Andy's Glasses

Houston, we have a problem! Though for ‘Houston’, read ‘society’ and it’ll be more accurate. Because last night on Question Time a woman asked a brilliant question. In the light of the terrible abduction and murder of Sarah Everard in South London there’s been a surprising (in its extent and magnitude) outpouring of ‘I was followed, shouted at, molested, attacked, groped, filmed, raped… by a man when on my own’ stories. And her question was: when is this going to be seen not as a ‘women’s problem’ but as ‘society’s problem’? And I thought: ooooooohhhh. She’s right. And she was a bit of a babe, to tell the truth, so I even listened. 

Yet really, its worse that just a  ‘society problem’ because it happens, in varying degrees but marked by their common similarities, virtually everywhere. In India women are raped frequently. Often by gangs. Who virtually never get prosecuted, even when known. In many countries it is almost, if not exactly ‘allowed’ then at least condoned by laws which blame the woman. Because she was wilfully and persistently… female. Its a problem anywhere where alcohol is sold and anywhere where it isn’t. So its not so much a ‘society problem’ as a ‘chromosome problem’. Because wherever there are men, women get attacked. Could be coincidence but it really isn’t. And I don’t know why. Which makes it much harder to cope with or permanently change. 

Its just a ‘sticking plaster’ to say ‘women must be more careful!’. That they shouldn’t walk alone at night, exercise near building sites or housing estates, shouldn’t wear heels, get drunk, dress provocatively, smile in public, frown in public, look too available, look too aloof, look… like THAT! Its the fact that they even have to think about it which is the problem. 

So its ‘education!!’ they cry. Men need to be told, from when Joey’s age, that women are to be respected, adored, revered (they do that already) but NOT TOUCHED without permission. And  that’s the problem. I blame evolution. Because the Darwinian model  is not about survival of the fittest in a ‘she’s a right fit babe’ way. Its about reproductively fittest. Able to produce more progeny. Thus nature’s elaborate way of creating sometimes ridiculous things, like a peacock’s feathers, which exist just to attract a mate. And there are loads of elaborate appendages and extensions and designs which actually sacrifice practicality for desirability. And they work. Which is why God designed women to be as alluring and desirable as possible. 

The bit that’s needed to be understood is that, unlike with most other animals, rape is a crime. Grabbing, groping, sexual harassment, all crimes. Dogs go round sniffing arses but if boys try it THEY WILL BE ARRESTED! As they should be. 
Men’s role is to ‘find a mate’. Consenting, agreeable, even keen. Everyone else is strictly out of bounds and off limits. However fabulous they may look. Its like the old saying: God gave men a brain and a penis but only sufficient blood to operate one at a time. How you overcome that without medication is precisely what is required. And as a (worrying) husband, father of daughters, grandfather, I hope they work it out soon. 

Happy Friday

A xxxx

They’re closing Buckingham Palace. The entire Royal Family is being suspended from duty with immediate effect following the recent allegations of racism, lack of care and being generally ‘as woke as a sleeping thing’. Following mass protests by Jeremy Corbyn, Diane Abbott and another person even less significant than those 4 (Abbott’s calculation), the government have stopped all royal activity. Except crown-wearing, which can only be done indoors, whilst wearing a mask. Newly minted coins will depict the head of Boris Johnson.

Can you imagine? An anti-royal revolt? Suspension? Instead, Her Maj is conducting an investigation to the allegations ‘in private’. They are a private bunch, them Royals. For people who spend 40% of their lives in the cross-hairs of the world’s public, they like ‘private’.

I mean, its not like the Queen is a ‘proper’ racist. She’s not like some KKK type, new-nazi, Trumpite, Faragesque, Piers Morganish real cross-burner. She’d never get a tiara over the white hood. But no-one’s accusing her of that. Or anything really. Not personally. Yet someone, somewhere in the ‘Firm’ is showing a lack of political correctness that is wholly unacceptable in the ‘woke era’.

I’ve been speaking to people about ‘The Interview!!!’, as its now known. The interview to end all interviews. Although many proudly proclaim ‘I didn’t watch it’ as if that puts them on some kind of moral pedestal or intellectual upper class. But those who watched it simply fall into two distinct camps. The Meglievers and the Megliars.

You either believe what she said or you don’t. If you don’t, then the Queen can reign on for another 60 years with your total support and backing and can stay on our stamps. Piers Morgan called her a liar on tv and quit his job 10 minutes later after being slagged off by a colleague and receiving 41,000 complaints during those 10 minutes. Yet Piers knows about liars. Being proven to be one himself, publishing photos, when editor of the Daily Mirror, that were false. So now the world’s most obnoxious Arsenal fan (oh my, that is a hard mountain to climb) is unemployed. As he should be.

If you believe Meghan, as I do, then indeed the Royals need to answer the accusations. Even if that belief is based on something as superficial as her ‘being a total babe’, which I say in the most woke way possible, and that she’s much too gorgeous to lie. And there’s a cheque in the post.

No-one is ever going to know the truth, so a pair of lovely legs is as good a way as any to resolve the situation.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Spurs won last night. I was there. In the crowd. Well, it felt like it. I watched it with Lila’s daddy. Which, by today’s standards, is a big crowd. So we turned off the ‘artificial, simulated crowd-noise bollocks’ and made our own noise. Though not waking the babes, obvs. And before you start calling the covid police, or alerting the NHS app to ‘illegal activity’, I AM ALLOWED! Because they’re part of our ‘care bubble’. And as we both care deeply about Spurs, that totally counts as ‘an acceptable meeting of more than one body in a confined or indoor space for purposes of caring’. Without masks. Because with masks on, eating our curry would have been problematic. I make enough mess eating a curry without a mask on. And yes, it was a take-away. The gods had aligned to put a Spurs match on at dinner time whilst giving Lila’s daddy a half-price Uber eats voucher. I mean ‘GIVE ME A SIGN, LORD!!!’, or what?

The problem with ‘half price offers’ is that you generally, as a consequence, order twice as much. It’s almost an unwritten law. Money is worthless, because currently you can’t do anything significant with it, whereas chicken Jalfreizi is priceless. A few ‘craft’ beers and we were THERE. Yes, I’ve become a beer tart. If its not made in a London suburb and has hints of elderflower and narcissus, I won’t fucking drink it. New rule.

Spurs looked good. They looked all the better for Palace having Wilfred Zaha sitting on the bench, as Palace’s only real player is getting over injury. And, inevitably, we scored. A fab goal, inspired by the work ethic of Lucas Moura, created by the master, Harry Kane and finished by ‘that waste of space and money’ Gareth Bale. The pundits can start eating those words now, won’t be as tasty as my lamb dansak but that’s their fucking problem.

But then, as the Doom Bar flowed and the aloo gobi was finished off, Palace equalised. Christian Benteke scored a fab header. Not a good sign. Because Benteke is a striker in the Emile Heskey mode. Does lots of stuff but scoring goals is not really one of them. But the bastard scored, just before half time. “The worst time to concede a goal!!!!” Tell me when’s a good time.

I needn’t have feared. Spurs came out strong in the second half and our wonderful, Bale-inclusive, front line became unstoppable. Gareth scored again, followed by an amazing Harry strike and then finished off with another Harry goal, which JUST got  past the VAR nazis. And I mean JUST. They put all those lines across the pitch, perform multiple geometric calculations and decide, that by so many millimetres, Harry was onside. I’ve never been so happy that Harry isn’t circumcised. It was that close. And 4-1. 3 games in 8 days, 3 wins. As Liverpool lost their 6th successive home game, to ‘mighty'(???) Fulham, Manchester City imploded against neighbours United and Arsenal fumbled (literally), Spurs go marching on. And as there’s  plenty of curry left in the world, I can be nothing but optimistic. 

Deliriously happy Monday with a mildly dodgy tummy,

A xxxx

Just the day before she was scheduled to appear with Oprah Winfrey, Meghan agreed to an interview with andysglasses.com as a special, exclusive (except for Oprah, obvs) online, zoom-skype type face-time gig with me. Because like her I represent an ethnic minority, but unlike Oprah, who arguably represents one too, I’m not worth 2 billion dollars. Barely worth 2 dollars. Like… $1.73 on a good day. And YOU, lucky readers, can share the full transcript of that earth-shattering, royalty-revolting, amaaaazing conversation. As if you were THERE!

Me. Hi Meghan, thanks for joining me.

Meg. How much did you say you were paying me?

Me. Errrr… hang, on… errrrr… kettles boiling, back in a sec!

Me. Sorry, so as we were saying; Do you like the Queen? Or think she’s a nasty, controlling, dictatorial autocrat mired in the values of an antiquated hierarchical system stuck in 1467?

Meg. Netflix are paying me and Harry 72 million dollars an hour, you said you’d match that.

Me. Yeah, course I will, no problemo, money’s good as in your bank. (HOLY FUCKING SHIIIIIIIIT!!!!)

Meg. Ok, cool. Well, the Queen is a lovely woman, really sweet and nice and offered me all the kindness and courtesy she extended to all the other servants at the Palace. Then she realised I was engaged to her grandson and it all went a bit Ku Klux Klan at that point.

Me. Are you implying racism???? From Her Majesty!?!?!?

Meg. Not overtly, obviously, but its hard to find an whiter establishment anywhere on the planet, so I shook their world a little with my arrival.

Me. Do you think being a really good looking babe helped disguise the total bitch you’re alleged to be? With the bullying, the ‘Princess Pushy’, with treating Harry like a lap-dog, dragging him away to a foreign land after splitting him up from his brother…

Meg. The ‘bitch’ thing is a media construction. I’m a pussycat. I do charity work, for fuck’s sake. Any empowered, beautiful woman represents a threat to the status quo and I’m just more empowered and beautiful than most. Life is not just about a few million in the bank a pair of tits. But that helps. A lot.

Me. What do you think of… Catherine!!!!

Meg. Who?

Me. Sister-in-law? Tall, thin thing? Married to Harry’s brother?

Meg. Oh her. She suffers from ‘mirror mirror, on the wall’ syndrome. Couldn’t handle the challenge. Poisoned Wills against Harry and me. She IS a bitch.

Me. Do you think Liverpool will ever win again at Anfield?

Meg. All managers go through ups and downs. Jurgen Klopp is a class act but obviously Manchester City have run away with the title already. But those other three top four slots will provide a fascinating end to the season. Did you make the payment yet? It doesn’t seem to have gone in.

And from there it all went a bit downhill, I have to admit.

A truly lovely woman given the roughest of rides by the gutter press. I think this totally illuminating piece will help the world understand who ‘the real Meghan’ is and how strong are her values and her bank account.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

I read the Times. No idea why, its historical. But I like it, obviously, or I’d read something else. Even though I actually pretty much hate all other newspapers. Especially the Daily Mail. Which is why I force myself to read the Sunday edition just to know what ‘the other side’ thinks. Although really, that ‘other side’, doesn’t think so much as just ‘react’. I’m too left wing and too young to read the Mail or the Sun. I’m too right wing to read the Independent and too Jewish to read the Guardian. I never saw the point of the Daily Express. Even though their eponymous building is London’s finest shrine to Art Deco, which I love. But can no longer wander round because since Goldman Sacks took it over you need CIA clearance to enter. Even a year after the bankers left it empty. But we also get the Jewish Chronicle. One of the oldest papers in the land. Mel likes it so she can see who died this week. Sounds morbid but that probably accounts for 90% of their subscriptions. (Old joke: woman: “I vant to put an obituary for my husband. I vant to say: ‘Shlomo Cohen; died’.” Don’t you want to say anything else? How nice he was, good father, wonderful husband, that sort of thing? “He was a lousy father and a terrible husband. ‘Shlomo Cohen; died’.” Well look, the price is fixed for up to 10 words, why not add something? Pause on the line. Then: “Shlomo Cohen; died. Volvo for sale”.)

The Jewish Chronicle has other stuff too. And as my paper was late arriving and, like every dinosaur who ever preceded me, I refuse to read my paper online, because then its not a fucking ‘paper’, I browsed the JC. And I learned something new. The hard lefties in my country simply hate the fucking Jews. All of them. All of us. Israel in particular but by a long way not exclusively. Ok, that’s barely new. After the Corbyn years the entire nation is familiar with constant and massive overt anti-Semitism. Which was ‘never racism’ to which Jeremy was famously (over and over and over again) opposed to in all forms.

The first article was about an ongoing saga relating to Professor David Miller (hard left; Syrian chemical weapons denier) at Bristol University, who is an evil and vile person, not content with persecuting Jewish students, he sees fit to pit all other students against them whenever possible. And the University does… nothing.

The second article was about the BBC (moderate left, issues with unbiased reporting) having a panel to decide whether Jews are an ethnic minority. Like, what else would they be? Electric cars? No. Trees? Hmmmm. Part of the aardvark family? Doubtful. As a ‘race’ is defined by physical characteristic and an ‘ethnicity’ by learned ones, unless you can find babies born wearing a black hat and white fringes, I’m gonna stick with ‘ethnicity’. But the BBC choose to debate the validity of this. (They need to read “Jews don’t count”, David Baddeil’s new book, which unfortunately came out a few months too soon to include this stupidity in its content).

And the third article was by far the best. The Labour Party employed a man to control their social media. At which he’s something of an expert. There are no complaints about his work standards. But plenty once they discovered that he’s not only an Israeli(!!!!) but served with the army there as an IDF intelligence operative. So now the Labour Party, supported in this by John McDonnell, big surprise, are trying to get rid of the man. On the grounds that he’s… Israeli. Nothing discriminatory about that. Other than the rabid discrimination. Everyone’s getting lawyered up and it won’t end well. But because most people are so inured to these type of events, its doubtful that it will upset too many. Outside of the JC.

Happy Saturday, or ‘shabbat shalom’ as they say in the Socialist Worker.

A xxxx

I’m going nowhere. It’s brilliant. I barely have to leave my couch. I’ve put the kettle on one side, a little fridge on the other for beers, and I keep all the empty bottles nearby for… ya know. I just fall asleep in front of re-runs of Match of the Day and wake up to Oprah. I haven’t worked out how to wash there just yet, so I haven’t had a shower since Tier 4 started back in December. For ‘safety reasons’. Because after 12 months of Netflix and take-aways, I’m now morbidly obese and hence a greater risk both from the perspective of covid and to the structural survival of the couch. Work is fine, because as yet, they can’t smell you on Zoom. Only with Zoom Plus (available April 9th). I do exercise though. I do three HIT classes a day. Without getting up. They’re easy. I must be really fit. Though I split my trousers 6 weeks ago. Haven’t bothered replacing them. They can’t see your underwear on Zoom either. And to be honest, you really wouldn’t want to.

It’s holidays I miss. I just want to lie on a beach and think about anything that doesn’t involve Covid, coronavirus, vaccinations, tiers, isolation, quarantine, the NH-fucking-S, Boris or Manchester City. Yet I haven’t been away for 14 months. The longest, holiday free period since I met my first wife. Ok, my only wife, I just like saying it like that. Keeps her on her toes. But the thought of the process of just, kind’a, getting there and back is so daunting, so un-holidayish, so downright… horrible, that I can’t even think about booking for June when “its all going to open up” (subject to terms and conditions… lots and lots of terms and conditions).

So its nowhere for me. Other than tv. Our only escape from the grim realities of the new world order.

So we’ve just finished Money Heist. Spanish bank (of sorts) robbery series. Watched it in the original over-dubbed because Mel’s Spanish is pretty poor. Though possibly not as poor as the almost ruinous dubbing. But its redeemed by two things. A fantastically clever plot, verging on the ridiculous but never quite crossing that line. And the fact that the cast are beautiful. The goodies, baddies, cops, murderers, hostages, all look like ‘Tokyo’ above. Well, the boys look a bit different, I s’pose. So if you think you’d like kind of ‘Inside Man’ (movie with Clive Owen and Denzel W) mixed with Baywatch, then Money Heist is for you.

If not, just watch 2 minutes of ‘Married at First Sight; Australia’ and regret it for the rest of your life.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

So having lost the rugby on Saturday, all our hopes were on Sunday’s football. Yours, mine, everyone’s. In particular on the massive match-up between Spurs and Burnley. The game everyone was talking about. In my house. And Lila’s. Even little Joey now will respond to ‘COME ON YOU…’ with a little ‘Spu-urs’. He knows not what it means, nor does he care. But, as in all forms of operant conditioning, he knows that if  he says it correctly he gets a Mars bar and an ice lolly, and if he doesn’t, he gets a slap and goes to bed with no supper. What is known as ‘tough love’. We all have to learn right from wrong. 

And the Burnley game wasn’t ‘big’ in the normal sense of being important for the league, or solidifying a position or anything like that. It was just BIG. Because all Spurs games are BIG. Especially as the only team we’ve beaten of late have been the hapless Austrians of Wolfsberger. And beaten them big. Twice. But you know about flattery and deception, right? So the ‘Gareth Bale and Dele Alli  show’ needed to be proven workable against… better opposition. Against… English people. Well, foreign people but English teams. Just different foreign people. Better ones. Bacially we needed to win something, against someone, and do it properly. 

I’m not sure Burnley could actually be  described as ‘properly’, no more than the banged up Leicester side who had lost to Arsenal just minutes before the ‘big game’ kicked off. And let’s face it, Arsenal winning is never going to put any real football fan in the best of spirits, is it? But it was Burnley who came, so that’s who we played. Its the rules. And we played brilliantly. Not perfectly, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that Gareth Bale played like he used to. Like we wanted him to. Like he can. With a smile on his face, an absent crowd who adore him and in the bosom of his only true ‘family’.  And tagging Gareth Bale alongside Harry Kane and smiling Sonny, with Lucas Moura flitting round and Tanguay Ndombele opening up the spaces was just awesome. Ok, we couldn’t put that team against Manchester City, but thank fuck that’s not who we played. 

3 points, big win, Gareth Bale, vaccinations. Life is looking up. 

Happy Monday

A xxxx

These are days of almost rabid inclusivity. If that is not a contradiction, probably is, which is why I’ve never seen it before. But if inclusivity is (doh) including everybody, regardless of differences, then it becomes rabid when people just stretch those differences to sometimes quite ridiculous levels. “Well that form wot I filled in from da Council never listed ‘one-legged Mongolian, trans-gender-mind-change-then-back-to-straight-before-coming-out but now celibate, omnivorous former vegan asthmatics’! It’s discrimination! My fuman rights is being abused!!!”

But to be a little… contrary? Risqué, peutetre, I just want to take stock for a moment. And possibly consider some worthy exclusions.

I’m most currently concerned with the United Kingdom. My very own Great Britain. Well, the Queen’s very own, but she let me borrow it. After a very un-zeitgeisty exclusion of her own grandson and his… schv… his… wife. Because Great Britain consists of England, the good bit, plus what we collectively term: ‘the liabilities’. We have Northern Ireland, and we all know the endless joys which that particular gift just keeps on giving.

Then there’s Scotland. Currently being torn apart internally by the battle royal between the vile Nicola Sturgeon and the revolting Alex Salmond. Currently taking place in a courtroom near you. If you happen to live in Edinburgh. For my money, bring back hanging and take them both to the gallows. But do it slowly.

And now Wales. Formerly the ‘nice one’ of our little ‘empire’. And they had the audacity to beat us at rugby yesterday! What a fucking bunch of ingrates. Even the referee was Welsh. He changed his name from Daffid Llewellyn, adopted a French accent for the day worthy of Cluseau and led the Welsh to a cheating victory. On his own. Other than the other 15 who were quite brilliant.

Then onto Europe, whilst we’re excluding unworthy no-goods. The ‘family’ I never wanted to abandon and yet now I’m so glad I did. Because I’ve been vaccinated and they haven’t. None of ‘em. Well, a few percent. Because their united government made a political decision that they didn’t want no stinking Astrazeneca vaccine made by them ‘orrible Limeys. They want good, European vaccines that can overcome coronavirus and garlic in one go. And unfortunately, other than the Pfizer, there aren’t any. The French one is no good and no-one else has one.

Thus Angela Merkel proclaiming to her nation that ‘she would never have the AZ vaccine’, and Macron conducting a very scientific study of that drug and concluding that ‘it doesn’t work on the over-65s’, based on… errrr… based on the price of Camembert, has led to a near-zero uptake of vaccination among our 365 million closest neighbours. And to quote from HER MAJESTY MY QUEEN!!!!!, no less, they’re not just letting themselves down, but EVERYONE ELSE TOO. Because until they all have it, we’re not safe. And I need to go to Germany to see my baby.

Other than that; yeah, everything’s great, thanks for asking.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

A roadmap used to be… a map of roads. We called them ‘A to Z’s and everyone’s car was filled with them. Today we use Waze, or similar, which not only has every road in the entire world, moon and now Mars (2021 edition), but will also tell you how many cars lie between you and your destination, who is in each one and what they had for lunch. Thus the word ‘roadmap’ became totally redundant in 2004.

But nature abhors a vacuum and Boris hates an unused word. So he took ‘roadmap’ out of the dustbin, dusted it off and gave it magical powers. Metaphorical powers. And thus the new ‘roadmap’ is the modern day version of Moses leading the Children of Israel to freedom. Out of slavery. And guess who’s gonna play the leading role? One clue: fat blonde.

So this is how our saviour will organise our liberation from the yokes we carry, from our constraints and restrictions.

March 8th.
Schools open. All those covid infested but asymptomatic kids get let loose to infect any of their mates who as yet is not a carrier. Teachers must NOT under any circumstances, get vaccinated. It would upset… the… errr… well, they mustn’t, and that’s IT!!!

March 28th.
Andy can play tennis again. Nothing else matters. Three people can sit on 4 park benches, drinking coffee, but not if it has sugar. Six people from 3 households can still ignore each other, if they didn’t know each other before Covid. And house parties can start but are NOT allowed to finish. Until…

May 22nd.
When football starts again. Not that it ever stopped but this time the crowds can return. No more than 9 at any stadium. Each half. Non-essential shops might re-open, then again, might not. Hairdressers can open because Boris has taken ‘shaggy’ to a new extreme, verging on the ‘crazed axe man’ look he pioneered in 1973.

June 7th.
You can drink outside the pub. But mustn’t go inside. Not even to take a pee. This may limit alcohol sales, or increase street urination, but either way, inside is OUT!

June 29th.
Everything returns to ‘normal’. The tubes will be rammed, the roads blocked, Oxford Circus station closed due to overcrowding, 327 flights scheduled from Heathrow. Theatres re-open, cinemas finally get that James Bond. Hugging is back, snogging with strangers to be encouraged, masks binned. Restaurants open for indoor dining but you have to cook it yourself. Like you have been for the past 18 months.

Note. All these dates are final and legally binding. Unless the statisticians deem otherwise. The same statisticians who came up with the wonderful algorithm for GCSEs last year. So make sure you wash your hands when performing calculations.

Stay safe. Protect Moses.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Lila’s been reading books again. I’ve tried to make her watch tv but she bloody insists. And the books she loves, currently, are by the brilliant Alan Ahlberg. Its a little series, Mr Brick the Builder, Mr Cosmo the Conjurer, Mrs Plug the Plumber, lovely. We had them from when Lila’s mum was 3. Almost 12 years ago. (That’s only funny if you don’t live in Liverpool or Wolverhampton). And I think they need updating. Modernising. Bringing in some contemporary relevance. So I’ve written a few for her, and for all children who need a FUCKING REALITY CHECK!!! SNOW WHITE AND FROZEN CAN ONLY GET YOU SO FAR, FFS!!!

Mrs Prostrate the prostitute
Mrs Dipso the drunk
Mr Stilleto the stabber
Mr Covid the cougher
Ms Botox the bitch
Mr Willy the wanker
Mrs Worst the WAG
Mr/it/Ms/ Perplexed the pronoun
Mr Priapic the porn star
Mr Eurine the European.
Mr Corbyn the Cu- the Communist
Mr Liverpool the Loser
Available from a bookseller near you. 

Liverpool lost their 4th straight home game on Saturday. The first time that’s happened since 1929. Almost a hunnerd yars! And to Everton, of all teams. Who haven’t won at Anfield since 1989. The records were tumbling, along with Jurgen Klopp’s failing credibility. It can’t ALL be about Virgil van Dijk. That’s not to take anything away from Everton, who were brilliant. And Carlo Ancelotti, their superb manager, who knew what to do. The team who have been impossible to beat, in the stadium which is impregnable, is failing miserably. In fact so miserably that the only place to find more misery at the moment is in north London. Records aren’t being broken, specifically, its just sounding like a broken record every match. 

Jose ‘it ain’t my fault, I’m still a God’ Morinho, is STILL the best manager in the world. Obviously. Mikel Arteta is doing a brilliant job at Arsenal, they just keep losing too. Though to lose to Manchester City is no shame. I’m sure all Arsenal fans were delighted that their match was chosen to bring back Kevin de Bruyne for a runaround. Like they’re not good enough without the league’s best superstar. 

Spurs were abysmal in the first half of the West Ham match. Totally abysmal. And although much better in the second, we failed to score the equaliser when, 3 months ago, we’d have hit 5. But we have to take positives. Apparently. And we actually can. Gareth Bale is starting to look like a footballer again and less like a golfer on his day off. And Erik Lamela shone like the star we’ve been waiting 8 years to emerge. 

But the message really, to all us struggling clubs is: DON’T SACK THE MANAGER. Its stupid, short-sighted, reactionary and dim. This is the long game. For Spurs fans, very long and seemingly much longer every year. 

Happy Tuesday

Mr Spurs the Suicidal  xxxx