Andy's Glasses

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

Jimmy Greaves died. He was a superstar. Possibly the best striker of his day, probably the best striker ever. Drank like a fish, smoked like a chimney, had a fitness programme that included jellied eels, pie & mash and ever such a lot of sausages. Took the bus, cleaned his own boots, sang ‘my ole man said foller the van…’ every Friday night in the pub and probably beat his wife with a really wide leather belt. He was pushed and shoved, punched and kicked, thrown into the mud and trodden upon, every single week, and up he got once more.

That was in 1963. Fast forward to yesterday, just 58 years later, and you have another ‘possibly the best striker ever’ in the guise of Christiano Ronaldo. He never smoked. Wouldn’t risk the calories of drinking for fear of spoiling an ‘ab’ of which he has at least 6. He has a live-in hairdresser and a house fisherman to catch his daily food. Cooked only with vegetables. Lots of them. And only after his personal team of nutritionists have approved it. And as long as you can’t ‘die of excessive vanity’, Christiano should live long past Jimmy’s 81st and final year. He’s 34 years old and ‘still going strong’, still scoring with ridiculous regularity.

But yesterday afternoon, after scoring for Manchester United, he changed his tack and decided to win a penalty. At his age, its easier than all that hard work to score a proper goal. Why else would he have spent such a ridiculous amount of the game sitting on the floor with his arms upturned and an expectant expression on his stupid face?

His manager bemoaned the referee for ‘missing three certain penalties’!!!! I bemoaned the ref for not sending the cheating tosser off the pitch. One of the challenges was indeed clumsy, missed the ball altogether and sent the Portuguese flying. Though as replays showed, he was already in ‘pre-flight mode’ before any contact was made. Already dragging a foot and falling forwards. ‘Playing for penalties’ is not just cheating but really horrible to watch. Especially for someone with so much unquestionable skill and ability.

So a brief message to Christiano: YOU’RE NOT IN SPAIN NOW. Greavesie would never have taken a dive.

Otherwise, there’s nothing much to report on football from this weekend. I’ve decided to become a serious critic of post-Brexit European superstar behaviour as compared with legendary icons of England, before Europe was even invented. Its far less painful than being a ‘fan’. And gives one the opportunity to act in the most outrageously snobbish manner possible. Holier than fucking everythou.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

I hate to be cruel. I’m not generally an unkind person. Especially in my post-Yom-Kippur, ‘be a better person, less of a total muthafucka than last year’ glow. But I was gladdened to read of the death of Alan Steel. He was a personal finance guru and, from the sounds, an almost-all-round good guy. So why would I pleased to read his obituary??, you’d do well to ask. And so I shall tell you.

Because Alan Steel was that rarest of rare things, the one sacrificed to define an entire class of people. He was a total anti-vaxxer who died of Covid. It should have been Trump. Not so much an anti-vaxxer as just an all-round moron who chose to downplay the virus as it killed Americans in the hundreds of thousands. It should have been Bolsonaro, the imbecilic president of Brasil who was, if anything worse than Trump. Both of those men caught Covid but with minimal personal effect. Alan Steel ‘took one for the team’. Unfortunately for him, for the opposing team.

I don’t care what reasons people have against Covid vaccinations, whether its the ‘unknown’ (yeah, only about 400 million doses given this year), whether ‘it’s unnatural’, (dying is certainly natural) or whether the vaccines are made by conspiracy theorists from Jupiter, their reasons are invalid. They are stupid, reactionary obstinacy in the face of all and any logic and commons sense. And medical sense.

And much as I hate to generalise about classes of my fellow man (whatever their pronouns), anti-vaxxers are the worst kind of tossers. All of them. Because as well as the personal massive benefits and freedoms that the vaccine imparts, it is an act of altruism too. Society benefits by as many as possibly being vaccinated.

So the inevitable is happening. No-one has to have a vaccine. Its a free country. We’ll never have ‘vaccine passports’!!! They’re discriminatory. But without the jabs, football matches, concerts, travel, even possibly work, tube trains and almost every facet of life will only be easily available to those known to have antibodies.

Therefore if you know anyone who is eligible but not yet vaccinated, help them, coax them, influence them, beat them with fucking great wooden planks with nails sticking out, to get the jab. It’s you duty!!

RIP Alan Steel, you did a good thing for all the wrong reasons.

A xxxx

This week was Yom Kippur. Our ‘day of atonement’, as it is known, though not really what it means. Because that’s the English interpretation, the nearest kind’a deal, but not what its all about. In the Christian sense ‘atonement’ means beating yourself up, flagellating, somehow paying penance for sins. For Jews we only pay for sins ‘wholesale’ and thus avoid anything too onerous. So instead of ‘atoning’ what Yom Kippur really means is the day you plan how much better you’re going to be next year than you were this year. I don’t mean in the financial world, God is not an accountant. He doesn’t want to see cash-flow projections and he struggles with excel. He wants to see your fucking SOUL, and how it will become a lighter, nicer, more decent, more forgiving, less pedantic, more tolerant soul in the months to come, less victim to temptation and less involved with Chelsea football club.

But I didn’t attend synagogue in the usual way. I’m kind’a ‘done’ with all that. God abandoned me. I can pinpoint the date. February 7th 1973. When Spurs lost 5-3 to Derby in the FA Cup at the Lane. Whereas Mel, an ‘adopted’ Spurs fan by marriage, still has that belief. And so when she chooses to attend synagogue, I opt to stand outside in a stab-vest and hi-viz jacket, wired with my walkie-talkie and do ‘security’. All synagogues have security rotas and I’ve done it for years. Taking my chance with the weather rather than the restlessness and irritation that endless prayer guarantees.

So the question is: what can a dozen 50 to 60 to 70 year old men and women, mainly arthritic accountants, lop-sided lawyers, decrepit doctors, broken businessmen, what can they do if a trained Jihadist army arrives at the door, fully armed? Particularly when younger people could in fact run away much more quickly. And the answer to that, and virtually any other related question is ‘call for help’. Phone a friend. And that’s what we’re there for. To see and react, not to fight. Even though fighting would be more fun.

And security extends internationally too. In the interests of which, Australia is building a fleet of nuclear (powered, not armed) submarines to patrol… well, China. They call it other things, but its China everyone’s worried about. Yet its France that’s the issue. Because the subs should be French made and diesel powered, as per a long standing, 60 billion Euro deal they made with the Aussies. But now the order is going to America instead. Which has pleased the French so much that they’ve recalled their ambassadors to the US and Australia. The next step, should France deem this a full-blown conflict, would be for President Macron to immediately surrender. To the Americans, Australians, anyone.

The world awaits with baited breath. Which I’ll admit looks very much like a yawn.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx