Andy's Glasses

After the dire and disgusting and depressing and devastating football yesterday afternoon I went out. In a huff. Then came back, because going out is simply not allowed and there were 17 policemen outside my door questioning me prior to possible arrest. So I turned off the tv.

When I turned it back on, several hours later, our national game had morphed, courtesy of Sky, into American Football and I was watching armour plated robo-men crash heads (well, helmets). And in fact I love NFL and have done since 1981 when I went to America and couldn’t avoid the game anywhere. I’ve kind of peripherally followed it ever since, but rather sporadically of late.

And thus was amazed to see, in the score cards, the ‘Las Vegas Raiders’. Like, when did that happen? The world’s most nomadic football team has arrived in hell.

When I was in California they were the Oakland Raiders. From, kind’a, Oakland. But they moved in the early 80s to become the Los Angeles Raiders. Just like that. You support a team your whole life and they fucking move 400 miles away. And LA already had a team, the Rams. Though everyone hated the Rams, mainly because they played their matches in Anaheim, rather than LA itself. So the Rams then moved away and became the St Louis Rams. Where everyone loved them and they won loads of super bowls and jewellery and stuff. Then they moved back to LA. Which was no longer a problem as the Raiders had, by then, moved back to their ‘spiritual home’ of Oakland. Ahhh, that’s nice. Except this year they moved on to Vegas to join the hustlers, pimps and gangsters in the desert.

Could you move Manchester United to Cornwall and get away with it?

Well, in that single and specific case you probably could. Because there’s probably more Man U fans around Exeter than in Lancashire. But Liverpool? Can you imagine moving Liverpool football club to Brighton?

And I realise that is the fundamental difference between the national games of our two fine nations. Not the games themselves, obviously, but the fans and attitudes. Because fans in the US support a ‘franchise’. The Raiders. The Rams. The Patriots. And may love them wherever they move. The preceding bit, ‘LA’ or ‘New England’ or ‘Cleveland’ can change. Whereas football here is passionately regional. It’s the City or Town that is supported. Which is why we don’t bother with silly attached names like they adopted in rugby. And why it becomes territorial over here, and consequently nasty and violent.

So what happens to Americans whose franchise of choice was the Washington Redskins? They’re still in Washington but woke culture and PC stupidity has now dictated that ‘redskins’ is a prejudicial, inflammatory and not very nice name. So they have become (as I learned in shock last night), The Washington Football Team. Catchy. Clever. Original. So if their franchise moved from Washington their fans would have nothing. Just ‘football team’.

All this because I can’t talk about proper football. Not after the week I’ve had. If I wanted to love a team who take 1 point from 3 matches I’d be an optimistic Arsenal fan.

Happy miserable, rainy, Tier 4 Monday

A xxxxx

It’s the Christmas holidays, innit. And for us, those two words, Christmas and holidays are kind of separated. By several continents. We haven’t done a Christmas in the UK for about 36 years. Because given a choice between spending the time off at home with Auntie Mabel, getting another monogrammed beige cardigan (do I fucking look like Val Doonican???), or lying on a beach in 85 degrees of sunshine sipping Margeritas/daiquiris/sake/beer/ANYTHING, call me old-fashioned but I’ll take the latter. I’ll even take Mel with me because she ‘needs’ sunshine in the winter. And I’m prepared to make that sacrifice. That’s Love!!

But this year we’re going to spend Christmas in Tier 4. And we’re not even having sufficient around to justify a turkey. We’ve ordered three quarters of a chicken instead as there’s only us and Mel’s elderly dad, with whom we share some kind of bubble arrangement or care or something that I’d know properly if I gave a shit about the ever changing rules and regulations.

We’re not even spending ‘the day’ with Lila and Joey!!! Because they’ve gone on holiday. Today. For some rest and relaxation. So let me tell you how that worked out, exactly.

They booked it 2 weeks ago. Bargain. All holidays are bargains, currently, because taking them is too fraught for most to even consider. To wit, 4 days after they booked Boris added Tenerife, their destination, to the list of banned substances. Ok, he didn’t, but he added it to the list of ‘quarantine for 2 weeks upon return’ places. Which is a problem. Cos if L & J can’t go to nursery, mummy and daddy can’t work. Oh. But we can overcome that, short quarantine, take a covid test and then its only one week. Phew. We’re going!!

Then more doubts, more deliberations, more potential problems, but we’re still going!

Yesterday arrived. Tier… FOUR!!! Stay in, go nowhere, no travel, don’t breathe, lock your doors and, notably, no flights!!! Several hours of web-site searching and calls to airlines and resorts later, full of sweat, tears and anxiety… WE CAN GO!!!

And they’ve arrived. Safe and sound at their resort. Which is all inclusive, so even 14 hours of therapy with a team of covid counsellors is free. And needed to get over the preceding fortnight.

Happy holidays

A xxxx

Now this is funny. I went for a walk this afternoon. We went out in the almost sunshine, in Tier 3. But we came back in the pissing down rain, in TIER 4!!!! I mean, that’s fucking Twilight Zone, right there. But other than the weather, is Tier 4 really any different? I’m not sure. Liverpool beat Palace 7 nil, but as that was in Tier 3, will the result be allowed to stand? I think not. Crystal Palace is in London and thus was about to enter the Tier that didn’t exist before 4 o’clock this afternoon, giving Liverpool a decidedly unfair advantage. Not over Palace, no-one cares about them, but over Spurs who, as a consequence of losing at Liverpool in the week and then being in the same Tier as Palace, find themselves 6 points adrift. There should be some kind of furlough scheme for Premiership points lost purely as a result of the virus. I’m going to speak to Rishi Sunak about it.

The only rule I can find about Tier 4 is ‘CHRISTMAS IS BANNED!!!, SANTA SIGHTINGS; SHOOT TO KILL! REINDEER TO BE EATEN ONLY! Which doesn’t really tell me if I can play tennis in the morning, so I will. I can only do so much to stem the virus.

There’s a super irony, or perhaps a lesson to be learned, for anyone sufficiently arrogant or complacent to think that ‘humanity’ is some kind of evolutionary ‘pinnacle’, as if directed, dare I say, by God! Which is bollocks. Evolution simply means the more people reproduce the more copies they make and if environmentally viable, (sufficient food, stable and favourable conditions), the more successful they’ll be.

Well viruses are about a billion years older than Homo sapiens and still going strong, possibly even destroying us as they continue. Which would they be ironic in a different way because viruses can’t live without their ‘host’. Which in this case, is us. So if the virus took over, it would die out too. And then there’ll be nothing. Well, dogs, cats, cows, birds, fish and three-toed sloths. Which would be good for other, non-human viruses but we wouldn’t be here to appreciate it.

I only hope that Spurs are top of the league when that happens.

Happy last Saturday before what used to be Christmas.

A xxxx

So we’re faced with a situation that is not so much merely ‘unprecedented’ as almost ‘unique in the annals of history’. Thus, before we get too harsh on our government (even though they totally fucking deserve it, and more) we must appreciate the horrors of having to face a problem which changes its face daily. Which shape-shifts, alters its course and yet in all guises remains devastating and destructive to our way of life.

I speak, of course, about Brexit. Which, in turn, remains, the most boring, long-winded, ill-conceived love child of Nigel Farage and Boris sodding Johnson. Both of whom will suffer eternity in the fires of hell.

Whereas for those of a much purer, whiter, cleaner spiritual base, we have to take ‘hell’ where we find it. And for me, personally speaking, that place is football. Dante’s 10th level. He supported Fiorentina.

So this is hell.

We (I feel I can include myself in all facets of ‘my’ team, thus the use of the first person) are top of the league. Ok, its a bit precarious, we’re not like 16 points clear with 3 games in hand, we’re more… sort of resting there. Hopefully to stay rather than just keeping it warm for another team. Yet we like it there. It feels nice. I could get used to it. (I’d give at least one of my own limbs to get used to it).

So on the weekend Chelsea, one of the ‘chasing pack’ fucked up. Great news. Manchester City fucked up. Fab. Arsenal fucked up, which was of no consequence for the top of the league whatsoever, I just mention it for fun. And eventually, Liverpool fucked up with a mere draw at Fulham. So that was the weekend to consolidate. Get some breathing space at the top. And ‘all we had to do’ was beat Crystal Palace. But we failed. It didn’t happen. We drew. Thus remained top, level on points but ahead on goal difference, with Liverpool.

Who we play tonight.

To facilitate our way, Chelsea again lost last night and Man City quite honestly just don’t count any longer. Once again leaving our stars perfectly aligned. With a win we put distance between us and ‘the rest’. Not a million mile distance, but something. If we draw we stay top but become vulnerable to Leicester and Southampton who are (unbelievably) our main rivals other than the Scousers.

And that is my definition of ‘hell’. When all is in place and we ‘just’ have to…

HELP MEEEEEEE!!!

A xxx

… about Mesut Ozil.

Not: because he earns 340k per (fucking!!!!) week and doesn’t play at all. (Arsenal’s problem is my joy and pleasure).
Not: because he’s an inflammatory fucker who left the German team due to alleged ‘racism’ after he posed in a photo with President Erdoğan, the horrendous, undemocratic, abusive, restrictive, nasty, shitty boss of Turkey. Germans? Racist? Never heard that one before.
Not: because he has a reputation for footballing excellence which is only ever deployed against Wigan, Leyton Orient and Shrewsbury, on the domestic front, the Faro Islands, Madagascar and Fiji in internationals. Against any decent team he hides for 90 minutes or until substituted.
Not: because he was either never taught to tackle or feels it beneath a man of his stature (5 foot 3) to deploy such a clumsy and lowly tactic.

But because he just avoided a driving ban.

Was traveling at 97 on the motorway in his G-wagon. To his credit, he admitted his guilt straight away (like he could deny it with 13 speed cameras and 47 policemen witnessing). But then came his ‘mitigating circumstances’.

Firstly, ‘I was thinking in kilometres, not miles’. I mean… I mean… how is that a fucking excuse? ‘I’m too stupid to realise that Luton is part of England and not in the Sudetenland’.

Secondly, that he ‘needs his car for work every day’. Why? He doesn’t play football any more, why does he need to be there?

Thirdly, that he’d otherwise have to use public transport and with coronavirus…
Like for 17 million quid a year, he can’t afford an Uber? In fact in its current state he could probably afford to buy Transport for London. Save the tax-payer a fortune.

And lastly, that he has a non-driving wife and a little baby. That was when the judge started tearing up and asked for the Kleenex. Just before fining him £1000. Holy shit! A thousand (English, in case Mesut was wondering) pounds!!! No ban, a few points and a grand.

He should be imprisoned. In Germany, after we deport him. Or better still, in Turkey. For his very own Midnight Express experience.

Does make you wonder though, in those lovely moments when considering Arsenal’s results and corresponding league position, why they don’t actually try playing their most expensive player. Just, like, for, kind’a, 10 minutes. See how it goes. It really couldn’t make things any worse, could it?

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

It’s deal day. For some, fairly arbitrary it must be said, reason, today is deal or no deal day for Brexit. Either we skulk away into self-imposed isolation never to eat a croissant again, or we skulk away into self-imposed isolation eating croissants which cost £320 and can only be made with produce sourced at a fair (European Union) price, baked by (European Union) approved bakers whose contract of employment has been ratified by some nonce from Belgium. Or a tosser from Latvia. Obviously the insulting of Europeans will have to stop as from December 31st if we do get ‘a deal’. In case of war.

I don’t know why tomorrow is too late when, for my money (and it is MY FUCKING MONEY!!!, and yours), all this deal avoidance could have taken place any time within the last 3 years at least giving transport companies the time to get 426 lorries into the queue at Dover and to build a few more shipping containers, which are in short supply where they’re needed (ie: China) whilst they’re stockpiled in every British port, empty.

Here’s a Christmas quiz for you. You have 19 minutes to complete it:
Make a sentence which must include these words and phrases, and hand it in at your local Coronavirus test centre before Tuesday at noon.

Boris
Brewery
Piss up
If his life depended on it
Couldn’t
Fucking (x3, at least)

Neatness WILL count towards your final mark in the event of a tie-break.

There’s no way we will get any deal whatsoever, even one not worth having. It would be politically suicidal for Boris to agree to anything whatsoever which might be construed as ‘giving up our sovereignty’, however minor such sacrifice might be. Because he and his band of far righters have always and only really wanted simple and total dislocation. The rest was so much posturing and appeasing to the 49% of us who thought leaving to be the most stupid thing since… since Chamberlain thought Hitler might get better with time.

I don’t ever go fishing. It’s boring. I leave my fishing to the French. Who love it so much that 85% of fishes caught in UK waters are eaten in Paris and Toulouse, Montpellier and Biarritz. Presently, and for a further 15 days, they pay us nothing for this privilege. But as of 1st of Jan we can charge them what they want. Cod and… chips, peas, mash, cod and everything will be off the menus and they’ll just have to eat more horses instead. Fucking savages.

Because to keep the fishing rights they need to give us trade agreements. Which they’re happy to do, as long as every box in every trade, for every worker and company and every deal, is according to strict EU terms. If not, for now and into an unlimited future, we may be liable for tariffs and fines imposed. Motherfuckers.

And, much as I’d love to blame it on that little shit Macron, on the big lump Merkel, on Barniers, Von Der whassername and all. I actually think this one’s on Boris. Who, despite making unlimited noises for 36 months, has never wanted any deal worthy of the name.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

Here’s some breaking news!!! If you bang your head repeatedly against a really hard object (brick wall, wooden floor, heavy old football, car door, someone’s fist or an 18 stone prop forward), its going to fuck up your head. Holy shit!!! Who’d’a known that????

I’m not making light of head injuries, they are horrible. And for those suffering from long term concussive blows, like boxers, like footballers and certainly like rugby players, the future is not looking great.

This week Kenny Sansom has been confirmed with Alzheimer’s. A footballer, even though he only played for Arsenal. Possibly just ‘random’, because at about 60 there is a percentage of the general population who do develop this horrible disease. But coming after Geoff Astle and Jackie Charlton and now brother Bobby, a pattern starts to emerge which is somewhat at odds with expected probabilities.

Boxing has long been under scrutiny, as should any sport where ‘victory’ comes in the form of a serious concussion. What we call ‘a knockout’.

And now rugby player (and brilliant World Cup winner) Steve Thompson has been diagnosed at 42 years of age, with ‘early onset dementia’. Probably caused by Chronic traumatic encephalopathy, which is, basically, getting beaten around the head every day for several decades. The poor man now has no recollection whatsoever of that glorious day in 2003 when he, Johnny Wilkinson, Matt Dawson and me (vital role in my lounge) won that World Cup final in Australia.

What’s doubly cruel is that so many old Spurs players can still remember every match, every loss, every tragic disappointment and every failure over entire careers.

But rugby has ‘beefed up’. No more 5 foot 9, 10 stone weaklings. Only BIG boys need apply. Heavyweights but blessed with lightweight speed. Thus tackles now involve earth-shaking collisions at amazing speeds. The scrum has been softened in that no longer do the front rows ‘engage’ with a mighty fucking crash. But still… but still…

In America the NFL suffered a massive class action lawsuit about ‘neglect’ of players who ended up permanently injured or brain-damaged. But that’s America. Litigation Central. Cynics (errrr… that’ll be me then) can’t help wondering whether those players would have heeded health warnings before they signed their multi-million pound a year contracts to play.

Rugby is not a rich sport like Gridiron. And if it changed sufficiently to remove injury potential it would no longer be rugby. Same with boxing. And this is not America where someone is always ‘to blame’. No-one signs up to early onset dementia, it is possibly the worst thing ever. But similarly, no-one plays top level rugby without appreciating its inherent dangers.

I had lunch one day with Ledley King, one of the Spurs Gods. He’s lovely. And has no knees left, so to speak of. No cartilage in any knee-like region. He’ll doubtless be plagued and debilitated by this more with each and every year. But would he sue? Sue Spurs? Sue the League?? No. Because he chose to play and chose to continue playing when any common sense would have dictated otherwise. His choice. Bless him.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

Look, I never wanted to be a tv critic, but as this dire, dreadful, despicable disease destroys and devastates, causing death and destruction and… diarrhea? (sorry, needed a ‘d’ word), then I’m given time to observe televisual entertainment, provided for the masses because its cheaper than giving us all drugs, in a way I’d never previously had time for. 

And our latest ‘fix’, now that all the marrying Australians have divorced each other, was Queen’s Gambit.  Have you seen? If you haven’t, then put down your phone/pad/pc/sexbot right now and watch it. Because there’s never been a better little series, ever, in the entire history of… of Netflix. And other than Match of the Day, on all of tv, ever!! 

Its about a girl. That’s controversial in itself. I normally only watch programs with boy heroes. Yet this girl is controversial. Because…  (pause for drama) she plays chess!!! Which, apparently, in the late 1950s and early 60s, women weren’t allowed to do. At least, weren’t encouraged to do. Obviously due to biological constraints and differences. Rooks can be heavy. Or due to social standards and appropriate behaviour as bishops can be phallic (ever seen The Thomas Crown Affair???). Or possibly due to the other biological fact that women aren’t really clever enough to be involved in such cerebral activity. I’m makin’ no judgments, just sayin’ like they did in 1961. 

The girl is definitely odd. But her oddness just grows on you throughout the series until you’re truly madly deeply in love with her. Even when she takes a knight with her pawn when she should have exchanged queens. But this isn’t about chess. Although, its all about chess. Because its about attitudes, its about amazing fashion, wonderful cars, superb cities (although according mein Berliner daughter: ‘it was all filmed in Berlin!’) and it definitely about the revenge of the woman scorned. Scorned by her parents, by society and by her own sheer weirdness. OMG its wonderful. 

But as its finished I have to be thinking forward. Like a shark, I must keep on moving. Well, keep on changing channel, possibly. Movement optional. And I want to see the Tottenham documentary on Amazon. Which I admit, for any ‘normal’ person, switching to a tv network that is installed on their tv, would not be a massive problem. Yet, for a superstar techno-spaz, it can be challenging. But I got there in the end. And in Tottenham  Hotspur; all or nothing, I think I’ve found my next big love. Yes, I am that fickle. 

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

When Mauricio Pochettino was sacked by Spurs I was devastated. And later, that very same day, when Jose Morinho was appointed new manager, I was… even more devastated. Distraught. It was ‘the worst day of my life’ (pre-covid). It was ‘the end’.

Well, ‘the end’ ended yesterday. And has metamorphasised into a new beginning. As even the most die-hard, stick-in-the-mud, obsessive, resistant-to-change, Spurs-flamboyance devotee (that’ll be me then), has ‘seen the light’. The Morinho light. And now, like the team, like players and fans of all the clubs he has so successfully managed, I’m starting to get it. Because it is working. And never has the Morinho way been exemplified better than it was yesterday against Arsenal. We’d seen it against Manchester City, seen it working well. We endured it against Chelsea. And yesterday the Morinho Method was definitively deployed against Arsenal. Who are either haplessly inept or simply made to look so by a tactician so masterful, and a team so ‘on message’, that if it had been anyone but the Arse I’d have felt embarrassed for them.

Here’s a statistic for you. Remember, only football statistics have any validity. Morinho has managed Premier teams 11 times who have ended with less than 30% possession. And won 9 of those games. Drawn 1, lost 1, if you’re interested.

Thus his preferred method of play is ideally suited for Arsenal. A team who, in every match, have more possession, more shots on goal, more passes, crosses, more fucking EVERTHING, without ever actually scoring a goal. They’re so busy admiring their elegant passing and flowing moves that they can’t actually be worried about something so trivial as ‘end product’.

I described such a method as footballing masturbation when deployed by Man City the other week. Arsenal have elevated it to become the absolute ultimate wankers in the League. Bless ‘em.

Mikel Arteta is obsessed with crossing the ball. That’s all they do. Very un-Arsenal, but that’s his plan. So Arsenal yesterday produced 34 crosses. Better than the 30 last weekend when they also lost. They cross the ball without having any attackers capable of heading it. Spurs 2, then later 3, centrebacks, all big boys, had just no problem clearing every single one.

But the defend, defend, defend plan only works if you can produce something at the other end. Otherwise every game ends up at nil nil like last the Chelsea one. And there is currently no strike pair on the same planet at Son and Kane. Obviously aided and abetted by a host of other talent, but more ‘planet Earth’ talent. Those two turn 1 point into 3, week in, week out. If either gets injured, we’re fucked, but for the time being 30% possession feels like just where I want to be. Oh, and top of the table, I almost forgot (AS IFFFFFF!!!!!!)

Happiest Monday ever

A xxxx

Roald Dahl was an anti Semite. He wasn’t a neo-nazi, wasn’t really politically affiliated at all. Didn’t hold extremist views, wasn’t a ‘white supremicist’, he just didn’t like Jews. Any of them. He didn’t know me, specifically, but he wouldn’t have liked me if he had done. On principle. Not the principle that I’m not a very nice person, but the other one, that I’m a member of ‘that club’. That ‘tribe’.

Oddly, I really like him. As a writer. And having read virtually everything the man wrote, often repeatedly, again and again as the kids (when they were kids) went through their James & the Giant Peach phase, or their Matilda phase, or The Twits, and even through the critical hypersensitivity of knowing the author was an anti Semite, there are no tropes, no references, no allusions to anything of that type in any of his work.

Dahl was no Jeremy Corbyn. Because he admitted openly his dislike of the Chosen People. Whereas Corbyn proclaimed (and is still proclaiming) his innocence whilst doing everything short of nuking Stamford Hill or organising his own pogrom.

The Dahl family have in fact published an apology. Sincere and heart-felt. As this version of Jew-hate was so out of character with a man so brilliant and cuddly. Even though his ‘kids books’ are all exceptionally dark and sinister, they are also exceptionally funny and clever.

The apology is, apparently, buried quite deep in the Roald Dahl website. You have to search quite hard to find it. Adhering to the theory that when something wrong or bad is published, it is a banner headline, but the apology is at the foot page 17, just under the article about the birth of a new panda in Xendong.

Dahl actually stated in an interview that Hitler might have had a point. You really can’t get more antisemitic than that.

But Alexa can.

Yes, everyone’s favourite link to music, news, weather reports and the Chinese secret service has been accused of antisemitism too. And with good reason. Because if you ask her loaded questions about ‘Jews controlling the media’ or ‘the protocols of the elders of Zion’, she will find an answer that google selects for her on the closest available website. Which is often www.nazis-live.com or www.no-bagels-for-me.net. Or she stalks the dark web for extremist right wing answers. Like Donald Trump does.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Alexa’s a bitch. I just wish I could bring myself to hate Roald Dahl, but I find it difficult. Particularly when reading Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

He remains my absolute favourite anti Semite.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx