Andy's Glasses

Have you in any way pondered possibly the most odd but ne’er spoken about statistic in all those covid numbers which we find ourselves pretty much drowning in? I’m talking about the number of deaths per number of cases, or number of deaths per million of population, or number of deaths… relative to virtually anything. Britain tops the lot. We may not be able to win a penalty shoot out but we can lose more people to a virus than any fucking country out there! We are the world champions of dying. And so you have to ask ‘why???’ Why did so few Germans and Italians and Scandinaves die compared to the Brits? And because we love to speculate and hypothesise and because no-one else is prepared to offer it as a possible cause: is it because we’re a nation of fat bastards?

We know that covid preyed particularly on the obese, as well as virtually anyone else with health issues. Given a choice between Mahatma Gandhi and Hattie Jacques, that pesky little virus would leap straight for the latter, possibly for warmth, succour, fluffiness and everything a’plenty. Even though all that would be more short-lived. Literally.

So the head of the National Food Strategy has finally published his plan. And its a good one. In the main. I won’t question how he intends to affect methane levels produced by sheep and cows, nor am I prepared to even think about it for too long. That’s his problem. But ‘cutting down on meat’ would inevitably go some way to producing the desired effect. Less ruminants; less farting. Simple maffs. By producing less meat we’d also be able to reduce de-forestation (an acceptable double negative in the circumstances, I feel), because cows and sheep need a lot of grazing land, which can only come from currently forested areas.

Amazingly, half of the ‘meat’ Britain produces goes into processed meals and sandwiches as ‘fillers’. Half. 50%. Though I’m guessing it’s not the best 50%, but anyway, its a lot of tail, foot and lung. Mr National Food Strategist is suggesting that instead we use alternative proteins like lentils, like yeast and… like algae. Do I look like a sperm whale? Or even like a vegetarian? But I’d go along with it, whilst quietly wondering where all the tails, feet and lungs are going. To a landfill?

Despite the obvious problem, which is I LOVE MEAT, this initiative has merits. And whilst remaining the least likely tree-hugger and even lesser-likely vegan on the planet, this seems like a good start. Other than the ‘algae’ bit. What does one even taste like? Yet it will benefit a society who, when its not racially abusing footballers, is pigging out on terrible food. Whilst simultaneously doing its bit for emissions. Which will keep me in petrol for longer as my personal guilt will be offset by my collective smugness.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

The first rule of argument is: pick your battles.
The second is: never argue publicly with a footballer.

Because however dim footballers may be, however uneducated, unworldly, unaware of politics, ignorant of the meaning of the word ‘subtle’, however semi-literate they may be, always remember: they are loved (ok, and also hated) and they have 10,000 times more followers on social media than you do.

I’d just like to say that there are exceptions to the ‘footballers are stupid’ rule, and Tyrone Mings is certainly one. And he laid into the Home Secretary, Priti Patel, and rightly so. She’s horrible. Which, in fact, is her right to be. A bullying harridan, she jumped totally onto the Brexit bandwagon, which then had to be re-built because it broke under the weight. But then she referred to football players ‘taking the knee’ before games as “gesture politics”. Which, especially for a ‘person of colour of the non-white variety’ is a fairly silly thing to say. She said that fans who boo and jeer the kneeling players are perfectly within their rights if they object. Which again is true. Some might say, booing and jeering is more ‘gesture politics’. As is everything legal you’re allowed to do in a democracy. You can’t blow up parliament, you can’t assassinate the PM, even if you really want to, but you can use free speech in a non-offensive way to get a point across.

Taking the knee will not change much, that is as sure as it is fairly sad. And was proven on Sunday night within 5 seconds of the last missed penalty when our former ‘heroes’ were immediately divided by colour as the abusers took to Twitter. But it makes precisely that point. That black players are treated worse than whites. More harshly. More quickly and hurtfully criticised. Attacked for nothing. And you can attack someone for missing a penalty, if you’re a cruel, heartless absolute moron with no concept of contextual pressure, but you can’t attack a penalty taker on the grounds of his colour.

As even Priti Patel said in her horror at the abuse. But alas, she’d dug her hole. Tyrone Mings just started shovelling on the earth.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

The sun’s shining this morning. Yesterday it rested. And it rained instead. I mean, it didn’t start until about 4 and it was over by 9. And although ‘heavy’ish, it wasn’t like the stuff of Thailand or India. This was ‘heavy’ British rainfall. Nothing to do with Europe as rain has been for last 40 years, this is our fucking rain. Which caused the London borough of Barnet to flood. All of it. And I just don’t get it. Not like we’ve had so much precipitation of late that water levels were perilously high. Not like it was a flash flood kind’a thing (though that’s what they’re calling it). It just rained a bit and everything turned to shit. Or to water, which is actually way more damaging and catastrophic than shit could ever dream of being.

When Mel picked me up from the station, (I may be stupid but I don’t ride my bike in heavy-ish rain), there was too much traffic. Which only happens when the big roads nearby, and in particular Henley’s Corner, have a problem and Waze leads everyone down my side streets. Then we got word from Mel’s aunt that her home was flooding. She lives 300 yards from us. And her road ‘unpassable’ due to water.

But then the worst thing ever. I received a video showing my little tennis club. Which lives in the park, next to the tamest, meekest, lowliest brook in the world. Dogs paddle in this brook. Children go in, much to their parents’ displeasure. There’s normally about 2 feet of water in it. It’s only there to ensure that any tennis ball lofted over the fence will be ruined FOREVER. And on the video was my club. Under water. Next to a raging torrent, which was previously the mild-mannered brook. The water was over a metre higher than it ever is, even during rainfall. And I’m guessing but it didn’t rain 1 metre’s worth last night. If it rained 2 centimetres that’s a lot.

So I’m struggling to work out what happened. I mean, Auntie Gillian can get a new carpet on her insurance (as long as the flood didn’t relate to Covid in any way, obviously; that’s a red line for insurers), but my tennis club??? Which, ironically, is closed this week to resurface the courts.

This has happened before. And it transpired then, as water levels had risen even higher, as you could see by the ‘tide mark’ on the club house, the council, in their infinite wisdom, had ‘diverted’ water from somewhere or other, down our brook, to protect or save somewhere else. They had to build us a new clubhouse and replace the astroturf court which had just ‘buckled’ under the water.

I think I need to speak to the person at Barnet Council who is in charge of the ‘water diversion department’ to find out the criteria for his actions, and what, exactly, he was thinking when he FLOODED MY FUCKING TENNIS CLUB!!!

Happy Soggy Tuesday

A xxxx

It was riveting, it was exiting, it was breath-taking at times, it was a battle royal of two supreme forces engaged in the individual mastery of their sport, almost in mortal combat. It was that good.

Not the football, that was shit.

But Wimbledon tennis finals often are wonderful. That was the first 4 hours of my viewing schedule yesterday. And it was totally brilliant. As was Djokovic. Love him (no-one does, no-one could) or hate him, you cannot deny his brilliance. The Italian, Billy Handsome, tried valiantly, but alas it was not his day. Grand Slam finals are only ever Novak Djokovic’s day.

Then I had a ‘rest’. Went for a walk, took a bath, ate dinner and then, one whisky to the good and a bottle of, ironically, Peroni in my hand, I took my seat for the main event. In fact, due to my struggle with the bottle opener, I actually managed to miss the first goal. Holy shit. I have seen it subsequently, about 47 times. And its still an incredible goal. The cross by Trippier, always perfection, and that finish by Luke Shaw, sufficient to make Jose Morinho simply squirm to death due to the realisation of his own un-specialness.

And that was great! And we were winnin’!!! And it was all rosy and bright and the champagne was ready and the parties started… but alas the final whistle failed to blow after 5 minutes. Due to Brexit. And they made us play another 95, then a further 30 after that, just for fun. It almost appeared like ‘we’d done enough’. ‘Relax now’. Ok, Italy’s traditional stance of ‘sitting there impenetrably’ for as long as it takes to score on the break, had to be re-worked into something more aggressively attack-minded. And that’s what they did. After 4 minutes England appeared to be ‘waiting for penalties’. Even though they were winning. The rest, alas and alack, was almost inevitable.

But worst of all is the ‘fans’. Not all of them, obviously. Some are lovely. Others tried to smash their way into Wembley. Not so lovely. And still others are simply the scum of the earth.

The nation bonded over the Euros, no question about it. We joined. We linked. We were a brother-(and sister!)-hood. Or just ‘a hood’ as we have to call it now. In the second match played there was the Christian Eriksen event, which turned one and all into caring, considerate, loving souls, everyone involved at any level, in every country. The feel-good sustained my nation for the following 3 weeks. And then, after 3 missed penalties the divisive rabble took to Twitter to abuse those who missed: terribly, instantly and racially. And I really really just don’t get the connection. These people are vile.

#whitepenaltymissesmatter

Not the happiest of Mondays

A xxxx

I can feel it. The vibe. The buzz. The karma. The excitement. The totally universal acceptance (as long as your ‘universe’ is bounded by the English Channel, the North Sea, Hadrian’s Wall and the Forth Bridge) that destiny favours… Harry Kane. And Gareth Southgate. It’s in the air, its all around and its totally different to what they’re feeling this morning in Rome, Turin, Milan and all those foreign places ‘over there’. Totally different. Even though Italians may not think so.

I’m getting ‘match prepared’. I haven’t eaten pizza all week. Not one. Not even a small pepperoni with extra cheese, jalapeños and avocado (gotta have something green otherwise you die). No pasta. Not one drop of Prosecco or one grate of Parmesan. And I won’t use olive oil unless it comes from somewhere like North Korea or Syria.

And I’ve got my ‘kit’ ready. England shirt, obviously, face paint (red and white only) awaiting. My lucky socks, which I wore when my school team beat Dagenham Comprehensive 3-1 to avoid relegation to the Sarf-west Essix 9th division (east) in 1973. I have my football boots from 1975 still covered in lucky mud from Hackney Marshes. And then I opened up the safe and removed, wrapped in their sealed plastic protective coveringS… the underpants I wore for both legs (and ON both legs) of the 1981 FA Cup Final when Spurs beat Man City!!! Never washed, obviously, you need as much concentrated ‘goodness’ as you can get with lucky clothing.

Because football is not just about kicking a ball around. It’s not about ‘form’ and its not about ‘England have never beaten Italy in a knockout match’. That’s all completely irrelevant. When compared both to the wearing of my lucky underpants and the mindset of the players on the pitch. Because England have never lost a major final at Wembley. Italy have never won a game that Joey’s watched. It’s about today, tonight, and what happens at eight o’clock.

The stars feel aligned to me. I have faith in Gareth and both his teams. The few who play football and the much bigger team of physiotherapists, psychotherapists, counsellors, faith healers, voodoo perveyors and yoga gurus. That’s who really wins games.

COME ON ENGLAND!!!!

A xxxx

Ok, so what do you do if…

You book a mini ‘staycation’. A night in a lovely (allegedly) hotel in Bournemouth. And it ain’t that far, so you can leave Saturday morning, enjoy the rest of Saturday, eat a lovely meal somewhere, relax, rest, breakfast (hotel breakfasts are just the best things in life because someone else does it all for you… and then there’s more), and then another day on the beach, coming home in time for the football tomorrow night. What could go wrong?

Mel. That’s what went wrong. Ok there were weather issues too. Like all reports, all week, had promised ‘bit a rain, bit a sun, bit a cloud’. But the proportions kept changing until last night, when the middle ‘bit a’ wasn’t included at all. Just in time for us not be able to deploy the ‘cancel up to 24 hours prior…’ card.

Well never mind. We’ll have a lovely stay, walk when we can, eat the rest of the time, blah, blah, blah. Bournemouth’s lovely, how bad can it be?

We arrived about 11.30 so went straight to a car park (the entire south coast of England is a controlled zone for parking) which we know leads to some fab walks. And off we walked. In the… let’s call it ‘drizzle’. But heh, this is England!!! Sunshine here is wet.

And we’re on a massive, really beautiful beach, surprisingly quiet and unpeopled (in the fucking rain) and Mel decided to redecorate parts of the beach. She was ill. Like horrible, vomitingly ill. Poor thing. Joey had it last week. Lila the following day. Their mum and dad last weekend, and now THIS! All over Southbourne Beach.

I phoned the hotel’s call centre, I’m guessing somewhere in Slovakia? And they can’t cancel on the day of arrival. Simply not done in Slovakia. Or Sandbanks, apparently. So we went to the hotel. Where I informed them that although I appreciate their cancellation policy, do they really want a woman throwing up all over their hotel? At this time of heightened sensitivity to all things viral and bug-like? It’s their call.

So the receptionist, I’ll call him ‘Billy Panic’, though he was very sweet, went to speak to the Manager, Mr I’m not going to shut the entire hotel down for the first 2 weeks of summer holiday because some curly haired grandmother brung her London germs here, adopted a more pragmatic, less Slavic approach and offered us a ‘no charge cancellation’. I walked back to the car, where I’d left Mrs Billious, in the rain, with a smile on my face, and we high-tailed back to London.

Comin home, I’m comin home, Andy’s comin home… I’m comin home…

Happy lotta drivin’ Saturday

A xxxx

Well who’d’a thought that two days before the final we little Englanders would still be talking about ‘coming home’ in earnest??? Though there are many who talk nothing else for 365 days every fucking year. As Casper Schmeikel pointed out, the European Trophy has never ever been in England, so how’s that ‘home’? But we don’t care about such details, Pedantic fucking Dane, ‘isss comin’ ‘ome, innit’. And all we have to do is beat the Italians. How hard can that be?

But cynical Danes aside, the ‘comin home’ thing now carries its own meaning for (almost said ‘Brits’, but no!- for-) English people. And you shouldn’t miss that the line ‘30 years of hurt’ was written 25 barren years ago. They need to re-write the song, but obviously, whilst waiting for a year with the right and rhyming phonetic, we might go and ruin it by winning the bloody thing!!! That would be a tragedy for music and would seriously dent the future income of Messrs Baddeil and Skinner. But we’d take it in a moment.

Of course, the main man in all this, the dude who, come win or lose, becomes elevated to the Gods of Legend, is Gareth Southgate. And that is definitely his rightful place. He is charming, humble, intelligent and lovely. I would bear him children, pronouns notwithstanding… ok, the womb’s a bit of an issue, but NOTHING is impossible with the right amount of self-definition. Gareth has taken us (the entire nation) further than any previous manager. And there have been a few. All serial losers. Gareth is a winner. Ok, his penalty taking is questionable but the fact is, he got ‘right back on that horse’ and had a fabulous career after his miss. Which endears him even more strongly to the plebs (me and you). Because we’d all have missed it too. Its not as easy as it looks. Just ask Harry Kane. Or Killian Mbappe.

Wednesday night’s win was simply incredible. The total definition of ‘it doesn’t matter how you win, long as you do’. Was it a penalty? Who cares? Was theirs a free kick??? Many say no. Would we have had a penalty 2 minutes later for a more offensive tackle? Probably. But its irrelevant. Totally. We won, they didn’t, the final’s on Sunday and I’ll be ‘there’! Which I won’t be for the Wimbledon men’s final the same day because we’re off on another mini-break. Oh yes, England holds many wonders, plus many types of rain and cloud, and we intend to try them all. But a Wimbledon final without the sublime Mnsr Federer? Not worth renting space on my own sofa.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

I’m a strong adherent to social distancing. Mainly because I hate people. Hate crushes. Hate crowds. But only on group levels. Individually its different. I love hugging. I love the total invasion and complete overthrow of someone’s personal space. It’s not a ‘hug’, its a ‘coup’. An invasion. Oh, well can you get your hands off my ass, Mr Hancock? That kind’a thing. But in massed throngs such proximity is not so nice. Leaving a football ground can be challenging in the ‘bottleneck’ areas which all grounds seem designed to incorporate. It starts to feel a bit ‘Hillsboro’. Tube travel, with great fat sumo types forcing bodies onto carriages, that’s the stuff of panic attacks. Leaving a theatre or cinema, because ‘old people’ (beyond 70, for the purposes of this conversation) insist on stopping to look at stairs before descending. Don’t know why, they’re the same stairs they walked up not 2 hours before, but they have to stop first. Clogging up the ‘traffic flow’.

But nightclubs are different. They are there for the crush. Bodies jammed tightly together moving to the same beat (except for 1 or 2 who move to a slightly different beat), that’s the buzz. Enhanced, obviously, by alcohol or other ‘mood altering substances’, which are available at every decent nightclub or from an alleyway close by.

And on CGFI day, July 19th, nightclubs can open for the first time since March 2020. And at ‘full capacity’. But in view of the intervening 16 months, in case anyone missed that bit, the clubs are advising people to remain ‘sensible and spread out’. As opposed to insensible and spread-eagled, as many ended the night in ‘normal’, pre-covid times. So I’m not sure if that the geezer who asked for sensible and spread out, has ever been to a nightclub. He owns 47 of them but possibly has never been to play in earnest. I can’t wait til they re-open, personally. #itchinf’rarave.

Football tonight. The biggest… EVERYTHING EVERRRRRR. Words can hardly describe the bigness of this event, so immense is its magnitude.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

So what am I supposed to do with my mask collection from July 19??? I’ve spent the last 16 months building up a collection unrivalled on any western face, plus boxes and boxes of the shitty blue and pink ones. Which fill every pocket on every jacket, trouser and other suitable item of clothing I possess. (Yet I still arrive at a shop at least 3 times a week to find myself maskless; how the fuck does that happen???) So I’m refusing to ditch the mask on CGFI day, in 2 weeks time. CGFI? Covid Go Fuck Itself. And here’s our new mantra, which, due to our forthcoming masklessness, people will actually be able to hear repeated: ‘IT HASN’T GONE AWAY, WE’RE JUST LIVING WITH IT’.

We’ve all become a little too numerate in the last year or so. We’re obsessed about the numbers of positive tests, the number of vaccinations, the number of deaths, hospitalisation, first doses, both doses, anything countable. We’ve never done this before. But those numbers rule our life. Yet we’ve never before counted up those getting and dying of ‘normal’ flu, which always kills at least 15,000 every year. We don’t count up ‘new cases of hay fever’, nor colds, athletes foot, Irritable bowel or chlamydia. Because ‘wot don’t kill you makes you stronger’ and none of those kill you. So why count them? Which is pretty much where we are with our pet virus. Loads of people get it, but very few need hospitalisation and a minuscule number die. Ok, not good if you’re that number, but we all play the odds every day in a million ways. Ever crossed a road with me?

I hate wearing a mask. Don’t do it other than on the tube or in certain shops that give me dirty looks if I don’t. I just hate being muffled (my words are just too important to miss) and I hate being faceless. You smile at someone for helping you and think ‘why bother?’ But I’ll probably still choose to wear one on the tube. No idea why, I just will. Maybe because social interaction is completely banned on the tube so the mask won’t impede. Or maybe because that’s my one little bit of ‘Covid paranoia’, the rest of which I managed to overcome by April 2020 when I was bored with it.

Crowds are back. We can fly to Germany. This week. The laws governing our Coronavirus lifestyle end on CGFI day. It all becomes ‘voluntary’. Or, ‘ignored’ as we call it. We’re getting there. Oh the wonder of those vaccinations.

Happy nearly free Tuesday

A xxxx

There are winners and there are losers.

In Batley & Spen (what’s ‘Spen’? FFS), Labour held their seat in the ‘most important by-election the world has ever known’, but reduced their majority from 3.5 thousand to 350. And claimed this as a ‘stunning victory’. As in, ‘yeah, we did 10 times worse than last time so that’s brilliant, barely clinging on to a seat we’ve virtually never lost; well ‘appy with that.’ And yet Kier Starmer, who would not have survived a loss as party leader, was leaping around, punching the air. As if he’d just put four goals past Ukraine.

Now THAT is a fucking victory. That is a ‘win’. But I will NOT gloat. I will not become ‘that’ person. No. Not for one minute. Just because we’ve gone 5 matches without conceding a goal. And have now reached the semi-finals of the biggest competition held in Europe. And just because Harry Kane not only proved his impatient, short-sighted, clueless detractors wrong in emphatic style, but also increased his selling price by at least 50 mil in the process. But I won’t be in any way arrogant, complacent or horrible about this amazing, stunning, spectacular trouncing of a bunch of almost-Russian racists and anti-semites. I bear them no grudge. Nor will I mention ‘Scotland’. Even ‘Wales’. Because that would not be in keeping with the nature and tone of this day of glory. Our glory. England’s glory. So I won’t. Don’t try to make me.

And if that wasn’t enough, there was Wimbledon. The only tennis tournament in the world. Which actually matters. To ‘proper’ tennis fans. And the best news is: we no longer need Andy Murray. Because we have…

Emma!!!

In tennis as in football, its not about winning, but how you win. And if you’re winning with a smile on your pretty face, boundless energy and enthusiasm as well as a killer game, that’s almost as good as watching a whingeing moaner grumble his miserable way Scottishly round the court. She’s 18 years old, a ‘wild card’ entry and simply brilliant. And funny. Clever. Gorgeous doesn’t hurt either. And although she has a funny name, at least it doesn’t end in -ova.

What a day for ENGLAND. Just sayin’…

A xxxx