Andy's Glasses

We’re back. We won. Spurs are… there! Where? Not totally sure, exactly, but we won. A football match. Almost like we did a few times right at the beginning of the season, but without the clean sheet and with more purpose. More commitment. More… more… more Son Heung Min. Who really is the heart, the soul and the pace of our team. Our absolute favourite, smiling Korean in the whole wide world.

But there was magic in that victory. It was a monumental day, even though the players were possibly quite unaware of the magnitude of the moment.

Lila’s mum went to White Hart Lane. For the first time since she was pregnant with Lila, 5 years ago. She’s been… busy. And although I’ve been encouraging her to go, “just go with hubby to the footy, the kids’ll be fine for a few hours. Joey knows how to use the microwave… well, he knows how to break it, Lila can make tea, they’ll only open the door to Amazon deliveries, like usual, it’ll be FIIIIIINE”. But some misplaced sense of parentalism kept her away from our brand new stadium. Until yesterday when hubby acquired some super tickets which were too good to refuse. Unfortunately, because we won the match, my daughter has become our instant ‘lucky charm’ and MUST go to every other match, home and away, this season. The kids can sit outside in the car.

We went out for dinner with friends on Saturday night. And our friend’s brother was over from New Jersey, where he lives, with his son of 15. Who, as an official ‘forriner’, had only been to Spurs 6 times, and had NEVER seen them win. But he went to the game yesterday and ‘lived the dream’. Thus won’t slip into Goonerism or, almost as bad, follow the New York Giants. A great relief all round.

I do know some people who aren’t Spurs fans. I don’t talk to them much and try not to mix with them socially, but there are a few in my life. They’re, obviously, just not worth a mention.

So now, I can state without the merest hint of doubt, that Spurs can go on from this massive victory and win the league. We have the best stadium, the best player (not counting Phil Foden or Mo Salah just because they played ONE decent game in their lives) and the most joy of winning yesterday.

WHAT A FUCKING RELIEF!!!!

Happy Monday

A xxxx

We’ve know each other long enough. We talk of many things. We don’t shy away from the uncomfortable. Unless its underwear. And we don’t mind swearing. In fact some of us love swearing. Yet even I moderate my keyboard’s ‘tongue’ when it comes to the sweariest, nastiest, most contentious-est word in the English language. The c-word. It’s also the most divisive-est word around, by some way. And it appears to divide quite strongly along gender lines. Though I’ve only conducted my extensive study in cisgender types. And this is what I find.

Men love the c-word. Some men are almost obsessed with it. They use it constantly. But only in the presence of a male audience. Unless its a special occasion. In which a female has been deeply upset, offend or abused by a person. Who can then be described in such a term, but only for a short duration of the window of opportunity. Use of the word after that window has closed with result in the usual disgust and possible punishment.

Because women hate the c-word. Perhaps because they can relate to it more in its original, anatomical meaning. They’ll never use it.

97% of men (boring, regular, heterosexual, or in the closet, cisgender) love the c-word.
98% of women dispise the c-word.

Bisexuals can take it or leave it.

Transgender people learn how to view and use the c-word as part of their sex-change therapy. If you transition to female the best bet is to stop using the word altogether. Or else it may become a bigger giveaway than your beard.

You only need to pronounce the ‘t’ at the end if the word is spoken with true malice and venom. If you’re just addressing your mates, leave the ‘t’ out altogether.

And all this because of a sentence which the government are thinking of implementing as part of their new awareness programme. Something intended to sway the impartial, to motivate the unsure, to innovate and stimulate the ignorant. It reads thus:

If you don’t have vaccinations, you’re a cunt.

There are no exceptions.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

I had my flu jab yesterday. Not covid related. And I have a cold. Also non-covid-related. What we used to call ‘a cold’. Just that now when you sneeze you clear the tube carriage. Win-win. And today I was invited for my covid booster. My stars are aligned. And my upper arms.

And just in time for the party conferences. Labour’s has just finished in Brighton and the conservatives will be having theirs. In Manchester? This weekend.

Kier Starmer gave his best impression of ‘a slightly more interesting person than he normally is’ during his rabble-raising, hour-and-a-half shout-a-thon yesterday. But he had to shout. Because of all the hecklers. The pro-Corbynites who constantly bemoan the direction the Labour Party is currently taking. Which, some might argue, is a few steps towards future electability. And a million miles from the last election result where the nation finally told Corbyn and his demonic acolytes precisely where he could shove his particularly nasty brand of neo-socialistic bollocks.

But Corbyn was ‘there’. In some kind of blackened ‘spirit’ presence. He occupied a few dirty pub back rooms to meet with his faithful and hear them sing his name. Amen. Tosser. The group looked like they’d never had a bath, let alone a vaccination. And in those meetings they denounced the Tories as ‘scum’ and they praised Lenin and Marx and the ghost of Len McLusky. And they carried on their particularly poisonous brand of persecution, separating themselves from anything currently considered ‘Labour party’ by half a dozen steps to the left.

Interestingly, party leaders consistently look less than totally comfortable making their ‘leadership speech’. Because its not what you say (or in Ed Milliband’s case, what he never chose to mention), but the way that you say it that requires you to leave your ‘leader-of-the-pack’ normal persona and become part stand-up, part cheerleader, part (in Milliband’s case) dickhead and main motivator. And it didn’t sit well on Sir Kier’s shoulders. But credit to him, he gave his all. More than he has in the last year of his tenure.

Happy Thursday

A xxx

Ok, so you’re a sculptor, here’s the brief: we need a statue to represent a fictional heroine from an 1858 poem who meets the Italian patriots before they go and die fighting against the kingdom of Naples. Fair enough. I’ll get to work.

If the sculptor was English he’d be thinking of a Florence Nightingale type and start with a lamp. If Scottish he’d make the woman ugly, Sturgeonesque and fiercely aggressive. A French sculptor engaged in any depiction of war would probably start with the white flag.

But Emanuele Stifano is an Italian sculptor. So he started with a fabulous arse. And cobbled the rest of the woman together around that. And why not? How could he not? He’s Italian and that’s just how he’s wired. He wanted the make the statue a nude but was dissuaded so made the token gesture of clothing it in the flimsiest, wind-blowniest fabric he could conjure out of bronze. It’s almost a tribute to the wet t-shirt.

The statue has been accused of being ‘deeply sexist’, of being ‘a sexualised body devoid of soul’. Whereas I see this image as being deeply empowering of women. Especially empowering of women with fabulous arses. Who should be empowered and revered.

Emanuele could have made the woman less beautiful, less ‘sexualised’, he could have made a sort of ‘Les Dawson in drag’ image. But would that have inspired or comforted soldiers about to die? They’d have run to their death in terror. Whereas this image would be what those poor, fictional boys would undoubtedly want as their last view of life. It’s what all Italian boys want. A strong and appealing woman, confident and independent, in a pseudo-pornographic pose with a wonderful bum.

If they wanted different they should have gone to a priest for their sculpture. Or not an Italian male.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

This is big news, a revelation: do a bit of sport and you’ll live longer. Wow! Who’d’a thought? Who’d’a known? It’s almost like there’s link between exercise and health! But newspapers have to fill columns and cynics need to take the piss. It’s the way of the world. But here’s an irony.

I work with a guy who is ‘a little overweight’. He loves his food, no surprise, and for exercise he stands at the bus stop. Rather than sitting there. Even though he’s only going one stop and could have walked there three times while waiting for the bus. But heh, that’s the way he is.

Me, on the other hand, walk everywhere. I play sport. I exercise, I stretch, I tai chi, I tennis, and as a consequence have become the aspirational god-figure for all of mankind. I’ve played sport my whole life (so FAR!!!!) and will be carried off the tennis court by paramedics or undertakers when the time comes. Maybe even a football pitch!

And here’s the funny thing. My co-worker has no joint issues, no strains, no muscular tears, no aches. Just a big belly. Whereas I have evolved into the largest single repetitive strain injury on the planet. Along with most other ‘sporty types’. Because all sports involve repetitive movements. Tennis players get elbows, housemaids (not a normally quoted sport, I grant you), get knees, footballers get concussion, rugby players… don’t ask. But generally speaking, though there may be exceptions, those who don’t do ‘sport’ don’t get sports injuries. More amazement. And other than the repetitive strains, the actual injuries come back to haunt you. Well, not so much haunt you and necessitate replacement shoulders. Possibly hips. Knees…

So today they’re telling us not to overdo it. You must ‘do it’ but not ‘overdo it’. Yet it might seem that under-doing it may be the way forward. Not so good for the waistline, possibly heart, blood pressure, sugar levels, arteries, cholesterol… but joints and bones? Good as new.

Reconsidering my whole life Tuesday

A xxxx

I know you to be clever, cultured, superior and smug. So name the first 10 artists that spring to mind, GO!

Lose a point each for: Rembrandt, Renoir, Hockney, Picasso and Van Gough. Lose three points for every other one named that isn’t a female.

Ok, that’s actually impossible without getting really obscure. I don’t count Tracey Emmin. Cos I don’t like her. A messy bedroom covered in fag-ash is not ‘art’. Its my life from 18 to 30 (when I married my first wife). And you’ll be struggling with females because…

They’re no good at art. Useless at paintin’. Obviously. Otherwise the world’s galleries would be filled with their prodigious output. And they’re not. Because either women didn’t do art, can’t do art due to hormonal/ovarian issues, or they weren’t allowed to ‘play’ in the totally male-dominated patriarchy that was the entire civilised world up to 1972. If women did paint they had to adopt a man’s name to sell their art. And few did. Few were taken seriously enough to warrant it.

Thus the entire ‘world history’ as viewed through our massive collection of artistic works, is a one hundred percent male-orientated view.

And that’s where Paula Rego comes in. That’s why I went to the Tate yesterday (missing all the fun of Spurs at Arsenal! What a loss that was…) To see the works of real-life, still alive in fact, woman artist who not only represents the women’s viewpoint, but does everything but actually castrating the works of establishment male artists.

I’m good at seeing the meanings hidden in paintings. Getting straight through to the subconscious mindset of the artist. Thus Lila’s first ‘work’, some purple scribbles on white paper, went straight onto our fridge door bearing the title: free expression by the artist in pre-self-conscious mode. I could feel her angst.

Similarly with Paula Rego’s quite brilliant paintings, I totally got that when she painted a cartoon dog on a little girl’s lap with a pitchfork in the foreground, that she was really bemoaning the horrendous abuse of women under the awful fascist dictatorship ruling Portugal for about 40 years, causing total female repression. I got that instantly. Honest. The little board saying those very words just made me realise how fantastically perceptive I am. “Yeah, I knew that”, I spoke to those around me, just in case they thought I didn’t have a fucking clue what anything was without reading the explanations. As if.

It really is a fantastic exhibition and worth a visit (ya have to book). And not just a great way to avoid the horrible unpleasantness of certain football fixtures.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

I find watching my football team very stressful. I take it too personally. Everything that happens takes on a supernatural importance. It’s hard. Especially when we’re not playing very well. Which is often.

However, watching other people’s teams play can be a total pleasure. Because, f’rinstance, if Liverpool win or lose at Brentford, do I really give a shit? In the grand scheme of my world, the result is as important as who the current leader of the Liberal Democrats might be. It’s less important than queues outside petrol stations of panic-buying morons with a boot full of Jerry cans. So I can just watch. And in the case of that very match last night, I can just enjoy a wonderful, exciting, incredible game which quite literally ‘had it all’. Except any VAR bollocks or in fact anything contentious at all.

And much as I have to admit a (grudging) admiration for Liverpool, because they are so good to watch, Brentford were the underdog of everyone’s dreams. Because they don’t really do ‘underdog’ so much as ‘dogged’. And not ‘dogged’ in the bus-parking manner of so many, but dogged in their never say die attitude. Their entire demenour shouts: bring it on, and we’ll give it back. Because they don’t seem to realise how intimidating ‘big clubs’ should be. They didn’t get that when they beat Arsenal on the first top flight match they’d ever played, and they don’t get it now, playing the top of the league team of amazing superstars.

They spent the first 15 minutes just absorbing wave after wave of wonderful Scouse attacking football. And by ‘Scouse’ I mean Egyptian, Brazilian, Senegalese, Geordie…
And then Brentford scored. Having possibly 9% possession for 20 minutes and they score the goal. And then started playing less doggedly. And the match, from that point on, just went end-to-end at breathtaking speed for the remaining 70 minutes. It didn’t stop, it didn’t let up. And when, with the score at 3-3 and Brentford appeared to hit what would have been, should have been, could have been, the winner, even though they had 3 players all offside by 5 yards, you couldn’t help but share that momentary dream.

This afternoon Spurs play Arsenal. Fortunately for me, I’ll be at the Tate Britain looking at Paula Rego’s artwork. And hardly glancing at my phone. Hardly at all. Not interested. Not one bit. Will be the furthest thing from my mind.

God-help-me Sunday

A xxxx

I personally think that this entire petrol ‘situation’ in which we currently find ourselves, is a ploy by the advocates and manufacturers of electric vehicles. There is simply no greater advert for battery-powered cars than mile long queues outside every petrol station in the country. As if Tommy Tesla-Driver was not previously sufficiently smug, the smile on his little face as he walks across his driveway to plug his car into the wall would make the Pope want to punch it repeatedly and then more. (The Popemobile is 10 tons of reinforced steel and bulletproof, bombproof, missileproof tank, that gives about 2 miles per gallon).

The ridiculous thing is that there is absolutely no shortage of fuel. The depots are overflowing with petrol, diesel, all those lovely things that make Greta Thunberg shudder. The problem is lorry drivers. They’ve all gone back to Poland. Romania. Lithuania. Czechoslovakia (if there is such a place). All part of the vast wealth of benefits we’re now reaping from Brexit. Let’s not forget who brought us Brexit. Not Nigel Farage, even though it was always his idea and his innovation. But he lacked the political clout to ‘get it done’. Boris was the man of the hour. Leaping onto the massive tidal wave of xenophobic clap-trap, fake news and misinformation to seize upon a personal opportunity for his own career advancement. At the expense of our nation.

I make no judgments. Other than the ones I make.

So there’s no-one to transport food to supermarkets, farm produce to the bread makers and petrol the filling stations.

But there’s a solution. Easy one. Buy a bike, OR… make your own fuel. It’s actually very easy to do. So I’ll share the recipe now and you’ll be thanking me… soon-ish.

Plant a tropical forest in your garden. Big one. Lots of trees, then more trees. And bushes. Few of them, in the spaces. Add half a dozen dinosaurs. You can get them on www.dinosaurs-r-us.com and they’re not expensive. Just big. Kill them, bury them, water the plants. And then all you have to do is leave it alone. And set your timer for ‘about 10 million years’ and you’ll have all the fuel you need. (Pump not included).

Happy panic-buy Saturday

A xxxx

It seems, where the human body is concerned, that the more we seem to know, the more we realise we have absolutely no clue whatsoever what actually goes on inside of us. Nor why. Not even how. Particularly where food is concerned.

For years we’ve been told that ‘fat is bad’, particularly cheese, ok, when taken excessively, which is actually the best way to have it, and cream, basically dairy fat. And yet those obnoxious French people who eat more cheese than anybody, which is possibly why they smell so badly, generally don’t suffer from the heart ailments which everyone else in the world does and which they should by virtue of their dietary obsession with cheese. Yet go to any doctor here and the first thing they tell you is to ‘cut down on cheese’. For your heart. For your cholesterol. Live longer. Die miserable and hungry.

So they’ve done a study. A big one. And a very long one, following people for 16 years and monitoring their blood along the way to judge the amount of dairy fat in their diets, rather than a ‘did you eat cheese today?’ type questionnaires. And you’ll never guess what they found! It’s incredible. Actually it really is, after our entire medical profession has been singling out the dairy producers for years as ‘THE PROBLEM!!!’

Basically, those with the highest intakes of fatty acids (from dairy) had the lowest risk of cardiovascular diseases. This was repeated in 17 other countries and the results were totally consistent. So those doctors who’ve been telling us to ‘moderate our dairy intake’ have actually been quietly killing us. (All together now: “shit Harold Shipman, you’re just a shit Harold Shipman. Shit Harold…”)

I’m writing this accompanied by, instead of my usual cup of tea, a cup of double cream. I want to live longer. And remember, it takes a glass-and-a-half of milk to make every bar of Cadbury’s chocolate, so that’s dairy too. Which has just been promoted from ‘killer’ to ‘health food’ in one test. Ok, a very long test.

Basically, ignore everything your doctor tells you and you’ll live longer.

I’ll take 20 Rothmans, please, and four bacon sandwiches… with cheese. Can you make the bread extra-white, please, and loads of butter. And chocolate…

Happy pig-out Wednesday

A xxxx

Ok, Qatar is absolutely ready for next year’s World Cup being held there. In November, for a change, because in the usual June/July for such an event, the heat is sufficient that any non-desert dweller could stand it for no more than 2.7 minutes before dehydrating and a further 3.2 until they die. In November, temperatures are a much more pleasant 39 to 40 Celsius. The Danes will have no problem running round for 90 minutes (plus extra time, if necessary) in that.

So the stadia are ready. All 7. Built from scratch, obviously, because this ‘footballing nation’ (a major criterion for the award of hosting the tournament) didn’t actually have a stadium worthy of the name. In fact, they didn’t, as a nation, own a football. But heh, its done, right? They won their battle in 2010 to host a World Cup and we won’t let trivial details upset that, will we? The fact that the FIFA board who voted them winners have all been sacked, imprisoned or awaiting trial for corruption. Details, details.

So not only are the stadia now ready and gleaming and shining (probably a few diamonds to increase the sparkle, ya know how they are in Doha), but also, they’ve managed to bury all the dead who built those footballing palaces. Of whom there were 6,500. I know, its hard to believe but six and a half thousand migrant workers died building those arenas. That is bigger than the attendance of most Division 1 and 2 games on every weekend. And I’m not questioning their ‘health & safety’ regulations in any way, but SIX AND A HALF THOUSAND!!!!

They also, before they died, managed to build a few extra bars, even though alcohol is forbidden in Qatar, but they’re going to allow it for ‘forriners’. As long as they don’t get drunk. That’s illegal and arrests will follow. Same for kissing on the streets. Not that the Italian ‘Ultras’ are going to be kissing the Stockport Inter-City Firm too much, but just be warned.

They’ve put up all the gallows they’re going to need for offenders. The pillories and whipping posts are almost complete and the pits are being dug where they can stone gay people to death.

I’m totally on board with this up-coming World Cup and now that Lady Gaga is being invited, I can hardly wait. Being a proper football fan.

Book your tickets now.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx