ll have just one new rule for Lila and Joey (making a grand total of… errrr… one) which is ‘DON’T BREAK THE ZIMMERS!!!!’ Great-grandfathers can be repaired or will heal, as they often are and do, but Zimmer frames become the most essential thing in their lives as neither can walk even across a room unaided. It’s what happens. Will happen to us all (should we be so lucky to live so long, pth, pth, pth).

On Friday night Mel & I ‘led’ the Passover festivities in the care home. I’ll spare you the details because all went swimmingly well except for a few reservations. Summed up by the old expression: you can please all the people some of the time, some of the people all of the time and a room full of Jewish nonagenarians NEVERRRRR!!!!! But that’s life. What was interesting was that in a room full of about 30 pretty old people, at least half used Zimmers. Because modern medicine is a brilliant thing, capable of keeping us alive and… not so much ‘kicking’ as possibly ‘limping’ or ‘staggering’, for longer than previous generations would have imagined possible. But it can’t stop the natural deterioration of bone and muscle. Which, kind’a, holds us all together and keeps us moving swiftly. Or slowly. And more importantly, stops us falling down. Thus the Zimmer frames. They can’t help with the other inevitabilities, like loss of hearing and sight, but they can stop you falling over so much. And provides amusement as you see three or four all heading for the door, as if racing, but in slo-mo. Very slo-mo.

And so the contrast. Lila and Joey, all energy and activity, and ‘the dads’, somewhat less so. But you can’t help thinking that its somehow instructive for the kids as well as a tonic for the elders.

I’m ordering my Zimmer today. In case they run out in the next 30 years. I’m getting the GTI-Twin-Turbo, capable of up to half a yard every 3 minutes.

Happy Families

A xxxx

Ok, so this is how you decorate a bedroom. You choose curtains. Takes, approximately, 2 years. If I’m honest, I left ‘most’ of this to Mel. Partly because I’m simply not fussy (I have one rule: no flower designs. Love flowers, hate florals), some might say ‘barely even care and one week after fitting wouldn’t be able to identify the design from a choice of 2’. And partly because I trust my wife’s judgment. In most cases. Some cases. A few. Ok, I trust her judgment about curtains. Possibly lampshades.

So we have our curtains chosen and being made. Now we can ‘co-ordinate’ the rest of the room. Yippie-yiy-ayyy. So we need paint. And thus ensues the square dance. In which little squares of loads of different colours, shades and depths just ‘appear’ on the walls. Most of which are ‘too dark’, ‘too light’ or ‘too pink’. And this continues until Dulux, Crown, Farrow & Ball and Little Green have run out of colours and its reached the point where if I stand still to put my pants on, I’ll have a square on my back in ‘Sunset Harmony’ before my testicles are settled. But eventually after a great deal of work and square paining by Mel and even more ‘FFS!!!!’ from me, The Colour! is chosen. The decorator arrives, spends 5 days applying The Colour, not just to the walls but also to the woodwork, wardrobes, skirtings, because that was ‘the look’ that ‘we’ wanted.

The day it was finished Mel hated it. I have no idea why, my aesthetic conceptualisation chip is broken. But she fucking hated it. ‘Sunburst Morning Yellow’ became ‘vomit and pus yellow’. ‘Aardvarks at the watering hole green’ became ‘road kill shit’ and was a source of anxiety and upset for my wife. (2 days had long passed so I’d stopped noticing).

A few weeks later we re-entered squaresville. That mysterious twilight zone where little coloured squares start appearing. And eventually we found a new ‘The Colour!’. Obviously a very different one. Not a sunburst or aardvark in site. And not willing to go to the not inconsiderable expense of getting the decorator back…

How’s your Easter weekend going? Onto the second coat yet?

Happy Paint-splattered Saturday

A xxxx

What do you know about Rwanda? Hmmmm… its in Africa… It’s… possibly hot… errrr… lions?… elephants?… in fact it sounds much nicer than England. It’s famous for beautiful hills and it seems a very nice place, predominantly Christian but no-where’s perfect. And the pictures I’ve seen make it seem quite pretty and lovely.

So much so that visitors to England are now going to be sent to Rwanda instead. It’s sort of an annex of Britain, just round the corner. Ok, round a 4,000 mile corner into the deepest darkest deep bits of the Southern Hemisphere in landlocked Africa. But a free, (unless you’re a UK tax-payer), all-expenses paid holiday for 3 months is not the worst deal.

If I’d spent 14 weeks trudging across the whole of Europe on foot then risking life and limb on an inflatable dinghy made for 12, accompanied by 74 others, as it crosses the channel, only to arrive in fucking Dover, inevitably grey, wet and windy, I’d be the first on the plane to Rwanda.

Because Boris (tosser) and Home Secretary Priti (bitch) have between them decided that Rwanda is the place to send all the refugee, asylum-seeking single men who arrive here seeking asylum. But, obviously, only the brown people. From Afghanistan. Bangladesh. Pakistan. The white ones, from Ukraine, are fast-tracked in the Aryan Races channel to the 100,000 British people eager to take them into their homes.

So it is possible that the Muslim hordes are being sent to Rwanda as a reward; they won’t have to endure British winters… spring and autumn are trying as well, whereas the Ukes will think January over here is summer. Plus, we all remember Nigel Farage with his ‘non-racist’ Brexit poster of a boat load of channel-crossers telling us to ‘reclaim the borders!!!’ Nothing subliminal about that message.

And you kind’a have to think that otherwise there is absolutely no reconciling the totally differing sides of our nation’s apparent racism. White people welcome, brown ones over there with the suspected terrorists, no-good-niks and criminals. Yeah, sorry matey, we don’t do ‘discrimination’ here at all, its against the law, now get on that fucking plane to Africa!!

Happy Easter (but apparently only if you’re white)

A xxxx