Andy's Glasses

When Christian Eriksen steps out onto the pitch to play for Brentford against Crystal Palace this afternoon, he will get a standing ovation. Every ground he visits over the next few months he will be received as the returning hero and given respect, honour and, most uncommonly from opposing fans, love. And all because he’s alive.

You may have noticed that most footballers are alive. Or certainly appear so, other than half the Tottenham team on Wednesday night, obviously. So why don’t we always celebrate the very aliveness of all players?

Because we take it for granted. It is, after all, pretty much a given. You have to be of the living to even think about being alive.

But Christian Eriksen died. In the match for Denmark against Finland last June. On the pitch. For several minutes. More minutes that you’d really want to be dead for. And at that time, the world stopped. The entire ground, filled in a European Championship match, went silent. The fans just stopped. Obviously the pundits jabbered on because silence is not great tv for the 100 million viewers across the globe.

But at that moment there was no-one aware of the situation who was not praying, rooting, sending love, energy, thoughts, karma, chi, vibes, fucking everything within their power, into Christian Eriksen. It’s automatic. And is so much bigger than petty rivalries, even bigger than stupid nationalism (it was a Euro game), because death even trumps tattoos.

And during that horrible period, until he amazingly regained consciousness on the pitch, we invested so much into him, that he became ‘ours’. There is a little piece of every single football-interested person permanently imbedded in Christian Eriksen. Like there was with Fabrice Muamba, but on a lesser stage.

So there is a special place for such people in our hearts. More importantly, there’s a little piece of all of us, plus some equally important techno-medical wizardry, inside their hearts.

Welcome back, Christian, its great to see you back.

A xxxx

Good Morning people of Great Britain. I am your Prime Minister, Boris Johnson. Middle name ‘Disaster’. And I speak to you today with good news. In fact, great news. News so profound, fabulous and wonderful that you’ll love me forever (I can live without that, if I’m honest, which I try never to be) and vote for me in future (which I need desperately).

I’d like to announce that I have beaten this pesky Coronavirus which has plagued all our lives for the last 2 years. I have vanquished it. Personally. Defeated it like Perseus slaying the Gorgon. And thus have delivered you, the good people of Great Britain, into the Promised Land, like Moses. Churchill comparisons simply lack the potency for my achievements.

Not wishing to overstate my importance in all this, but I did it all, and virtually alone. Despite the distraction of all those scientists, statisticians and medical modellers. And although it may have looked, at times, as if I knew far less than ‘nothing’, that my understanding of the pandemic was ‘a mile short of fuck all’, and that my own deportment during it could be seen, by some, as being somewhat less than perfect, I have brought you out of it. With a combination of MY amazing vaccine programme, subsidised lockdowns, rule changes every 37 minutes, disrupting lives, ruining holiday plans and upsetting brides-never-to-be and total headless chicken reactionary panic, I have brought us out the other side.

As of the 21st of this month, we will all be free!!! From constraints, from ‘Covid measures’, from worrying about this horrible disease.

And that, again, as in all of the good things, is MY decision. You, my people, crave normality. A return to work, to the office, to schools, to have the delayed operations in hospitals, holidays. And I, Boris Johnson, will give you precisely that.

Because I don’t really care what the doctors say, which is: ‘you’re fucking mad, Boris!’, and I don’t care what the statisticians say, which is: ‘well you’ve lost 160,000 voters so far, Boris, what’s a few more thousands?’ And I don’t care what people who actually understand such things say.

I only care about you! And need to give you a lot of love before the police inquiry into my appalling behaviour becomes public. I want you to know that its all for YOU. Even though it looks very much like it was all for me. And if I told a few porky pies, it was just… it was… because… well, what difference, that’s all in the past now.

We’re looking forward. To hope! To a full life once more. To a future! At least for some of you.

From your hero,

Boris
xxxx

Well whilst we’re getting all pc and woke about awards ceremonies, I wish to challenge the offensive, prejudicial and highly inflammatory nature of the ‘Brits’ themselves. It’s all very well deciding to ‘remove gender based titles’ for awards, no longer having ‘best male’ and ‘best female’ categories, but the very name ‘Brit’ is a massive problem for many people of a highly sensitive, gender-dysfunctional, chromasomally-confused but predominantly Jewish, disposition. The word Brit means, in Hebrew, ‘circumcision’. Without being too old-school about this, it is something normally done to those with penises. Should an 8-day old baby have transgender issues and ‘identify’ as a male, whilst not in possession of a penis, the rabbis say that performing this ritual might be problematical. Ideologically. So to name your awards after a procedure dating back to Abraham (thus avoiding copyright issues) stands to offend or upset anyone… who might be upset by this kind of thing. The anti-Jimmy-Carr-lobby. Half the Labour Party. And possibly those at Brit Central who decided to leave out gender based awards. And the award for best singer of non-presumptive genitalia distinguishing gender-neutrality goes to… Adele. They all go to Adele.

Back in the realms of ‘proper music’, they keep re-showing the Fleetwood Mac documentary called ‘Don’t stop’. So therefore I have to keep re-watching it. For numerous reasons. Most of them being ‘Stevie Nicks’. But not ONLY for her. It goes back to the beginning. To the John Mayall Blues Band where it all began. With Peter Green. And it moved to LA where the merest remnants of the band were guitaristless and directionless until a very random and chance encounter with Lindsey Buckingham and Stevie Nicks. Which produced the band we pretty much knew as Fleetwood Mac and produced the Rumours album which, according to Rolling Stone, is the 7th best album of all time. But life was not without its traumas. And marital problems plagued the band, fallouts over music, drugs, material, the ‘direction to follow’, everything. Yet they endured. And Stevie. In a top-hat, belting out Rhiannon… Oh. My. God.

Happy music

A xxxx

Jimmy Carr is in trouble. Big trouble. He stands on the trial in the Supreme Court of Social Media for… telling a joke. Holy Shitttt!!! He told a joke!!! Bastard. You just can’t do that in 2022, its simply not allowed. Even if its funny. Which it probably is to some degree, hence the word ‘joke’ rather than ‘socio-political position held deeply and sincerely in which others are held in contempt’. Jimmy Carr, a man I’ve never felt too fondly about, made a joke about the Holocaust. He’s not the first. And the Holocaust is fine for jokes, some would say ideal, as humour always dilutes horror. And many jokes about that subject are fine and dandy. The general rule is, if its a joke about the Germans at the Holocaust, its fine. Anyone else… beware! Here’s Jimmy’s joke: everyone talks about 6 million Jews dying in the holocaust. But they also murdered thousands of gypsies, so there were positives.

I don’t like to analyse jokes too deeply, they’re either funny or they’re not. That one, unless you’re a Gypsy, is funny. But gypsies are now something of a ‘persecuted minority’ and thus enjoy the status of being protected and supported by the twittering hypersensitive liberati who start every day as ‘deeply offended’ and move up from there. To show their support for the gypsies, every champagne socialist smashed their fridge and left it in their driveway in solidarity. Hampstead resembled a breakers yard.

But this is no joke. They want to ‘cancel’ Jimmy Carr. Who is actually a very very funny man. Who likes to act ‘creepy’ and does it to great effect. Others are supporting him. Mainly comedians, probably concerned about their own fate.

It all comes down to whether there should be limits to what is ‘fair game’ for comedians. And if I’m honest, for me, what is ‘fair game’ is ‘absolutely everything’. I’ve never liked rules, hate censorship, despise the socially acceptable. And if I find a joke or a sketch or a comment ‘offensive’ then I reckon its ‘my problem’ because to some people eating babies is just fine. And then I just wait for one that doesn’t offend me. Because humour is inviolable and if some of it doesn’t appeal then we have the right to not laugh. We have the right to cringe, walk out the room, turn off the tv, throw the book away. But not ‘cancel’.

I am greatly offended by what you joke about but would defend with my life your right to make that joke. Ok, maybe with your life, mine’s too valuable.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Her Majesty The Queen has announced (henceforth and forthwith and stuff) that Camilla Parker Bowles Windsor, the official Tart-Consort of His Majesty The Prince of Wales, (since he was about 12), shall, upon her abdication from the throne, whence Charles ascendeth to Kingdom of the Kingdom, be known, officially and foreverafter as The Queen Consort.

And that pisses me off. Royally. Because I wanted to be the Queen. Not to sleep with Charles, necessarily, I’ll leave that… honour?… to Camilla. But just think about it. The watchword of our times is ‘diversity’. So for the Queen (wrinkly, old, Christian white woman) to pass the title onto the basically the same thing but with a few more miles left on the clock, does nothing for ticking diversity boxes. In its entire history, the Royal family has only ever had one person ‘of colour’ and she was exiled to the Third World (California) with Harry last year. Whereas I am a man! I am Jewish!! I have colour, but only from a bottle. I could ‘identify’ as a trans thing, get a few more boxes ticked. I’d identify as a fucking tractor to be the Queen. And thus, by appointing me the Royals would step into the 21st Century. Otherwise its just more inbred Euro-white aristocracy waiting for some awful recessive gene to kick in and give us a king with seven toes and two heads. I’d be a great Queen. I can wave out of car windows all day, I’m brilliant at it. Practice daily.

Carrie Johnson is the Queen of 10 Downing Street. According to a new book by Lord Ashcroft, the former chairman of the Conservative Party. Boris won’t take a shit without specific instructions from the woman known as ‘Carrie Antoinette’. Allegedly. (In case any libel lawyers are reading this). Ashcroft has been damning of Carrie who he sees as the root of all evils and troubles in Number 10. He is ‘the woman scorned’ after having his political career ruined by the fact that he doesn’t live here, work here or pay any tax here. In fact he lives in Belize so he pays no tax anywhere. And just for that mere detail, that he is British by virtue of birth only, his constant attempts (mostly successful) at buying his way into politics with ridiculous donations have now been thwarted. So he wrote a book to slag off everyone else in Westminster. Starting with Carrie. And, pretty much ending with her too. Though she does need a lot of slagging off, no doubt about that.

How does this help Boris? Well, if I were the Queen…

Happy Sunday, my subjects and other peasants

A xxxx

Well there is some good news for Boris, his political life is not a 100% total fucking nightmare shit-storm of chaos and stupidity. Because on Thursday the Conservative Party won a bye-election! Well that’s something, surely? Yeah, usually. But this was a weird one. No other major parties stood. Only the Psychedelic Party, which came second, and a couple of other fringe jokers and right-wing tosser groups. Like UKIP. Who were narrowly beaten to third place by the Psychedelic… errrr… lobby? Team? Whatever. And it begs an interesting question: what is the point of UKIP? Now that Brexit is done with, why are they still here? The winning candidate showed the customary delight and celebration, even though she was a ‘walk in’ to the seat of murdered David Amess. It’s like Lewis Hamilton pouring a magnum of Moët over his own head after a drive round Romford with no competitors.

Similarly empty was the opening ceremony for the Beijing Olympics yesterday. The only people allowed in the stadium were half a dozen presidents and kings and the ‘Party‘ big-wigs. Who, I grant you, read like the menu in your favourite restaurant, but are basically a bunch of old and Covid tested fascists pretending to be communists. No tickets have or will be sold for any event. In celebration of the success of China’s Covid project. Which makes it ironic that Britain, America and others withheld their dignitaries in protest to China’s ‘human rights problems’ (read: GENOCIDE), because they probably wouldn’t have got in anyway.

And how odd that Boris is facing more protest from his own party for a throw-away comment made to Kier Starmer than for all the other and rather more serious incidents, lies, misinformation, truth-avoidance and the culture of entitled untouchability he’s brought to the highest office in the land. For all the bad stuff he just had to throw a few colleagues under the bus. For the comment to Sir Kier he’s lost half a dozen of his closest and most-trusted-and-loyals. Rishi Sunak, when questioned, stated that ‘he wouldn’t have made that comment’ (to Sir Kier). For that he is accused of being Brutus in the continuing sage of Julius Caesar being played out in government as no-one wants to say they’ll stand against Boris but they all want to be next leader.

Fortunately, with inflation rocketing, gas prices overtaking gold and a war about to kick off in Ukraine, the Boris fiasco has very few distractions, because he is way more important than all that shit. It’s democracy, Jim, but not as we know it.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

Not one but two Premiership footballers are under arrest for rape. And other charges. Which makes you wonder whether it is actually true that ‘all men are rapists’ and the other 847 top-flight footballers just haven’t been caught yet, or whether there’s something in football which engenders, empowers, corrupts or predisposes men towards a path of abuse, control and violence. Only men. There are no current women footballers under any rape allegations at all. Possibly that will come when the football standards improve.

This epidemic is currently only affecting the greater Manchester area as Benjamin Mendy plays for City and Mason Greenwood for United. But I don’t think its a regional problem. I think the problem lies with paying ‘kids’ (Greenwood is 20 and earns 75k a week!!!) ridiculous amounts of money. Giving them a sense of entitlement way in excess of their intelligence. They live like kings and assume that gives them ultimate power. Well, newsflash: it don’t. They could ask Jeffrey Epstein for confirmation but he’s no longer with us.

Power corrupted Boris Johnson too, but in a different way. So everyone hates him. Yet no matter how much I hate him, (and I do, I do, I do), I almost hate Kier Starmer more for sounding like the proverbial broken record. “He’s a disgrace and must resign”, “he’s done bad things and must resign”, “he’s not fit to run the country and must resign”. You know what, Mr Super-Advocate, I think you need a new song.

To ‘retaliate’, but in a really Boris way, the PM accused Starmer of child abuse. Well, not directly, but accused him of leniency towards known child abuser Jimmy Savile. Also, fortunately, dead. The problem is that Starmer was not Director of Public Prosecutions at the time of the Savile inquiry and Boris’s ‘intel’ comes from a hard-right conspiracy theory and virtually nowhere else. So some Number 10 researcher found this ‘juicy slur’ on the leader of the opposition but failed to check its validity. Understandable as it probably appeared next to articles calling for a whiter Britain, how the vaccinations are a ploy by Pakistani immigrants to take over the country and that Covid was invented by communists. Which is possibly the only true fact on the site.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

Ok, so we’ve established that I don’t watch tennis on tv. Other than Wimbledon, which is sacred. Yet I have been known to ‘catch’ the odd glimpse of a final. If its a big one. And not only for Emma Raducanu. Which is why Sunday just caught me by surprise. Because I knew it was on. So, whilst having my pre-tennis (mine, not Rafa’s) porridge (Rafa can get his own) I just checked and yes, in that God-forsaken, 3rd world land down under, it was in fact 10 at night and it was 3-2 in the first set. At which point, I didn’t really care. Wasn’t even aware who my favourite Spaniard was playing.

I returned from tennis which, quite frankly, was of a completely different class to any blue-surfaced Aussie stuff being simultaneously played out. Possibly not quite such a good class, but possibly BETTER!! It was 2 hours since I last checked and now Rafa was 2 sets down and, although limping a bit, was battling for the third. Against Daniel Medvedev, I then learned. He’s tall, exceptionally skinny in a very non-athletic way, not very pretty and unforgivably Russian.

Rafa was limping because he’d had an operation on his foot 6 weeks before the tournament and had been ‘unlikely to play’. But he did. And got to the final. And by the time I was getting lunch ready (yeah, MEN can do that too, ya know?), he was limping towards a very close 4th set win, setting up a real finale going to the 5th. Which was simply awesome. As had been the entire match (the bits I’d seen). Incredible tennis by two masters who played the unplayable and fought for every single shot. It was so exciting I went and ate lunch.

Then came back right at the very end for the coup de gras and Rafa Nadal became the ‘most successful men’s player everrrrrrr’ by making that match his 21st Grand Slam win. Russia had been defeated (oh, if ever we needed a metaphor, that was it) and Rafa could limp off back to his physio, where he rightly belongs.

It was simply the best, longest, most hard-fought match I’ve ever (part-)watched. Five and a half hours of intense combat, so riveting it had me watching for minutes at a time.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Having waited about 3 weeks for Sue Grey’s report, only to have the police steam in and insist on a greatly reduced content so as not to upset their own inquiry, I’ve had to simply produce my own one. I’m not a patient man and the world needs to know the truth. Cos they ain’t gonna learn it from Boris, that is for absolute sure. And here is the report, in its entirety, un-edited and non-redacted:

Boris and his team of worthless devotees are all tossers.

End of report.

They showed with an amazing consistency the art of being arrogant, entitled and smug, laughing at the population which they had locked up, legally and morally, whilst choosing an alternative life-style for themselves. An entire culture grew around booze and parties whilst (allegedly) ‘working’. For the good of the nation. Phah! But then, the worst crime of all; the denials. The twisting, turning, down-playing, the nonchalance. Lying. Boris failed in the old dictum: ‘when you’re in a hole, stop digging’. He dug. And dug. And dug. Until the metaphorical blisters on his fingers burst and bled. And still he dug.

Reaching the point at which we currently find ourselves. With a government we don’t believe, trust or in any way like or respect. In fact we hate them. For the duplicity, for the funerals we couldn’t attend, the loved ones who died alone, the weddings cancelled, the birthdays missed. They suspended our lives totally whilst carrying on with their own. And then denied that they’d done that. And continue to do so, but just a little more apologetically than before. If Boris is so ‘totally’ sorry, why has he spent the last 3 months denying he’d done anything to be sorry for?

It’s time for a new broom. A big one. Not for sweeping, but for hitting. Repeatedly. The lot of ‘em.

Happy Report Day

A xxxx

Don’t fuck with Darwin! That’s the golden rule among Spurs fans, evolutionary dabblers, life insurance salesmen and Jurassic Parkers. If you try and re-wire evolution, you are basically messing with God. So recent tales that they’re going to ‘remake’ a Wooly Mammoth, should send a shudder down any vertebrate’s spine. Mainly cos no-one else has one, you get that, don’t you.

Jurassic Park came out in 1993. The original one. The one I saw and loved. The other 18 I ignored. But that was ‘science fiction’, just 29 years ago. Taking a cell from a T.Rex and cloning it. But today that’s easy. Commonplace. Amazon probably do it. Next day on Prime. There’s nothing fictional about it. But why would you? A fucking Mammoth? Who needs one. Who’s that hungry?

On one of the Galápagos Islands, some ship, possibly Darwin’s, who knows, inadvertently unloaded a rat from its hold onto an island. Probably 2 in fact, cos it needed a ‘mate’. And because of the nature of those islands, plentiful food for all and no predators, the rats ‘took over’ within about a week. Ok, a year. So someone introduced a cat. Ok, two cats. I don’t know their names. Within a few years the rat problem was over. But the island was overrun with fucking cats. Arguably a worse problem because of all the hair-balls all over the place.

Of course there’s loads of instances of ‘man’ messing about with evolution, like industrial meat production, dairy farming. And on the other side of the evolutionary coin, there’s hundreds of instances of species, particularly tasty, cookable, served with potatoes and greens in a shallot sauce, type animals, literally eaten to extinction. But man’s a species too. So if we’re particularly piggish at times, isn’t just ‘natural’ evolution due to advantageous or disadvantageous food supply?

Yet ‘bringing animals back’ just doesn’t seem to offer much to the animal being brung back, does it? Just to show how clever we are? To show our total mastery over nature?

To such an extent that the planet is fucked up beyond all belief and won’t be able to support organic life by the time the Mammoth has children. If its a gel Mammoth, obvs.
And can find a boy one.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx