Andy's Glasses

Several years ago we went to Budapest. S’in Hungary, innit. And I learned that the city’s name came from the joining of two towns divided by the river. And thus chose to comment, as I tend to do, that ‘the racists of Buda hooked up with the anti-semites of Pest’ to form the lovely place we all know and love today. The sad thing is that it is a lovely City and I’m sure, is filled with at least some? A few? A majority?? Of lovely people. Ok, there’s one very nice person there and his name is…

Last night England played football there. I didn’t see it, I was at a wedding. But there was ‘trouble’. From the rest of the Hungarians. The ones wearing black t-shirts. The ‘Ultras’. That term being used, across Europe, to describe hateful racist thugs, often violent, always ugly, generally fat. Ultra stands for Unfortunately Loathsome Thick-as-shit Racist Asshole. They can be from Italy (Rome has Ultras) but generally they are from ‘the East’.

So playing a game of football (or anything else) where you start by ‘taking the knee’ in an accepted anti-racist stance, is bound to inflame a bunch of racists. Then to lose 4-nil to a team (England) which actually has black players causes the same kind of dissonance that Jesse Owens gave Hitler when he won 4 gold medals in the Berlin Olympics in 1936. How can you be a ‘white supremacist’ when the blacks are winning? It makes all those poor fat neo-nazi scumbags feel very uncomfortable.

Here’s what you do: you don’t play football in Eastern Europe. Hungary, Czech Repbulic, Slovakia, Slovenia, Lithuania, Belarus, Russia… just don’t play there. Or play there in empty stadia.

The England players brilliantly mocked the horrible Hungarians last night which probably hurt them more than losing the match. But the answer is, ban matches until the evil vermin can be isolated and kept away.

The Wedding on Osea Island was wonderful. This pic shows the ‘causeway’ when the tide’s up. Which means once there, that is where you stay until God, the moon, the forces of gravity and the tides decide otherwise. Which could get a little bit ‘Agatha Christie’ for some, a touch ‘The Shining’ for others, but with Mel to protect me, coupled with no limits on alcohol consumption cos you can’t drive anywhere, everyone had a truly fabulous time. And the sun even shone! In Essex!!! The county wot I growed up in. Just not necessarily that bit.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

I’m going on holiday!!!!

Remember those things we thought would never happen again? Well (all being well, with a good head-wind, falling infection rates, fingers crossed, legs crossed, eyes crossed, no sudden attack of quarantinisation, pth, pth, pth…) we’re going away! To a forrin land. Where they don’t speak English (bit like Tower Hamlets) and eat muck (bit like Tower Hamlets) and don’t use ££££££.

It’s Greece for us. In the great Amber continent of Europe.

And Amber means ‘easy peasy’, it means freedom, it means sunshine. Because all you have to do is:

Make sure you’re double vaccinated and have documentation to prove it
Organise your ‘day 2 test’ for when you come home, but you MUST do that before you go
Fill in a Personal Locator Form (PLF as the designated acronym for… fairly obvious reasons) for arrival in Greece
Send proof of vaccinations to British Airways (not required on Corona Airlines, Covid Air or Infection Aviation)
Arrange to have a test in Greece 2 days before departure (and GOD HELP YOU IF ITS POSITIVE cos you won’t be coming home)
Fill in your PLF for the UK so they know where to find you
Pack your swimmies and toothbrush.
Remember where your passport is after nearly 2 years of non-usage and hope its still valid.
Get some Euros.

But to ensure the smooth passage and trouble free travel, we thought we’d go to a wedding first. Today. Just to make sure that the vaccine works as we prepare to mix with 200 drunk revellers on a little Island off the Essex coast. But here’s the best bit: the island only has access by a causeway. Which is only passable at low tide for about 2 hours a day. Otherwise you swim. Or you car sinks. Or any other ‘man versus water’ situations you can think of. And there is only ever one winner.

So all we have to do is survive the M25, the causeway, dancing with people hugging and kissing, being in Essex and more M25 and we’ll be all set.

Lila and Joey are already in the sunshine but in Spain so I might swim across the Med to see them.

I’m very exited.

Happy Wedding day

A xxxx

The best things in life are free, but someone, somewhere, pays for everything. So looking at trees and birds, the oceans, cloud formations can fill your heart with… stuff and emotions and pleasure, but really that’s just a start. Your children (can, but SO OFTEN DON’T!!!) give you immense pleasure. Grandchildren are in a different league. Not to the one above, but to everything else. Cars, loves, lovers, holidays, experiences, successes, maybe dancing, skiing, gambling, whoring, certainly drinking to oblivion, drugs… and prayer, errrr, obviously.

But there is nothing, simply nothing in my 65 years of living on this world (I’m not counting previous lives and incarnations because I ceased being a Buddhist in 1975, 2 weeks after becoming one) could get close to the sheer wonderment of today’s Premier League table.

It is simply The Best Thing Ever. Nothing compares (so many song titles and lyrics I may have to pay royalties for this posting).

It’s not just that Spurs are top. The only team with maximum points. And that included the win against Manchester City. And its not just because we drift to that exalted spot on occasion, normally early in the season before we crumble, so enjoy our moment in the sunshine. But its because at the very bottom of that same table sit Arsenal. With no points, no goals, one horrendous red card and 25 horrendous red faces.

And I know its fairly meaningless, after 3 games, and I know gloating in any way, shape or form is evil and nasty and I know that schadenfreude is no place in which to luxuriate, but JUST LOOK AT THE TABLE!!!! The middle 18 teams are totally irrelevant. The numbers are unimportant, the names changed to protect the innocent (?), but that table. I shall cherish this forever.

And I shall end with one last song line.

Da doo ron ron ron, da doo ron ron.

For no reason other than I want to. I can do what I like. My team is top of the tree.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

There’s a movie coming out. A real ‘must see’. Essential viewing. Destined for classic status. I can hardly wait. Its the Paw Patrol movie and its out now-ish!

What? You don’t know ‘Paw Patrol’? What are you, older than 5? Or don’t know anyone younger than 5?? Paw Patrol is simply where its at. Joey won’t leave home without his PP cars, toys, t-shirts, mugs, cups and uniform. And when he does its only to ask for videos of PP as soon as he arrives where he’s going. But that is videos of the tv show. Now we’re talking… the movie!!!

Which you’d think would be met with only two possible reactions.

1. I don’t give a shit, I’m not 3.
2. Brilliant!! I am 3!! Or I know someone who is and who therefore will probably love it.

Because what’s not to love about a bunch of dogs dressed up as policeman (the main dude), firemen, paramedics, helicopter pilots, and rescue… dogs? Rescue things. And rescue they do. You get into a fix, a jam, get stuck up a tree, assaulted by cats, anything, PP will come to the rescue. Its like The Marvel Avengers for the dribbling classes.

But there’s a problem. Quite a big problem. The Guardian newspaper, that bastion of hard-left, ultra-woke, so-PC-it-fucking-hurts bullshit, have been harshly critical of the PP movie. Why? Does it have excessive violence? No. Is it overtly sexual in content? Not really, bit of sniffing, probably, but that’s dogs. Does it have subliminal satanic messages that will turn your toddler in Damien from the Omen??? No.

It portrays the police doggy as a hero.

That’s its crime. And that all but one of the PP dogs are boys, not bitches. You know its ok to write bitches in this context, right?

And for most militant lefties, the police are the enemy. Most could not tell you why, but that’s the case. And if British Gas have guidelines about how many women it needs of its board of directors, PP should adhere to the same rules. Its just common sense.

The Guardian don’t want children becoming police admirers. It clashes with their rhetoric. They probably think that the police dog should be more institutionally racist, should shoot black dogs in the back (BLACK DOGS MATTER!!) and that the heroics should be shared around with the other doggies, NOT just the bloody police stealing all the glory.

And Joey read the critique and had to agree. He immediately burned all his PP stuff and asked for a bust of Lenin and a Che Guevara t-shirt (size 2-3).

Bloody pigs.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

As the football transfer window winds to a close, there are protests in London. I’m not sure of the connection there, but there must be; I don’t believe in coincidence. The protests are ‘allegedly’ about vaccinations and the ‘great Covid scam’ (if you can actually Adam-n-Eve that there are sufficient numbers of brain dead imbeciles to constitute a protest), and Extinction Rebellion’s annual fuck-up-the-traffic-fest. Neither specifically mentions Harry Kane, nor Ronaldo. But its all there. In the sub-text.

I’m sure that both Harry and Christiano have been vaccinated, its part of their contract, doubtlessly, so that’s one black mark. And they tend to fly around in private jets, so that’s the other. Personally, I think both groups of protesters are the same. They look the same. Smelly, tattooed, loud and violent. The Extinct Rebellers are slightly smellier but the anti-Vaxers worth keeping well away from. On Covid grounds. Which they believe doesn’t exist. The whole world’s been ‘havin a larf’. Right.

Christiano Ronaldo, the greatest… the bestest… the goal-scoriest… person ever to use more than a gallon of hair gel a week, everyone’s favourite Portuguezer, is moving from Juventus. To… Manchester. All week we’ve been reading how Man City crave the superstar, even though he’s really old, because let’s face it, if you need goals and you can’t afford Harry Kane, Ronaldo’s yer man. And Juve no longer want to pay him half a mil a WEEEK. Even though he’s undoubtedly brilliant. So that’s set then, going once, going twice, BANG, Ronaldo moves to Manchester UNITED???? United? Surely City? But no, United swooped in at the final moment and nicked the preening poseur back to the club where he learned the word ‘vanity’.

Real Madrid, meanwhile, are desperate to buy Killian Mbappe, the French wonder, from PSG. The latest offer is 170 million, but ‘only’ Euros. Phah. Wouldn’t get out of bad for that. Yet he’ll only move if PSG can get Erling Haaland from Dortmund. For I hate to imagine how much.

And if all that actually happens, this summer will have seen the transfers of Messi, Ronaldo, Mbappe and Haaland. Four of the top 5 strikers in the world.

The 5th is staying at Spurs. So fuck you!

Happy Saturday.

A xxxx

I can’t remember whether it was about Iraq or Afghanistan (those ‘wars’ sort of ‘blend together’ into a fuzzy, grey, Blairite history) but some sage said “winning the war is easy, but you have to know how to win the peace”. And 20 years later, that’s where we stand. You can’t fight wars forever, there’s questions whether you should fight any in the first place, if just for ideological reasons (as opposed to defending you borders or people, which are allowed wars). So fighting wars in foreign lands is not exactly a vote-winner. Particularly in America, the greatest exponents of ‘wars over there’, where such a vast majority of their people are rather unworldly. Or consider that the world starts at Florida and ends at Canada. So they send their sons and daughters to die in lands they’ve never heard of and have no concept nor care for.

‘We’ invaded Afghanistan in 2001 to ‘rid the world of Al Quaeda’. Noble. And justifiable on many levels following 9/11 and other atrocities. The terrorist war was being fought on our streets and in New York City, so action was taken. And it was ‘easy’. We flew in, right behind the military might of the Unarted Staytes, and ousted the Taliban. Who were, it was believed, training Al Quaeda, as well as operating the harshest of strict, Islamic regimes on the poor people of their nation. Virtually overnight the Taliban ‘vanished’. Gone. Yaaaay, fly our flags, we’ve won. Headscarves came off, women could resume the education the Taibs denied them, radios could once again play music.

But the Taliban didn’t commit mass suicide. They didn’t ‘move to Cannes to retire’. They didn’t throw away their arms and become opium farmers. They’re clever. They took to the hills and stayed there for 20 years. They play the long game. Which is why within about 20 minutes of the withdrawal of US and British troops, Afghanistan was pretty much back under immediate and total Taliban rule. Seemingly unopposed by the government forces we’d spent 20 years training up to defend their nation from the Taliban.

The Taliban ‘formed’ from disparate groups of Mujahadeen fighters when Russia invaded Afghanistan in 1992. The Americans funded them, armed them and encouraged them to war with the Soviets. And in doing so, they created a monster. So as the Taliban strut round, like all deeply religious men, carrying anti-tank machine guns and hand-held rocket launchers, the country descends back to the dark ages. With any civilian who in any way acted for, acted with, helped, assisted, worked for or gave food to the ‘foreign invaders’, effectively receiving a death sentence.

America has frozen about 7 billion dollars of Afghan money. Oh, so that’s how you win the peace. Yet the Taliban don’t really appear short of funds. Probably because they’ve always been supported by Saudi Arabia and the UAE to some degree anyway.

What a fucking mess.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Dele Alli’s career thus far, at the ‘mid-life’ age of 25, has been neatly summarised. In fact the summary was constructed about 70 years before he was born. But back then they were actually talking about ‘a little girl, who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead’, rather than ‘a big, mixed-race geezer from Milton Keynes wot plays football’. But that little girl and our midfielder could have been twins. Because ‘when they are good they are very very good, and when they are bad they are AWFUL!’

So the ‘Spurs Renaissance’ continues apace! Which is a nice, poetic way of saying ‘we won agen’. Spurs, because they are God’s team, are allowed at least 5 Renaissances per season, depending on how many managers we get. Some people say ‘it’s too soon to judge! The season is but 2 matches old!!!’, to whom I say ‘FUCK YOU!!! WE’RE WINNIN’!!!!!’ And truly, to measure a real, bona fide ‘renaissance’ we’d need to ditch Harry Kane now and figure out where the 40-odd goals he was in some way responsible for last year will be replaced. But meanwhile, Harry exists in that horrible ‘want-away’ limbo-land where no-one likes him. Not our fans. Not Man City fans. Not our management, nor theirs, nor anyone else’s. And I feel sorry for him as its not really a predicament of his own making.

Thus to our beautiful game. Never more beautiful than when we’re winning. Even if its not a beautiful win, in the truest sense of anything really ‘beautiful’, those 3 accompanying points up the beauty to 100% every time. And thus Spurs have won their first two matches of the season. With yesterday’s victory at Wolves in no small part down to Dele Alli. Who, one can only imagine, is a rather ‘sensitive’ soul. Such does his form, his passion, his commitment, his ability seem to fluctuate from ‘genius’ to ‘get that tosser off the pitch!!!’, in the blink of a manager’s eye. And Nuno, our lovely new manager, seems to be handling ‘the boy from MK’ rather splendidly. Which is great because there’s no question that when Dele is being ‘very good’, he can be simply brilliant and inspirational to the whole team. Long may it last.

And I’m not one to gloat, its not (normally) in my nature. Thus I can only assume that football is a very unnatural condition. One in which the winning is only ever really half the fun. Completed only when others lose. And although Chelsea are the team I really despise (as does every decent, moral, cuddly human being), there is no loss in our national game that gives me as much pleasure as when experienced by Arsenal. I don’t know why, I’m just being honest. And if that makes me a horrible person, I can live with it.

Which all together made yesterday a very special day indeed.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

Did you know that there are people out there whose job is to monitor patterns of swearing? I mean WTF? How is that a job? It’s like being paid to count how many times the word ‘the’ comes up in 22,647 conversations. Who fucking cares? Yet of course, that’s rhetorical. Everyone cares about our language to some degree or other. Whether its wincing when a BBC newsreader repeatedly drops their Hs or when one hears one too many glottal stops in the sentence ‘I gotta getta new battery for my little kettle’, and you know the speaker must be a footballer, we like our language. And some of us like swearing.

So here’s the new league table.

‘Bloody’, the reigning UK champion at the last count, 20 years ago, has slumped. Michael Caine (no relation to Harry) brought it to new heights in the Italian Job with his ‘blow the bloody doors off!!’ but its now plummeted. At its peak it was used 650 times out of every million words, now down to a mere 120. Overtaken by… no fucking surprise, ‘the F-word’. Used 550 times per million words. As a simple comparison, my own personal best was after getting through to Barclays Bank after 3 hours of delays, 97 forgotten passwords, 14 key-pad ‘menus’ and eventually only being answered by an educationally challenged non-English speaker. I reached the phenomenal 995 f-words in each 1000 words.

Woman swear less than men. But significantly so. 50% less. Except in my house. Where the air is constantly blue. Until Lila and Joey come around then there’s a temporary amnesty. And if I’m honest, there’s nothing more wonderful than a posh-spoken woman being profane. From the mouths of dodgy Dagenham slappers it lacks class, as do most things. But to hear some Kensington yummy-mummy effin’ and blindin’ because she broke one of her Jimmy Choo heels getting into her Range Rover outside Harvey Nicks is the stuff of fantasy.

Why should Dominic Raab disrupt his holiday in Crete just because a few misplaced Brits are having problems in Afghanistan? He was probably just out of the pool, taking his first sip of an ice cold bottle of Mythos when his mobile rang, the word ‘Boris!’ displaying on the screen. And the kids are crying and his wife’s calling and… and… hit ‘green’?, or ‘red’…

Not like he’s got a job with any responsibility or anything. Fuck it, he thinks, knowing he must wait at least 2000 words before thinking it again, and finishes his beer at leisure. What harm could it do?

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

It must have been around 1970 or 71 when BBC2, and only BBC2 started transmitting in colour. Which was partly a shame because BBC2 only ran from about 6 o’clock in the evening until about 11.30, when they switched to a photo of a little girl accompanied by a high pitched whistle. Which was good viewing back then for about half an hour, then even the most insomniacal went to bed. And partly it wasn’t a shame because no-one had TVs that could receive in colour anyway. But a few did. So every afternoon at about 3 o’clock they showed what they called ‘trade test films’ just so you could watch something in colour. But not just any something, it had to be something really awful. A ten minute, throw-away (which most should have been) snippet of nothingness. But coloured nothingness.

I was at home a lot. ‘Revising’ for some exams or other. And every day at just before 3 I’d hear the roar of a pretty much unsilenced exhaust disturbing the neighbours as my brother’s mate Barry arrived. He was 3 years older than me so was probably ‘revising’ (euphemism in 1970 for ‘day off’) for something else. But we shared a lot of common interests and became good friends. We went to music together. We got drunk together and loved driving round at ridiculously high speed together (he had an insane sports car, I lacked the age for a license). And we watched trade test films together.

There were only about 10 of them so they just recycled them. And you never knew which would come up. Thus every day we sat in eager anticipation, hoping with all our hearts that today would be… CATTLECARTERS!!!

The truly worst film ever made, ever, anywhere, anytime, any-any-anything. A film so bad, so stupid, so simply awful that it became an obsession. It was hilariously un-funny. Set in Australia it featured a lorry. Not just any lorry but one designed to travel thousands of miles across that barren wasteland (I refer of course to all of Australia here, not just the Outback) with cattle. Think the biggest truck imaginable and then tow two more behind it of the same size. And fill them with cattle, just for fun.

They managed to find two Aussies who were such caricatures that they needed no training or acting skills. They didn’t need to ‘become the part’ like method actors, they were the parts to begin with. Add in a really really cheesy theme song by Frank Ifield and what you had was the ultimate movie for teenage layabouts to roll around the floor in hysterics to.

And I found it. Cattlecarters. You can watch it. You should watch it. To celebrate its enduring awfulness into future generations.

Happy Viewing

A xxx

Jake Davison went on a shooting spree last week, in Plymouth. Killed four people, injured a bunch of others, then shot himself. We call that a ‘mass killing’, the Americans call it ‘a bad day at the office’. Though we don’t have the advantage of being able to just go out and buy a submachine gun or a nuclear bomb like you can in Kansas. “Would you like some grenades with that, Sir? They’re on special, buy four get two free!!!” Not like that here. We’re tightly controlled, gun-wise, regulated, lots of checks, references, investigations of worthiness.

And after all that, they decided that it was ok to return the license and rifle to Jake. A depressive, OCD weirdo with a history of assault, violence, anger issues and a major gun obsession since he was 8 years old. And a recent social media decline from moderately ‘special’ to nihilistic depths of depressive insanity. All available for even the police to view. But they didn’t.

But we can’t blame Jake for this atrocity. Because he was an ‘incel’ and therefore has been dealt a bum hand and is a victim.

Incels, or Involuntary Celebates is a kind of club for those who, in previous generations, would describe themselves as, ‘not getting any’. But being a kind of support group, it has to have an ideology, a philosophy, a mission statement.

So those simply ‘not getting any’ feel themselves duty-bound, or genital-bound, to try harder, do better, meet more people, ingratiate themselves to worthy potential partners, befriend, chat-up, beg, anything to try and get laid. There are rumours that you can even buy sex. Almost like a commodity. Who’d’a known?

Incels are not responsible for their celibacy, hence the ‘in-‘ bit. It has been forced upon them by women who… who basically have standards and won’t just jump into bed, or onto the back of a pick-up truck, with any gun-toting quasi-rapist who believes its his right to put his penis wherever it wants to go. Incels’ problem is that women have choices. They also despise those men who have girlfriends, or fuck-buddies, or whatever, because its taking opportunities from them. So they turn their situation into one of passive acceptance and look for others to blame.

I’m aware that there are many people of fragile mental condition and undoubtedly Jake was one. But validating your depression by joining a ‘support group’ like incel sadly compounds the problem, aggravates it and provides the usual social media forums for sociopaths to encourage each other into violence.

What a sick world. Thank God for football.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx