Andy's Glasses

Manchester City are the reigning champions of the Premier League. And we beat them. So why don’t they just award us the title now and be done with? Seems fair to me. Avoid all that ‘personal space’ problem that matches bring. 64,000 people screaming their lungs out simultaneously shouldn’t present any problems, should it?

Yesterday was somewhat predictable in that Manchester United won, rather convincingly against Leeds. Then Chelsea won comfortably and Liverpool beat other ‘new kids’, Norwich, in the evening with relative ease.

So that was 3 of the 4 ‘BIG’ teams off to flying starts. And Manchester City were the 4th. Though in reality, the first. As they won it last year.

And they came to Spurs in all their swagger, arrogance and, metaphorically, dripping with gold. As you do when you completely ignore the financial regulations that no-one ever imposes. So on their substitutes bench sat £350million worth of players. And on the pitch strode the swaggeriest, the drippiest, the horriblest of all; new kid Jack Grealish. The nation’s first 100 million pound man. He bought himself a new Alice band to celebrate.

Quite frankly, if I was Sheikh Mansoor I’d have wondered where about 92 million of that money had gone. That’s not to say that Spurs had it easy, oh no. Even if things are easy, or should be easy, Spurs will always find a way to increase the difficulty significantly. So the first 20 minutes were pretty hairy. Scary. And, in Grealish’s case, lairy.

But then Spurs eased themselves back in contention. With a combination of hard work, gritty determination and some truly appalling finishing by City. How they need Harry Kane…

And they need him now! Because all the talk and bullshit and uncertainty kills teams and ruins seasons. We’ve been there, done that and have numerous t-shirts, with ‘Bale’ on the back, with ‘Berbatov’, with ‘Modric’, we have enough.

Spurs became good. Almost dominant. Though not in terms of possession. No-one can out-possess a Pep Guardiola team. They can out-score them though and by a meagre single, solitary but wonderful goal, Spurs did just that. Son, so often the killer of Mancunian dreams, played assassin once more.

It took me 40 minutes to realise Dele Alli was playing. Such was the importance of his contribution. And Lucas Maura was simply magnificent for 90 minutes. Other than that, a brilliant job done. We beat the best. How difficult can the rest of the rabble possibly be?

Very very happy Sunday evening

A xxxx

Further to these preposterous allegations made against me in the New York courts, I would like to finally make a statement. Clear the air. Answer the critics. And other anti-royal bastards. I thought I’d already made my position very very clear on this entire matter in the Emily Maitlis interview. In which I stated, categorically and unambiguously, that I have no recollection of any of the times, dates, people, places or sundry items mentioned in the allegations. The only bits I can recall with any degree of certainty are the bits where I did absolutely nothing wrong, illegal, immoral or against the Highway Code. So to recap: whatever was said to occur, I either wasn’t there or don’t remember a thing if I was. That should cover most of it. I have a staff of people to organise my whereabout at any particular time. Though it is true, they don’t follow me into a bedroom. Nor a school playground. The photographs of Virginia Roberts with me are possibly genuine but I can’t remember those situations specifically, if at all. I simply can’t recall every time an underage girl was on my lap, that would be impossible.

People say I displayed ‘poor judgment’ in my loyalty to Jeffrey Epstein. Which may be the case. But just because he had already been found guilty of statutory rape doesn’t automatically make him a bad person. Though the fifteen subsequent charges for abusing, molesting, trafficking and raping, basically, children, may indeed have made him appear a little ‘bad’. But he was such a nice person. Decent. Other than when he was being indecent. Which allegedly did take up a lot of his time. So I maintained my friendship with him. Even child abusers need friends.

I hope that clears all this up and they will drop all charges from their fishing expedition of a civil court case. Otherwise Mummy will get very cross.

The new football season started last night. I know they’ve been playing lower league matches for at least a week but no-one cares about that. The Premiership started, its game on. And the game was on. At Brentford. Who, in their first top flight match in 74 years, were given a nice soft start to what will doubtless offer more ‘reality’ as the weeks progress. Nothing too challenging. The League decided to give them a team famous for being weak, misdirected, lightweight but pass the ball a lot so the home team could rest a bit between attacks, whilst watching the footballing equivalent of masturbation. It worked perfectly, Brentford won comfortably, claimed their 3 points (possibly the only 3 they’ll get til January) and Arsenal plunge to the bottom of the table. The perfect start to the season and Spurs haven’t kicked a ball yet.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

It’s finally happened. Lionel Messi, not just the world’s best footballer (sorry, Christiano, but he really is) but possibly the best footballer EVERRRRRR, has left his home forever. Leo was ‘born’ in Barcelona. Ok, not actually delivered into this world there but we really don’t care about the messy bits. He went there when a baby and now he’s really old, 34, they’ve kicked him out. Mercilessly. And he’s gone to the orphanage known as Paris St Germain. Like Oliver Twist before him, the ‘poor’ dude will have to survive on his own, at massive personal cost as his wages are cut severely. So severely that his weekly wage is now only about 40 times what the average worker earns in a year. It is positively heart-breaking. Ok, Oliver Twist didn’t generally use private jets much and probably didn’t stay at £17,000 a night hotels, but the parallels are otherwise staggering. Dickens must have been a Barca fan.

Barcelona have to divest themselves of their favourite child because they can no longer afford him. Which, in the world of football, is a wonderful breath of fresh sanity in a foggy soup of stale and corrupt madness. Spain actually imposes a ‘salary cap’ on teams. So even though the great Barcelona have debts of about half a billion (Euros, but pounds, dollars, all pretty much the same at that level), their player wage bill is currently 110% of the team’s total turnover. If it was anything but football they’d have put ‘bankrupt’ stickers all over Nou Camp and shut the doors forever. But this is football, so basic economics doesn’t work properly in that context. It’s like needing special physics at the sub-atomic level because gravity and mechanics just fail.

But Spain are at least making a fucking effort to stop the rot. And Messi at Barca, for about 2 million a WEEK, was deemed to much. Even cutting it in half was still problematic. So he’s gone to France. Where the footballing authorities are as toothless, testicle-free and ludicrous as they are here. And at PSG they have no limits to anything financial. As long as there’s money in the state of Qatar, Paris St Germain are doing fine. You can think of them as Manchester City in French. With both governed only by UEFA’s ‘financial fair play’ rules. Which has been shown time and again, are totally worthless.

Bienvenue a Paris, Leo

A xxxx

When did the world become so pedantic? So obsessive? So horribly, stupidly, ridiculously petty? And nothing provokes emotions more than food. So some idiotic blogger (they’re all fuckin’ eejuts, the lotto’v ‘em) or podcaster decided that ‘enough is enough!!!’, we’re no longer going to be allowed to use the word… ‘curry’.

But… but… but… curry’s food! Curry’s wonderful!!! Curry’s the best thing since sliced chapatti!!! Yes, but the word is… CULTURAL APPROPRIATION!!! What? How? When?

According to some babe in California, there is no such thing as curry. It’s a western, white construct designed to reduce the entire culinary output of a massive and diverse nation into a simple bowl of slop with chilli in it. Just for the record, I love that bowl of slop with a passion. But curry? That word??? Yet hang on, the word was introduced in the 1950s and 60s by South Asian immigrants who opened restaurants here. They GAVE us that word. It was a gift. In fact it was a total blessing, but the wokish assholes of today use no word with as much accusatory venom as ‘colonialism!!!!’ And according to this bimbo, ‘curry’ reeks of its colonial past. As well as garlic, herbs, capsicum, pepper and onions.

Jamie Oliver was accused of ‘cultural appropriatin’ when he made ‘jerk rice’. HOW DARE YOU!!! A WHITE MAN, NOT FROM JAMAICA!!!! Marks and Spencer were attacked for their ‘vegetable biryani wrap’. They were told ‘in India there is no such thing as vegetable biryani’. Yeah, but in Croydon there is, so just piss off.

It is not ‘cultural appropriation’ to take food ideas from different countries and mix them, include them, change them, to create new ideas, new tastes. It’s called ‘cookin’. It is the finest compliment you can pay.

My own food-history-line started in Poland. It was all about what you could eat quickly before the Cossacks came and beat you with sticks. And my grandmother, bless her soul, loved something she called (in Yiddish) ‘feece’. Otherwise known as ‘calves foot jelly’. It was revolting to look at, I never ever tasted it, but she adored it. Peasant food from Poland. But was making it in England ‘cultural appropriation’? No-one ever complained. Only the calf. About where his foot had gone.

So to the Californian-Indian accuser who wants us to ‘unlearn’ the word ‘curry’, I only have one word to say… possibly two words… one word split in two…

Tex-Mex!!! Eat that you pedantic bitch.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

So I’m obsessed. Addicted. Devoted. The Olympics, which never excite me any more than new electric car charging points at Arsenal’s stadium, simply take over my life once they start. I don’t watch it, but then see some on the news. And then see more in hilights programs which just come on. And then it slowly creeps up until…

It rules my life. And being in Tokyo, a perfect 8 hours ahead, its always on. And because Britain are winning, its on even more. I don’t mean ‘winning’ in the probably normal sense of… of ‘winning’ as such, like counting up medals and shit like that, I mean ‘winning’ because… because we are. And we deserve to. Morally, we’re winning. You can’t count the Americans because they cheat, nor the Chinese because with a population so big they can pluck 25 synchronised swimmers off any street in Beijing, half a dozen pole vaulters and a 13 year old gymnastics champion. Then they just stick them in specialised institutions where they don’t emerge for 5 years, force fed proteins, worked 19 hours a day, drugged up to the eyeballs, and then they’ll win gold medals. Or be killed, along with their entire extended family, upon their return.

Yesterday I watched ‘artistic gymnastics’. Painting a portrait whilst performing back flips? I’ve never heard of it either, though it must be said, the busiest people on the Olympics committee are those in charge of changing the names of the sports to confuse everyone. These are gymnasts, but a bit bigger than the usual 12 year olds, bit older, bit stronger. And they dance across the mat playing with toys. Maybe batons, a 6-metre twirling ribbon, hoops, which must keep moving all the time whilst the athletes dance in a gymnastic way, contorting and flipping in ways that no real human can. And the Israeli girl won. Beat the Russians and Belarusians, who were so pissed off that Putin immediately declared war. On Israel. And Japan.

This morning I watched Jason Kenny win his 7th gold medal on his bike. You actually deserve a medal in the velodrome just for understanding what you have to do in any of the obscure versions of ‘pedalling very fast’ they come up with.

Next was volleyball. No, nothing pervy here, this was INDOOR volleyball. Which is a shame. Because they let the contestants wear clothes in that one. It was brilliant. It’s all brilliant. We won golds in the men’s and women’s modern pentathlon, FFS!!! I mean, what’s more ‘modern’ than fencing? And I want to know who invented the bit they run around a track stopping to shoot guns every 3 minutes. Just targets. I could understand if they were shooting people, but then the Russians would have probably won.

And now its over. Other than the doubtless ridiculously overlong, overblown, over there, ‘final extravaganza’, which will go on until Wednesday, thrilling the massive crowd, who aren’t there. I can’t wait.

Then its just 3 years to wait for the next one!! By which time I’ll be totally indifferent to it, and the cycle win begin again.

Happy End of Olympics day

A xxxx

So I’m happy to reduce my carbon footprint. I haven’t been on a plane for 19 months. Because of my respect for Greta Thundberg. Oh, ok, there’s a covid factor in there but my adherence to every syllable the horrible Swedish schoolgirl mumbles remains absolute. I only drive a petrol car any time I want to. I rarely burn forests down and don’t graze any cattle. I’m thinking of replacing my gas boiler with one which burns air and water or hydrogen and fairy dust, because I’m always conscious of my emissions. I’ve even reduced my intake of baked beans in the interest of reduced methane. There’s only so much I can do. There are limits.

And now they’ve crossed a line. They’re talking about peat. The fairly useless stuff which is used to flavour my favourite whiskies. They take a really dull, lifeless whisky, open the lid, put the bottle on a bunch of peat, set fire to it and what comes out of that bottle later is the stuff of dreams. Sometimes nightmares. Often hangovers. But all worth it for that taste.

Apparently peat holds and stores carbon. Which is Greta-good. Peat bogs are seen as import in Greta-land to keep carbon down. But when you burn it, it all gets released. Shit-loads of the stuff, which is Greta-bad. Very bad. But, I’m guessing, she’s not a whisky drinker. Probably drinks mountain water from local ponds out of re-usable bottles made of recycled wood by women’s sanctuaries. Sanctimonious little…

I found this photo from our pilgrimage to the island of Isla. Where all my faves come from. These particular casks were at (I think; it all got a bit blurry; wonderfully, beautifully, peati-fully blurry, at that point) Ardbeg. Could have been Laphroaig, which lives next door.

So now they’re applying pressure on the Scottish whisky bosses to stop burning peat for their product. I can’t understand why. Scotland’s full of trees and all the released carbon will be their problem, not ours, especially when they ‘leave’.

But get things in proportion: its a bottle of Scotch. How much fucking peat does it use? The entire whisky industry uses less than 1% of all the peat… mined?, dug??, removed?, whatever. Most of the rest is used by gardeners. So I reckon we need less roses, more whisky. There’s no competition.

LEAVE MY WHISKY ALONE!!! Motherfucking, interfering, tree-hugging…

Climate change protest has crossed a line!

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

I’m a total devotee of token gesturism, much as I love a bit of hypocrisy, get high on stupidity and as for boycotts? Love ‘em to bits. My shelves are now totally empty of clothes, food, even toilet rolls. I’ve boycotted everybody and I’m sure they’re all regretting their actions now!! Bastard fascists, imperialists, child-labour-hirers, atmosphere polluters, people who drive on the right, or left, worst of all people who drive in the middle, capitalists, neo-nazis, neo-communists, neo-liberals (possibly the worst of all), radical feminists, radical rapists, people who refuse to state their pronouns in every text message, those who ‘take the knee’, those who won’t ‘take the knee’, royalists, Roundheads, slap heads, 3-day eventists and Arsenal fans.

I set the bar quite low when it comes to supporting the oppressed. I’m on the verge of boycotting Mel just for… because… well WHY NOT???

Yet even I can’t see the point of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream banning sales in the ‘occupied territories’ of Israel. Where you can no longer buy their product. To protect?, support?, stand as one with the Palestinian people in their oppression.

Ever been to the ‘occupied West Bank’? I have. You really don’t know you’re there so seamless does it live adjacent to Israel. The people there get state education, state medical provision, it is just Israel with bumpier roads. Ok, there are ‘the settlements’ which are ‘frummer’s follies’. Ultra religious, usually Americans, who wish to live in the biblical lands. They’re daft and inflammatory places. Filled with ultra-orthodox people who will never buy Ben & Jerry’s because its not kosher enough. And if they want it they can just go to West Jerusalem and buy it. With a special rabbinical sticker on it and a massively inflated cost. So the only people who ‘suffer’ from this boycott is the Palestinians themselves. Who may really fancy a scoop of Chocolate Obscenity on a sunny Sunday and will now do without. So how does that ‘help’ them in their struggle? They still struggle, but without ice cream.

Unilever, who own Ben & Jerry’s, are taking flak over this latest ridiculous ‘boycott’. Yet as a wonderful example of token gesturism, hypocrisy and stupidity, I can only admire them. Though I’m not sure politics and ice cream mix that well.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

Even in the 1960s there were rules. Of sorts. There was a new morality, which was to some extent a vast immorality as ‘free love’ (read: free sex) became the slogan of the era. Now you always have to pay for love. One way or another.

I’ve been watching the Eric Clapton rockumentary. It’s brilliant. He’s brilliant. Was, is and always will be. I only watch it in small doses because although Mel is interested in such things, a 10-minute Ginger Baker drum solo during a Cream gig is probably more than she wants to endure. To me its like watching Glen Hoddle’s greatest goals.

Eric had a problem. He was madly in love. With Patti Boyd. Who, unfortunately for him, was married to his best mate, George Harrison. So he did what any decent person would do and got hooked on any/all the drugs he could find. And in the 60s and 70s, he could find plenty. And then he was ‘cured’ by substituting them with alcohol. Which was deemed ‘much better’ but is in fact ‘much worse’ as its available everywhere, its legal and totally acceptable, until you’re finishing a bottle of brandy before breakfast.

So Eric wrote a song for Patti. In fact he wrote a whole album dedicated to her, but Layla, his pet name for her, was his heart-felt outpouring of emotion. And because Eric was and always will be, first and foremost, a blues artist, and blues is synonymous with pain and suffering, and because Eric is possibly the most emotive guitarist that ever lived, (I don’t have to apologise to BB King or Jimi Hendrix), ‘Layla’ has to be the finest love song ever written. And there have been many.

Layla has a ‘hook’. The opening riff is so powerful, so recognisable, so intense as it repeats through the song, that I need just 3 of those 7 notes to start crying. So whilst ‘unchained melody’ is sublime and ‘ain’t no mountain high enough’, immensely bold, and ‘when a man loves a woman’ just reduces prop forwards to pulp, Layla just is the one. Endless Love makes me want to be sick. Anything that will make it stop. But I also love ‘you look wonderful tonight’, also by Eric, and ‘while my guitar gently weeps’, the George Harrison number on which Eric played the guitar in that way he does.

Eric eventually got together with Patti, and they married in 1979. Ahhhhhhh. Then divorced in 1989. Awwwwwww. But the song endured way longer. There’s a message there somewhere but you need to be cleverer than me to read it.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

After a couple of weeks of the Olympics, you kind of get used to everyone you look at being lean, fit, muscular, possibly tattooed, with a major league 6-pack, thighs of steel and a BMI of 24. It’s like watching Love Island with IQs. And then come certain sports which make you realise that not everyone on tv has to be like that.

The weightlifters come out and they’re big. Big? They’re fucking massive. Flabby. Beer bellies. Massive boobs. And the women are just as bad. Or just as good. Or, in fact, pretty much the same. These people we can relate to. Weightlifting is the most androgynous of sports, other than perhaps shot-putting. The ‘bulk’ sports. I suppose once you hit 20 stone you can no longer see your own genitalia so it doesn’t really matter what type they are.

But then came Laurel Hubbard, the New Zealand heavyweight lifter. Who was previously a man. But transitioned a while ago and becomes the first transgender person to compete in the Olympics. And I hear you say ‘THAT’S CHEATING!’ she’s a man competing in a purely strength sport against women!! Not fair. Which would be appropriate if she hadn’t crashed out of the event rather spectacularly, without completing a lift. Poor… thing.

Britain traditionally does really well in the ‘sitting down’ sports. As a nation we simply excel at sitting. So sit on a horse, or a boat, a bike (BMX or otherwise) and we’re fab. When they pull out a chair of any kind, they might as well just give us the gold medal. We just this second won another sailing event. Well done on that… boat/canoe/cruise liner/warship, whatever it was. Brilliant.

Watching the Olympic round-ups on the ‘impartial’, ‘unbiased’ BBC, it took me three weeks before I realised that other countries are allowed to win medals. Or even take part, other than to make up the numbers so we can win medals. But heh, it is the BRITISH broadcasting Company, this is allowed. They do mention other nations, but only when they’re losing to us. Or standing up.

So I’m still lovin these Olympics and (according to the BBC) we’re winning.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Here I am, back from my break. Mental health never better, I feel like a totally new aardvark. Full of health and sniffing round for ants. Well, its a cure of sorts, nothing’s perfect. Not even the three-headed angel which has followed me since my cure.

And the Olympics rolls on even without Simone Biles and now, tragically, without Dina Asher-Smith too. And much as I admire Simone as the veritable ‘giant’ she is, at about 4 foot 8, I truly adore Dina. She is our national captain. Our poster girl. She is the most bright, vibrant, energetic woman. She is eloquent, unpretentious and delightful. In short (and she is, too) I love her. But she has been harbouring a secret hamstring issue for 5 weeks. She didn’t want to upset everyone. Didn’t want to ‘let anybody down’. She told the BBC yesterday after she let everybody down by coming 4th (sheer class) in her 100 metre heat. And then she started crying and I did too. It was emotional. Her shattered dreams become our shared upset. We still love her.

And then some interesting words from Jeremy Clarkson this morning. Mainly because they were about cars. When he ventures to other subjects I’m less inclined to agree. He test drove a hydrogen car. Which have actually been around for years but the problem is buying hydrogen to fill them up. There are about 4 places in the country where you can do this, so if you don’t live fairly near them, getting a hydrogen powered car is pretty much buying a sculpture. And no-one likes production-line, Japanese-manufactured artwork on their driveway. Yet the advantages of buying hydrogen over battery are many. I’ll spare you. Trust me. And Jeremy. There’s also the minor issue of how electricity is ‘made’ in this country, predominantly. Whereas hydrogen just produces it all by issself. Furthermore, regular petrol and Diesel engines can actually be converted to hydrogen, which you can’t do with ‘lectric.

So why aren’t we promoting such a thing? And this was Clarkson’s point. Because someone made a hybrid electric car and the government went into ‘panic mode’. Or perhaps ‘sound byte mode’ and attached the salvation of the entire planet on ‘the future of transport’. Elon Musk knows opportunities when he sees ‘em and responded to the challenge. No-one in government appeared to look at the big picture (how unusual?) nor consider the alternatives. Some of which, like hydrogen, had been with us for ages. So instead, driven by the burning imperative (I’m sure there’s a pun in there somewhere) of climate change and the ACT NOW!!!!! bullshit spouted by the reactionaries, they went for the less joined-up version of problem solving. Which was doing it without thinking about it.

And we thought the pandemic decisions were unusual?

These are first world problems. Because third worlders walk. 2nd world people… who cares?

So before we tear up any more of the planet, at masssssiiiiiiiiive environmental cost, looking for Lithium and all the other conductive materials required to make batteries for which we burn coal to charge, someone needs to take a step back and have a re-think.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx