Andy's Glasses

I come to bury the Essix Gels stereotypical image, not to praise it. But while I’m here I might as well clear the air? No. Possibly just use an example of the terrible injustices perpetrated on the maidens (not in any virginal sense, trust me) of that county. Merely to show you how terrible the implications have become so I can tell you how they should and must be banished. So here’s a joke. My favourite- NO, the most awful Essex girl joke, but typical of many.

What does an Essex girl say after sex?
“Do you all play for the same team?”

And that is just terrible! And must be stopped. Thus the Oxford English Dictionary, no less, is breaking with centuries of tradition and changing an entry. Normally, as words change over generations through nuance and context, they simply add. But for Essex Girls they’re actually going to remove the bit that says, basically and in OED-speak, that they’re all slags. Very generous of the OED. They’re probably leaving the bits about whining, dressing as slappers, being thick, stupid and talking loudly, because they’re perfectly acceptable? They’re accurate??

And this is a subject very close to my heart as I grew up in Essex. And as my heart is only about 2 feet from my penis, Essex Girls were that close to my heart for most of my ‘adolescent years’. The OED doesn’t mention the terrible ‘estuary’ accent, the glottal stops, dropped Hs and witch-like cackling but you only need to watch ‘The only way is Essex’ to fully appreciate the nature of the beast. Not that they’re all beasts, lots are real babes. At least until they start speaking.

So whilst this whole topic really is way beneath my normal standards of equality and diversity and positively reeks of misogynistic sexism, for which I can only apologise on behalf on the total bastards who first did the whole ‘Essex girl’ thing, the female inhabitants of my favourite home county, and the one with which my cricketing devotions lie, deserve a better press. A better reputation. A mere mention of your home town should not invite scorn, derision and possibly rape. However earned it might be. Some Essex girls are delightful, demure, puritanical, speak ‘RP’, dress neatly and spend hardly any time sitting in a gutter in Romford with their mates holding their hair back as they vomit.

We must all join ‘snapping the stilleto’, (“snappin’ da stilleh-oh”), the organisation intent on protecting this vulnerable group of women, and make every endeavour to stamp out ‘Essexism’ as I shall now call it. It’s wrong. Like all ‘-isms’. Except perhaps modernism. Dadaism. Whatever.

Je suis Essix girl, innit!!!

A xxxx

I used that title in a pure act of word association. Eton… mess? Eton… nothing. Only ‘mess’ and rifles. Brilliant song by the Jam in about nineteen seventy-something during Paul Weller’s ‘angry phase’. Which has so far lasted for over 40 years, and counting.

Anyway… so as I mentioned previously, Eton have sacked a teacher for offering an alternative ‘perspective’ about sexism in a class about ‘perspectives’. Thus begging the question: why would you have a class in such an illuminating and open, gloves-off kind of paradigm if you then censor it? But this is Eton. Who the fuck knows what they do and why.

The sacked teacher, very contrary (and controversial) to any kind of wokism (immediately elevating him in my eyes) proposed that the patriarchal nature of society and in fact societies, is rooted in pure biology. Holy shit!!!! You can’t say that!!! Your wife’ll beat the crap out’a you for less. Again; he didn’t believe or condone such a sentiment but its kind’a out there and thus should or could be discussed. It’s called attacking a straw man and was there to invite thought and disagreement.

Everyone knows that the ‘biological superiority’ of men begins and ends with throwing a ball and pissing out of car windows (for Dom). That’s it. In some biological traits women are greatly superior. Having babies springs to mind. Engaging in meaningful lesbianism is another. And ironing. I’m not prepared to talk about football at this juncture in case I get sacked from Eton for doing so.

Having a proper debate is always and only a good thing. Unless discussing something I can’t stand, then I’ll listen to no arguments whatsoever. But otherwise, it is enlightening, it is engaging and it is definitely educational.

But Eton is (apparently? allegedly??) so woke and open minded that its mind is totally closed to anything else. PARTICULARLY, it would appear, where blatant sexism is concerned. Possibly other forms of equality too, but that noble institution has a zero tolerance for such outdated and outmoded and unzeitgeisty thoughts, even just to make a point.

And all this from a college that has never and probably will never admit girls. Which makes the entire episode set my teeth on edge. But in a good way.

Happy Friday

I know, its late, I’ve become very sporadic, but sometimes even I get busy.

A xxxx

Any American people reading this: close the page now. You simply won’t get what follows. (I’d normally include those northern Americans, what they called?… errr… oh yeah, Canada-people, in that generalisation because they share their sports, but the only Canuck likely to read this, actually and controversially, will get it).

Yesterday’s nil-nil draw at Chelsea was brilliant.

There. I’ve said it. A Spurs fan drooling over a goalless draw. I’ve been Morinho-ized. Taken away from my lifelong values of ‘beautiful football at any cost’, of ‘I’d rather lose 4-0 playing with superlative style than draw 1 all as pragmatists’, even ‘but the game needs luxury players, though never more than 6’.

Yet its one thing to have a manager who not only likes to park his bus but more importantly knows precisely how and where it must be parked. It’s quite another to appreciate the genius that is Jose Morinho when you were weened on Jimmy Greaves and Glen Hoddle and Paul Gascoine and David Ginola and a host of ‘mavericks’ who liked to leave the pitch at the end with clean boots.

Frank Lampard grew up, as a player if not totally as a person, under Morinho’s guidance. They know each other. And Lampard’s team are good and score lots of goals, like we normally do. Yet the stalemate endured. Because it was more important to not lose than to win. Not by agreement, not by design, but just out of necessity.

So to the ‘neutrals’ watching the match, it was probably a disappointment that two of the most impressive attacking teams in the country couldn’t find the net between them. But what went on during those 95 minutes was probably much more impressive. The concentration and work required was immense. The desire to push up constantly into walls of defenders. The sheer resilience shown was fantastic. And I say that realising I sound like an Arsenal fan when George Graham was in charge there.

Without getting smug about this, any draw which keeps us top of the table can only be a good thing. For Spurs. For the Premier League. For the world. And beyond.

Bizarrely and unusually for a match between Spurs and Chelsea, it was played in really good spirits. No violence. No brawls. No red cards. Yeah, I missed all that but must look at the big picture here. I’m not saying we could win the league but I’m not saying we can’t. I’m just…

Actually, as I think every day of my life, I’m just happy not to be an Arsenal fan.

Deliriously happy Monday

A xxxx

I love a Prime Minister.

Just, not necessarily this one. But Boris was, in the real world, a journalist and more, a right wing, overly verbose, reactionary, quite eloquent journalist with a penchant for metaphorical references drawn from his degree in classics and his love of history. In other words; he was just made for writing in The Mail. Where you can’t be too right wing or too pretentiously snobby for that rag. So they let him have his own page today. And this, unless some eager sub-editor with a love of Attenborough documentaries penned it, was the ‘heading’. He could have entitled it ‘shit-storm, part 943’, I know I would have. Or even ‘stay calm’ or ‘protect Christmas’ or even ‘Christmas is the new NHS’, but instead he chose to stretch a metaphor invoking beautiful images of animals running free across the African tundra. Because such imagery really resonates with unemployed steel workers from Sunderland. And shielding octogenarians in Croydon.

Boris continues his piece with a reference to the vaccine. ‘Coming to our aid with the morale-boosting, bugle-blasting excitement of Wellington’s Prussian allies on the afternoon of Waterloo’.

Tosser.

I think, in his defence, Boris is stuck in Churchill-land. Someone made that reference and its stuck. So rather than just, kind’a, ‘talking’ to people, he has become Mr Motivator! Mr Uplift!! Mr ‘we’ll fight them on the beaches…’

For future reference, Boris, you can only use metaphors which allude to football or episodes of Britain’s Got Talent. Coronation Street at a push. Otherwise you just sound like some kind of upper class, over-educated, ex-Etonian fat-boy showing off his excessive erudition.

No judgments, just sayin’ is all.

And his old school is not doing so well at the moment either. Eton school sacked a teacher. For being too… well, that’s interesting. Eton has a ‘diversity’ commitment, obviously, they even allow black kids there (only 1) and poor kids (1). But they basically have to pretend to be massively ‘woke’ in all respects. Even though it is very probably the least woke place on the entire planet.

So a teacher put a (covid-era, obvs) video out for those studying ‘perspectives’, a brilliant concept in which they look at established values from (doh) other ‘perspectives’. And this teacher questioned the radical feminist concept of ‘toxic manhood’. Not as a ‘lesson’, not because it’s what he believed, but true to the spirit of ‘perspectives’ he was playing devil’s advocate by questioning the accepted doctrine.

And they sacked him. For being… well, I’m not sure. Not right-on enough. At fucking Eton??? I despair. But then again, desperation seems to be my new norm.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

Tomorrow is a day beyond massiveness. Nothing to do with vaccines. Nothing to do with death, cars, stellar events, black holes or the price of milk. Spurs are playing Chelsea. On the 1000th match of Roman Abramavich’s ownership of that sad and sorry football club. And as a protest against most of the appalling, money-encrusted evils currently being perpetrated against what was a beautiful game, we have to win. For decency. For good. For light. And for GOD!!! Who, like me, would hate Chelsea to win.

Abramovich arrived at Chelsea in 2003, buying them for about a quid because they had so much debt it was almost catastrophic and they’d have gone into administration hell (where many think they rightly belong). Thus the club acquired a cash cow and in return, he acquired a profile sufficiently high that the Russian death squads might deploy their plutonium and their Novichok elsewhere. Which in fact they promptly did, and still are.

You can’t buy success. Except in football. Then its easy, given coffers of sufficient largitude. And few come larger than Abramovich’s. Enriching Chelsea, a team famous for failure, for horribleness and for having the most obnoxious fans in the world. They do respect equality though. Hating all possible skin colours and races and religions with equal loudly shouted aggression and xenophobic nastiness.

The only success all those hundreds of millions have bought have been: 5 league titles, one Champions League, 2 Europa Cups, 5 FA Cups and 3 League Cups. In 17 years. The only amazing thing was that Roman was prepared to wait 2 years for his first silverware. These people rarely show such patience in their investments.

During which period, Spurs, a proper, decent, Godly, tax-efficient, profitable organisation adhering to Fair Play Rules and all things good, have a different ‘haul’ of trophies. Or, trophy, really. The League Cup. 2008. Beating, ironically, Chelsea in the final. Since then Spurs have been ‘resting’ between trophies.

But Abramovich earns a special place in the hierarchy of the hated. Because he set the precedent. After which every Sheikh with a spare couple of billion (doesn’t matter which currency really) had to have a trophy team. Manchester City, Paris St Germain, now even Aston Villa, under ‘new ownership’ they bought a level of success that not only was not earned, but would never have happened without inflating levels of financial input beyond anything decent, moral or, within the pathetically loosely defined ‘rules’ of our game. And worst of all, leaving other teams behind and unable ever to catch up. Without their own ‘benefactor’.

So are we jealous of their trophy cabinet?? Well… no. Fuck ‘em. And their fucking trophies. We need to beat them. And beat them bad. Or good. Depends on…

Happy pre-match build-up

A xxxx

In the winter of 1986, possibly 1987, I dragged Mel skiing. She was never the biggest fan, but a (wo-)man’s gotta do… We skied in Cervinia, fab resort that links over to Zermat from the top of one alp or another. They have a signpost with an Italian flag one way and a Swiss the other. And if you (in those heady, pre-Schengen days) accidentally fell down the Swiss side without your passport and several Swiss Francs you were royally fucked. Because they wouldn’t let you in, nor use the lift to get back without payment, Swiss francs only. If ever there was a reason to distance yourself from Europe, even though the Swiss were never members of ‘that club’, that was it.

However, we flew back from Milan (I think, possibly Turin). And were in ‘international departures’ waiting for our flight home. There was a big glass wall separating us from ‘domestic departures’ so we didn’t have to join all those smelly Italians. And suddenly there was what looked like a riot. As virtually all of our flight went rushing to the ‘wall’ and started shouting and screaming and, I first thought, raising their fists. But on the inevitable closer inspection it turned out that the single occupant, plus standard ‘entourage’, of the domestic lounge was Diego Maradona. He flew in from Rio and was connecting to Napoli, for whom he plied his trade. And the ‘raised fists’ were in reality, obviously, indicators of the handball for his (in)famous ‘hand of God’ goal against England at the World Cup.

And Diego sat there laughing and clapping. He thought it was brilliant. Even though only a glass wall separated him from possible death. Hell hath no fury like 200 cheated footy fans.

In that fateful match, Diego scored 2 goals. Both of which are still talked about. The first because it was a handball and second because it is reputedly ‘the best ever World Cup goal’. Probably making the first ‘the worst ever World Cup goal’.

Am I alone in thinking that first goal, the fateful ‘hand of God’ effort, in fact stands alone as unquestionably the finest goal ever scored? That it showed chutzpah. It showed guile. It showed an intelligence and understanding of the position of the ref, the linesmen, and amazing ability to just simply get away with it. Which, airports of disgruntled fans aside, he bloody did. Whereas the second goal was just about unbelievable skill, incredible ball control, body movement, sensational running and a superb finish when he was almost on his back.

The world has lost a God. Possibly a devil. Is there much of a difference?

Pele was and still is a lovely guy. Lionel Messi seems quiet and content. As you should be for about 20 million a year. And how you rank Diego Maradona in that unquestionable ‘top 3 of all time’ players, he was certainly the most wild, the most unpredictable, the most smiling, shouting, ranting, screaming, drug-crazed, underweight, overweight and definitely interesting of the three. All that often quite horrendous baggage simply added to the legend.

He was a genius. But only with the ball at his feet. Or in his hand.

Farewell Diego.

A xxxx

I’m greatly concerned. About Christmas. And how it will impact on ‘the spread of the virus’, whilst we’re waiting for the vaccines to finalise. Whatever Boris says or doesn’t say, about the festive festivities, folks will do what they choose. Which, in the most part, will be Christmas Normal. But that’s not my worry.

I’m worried about one person. Who has the potential to be the biggest ‘superspreader’ ever. A person who goes from house to house, touching things, leaving things behind, coming into contact with countless surfaces and saying ‘ho, ho, ho’, which produces aerosols, as we all know. Particularly when boomed out loudly. And he’s inherently ‘at risk’ anyway, being overweight verging on morbidly obese.

We must ban Santa Claus.

There’s no alternative. He’s a danger. To himself, to every man woman and child in the country and, most importantly, to me.

The scientists at SAGE have considered countless possibilities; leaving hand sanitizer up on the roof, disinfecting your entire chimney with alcohol wipes and bleach spray, (probably need to send a small child up there for that), having a cleansing station in every hearth in the land, providing bright red masks and gloves in every home. But still the risk is too great. 

Do not let Santa into your home! Your family is at risk!!  Shoot  to  kill!!! (Apparently reindeer do not transmit the virus- Venison et al, 2020). 
Oddly, Boris has made it his mission to ‘give us Christmas’!!! As if nothing else matters in the year of the average English voter. And ironically, virtually everyone they interviewed on the news seemed to disagree. That ‘allowing’ us to ‘enjoy’ Christmas is actually a bad step which will lead to increase in spread, death, pain, closures, blah-blah-blah. Many of us think that any amount of present or future suffering, both physically and economically, is worth it as long as Spurs stay top of the league. I’m inclined to agree with this way of thinking. 

But ‘allowed’? We’re ‘allowed’ to have Auntie Deirdre over for Christmas day?? To be honest. We don’t need fucking permission from anybody. They can make recommendations but ‘allow’?? Without wishing to sound all Peter Hitchens or Giles Corbyn about it; how quickly we’ve embraced the language of total repression and obedience into our lives. 

Be safe, be sensible, but DO WHAT YOU THINK IS RIGHT. All together now: 

We’ll do what we want
We’ll do what we waa-aant
We’re free and democratic sentient beings with the capacity for logical thought and NOT FUCKING SHEEEEEEP!
We’ll do what we want. 

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Ok, so here’s the new, new, NEW rules. Lockdown ends on 2nd December and that IS ENTRENCHED IN LAW!!! And you’ll know Lockdown’s over because 4 shops will open. One in Newcastle, two in Birmingham and one in Berwick-upon-Tweed. Pubs and restaurants will open once more, at midnight, then those in Tier 3 zones (to be announced) will have to close again immediately. Tier ‘3’ has now been upgraded to ‘TOTAL LOCKDOWN!!!!’, status. Tier 2 is much harsher than in the ‘old days’ (October). And Tier 1 is ‘almost normal’. But new normal, so all shops and pubs remain closed and people are banned from… everything. Most importantly, tennis can resume. Which is so significant that the rest of the rubbish becomes totally irrelevant.

And then comes Christmas. During which time, no rules will exist whatsoever. People will gather in vast numbers, hug, embrace and even, apparently, have sex! Parties will gather, 17 of them round a dining table made for 6, observing social distancing. Obviously, no sharing of food. So you’ll need 17 really small, individual turkeys. If I was a pigeon I’d be seriously worried. You can only watch the Queen’s Speech from the garden. And this year, she’ll know. She can see you.

There’s a new book out. In France. Where else? It’s called ‘I hate Men’. So I read it. Then realised that I can’t actually speak French. But enjoyed it anyway. And it works because I hate men too now. You simply have to after reading how awful we all are. Bastards, the lot of us. All that privilege, all that patriarchy, its appalling.

But much as the current students at Edinburgh University aren’t and never have been complicit in the slave trade, even though the university is shamed by it, current men are… just men. We never chose to be men and other than very few, we put up with our lot and try to live as good a life as our testicles permit. And we are all products of our upbringing. Where ‘rules’ and norms become absorbed without thought. And by the time we can think about them, we’re ‘corrupted’ by parents who were indoctrinated in a less enlightened time.

The world is changing. Generation by generation. Apparently in some countries women are allowed to vote! Though according to Trump, in America so can dead people and others who’ve never lived there. And glass ceilings are coming down. Finland now has a virtually women-only government. Their prime minister is a serious babe. Oops. Alas these things take time. I’m not to blame for the world being inherently patriarchal and I’d slap any female who says otherwise. But I’m trying.

True equality can only be reached when women’s football is as good as men’s.

Yours enlightendly,

A xxx

You don’t need to have read many of my little notelets to appreciate that I hold the entire statistical world, industry, profession, whatever vaulted title you wish to bestow upon it, in total and absolute fucking contempt. It’s all bollocks. Furthermore it is very biased bollocks. And very prejudicial, which is its purpose. To prejudice the unsuspecting statistics reader (are there such people?) into the view of those who have paid for the analysis to occur. If, by some amazing failure of the numerists to actually achieve the desired outcome, then that data would simply never be published.

There is but one exception to the ‘all statistics is bollocks’ rule. And that is football. Where, should you care to replay entire matches in slo-mo, you can count all the passes that Manchester City (just f’rexample, nothing significant there) made in a match. You could plot your own ‘heat map’ of how many chances in the opponents penalty area, the combined strike team of the most expensive side ever produced could fuck up and squander.

But really, your time would be better spent in awe and wonder at the glory and splendour of (eg) a Tottenham performance.

To demonstrate this, I’ll pick a random game… hmmmm… so many to choose from… let’s say, Spurs vs City, last night, at the Lane, 5.30. Just randomly. By chance. Plucked out’a thin air.

Manchester City were dominant. Created no less than 55 chances on goal. Fifty-fucking-five (having a ‘f’ day today). That’s fairly fluent in frequency and indeed creativity. Spurs, on the other hand, at the other end perhaps, created a mere 4. City had 98% of possession. Passed the ball 3,872 times and enjoyed 27 corners. Spurs made 6 passes. (Some of these figures may suffer from slight exaggeration due to exuberance).

But they all fucking counted.

Passing the ball around in that very ‘Pep way’ is actually footballing masturbation. Mildly gratifying, gets you nowhere, feels great at the time but is unrewarding and unsatisfying. With definitely no happy ending for City as the wankers (ha, ha, haaa…) lost 2 nil.

Spurs, on the other hand, won 2 nil. Don’t need a computer for that one.

The team, MY team, were simply magnificent. All of them. The ‘usual suspects’ of Kane and Son were as remarkably sensational as they are every week. The now injured Alderweireld simply brilliant. But the Spurs performance, their attitude, their virtual re-birth, can pretty much be summed up in one word.

Pierre-Emile Hojbjerg.

Statisticians may argue that its 3 words, possibly 2 with a hyphen. But they’re all tossers (see above). Hojbjerg was blessed with a completely unpronounceable name for a reason. Not sure what it is, but its very important. And during the game you’d barely notice his influence unless you were watching very closely. Yet he has become our most important player since his arrival from Southampton. The best 15 million pounds I’ve ever spent.

Kevin de Bruyne? Who’s he?

Exceptionally happy, TOP-OF-THE-TABLE Sunday

A xxxx

Have you noticed how many ‘b-words’ are in the papers at the moment? There’s Boris and Brexit, we’ve had those for a while now. To which we must add ‘bullying’ and ‘bitch’ in honour of Priti Patel, backstabbing and Boronavirus. Bovid 19. When did all these Bs come to prominence? I didn’t vote for them. Though 70 million Americans didn’t vote for Trump but he still remains their de facto President until someone blows him up. So Biden can enter that house. And remember, Joe Biden is personally responsible for another peak in the upsurge of B use in November. The R-rate for B-use is currently 2.6%. Dangerously high.

Yesterday Sir Alex Allan resigned. Yep, never heard of him until yesterday either. Because he ‘shot to fame’ as head of MI5. Which is the diametric opposite of a ‘high profile job’. His payslips were addressed to ‘M’ or ‘Q’, possibly even ‘B’, just to be topical. Spies generally avoid linkedin and such like, unless they’re looking for a new job. With a better… country. Anyway, for 9 years he’s been the head of something or other in the Civil Service and ended up as Boris’s adviser at Number 10 about the ‘code of conduct’. He put in the complaint about Priti Patel bullying, abusing and being the nasty little Brexiteer that many of us always suspected her to be. Apparently she pulled one ministerial aid’s pig-tails then gave another a wedgie in the playground! So Alex Allan reported her, in accordance with Boris’s Blueprint for Behaviour Becoming a Minister (4 more Bs). Because apparently she was nothing short of a fucking tyrant at the Home Office.

She was found to be guilty. But then Boris refused to get rid of her. Despite the continual history of bullying behaviour by Priti. Boris forgave her. Due to her very sincere (‘scuse me while I vomit) apology and very believable promise that it won’t happen again. Sir Alex had no choice really but to get the hell out’a Dodge. He did his job and was made to look pointless and and superfluous by Boris. Bye then.

Anyway its Saturday night, Spurs are currently up against Manchester City and if these were normal times we’d be having friends over for dinner. These are NOT normal times. We’re in a lockdown of… of almost lockdown proportions and thus we can’t breach the code of conduct. But heh, friends still get hungry and were we to be in contravention of protocols, Boris would forgive us. He’s got form.

Happy days

A xxxx