Andy's Glasses

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

Last night was a pivotal moment in the whole pandemic world. Because Mel & I, after putting it off for almost an entire year, decided to go ‘the full British (in lockdown)’. We decided to get… a take-away!!! Holy shit, you think, we get those every day/twice a week/every Saturday/whatever, but you see, we don’t. We don’t in non-Covid and we didn’t start once it all went on, and on, and on. We’ve had about 3 in the last year. All Thai, from our fave little local place. Because Mel loves it and I’m happy just to support those smiling people.

It’s not a snob thing, not getting take-aways, its not a dietary consideration (heaven forbid), its just kind’a, under our radar. And also there are conceptual problems.

For me, the words ‘take away’ are just synonymous with ‘get a curry’. Why on earth would anyone ever eat anything else, given the option? Firstly, I love curry. Secondly, I love curry. Thirdly, I love chilli. Fourthly I love curry. And fifthly… there is no fifthly. It’s a horrible word to even say.

Mel doesn’t like curry. She hates chilli, pepper, paprika, anything ‘hot’. She wants ‘extra bland’, as Sanjeev Bhaskar once brilliantly put it. So we could order the ‘Heston Blumenthal take-away extravaganza’ for about 600 quid, then cook it ourselves (snail porridge won’t make itself, ya know!), or the ‘pretentious fucking eaterie special’ for 350 quid (including service). Or we could get a curry. For 20 quid. Hmmmm…

And Mel was IN! Every now and again, either due to the guilt of husband deprivation or perhaps its something lunar, she wants, or is prepared to eat, a curry. I was on the case before you could say ‘Uber eats’. And it was 20 quid, and it was a fucking feast. And wonderful. And because its so low in calories we washed it down with cold beers (what else), we had joined the British nation.

Then it got better. We ‘binged’. We actually watched 2 tv programs, like, one after the other. With only 3 stops to make tea and do wee-wees in between. I know, that’s not a ‘binge’ by normal standards, but we’re trying. And then… then we did some of the hardest jigsaw puzzling ever, to the accompaniment of Married at First Sight, Australia. Because for this puzzle, you need the inspiration which only tattooed Aussie morons can bring.

What a night! Fucking wild!!!!!

Happy (should be) hungover Sunday

A xxxx

OMG!! The Queen has… she’s… well, Harry and Megan have been… they’re… errrr… excommunicated! Severed! Unroyaled! F’rever!!! And I simply don’t know if I can go on without them being… well, being royal. But they are. He’s a fucking Prince; how much more royal can you get???? And yet, there are protocols. There are issues. There are standards. Which define royalty. Which is why commoners like you find it all total and utter meaningless bollocks, whereas to anyone with a title, its really, really, REALLY important. Some inbred Earl up in Worcestershire has just moved up to 1297th in line to the throne. That’s important.

Her Majesty has in a way shot herself in her royal foot. Maybe that’s why she has footmen? Because now ‘there aren’t sufficient royals to go round’. Every regiment has to have a ‘patron’. Which is basically one of the Royals dressed up with a chest full of medals they didn’t earn, twice a year when the big guns come out. Literally. And now Harry and Meg have been ‘stripped’ of their patronages. Harry can still dress up as a Marine because he is one. Or was one. Or retired from; either way, he’s still allowed to stroll down Hollywood Boulevard in full battle dress. Where he’ll hardly even be noticed among the Darth Vaders, Harry Potters, Indiana Joneses, Buzz Lightyears and assorted and sundry drag queens. Meg can… well whatever she likes. No change there.

So I think the Queen should compensate for this loss of manpower by making me a royal. I’m perfectly qualified in that Lila gave me a spare tiara. From her Sleeping Beauty outfit. And wearing that I do feel unquestionably empowered. Positively regal. And I could take some of the strain, fill the void left by Hazza & Megga, inspect a few soldiers, check out a few boats, nod at a passing General. I wouldn’t even need a motorcade to get there. I’d go on my bike. Save a fortune. And all I want in return is a couple of old palaces, an antique carriage adapted to be pulled by Tibetan schoolchildren, (seen the cost of horses?) and ridiculously long-winded and overblown title, like the other Royals all have. Is that too much to ask?

Harry and Meg made a simple choice: continued patronage of the 917th Fusiliers or a contract with Netflix. No doubt which will raise their profile higher. And as Harry’s profile is unlikely ever to adorn a stamp, they’ve probably made the right choice.

Happy Saturday

The 97th Baron of Rutlandshire, patron of the Pretorian Guard, slayer of Olaf the Incorrigible, First Lord of the Rungs, Earl of Grey, Lucasian Professor of Aardvark studies at Peckham Poly…

Xxxx

Having so flippantly mentioned the other day about ‘going to Mars’, it would appear, as usual, that everyone is now jumping on my bandwagon. Mars is the place to be. It does in fact seem that Jezero Crater is the ‘new San Tropez’. It is New York for the next millennium. Everyone’s going there. And yesterday, ‘we’ landed. In fact, not merely ‘landed’ but fucking nailed it!! The most difficult landing in Martian landing history (all 3) and it went like a dream. The probability of that happening by chance is as remote as that of Mel parallel parking first time outside Brent Cross. Though to be fair, you don’t have to re-enter the atmosphere in Hendon. Nor travel 100 million miles to get there (though some of us wish you did, then you’d never have to go). 

This photo is rather funny. For those  of you unfamiliar with the work of the Chabad organisation, they are the Jewish equivalent of the St John’s Ambulance (spritual branch only) and McDonalds. Chabad is a charity which arranges kosher stuff for those traveling to far away places. So you don’t  need it in Golders Green. Even though they are there. But should you go to, f’rinstance, Patagonia or the Meekong Delta or even Edinburgh, and you’re there, in the middle of the wilderness, starving hungry BUT not prepared to forsake the laws of kashrut, then ‘Chabad will provide’. If they ain’t there, they’ll send it there. For those of us prepared, in times of crisis (that’ll be mealtimes) to forsake such requirements, we never need Chabad. But for those who care about such things? Its brilliant. Anywhere you go in the world, you’re never more than 3 minutes from a man with a black hat holding a pre-wrapped, Beth Din certified meal. Hence; Mars.

So NASA arrived yesterday, Elon Musk craves settling there and the Emirates space craft is just weeks away from the Red Planet too. Where they already have plans for a 3,000 room, 97-storey, 7-star hotel. With a submarine to take you to the underwater restaurant. For when they fill the crater back to its former glory. Even though there’s no actual ‘water’, as such, on Mars. Just lots of  places where water used to be, millions of years ago. But those Emiratis don’t agonise over mere details. They’ve ordered 47 trillion bottles of Evian. Initially. 

Spurs play in Europe; massive win; Bale unplayably wonderful; Fabulous result.

I’m livin’ in 2012!! I was happy in 2012. So that’s all brilliant. And we won 4-1 at Wolfsberger. Well, not, like, actually ‘there’ because Austria has been officially closed due to covid so they played in Hungary. But still, those 4 still count as ‘away goals’ which, in Europe, as we know, are actually 8 goals. That’s impressive. I couldn’t be happier if Arsenal got relegated.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

Where ya goin’ fer yer ‘oliday, then?
Oh, I’m going to Dubai for a week, got a mega-deal, 965 quid including flights, meals, masks, tests, PPE and hospitalisation if required (ventilator option, add £225), and THEN, we’re gonna have 10 days in Heathrow for just 1750 quid. Plus meals. Or actually, plus the same meal every day. Plus two tests at 150 quid each. Plus any psychiatric help you might need after spending 10 days in a 12 foot square, windowless box looking out of a sealed window at where the planes would normally be taking off.
I’m really looking forward to it.

Ok, so you’re not actually allowed to ‘go on holiday’, not under the Boris dictatorship. I can see why. I get it. I really do. And to be honest, wild horses couldn’t drag me away. Or wild drag-artists couldn’t horse me away (LGBTQI joke, if they’re allowed), but I’ll keep my personal fantasies private, for the moment. And if I went away, where would I go? I crave freedom. So I could go to Burma. Hong Kong maybe. North Korea. All offer way more freedom than we currently enjoy in the world’s oldest democracy. And I’m not getting all Piers Corbyn about this (GOD FOR-FUCKING-BID!!!) or Jonathan Sumption, because once invoked, the C-word (covid… or coronavirus), suspends normality, reality and, quite often, sensibility. But that’s the world we’re living in, we have no other. Until Elon Musk sorts out Mars for us. 

And we’re not booking holidays for this year either. Yet. Its all too precarious. Too fraught. Too subject to last minute changes of a rather restrictive, punitive and ‘orrible nature. I’ll be happy enough when they let me back on the tennis courts. In (hopefully) just a few weeks’ time!!! That’ll feel like a holiday. An hour’s holiday. More than enough. Even though I could do with a week on a beach somewhere. Socially distancing, which is the only way to do ‘beach’ anyway. And a trip to see the babe in Berlin would be nice, but… but… but…

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Dateline Saturday, 13th Feb 2021

So we’re eagerly awaiting the ‘match of the season’ at 5.30 tonight. Spurs at Manchester City. Perfect time. Just after my afternoon tai chi session (online, obvs., that’s why my iPad keeps getting new screens after I punch the old ones out) but early enough in case we… errrr… need to… want to… well, its early enough. Liverpool had already lost at Leicester after the latest in goalkeeper, Allison’s, ongoing competition to see how many goals he can gift away in just one week!!! Prizes for everyone.

But we don’t care about Liverpool. Even Jurgen Klopp doesn’t care about Liverpool. He’s given up the title chase (as if) and therefore can probably count the days before he’s sacked.

We care about Spurs. Don’t WE???

And how hard can it be to go to the Etihad and simply thrash those upstart Manc mercenaries? As we showed at Spurs, earlier in the season, beating them 2-nil really comfortably, really easily, really… whatever. Not like much has changed between then and now, has it?

Well, only 2 things really. The first is that City have won all 15 of their subsequent matches. (As we have to say:) in all competitions. We had got the last of their shitty spell, which saw them in the bottom half of the table. And now they are unplayably brilliant.

And the second thing that’s happened is that my team has gone to shit. Whether Morinho’s plan is failing or just player apathy/uncoordination/covid I don’t know. What I do know is that I only watch matches between the fingers of both hands held in front of my eyes. Our attacking lacks the potency of the early part of the season. Our ‘wall’ of defence has turned to wet paper. Even Lloris has gone back to ‘liability’ again. As he does every now and again. Not up to Allison’s standards but few are.

Yet the thing about football which we all (apparently) love is its sheer unpredictability. The fact that records concerning a string of wins will be broken sometimes. As there’s as much chance of Burnley breaking it as Chelsea. So I remained optimistic. Because ‘anything can happen’. Right? We’ve got Harry Kane, FFS, he can do magic.

Timeline Sunday 14th Feb 2021

Happy fucking Valentines fucking Day

A xxxx

And long, long ago, at a time when no humans were around, our entire world was one complete land-mass. All the continents stuck together… for warmth. Like a brood of puppies all the nations clung to each other. This was in the days before mobile phones were invented. In fact it was 335 million years ago. The European Union wasn’t so powerful back then and America wasn’t… wasn’t America. There was just a fucking great lump called Pangaea. No-one had to ask ‘where you from, then?’ Not that there was any ‘one’ to ask. But there were creatures. Lots and lots of creatures. Big ones. With teeth. Not friendly. Roaming round looking for trouble. Well, looking for food. Which, if you were a smaller animal, pretty much did equate to ‘trouble’. And then, 175 million years ago, the continents started to drift apart. To move around the globe. It was too crowded. Noisy neighbours. So with the tectonic plates drifting round, the continents slowly went to their rightful places. Where the animals continued to evolve, but now in separate and completely dissociated environments. Leaving us with what we call ‘animals’ and Australia filled with what are known as ‘marsupials’. It just happened. God did it. He decided that because Aussies were going to be really outdoorsy, active type people, their animals should have inbuilt ruck-sacks/papooses.

And that’s why Australians today are so different from ‘us’. From normal people. We evolved from normal mammals, like monkeys, and they came from kangaroos. And I’m not making any judgments, but who would win a game of chess? A high thinking primate or Skippy the Bush Kangaroo?

It also explains why Married at First Sight, Australia, is filled with total dimwits. Who answer any and every question with ‘oh, 100 percent, mate, 100 percent’.

And also explains why the chairman of KPMG had to quit this week. Not just because he’s an Aussie, but pretty much because he’s an Aussie. A people who tend, like animals, to react to only what they can see or hear, what they can kick or punch, what they can eat or barbecue. The concept of ‘concepts’ is a bit beyond them. Which is why Bill Michael stated that ‘there’s no such thing as unconscious bias’, in a video conference to his company. No-one can have some subtle (or not so subtle) reaction to races, colours, religions, on an inner level. No such thing. According to Bill. What he didn’t follow up with was: ‘even a sodding Abo knows that!’ But only because he pulled himself up.

There is an argument to be made that all non-indigenous Aussies descend from European stock. Ok, criminal stock, but European criminals. And its a fairly good argument. But you wouldn’t want it to spoil a good story.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx