Andy's Glasses

So I came out of recovery on Saturday, was wheeled to my room and Spurs were 3 nil up at Leeds. Unfortunately, I was 5nil down to the general anaesthetic and kept falling asleep so couldn’t really appreciate the wonders of the eventual 4-0 win over the Northerners.

I then slept through the first half of France’s rather brutal defeat of Scotland. No-one wants France to win anything, ever. Even post-ops. But they were impressive.

I woke up for second half of England Wales, which was quite brilliant, even though England weren’t, particularly. Yet won a very exciting second half. Because its true, drugs and sport just don’t mix.

The second half of the final event of the day was more than enough. Watching Manchester City score the solitary winning goal in the 80th-odd minute is always rather depressing. But ended the only time in my life I’ll binge in such a drug-addled, sleepy, restful way. The only option on the tv all day was war. I wasn’t in the mood for that.

And now I’m home!!! Amazing. And, as long as my elbow does not move past its sling-held 90 degree angle, I’m allowed to type. Hold things. Grip. Poke people, but only in the naval, or chest, if they’re very little. And Lila and Joey on the head, as I did when they were home to greet me.

The brilliance of modern medicine. Modern surgery really. Not only they cut off the old shoulder (Joey can’t get over where it might be? what they’ve done with it?) and stick a new shiny one in there, Before the general anaesthetic, they instil a nerve block. Its guided in with ultrasound, my first screen view of the day. And it just deadens the arm totally. Except the hand. So when you wake up you just have this lump of lifeless arm, totally immovable, above a tingly, partially numbed but minimally responsive hand. You think its fully operational until you pick something up with it. And drop it. That lasts 24 hours and guarantees no pain at all. Then it wears off. Yet surprisingly, the pain’s not too bad. Its uncomfortable but that’s it. And in a sling, which is horrible, but far from catastrophic. I can make tea and I can type. What else is there??

Very happy Monday

A xxxx

This is it then. My last day as a ‘normal’ person. Before I become… bionic!!! A cyborg. Part flesh, part titanium, bit’a silicone, few screws and bolts, like the fucking TERMINATOR!

Though, obviously, I appreciate there may be a slight ‘lag’, a ‘period of adjustment’, from surgery, tomorrow morning, to the full ‘we have rebuilt him, AND CREATED A MONSTER!!’

And its that ‘lag’ which concerns me. They will immobilise my right arm for a couple of weeks. Strap it to my chest so I can’t play tennis. Or throw punches. Hold a fork. Or type on a keyboard. Unless I bend over until my upper chest is virtually on the keyboard. At which point my nose will be on the number 6 and my head on the screen. Yes, I can type left handed and always do. I kind of ‘use them together’, strange though that seems. Because I ‘touch type’. And without the right hand a lot will be lost in translation. So we’ll have to see how that pans out.

Tomorrow I’ll be in a drugged out stupor filled with blood and pain, normal Saturday really. Then the meds wear off and I realise that having 2 usable hands is really something I’ve taken for granted my whole life and its lack causes a void.

Op day -1.

I’m also hoping that the massive jolt the general anaesthetic will give to my entire system will dislodge the most annoying, persistent and constant ‘ear worm’ I can ever remember.

Much as I loved the Beatles, when Paul McCartney joined forces with his proto-vegan, tree-huggy wife and formed ‘Wings’, I wasn’t their greatest fan. Middle’a’the’road pop stuff, ok but nothing you’d wanna buy. Or listen to, in your own head, for 17 hours every fucking day for three weeks. But when I saw the movie Licorice Pizza, in among a fab 70s soundtrack was ‘Let me roll it’. By Wings. Though when I heard it in the movie I couldn’t have told you the name. So I went home and the next day, I went and ‘found it’ on Google. Or, THE BIGGEST MISTAKE OF MY LIFE!!! as its now known. I found it, played it, played it again. Went back to… whatever, and its been playing ever since.

Until we meet again

A xxxx

For anyone born post-1945, today represents the greatest disaster that has ever darkened our entire, sad-and-sorry lives. Today is doomsday. Armageddon. The beginning of the end. Judgment Day. However, you can only get too upset by it. Because its so utterly typical. Putin? No, nothing to do with him, but Spurs. Losing last night at Burnley. How is that even possible after Saturday’s monstrously amazing win at Man City? How do you beat the top team and lose pathetically to the bottom one? My life will never be the same again. Until Saturday… possibly Sunday.

It’s quite a common thing to hear, ‘my child/grandchild is so bright they’ll be prime minister one day!’, though with the current PM that has now become a term of abuse and insult. But you don’t need to spend too long with ‘my’ Joey to realise that he has the potential to become the President!. Unfortunately, it would be President Putin. Because although Joey hasn’t invaded Ukraine with full-on artillery this morning, there’s no doubt he would, if he could just comprehend what ‘Ukraine’ means. He fully understands the ‘attacking and invading’ bit. Totally. Yet, the similarities run much deeper between Russia’s greatest dictator since Stalin and my little nearly-3 year old wonder boy. Mainly, stubbornness verging on total intransigence. No give. No yield. No compromise. No NOTHING!!!

Putin decided to ‘take Ukraine back’ into the Russian fold, and there is nothing anyone can say or do to stop him. And there isn’t much they can actually do without attacking him. And for all the bluster and bravado uttered by the totally spineless world leaders, they know that Putin don’t bluff. Neither does Joey.

I realise that a total rejection of both shoes and coat when going out, in a buggy, in the freezing cold and pouring rain is not quite the same as what is normally considered ‘a declaration of war’, but its delivered with the same degree of absolute certainty and unarguable and logic-defying finality that you just know that my gorgeous little boy is perhaps just 30 years from becoming the Full Putin.

Assuming the world has 30 years left. David Bowie sang ‘we have 5 years left to die in’ and that may have been prophetic. Or may just have been that nothing else rhymed, I love the song either way. But this is serious shit. And taking away Putin’s pocket money will not resolve anything. We nuke up or we shut up. Because we know with absolute certainty that he would. And so would Joey.

Happy Day 1 of the War

A xxxx

Today (and I’m sure I’m right this time, uncharacteristically) is 22/2/22. Or better still: 22.02.2022. Which not only reads the same backwards (palindromic) but also… (drum roll)… upside down!!! (Ambigramic?) Holy moly! When does that ever happen. You can turn this entire day on its head and it would look the same. Nothing would fall down. Such is the power of numbers.

Making it the perfect day to fabricate reasons to invade Ukraine. As Putin will probably do at some point, possibly at 2.22 this afternoon. And 22 seconds. Or 22 2nds. He’s making ‘noises’. Which were anticipated and expected. He’s complaining about Ukraine attacking his people, in the partisan Russian regions of Ukraine. He’s now declared those regions ‘Russia’. Leaving just the rest of the country to be invaded and overthrown. And no amount of diplomacy will alter his course. He’s ‘defending Russians’. Like always. Even though a lot of them tend to die in their defence.

And its the perfect day to announce that ‘coronavirus is finished’… as a viable killing disease which we must all hide from, shelter from, protect ourselves from, run away from, stop work, close the country, suspend all normality for 2 years and/or die from! Yeah, we’re done with it. Boris said so. Back to work you lazy, pyjama-wearing, lap-top on the duvet-ing, unwashed lightweights. All measures are now null and void. You’re allowed within 2 metres of people once more. In fact you’re encouraged to bump into people to rekindle that proximity, hug them, assault them, all without wearing a mask.

Interestingly, I started this little piece at about 7.30 this morning, then life just kind’a got in the way. But I’m keen it emerges into the world whilst its still 22.02.2022, though I could have posted it Thursday and added ‘+2’ but it wouldn’t be right. Though in fact Putin has at this point sent his tanks into Eastern Ukraine. How life changes in a few hours. Do any world leader really have the bottle to stop him? Boris with his Churchill aspirations? Biden with… not a lot? The new German dude who is about a quarter the ‘man’ that Angela Merkel was? Or Macron. Who’s probably already moved to Switzerland. Just in case.

Happy belated 22.02.2022

A xxxx

We went to Beijing, we (that’s the ‘team UK’ we), put up with their zero-covid bollocks, we turned blind eyes to their human rights abuses, we forgot about their international hacking, Alexa-Huawei nonsense and we CONQUERED! Yep, it took just two rather intense weeks to show the world that here in the UK we bow to no nation when it comes to falling over on ice and snow. In the tradition of Eddie the Eagle, we showed levels of inability to stand up never previously dreamed of. Even the bobsleighs rolled over on that horrible, fake, Chinese ice. But then came the Curling. Ahhhhh, that’s a proper sport. Bowls on Ice. That is so amazingly skilful and precise that no other nation can play it. In fact, if you’re not a Scottish road sweeper, don’t even bother to start.

I must confess that I watched virtually nothing of this latest Winter Olympics. I find it rather unwatchable. Ok, 15 year-old Russian drug cheats capture one’s imagination for 5 minutes and her attempt to out-fall-over the Brits was some kind of poetic justice, otherwise, it left me cold. There is a pun there. Hardly worth mentioning. But then came the Curling. And it’s not just that we’re pretty good at it, not even that we have a fairly robust history in the sport. It’s just about Eve Muirhead. And that stare. The intense concentration as she lines up her… ball? Stone? Thing, before release. Those steely blue eyes fixed at you like looking down the barrel of a gun. Its the most wonderful stare since Queen’s Gambit, when she steepled her hands under her chin and stared. I’m into staring. I never even realised. I think its because you can delude yourself into believing she’s staring at YOU! Cos that’s what it feels like. Intense. Now I think I need my medication.

Who said ‘football fans never get rewarded?’ Oh, it was me. Well I take it back. This morning I went for my coffee and the ‘boys from Barcelona’ who love football, love Harry Kane and most of all, take great pleasure in laughing at my sad and sorry football team every sodding weekend, refused payment for my daily caffeine fix, in honour not of ‘the result’ but more, the nature of that result. Even though Pep is ‘one of their own’. Decent people. Would never happen in a Chelsea cafe.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

This morning I have no interest in Russia. Not a thought for Ukraine, no interest in covid, never the merest consideration of Boris Johnson, Prince Andrew or the price of gas. Because, after losing our last 3 Premier League matches, causing sorrow, resignation, depression, despondency and the questioning whether life has any meaning whatsoever, we went to Manchester City.

And here’s the funny thing. We were discussing the match yesterday morning in a summit meeting (me and Spurs Paul at the net on the tennis court) and I actually said: “we could beat them. Even though we’ve been total shit of late, its different when we play proper ‘big clubs’ and also, for some reason, we seem to be Man City’s bogey team”.

So the match started at the Etihad and three minutes later Spurs are 1 nil up. What? Is that a typo?? No, City 0, Spurs 1. A goal of true wonder. Nothing more wonderful than the fantastic pass from the middle of the park by Harry Kane to Sonny on the wing. It was a pass of brilliance, of vision, and it was executed beautifully. Still plenty to do but Sonny did half of it and then Kulusevski finished it like the new and foreign signing he is. And we were ahead. Which only makes them angry.

We almost made it to half time, even though City had 98% possession (so it felt). They scored. A cheap goal. (For purposes of definition: a ‘cheap goal’ is any scored against Spurs). So it was 1-all at half time. Which is respectable.

Amazingly we scored again. On the break, as you have to against ‘them’, this time Harry scored, set up by Sonny. And then we only had to survive for half an hour. How hard can it be?

As it happened, not that hard. Because although City’s possession went up to 99.6% for that time, the only goal was scored by Harry, and promptly disallowed by VAR. We were hanging on as injury time started. Until we gave away a penalty. Oh dear. Fucking tragic. All that work and it’ll end 2-2. Mahrez duly scored his pen and there were just a few minutes to ‘hold on’. But then a funny thing happened. A weird thing. Something that, at the Etihad, never happens. Spurs scored again. Harry, again. Who, never mind the 2 goals (should’a been 3), had been by several miles the best player on the pitch.

I screamed at my tv. Harry screamed back at me. Then Antonio Conte did. Then we were all screaming, shouting, jumping, as the final whistle blew.

It was a brilliant game, all the more so for being so unexpected. A brilliant result, all the more so because it went our way. And Harry, who City didn’t buy last summer because he wasn’t worth 150 mil. He’s now worth 250.

Very happy Sunday

A xxxx

Next Saturday at 07.00 hours, I shall be reporting to my hospital for my shoulder surgery. I don’t want sympathy, pity, sorrow or people going ‘ahhhhh, poor thing’. I just want money. In large notes, non-sequential serial numbers, in piles, heaps and bundles. You can keep your fucking grapes.

That’s if they allow visitors. I’m not sure how the ‘Covid changes’ coming in on Monday will affect the afflicted. Which is serious because I need to ensure that the guy delivering my pizza will be able to gain entry. Otherwise it might get cold if they have to drag a nurse out of the operating theatre to bring it to me. “Stella, can you put your finger on this severed artery for me, I gotta take Andy his double pepperoni with chilli”.

So I haven’t booked my tennis court next Saturday. Should be fine for Sunday though.

Ok, I appreciate it might take a little while. I can accept that. It’s not being able to put my own socks on which bothers me more. Never mind shirts? T-shirts?? Making tea? Opening whisky bottles? Holding someone down while you punch them? Juggling knives?? How’s all that going to work? Opening my flies to take a pee? I wear Levis. With button fly. How can I hold my phone to my ear whilst driving??? All with one hand??? Life promises to be interesting for a few weeks. I wouldn’t want to be Mel.

Meanwhile, we saw off Eunice! She came yesterday, we said: ‘bring it on, if yer ‘are enough’ and she did. Caused destruction, a few deaths, we lost a few roofs, couple of garden sheds and numerous trees. Most of which seemed to fall onto cars. So when Storm Freddie or Fergus or Francis comes, leave the car at home.

But heh, at least it had the decency to leave in time for tennis today. Before the rain started (just, like, rain, not worthy of being named). And tonight its the start of the Spurs renaissance. We’re on the up. No question. Starts today, 5.30. At the Etihad… hmmm…

Happy Op-7 day

A xxxx

Well now I know for certain that Prince Andrew is innocent of all charges. Because rather than drag that poor woman (though not ‘poor’ for much longer) through a messy autopsy of her early life, subjecting her to a legal character assassination, instead he’s decided to ‘make it all go away’. But for her benefit. Virginia Du Pres. Du-freit, Dufffreys… her. And that sacrifice, unselfishly distributing over 10 million pounds of his mother’s immense fortune, means that Virginia is liberated from the trauma. In Saudi Arabia, their legal systems allows for people to buy their way out of, in many cases, murder. And apparently that works in America too now. And, so it would seem, England. I know, there’s a difference between ‘civil’ and ‘criminal’ law, but not evidently, that big a difference.

So well done Prince Andrew. Now he can get on with his life once more, contributing to the nation’s… whatever, serving the people by… errrrr… wearing lots of medals and just being an all-round good guy, once again. Oh, he can’t do that, he’s persona non grata in the Royal households. Well he can do charity work. That’d be nice. And he wants to. He wants to help ‘victims of abuse’. But not just people that he’s personally abused, but others too. And I’m sure he is the man perfectly placed to be of immense benefit in that sector.

There are those, probably anti-royals who haven’t had a crush on the hunkiest of Princes since Koo Stark days, who think that Andrew just ‘buckled’ under the potential shame and humiliation that a court case would inevitably bring. Most unfair. There are others who think that its somewhat odd giving all that money to someone who he apparently ‘has no recollection of meeting’. To them I say just that there are some people in this world whose very status and family history leaves them totally and absolutely free from any possible untruths or doubt, let alone immoral behaviour!! To be a Royal means something. To me, definitely to Prince Andrew. Possibly to Henry VIIIth, probably Edward VIIth. Though I won’t mention Edward VIIIth.

Happy Royal Support day

A xxxx

The Olympic Federation of Universal Consolidated Kommunities (O’FUCK) has a zero tolerance policy on performance enhancing and recreational drug use by athletes. To which end we have random drug testing. And any athlete shown to test positive for banned substances will be suspended from all competition with immediate effect. Should more than 2 members of the same team both test positive, the club or nation which they represent will be completely suspended with immediate effect. Following which there will be an inquiry. Should this lead to indication beyond reasonable doubt of any kind of ‘culture’ of drug programs for athletes, or any institutionalised doping, that institution will be banned for a minimum of 5 years.

Except Russia.

Obviously.

After finding proof that every single Russian athlete, both summer and winter, were pumped full of absolutely anything which could make them a little bit faster, bigger, higher, lower, brighter and/or stronger, it was found that there were government departments for the administration of dope. There was a Commissioner for Steroid Abuse. The sports clubs were run by Big Pharma. No athlete was allowed to compete until he/she had maxed out on amphetamines. Any athletes who died in the cause of ‘self improvement’ were given posthumous gold medals. And were cremated before anyone could perform an autopsy. Sometimes on the track.

So Russia was banned from Olympic sport. As they should have been.

Until the next Olympics. When a new team called ‘(nothing to do with) RUSSIA’ emerged from… somewhere east of Europe. Their representatives spoke Russian, acted Russian and answered to Vladimir Putin. But they were nothing at all to do with Russia, as we know it. No, they were from the ‘Russian Olympic Committee’. See? Not Russia at all. Russia are being punished so obviously this lot must be something else.

Then a not Russian athlete tested positive for a banned substance. But they let her ice dance in Beijing. Because you would if… errrr… well, you just would. Then they decided to allow the gold medal she won stand. Because the positive result was to be… ignored? Reversed? (Like unscrewing a pregnant woman). And now she’s been cleared by a new committee so she can win more golds for the ROC. Well, its not like she’s doing it for those cheating drug-pushing, ‘roided-up’ Ruskis, is it?

I’m glad they’re taking a firm stance in this very serious matter.

WTF???

Andy xxxx

The Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, Dame Cressida Dick, has resigned from her post. One minute ‘she was staying’ and 10 minutes later she was gone. Because of our Mayor of all London, Sadiq Kahn. Who basically said that she was unfit to lead. Which, coming from the world’s worst ever possible Mayor, is pretty rich. The man who struggles to put sentences together. The man who has achieved nothing in his entire tenure. The many who stated that ‘new leadership was needed, right at the top’. As opposed to leadership from the bottom. New cleaners and filing clerks. No, at the top.

Cressida’s first police operation as Commissioner resulted in the shooting to death of totally innocent Jean Charles de Menezes. She didn’t pull the trigger, but I have to agree, as ‘new starts to jobs’ go, not the best. Lots of other shit happened ‘on her watch’ too. Most notably, the rape and murder of Sarah Everard by one of her own. And then the brutality of the officers policing a peaceful, majority-women vigil held. Not great.

Yet the ‘thing’ that Little Shit Sadiq is most upset about is the ‘culture of racism, sexism and misogyny’ which abounds in the Met. And that is Cressida’s fault. According to Mr Mayor. To which I would unreservedly disagree. Mainly because Dame Cress is a gel. And gels simply don’t do the same kind of ‘banter’ on Whatsapp groups. Gels have limits in such matters. Lines which shouldn’t even be approached. Boys lack such definition and discipline. And its pretty much the crossing of lines which is where the fun starts. How far can you push? How incorrect can you be? If I insult three quarters of the world’s population, does it matter if the joke is funny enough? Its Jimmy Carr all over again.

And the police… officers who cause all the problem are the men. I would state that this is because they are men. And they’re not very educated and police all like drinking and fighting, just like the people they arrest on Friday nights. And if you examined the content of the Whatsapp groups of of those arrested and those arresting, they’d be the same.

I don’t think changing the Police Commissioner could or would have any effect on this. You need to change the entire fabric of our society, or make racist and sexist jokes and memes far less funny, to achieve that end.

Sadiq was just showing the capital how important he is, how powerful he is, how awfully PC he is, how big he is.

The football season has been temporarily suspended. In my mind, at least.

Happy Monday

A xxxx