Andy's Glasses

Ok, that’s the European Super League done with then. Let’s get back to work. But, like WTF? I was just getting exited about going to Barcelona and Madrid every other week for 6 months (I have sooooo many air miles) and now NOTHING!!! The Spaniards would probably field 3rd teams in what would quickly become meaningless, exhibition matches anyway, so why risk the big guys?. How could they lift me up so high and then… and then… nothing. Zip. De nada. I’m devastated. What will I do with my “ESL Frever!!!”, and “BIG SIX TEAM SO FUCK YOU!!!”, t-shirts? Will I get a refund?

Also, if I’m being totally honest, although the ‘Y-word’ associated with my beloved team causes me no offence whatsoever, as I understand its full meaning and origins, I do not feel completely comfortable with the ‘Big 6’ thing at all. Spurs are a ‘big club’. No doubt. Financially we’re massive: fan-base spectacular, stadium (until someone else builds one) the best in the world. But when they listed the ESL teams the other day along with ‘last league title won’, that was a column too far. 1961. Half of the grandparents of current fans weren’t alive then. (I’m alive at the moment of writing this and include Lila and Joey as ‘fans’). And although cups and trophies are not my motivation for anything (otherwise there’d be no Spurs fans) it does kind of set us aside a little.

Anyway; its over. Like Brexit again, but quicker. This time the vote went 62,453,079 vs 6.

Over in America (where this trouble began, if you think about it) they just finished the trial of Derek Chauvin, the policeman who murdered (yes, we can say that now) George Floyd in Minnesota. And it is safe to say that there has never been a more unfair trial in the entire history of unfair trials. Lynch mobs were fairer than this. Charles Bronson in Death Wish was fairer than this.

And I’m not saying he didn’t do it (doh: the film footage is simply horrendous) nor that he doesn’t deserve to be punished. It’s just the trial. Because upon his guilty shoulders sat the immediate future of civil uprising in America. Politically he simply had to be found guilty, regardless of any evidence or videos. As a ‘line drawn in the sand’ by the American police, he needed to be guilty. Basically, he was guilty or there’s war. Even the president yesterday, before the jury went out, went on tv to say how he hoped Del-boy was found guilty. Fucking right he hoped that, otherwise there wouldn’t be enough soldiers in all 50 states to stem what would have ensued.

The guilty verdict is not ‘the end’ of institutional racism in America. It is barely a start to look properly at a massive problem. Chauvin will go to prison, deservedly, where he’ll be the most popular man in the place. But everyone has the right to a fair trial. And that wasn’t anything like one and he didn’t get one. Just sayin’…

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

So today I’m going to explain the horrendous storm currently playing out in European football. A storm so profound that the entire world is up in arms about it. Boris Johnson has pitched in, Prince William!!! (the ‘good prince’ in the modern, digital-media version of the Cane & Abel story currently being played out on the news pages not about football), ministers, footballers, fans, absolutely everyone. Except the owners of the 6 ‘rogue’ clubs in question. They’re keeping mum. And, succinctly, so you don’t get bored, and in simple terms, because you’re not that bright, I shall explain the major points of this issue. Ah-hem (clearing throat before I hold forth).

Six greedy fat motherfucker billionaires want to get even richer and couldn’t give two shits for anyone else at all and are prepared to act in ruination of the structure of our national game so they can add a few digits on their pre-tax profits.

Yet in a way, its all about ‘sustainability’. Yes, that word again. The one which makes us all want to vomit. Not ‘sustainable’ in any kind of ecological or environmental way, I think it safe to say that Messrs Henry, Glazer, Mansoor et al couldn’t give a damn about that kind of problem. No, this is sustainability of business models. Which doesn’t exist with any kind of guarantee in the current system, but carries a 100% certainty and security in the American sports model.

Take the wonderful (and horrendous) example of Leeds United. They reached the late stages of the Champions League one season and ‘put their house’ (and lots of other people’s houses which they didn’t even own) on more success which would then (retrospectively and hopefully) pay for those houses. But it didn’t happen and Leeds spent the next 20 years in the financial and footballing wilderness as a consequence. All because of inconsistency of income.

The American model is a ‘sealed system’, or a ‘closed shop’. The same teams compete every year against each other and no-one else. They all share the tv rights and all know exactly how much they’re going to earn. There are no surprises.

So although fans love ‘giant killing’ and all feel great when Leicester win the league against every type of odds imaginable, the money men hate that unpredictability because it affects their own income stream. And the system is designed to ‘filter down’ though the lower leagues which, to a degree, it does. Because we’ve all played on pitch 137 on Hackney Marshes and need that to continue. Even after they flattened most of the Marshes.

Stan Kroenke never played on Hackney Marshes. Has no ‘feel’ for the game. No understanding of ‘the fans’ perspective’. In fact, he, and the others, simply don’t consider the fans at all. Nor really the players. His type of ‘football’ is played on spreadsheets.

Unfortunately, we fans feel we have rights. Feel we ‘own’ our clubs. Always speak of them in the first person. And yet we have no say, no vote, no nuffink. And I fear that this move towards an ‘elite’ superstructure in the game will gain traction. Because you don’t put together a deal worth billions without doing your due diligence and your legal investigations first.

I hate them. To satisfy their abject greed they shit on all of us. Including Prince William.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Football died yesterday. All of it. The whole game. Worldwide. A greater tragedy than the pandemic, a bigger disaster than the Titanic, a more devastating tragedy than Krakatoa and Pompeii combined. Because yesterday they started… The European Super League!!! It even has its own acronym. You ready? It’s the ESL. And that’s impressive that they worked that out so quickly. Though in time that title will change to the American Super League, (ASL), then just the World Super League (WSL) in line with American sports in general where the rest of the world doesn’t count.

They’ve been talking about a(n) ESL for many years. And by ‘they’, I mean ‘Americans’. Not all of them. About 359,999,997 are fine. It’s the other 3 who are the problem. Stan Kroenke, John W (for ‘WANKER!!!’) Henry and Any old Glazer as they’re pretty much interchangeable, except the dead one. All of whom are ‘owners’ of football clubs over here, and I would say ‘by hook or by crook’ but as they’re all crooks I won’t bother. They’ve all made their acquisitions by boardroom crockery. If Dick Turpin was alive today he wouldn’t hold up stage coaches. He’d perform a hostile takeover and use a leveraged buyout to steal everything instead. It’s the modern way. And by such means did such outlaws (if the law wasn’t as ass) acquired ownership of two of our most revered and esteemed football clubs. And Arsenal.

And because all three own sport franchises ‘over there’, they probably spend their whole time wondering why the Tampa Bay Buccaneers produces $5.7 billion in profit every year, whilst Manchester United loses £972 million over the same period. Even though that loss is leveraged against the loan that the directors took when they borrowed it against a different loan than they never took out in the first place, thus giving them $1.2 billion income. If you don’t understand the figures it’s because you don’t have a true love of sports.

The ESL is the singularly most horrible thing ever invented. And stupid. And will take everything we know and love about our game and ruin it. Americanise it. Draws will be banned. Small clubs no longer needed. Because tonight, LIVE ON ESPN, The mighty Toledo Hotspurs are playing Real Minnesota!!!! If it should be level after 90 minutes, all players will be armed and it will be sudden death to decide!!! But literally!!!!
God help us all. 

And yet, oddly, coincidentally, God did help us. By personally sacking Jose Morinho about 10 minutes ago from the team both He and I love. So suddenly: THERE IS HOPE!!!!

Shame on Daniel Levy. The only Brit among those mercenary Oligarchs, oil billionaires and Yankee robbers. 

Very unhappy, then suddenly very HAPPY Monday

A xxxx

Wot I’ve seen this week. By Andy. A brief review of wot I done in the realm of watchin’ stuff on the tv. So you’ll know what’s good and what’s shit. And that may help you grately. In your life.

Last night we ‘partied’ hard and long. But because of our year(s) of enforced confinement, our resultant agoraphobia means we party hard and long, but not very many of us, and only at home. Possibly in the garden, but only if its warm. So the party started with a jigsaw session. Because yesterday they released Rachie from quarantine! She came over last Sunday from Berlin, and the rules are so strict that you now have to piss away at least 500 quid on tests to be allowed release from the shed. So we got a take-away, shared a bottle of Prosecco and watched ‘Palm Springs’. One of the many movies to have been released in covid times. Palm Springs is Groundhog Day Redu. So the entire concept is surreal. If you don’t get or like surreal, don’t bother with it. But if you do, if your entire life has been leaning in that very direction (and steered ever more Dali-wise by the ‘pandemic’) then you’ll love it. I did. Mel hated it. And protested in the normal way, by falling asleep.

The previous evening I watched Tottenham Hotspur, a north London football team, play the Everton’s of Liverpool. In a match so horribly vile and rotten and shitty that I wish to pass no further comment at this time and will save my testimony for the trial. Which there really should be.

I also managed to squeeze in Midge Ure and Kim Appleby looking at ‘music of the 80s’ but in Scotland and Ireland. And that was fantastic. Because as the punk movement in Britain gave way to the horribly electro ‘new romantic’ Duran Diarrhoea and other voiceless wonders, the Scots were getting political. And there were loads of great bands making great music about joblessness and deprivation and the working class struggle. Mainly playing it to a bunch of over-entitled English kids whose only concern was whether they could dance to the beat without their face paint running. Then came the Proclaimers who re-wrote the entire ‘pop-star’ and ‘nerd’ handbooks.

In Ireland it was different. Lots of great bands, particularly from Dublin, all playing music based on traditional Irish sounds. Including U2, Thin Lizzy, Boomtown Rats. Great program. Shame they didn’t just slip into the early 90s for ‘my favourite ever song’ (one of 344) and the most politicised, Zombie by the Cranberries. Sung in almost unintelligible Northern Irish accents, the protest against ‘the troubles’ in the Province is as potent as it is powerful. But man, does it ‘rock’.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

Some people ‘possess the screen’ when they act. Some simply ‘own it’. Not because of any perception of beauty. Otherwise they’d never have given the Oscar to Frances McDormand, and will probably give her another this year too. But go see Fargo, or Four Billboards, and you’ll know what ‘star presence’ really is. In such a beautifully understated way. Robert de Niro has it. Dustin Hoffman. Brando, obvs, Saoirse Ronan had it as a kid in ‘Hannah’ and it grew and grew. It’s a type of ‘magic’ that can’t be taught.

In the 70s I went to see a lot of movies. And the 80’s, 90’s… But I was ‘young’ and you’d think had different criteria. Yet certain actors would have us rushing to Leicester Square, where movies always ‘started’ in the UK back then. Because you simply couldn’t wait for the next Bruce Lee movie and the thought of it being out and waiting even longer, as it took about 4 weeks to get from Leicester Square to the Gants Hill Odeon, presumably by a blind man with one leg walking unaided, was unacceptable. And even though there is a very strong case that the early ‘Kung fu’ movies of his, like Fist of Fury and The Big Boss were just complete shite, over-dubbed tragically into English with contemptible storylines, only there only to create a framework in which Bruce could kick the shit out of hundreds of Oriental people, we simply loved them.

But back to proper acting, we would also rush to the West End for anything starring Gene Hackman or Charles Bronson. Gene because he is magical on the screen, and Bronson because he was made of wood. Hardened somewhere in the Slavic region. Just before they permanently removed his smiling gland. But Bronson starred in many films. He was a scriptwriter’s dream. Because they only needed to script him one word at a time. The fewer syllables the better. And the epitome of a Bronson movie was Death Wish. The ultimate revenge flick. And it was brilliant. I never bothered with versions 2, 3, 4, ‘with a vengeance’, ‘in Tokyo’, 7, 8 or ‘the ballet’.

And now they’ve remade it. Reversed it, gender-wise, and made the avenger a gel. Carey Mulligan, to be precise. It’s called Promising Young Woman and the protagonist sets up ‘rapist’ type students/men/boys and does bad things to them. Effectively making it Death Wish goes #metoo with PC values, women-in-charge, gender-irrelevant, choose your own pronouns. Part 1.

I’m gonna watch it. And so should YOU!

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

I’m down to my last 9 Cadburys Easter eggs. I did a stock-take yesterday. And at average rate of consumption that supply will last… errrr… probably until Monday. Possibly Tuesday if I ‘ration’. And why is this relevant? Well, I actually try and keep absolutely everything I write totally irrelevant, as well as inane, trite, pathetic and worthless. Where’s the fun otherwise?

Anyway, chocolate. Most important thing in my life. And I’m glad to note that others are finally taking it as seriously as I do. Although my limits on ‘chocolate’ generally begin and end with Cadburys, we have a family tradition at birthday time. 97% of British families share this too. We celebrate with a ‘Colin the Caterpillar Cake’ from Marks & Spencer’s. Ok, so 97% of staunchly middle-class suburb-dwellers, champagne Socialists and Tory party members. We may have other cakes as well, we may have parties on occasion, we may do all sorts of things. But when we get together and there’s a birthday nearby, the lights go out, the tension mounts and into the room is carried a Colin, lit up by a million candles! Ok, normally 3, whatever the value of the birthday, just because you almost have to use a drill on the chocolate to get the candles in there and who can be bothered?

And a secret that is no secret, (I don’t even ‘love’ Colin’ that much!!!). The chocolate is ‘inferior’ (read: ‘Not Cadburys’) and even speaking as the man with the sweetest teeth ever implanted to replace those rotted by a lifetime’s sugar, its too sweet!!!

However, tradition is everything, so I love Colin from a ‘cultural perspective’.

And then Aldi, those upstart, downmarket, German(!!!!) supermarketeers from… Germany!!!, introduced ‘Cuthbert the Caterpillar Cake’. A cheap, poor-person’s, working class, Aldi-shopper type product of decidedly inferior nature. So M&S are taking Aldi to court of the fact that Cuthbert is not merely a Colin-imposter, but an instance of cultural appropriation!, if not outright Class War!!! And I whole-heartedly support their actions in this. You can’t just make a chocolate cake shaped like a larval insect and hope to  get away with that. 

Happy Friday

A xxxxx

Have you seen my new shoulder? This is a picture of it. Haven’t got it yet, just going round the showrooms doing a bit of shoulder-shopping. I think the silver’s nice really. Though black might be closer to the colour of my soul and definitely my heart, I like the more bling look of shiny things. I’m going for the Hokey Kokey 2000 model, with four-barrel carburettors and a turbo-charger, wide wheels, leather trim and 4Gb of WiFi.

The time has come, the day has dawned, the end is nigh. The old shoulder has served its purpose (ie; moving my right arm around) for 64 years and shall be retired with full… dishonour. Because basically, having consulted the finest of consultants in consultation, we have collectively concluded a catastrophic degree of fuckage in the region. The multiple dislocations suffered many moons ago have produced a horrible degree of Osteo-arthritis. In the joint. Which really is no longer much of a ‘joint’, more a big, horrible tangle of bone-on-bone and shit. Though apparently, the insistent playing of tennis in recent and present times, has actually helped. I thought he’d say ‘tennis!!! Are you fucking insane?!?!’, but he didn’t. He said it has kept every thing around the shit-shoulder working better than it would have. Ooooooohhhh, that’s good. How often does stubborn insistence and total ignorance in the face of all common sense result in medical benefit?

And its easy. You don’t even need an anaesthetic. Just an aspirin, a whisky and you bite on a bit of wood, saying ‘cut me!’ Like they used to perform orthopaedic surgery in Mutiny on the Bounty. I want a ‘retro-op’. Ok, I want all the drugs that exist, all free, whilst the insurance is paying. And then just a few… months? Weeks? Years???, of slings, immobilisation, restricted use, resting and other horrendously disabling restraint and I’ll be back…

Well, not just ‘on court’ but back. Not having to be careful picking up a cup, not having agony whilst brushing my teeth, taking off shirts, lifting a child, reaching for… anything.

I’ve had another scan and await more input. And then… and then…

WE CAN RE-BUILD HIM!!! Better than before. Bionic Man lives!!!, in NW11.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Football used to be about kicking balls around, maybe scoring goals, committing a few fouls, swearing at the ref, you know, football. Then along came the ‘Premiership’ in 1992, bringing with it loads and loads of cash. Because there were more televised matches. And with money comes accountants. And statisticians. All looking at where their money is going, where it should go, what produces the most value and who is a total waste of the stuff. Football fans became bombarded with analytical statistics. To the point where now, before they’ll issue you with a season ticket, you need to prove actuarial competence. So you understand what the fuck they’re all talking about. Because the answer to the comment: ‘did you see that amazing pass by Kevin De Bruyne to make that goal????’ used to be ‘yeaeaeaeah; brilliant!!!’ or possibly, ‘he’s a Belgian bastard!’. Now the answer is ‘and he’s got an 82% pass completion rate, the third highest in the league, 5th in Europe, BUT his overall score, taking into account goals scored and tackles made puts him top in all European countries, except Scotland, where only Celtic get to score the goals’.

And every day someone comes out with a new statistic. A new number, having thought of something else to count. Mainly for the sole purpose of upsetting Spurs fans. The one I read on Saturday was ‘most points lost by conceding goals in the 90th minute or later’. And my lovely Lillywhites head that table. With pride. So being ‘Spursy’ is actually statistically valid. How chronically depressing.

But with statistics like that, really, we should have been relegated. Numerous times. Yet we haven’t, rather staying ‘ever-present’ since the league began. Which means that although we drop all these ridiculous late points and, it must be said, quite a few much earlier points, we also have times when we win lots and do great things. Because we’re not only ‘present’ in the league but also always ‘up there’. Near the top. Ish. Other than now. Therefore we are probably one of the most inconsistent teams around. Sheffield United are totally consistent. They lose to everybody. Except Manchester United, but we’ll put that down to Covid. So their fans have no expectations, no aspirations, no fucking hope. Which you can accept and enjoy the ride for what its worth.

Whereas Spurs fans are filled with eternal hope. But the inconsistency means that it is never fulfilled. That inconsistency is the only consistent thing. Which actually makes things worse for us than for Sheffield United.

Its not disappointment that kills you, but hope. (The unofficial Spurs motto). And thus, as another season dies the death of a thousand cuts, I think we need a new analysis. The most depressing club to support. As proven by psychologists, statisticians and crying Spurs fans.

Otherwise! Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

So I wrote about Prince Philip, as was my divine duty, my right, my moral obligation, my… whatever. He died, I said ‘goodbye’, not that I’d ever said ‘hello’ but that’s the nature of obituaries. You don’t have to know everyone who dies, just to know OF them is sufficient. To make you a ‘mourner’. Which is why they have books and online portals for such ‘mourners’ to offer condolences and tell everyone how much they’re going to miss… whoever. Then you lay some flowers, with 22,846 other bunches, against a wall in Westminster and go back to wait for the pubs to open. Tomorrow! Unless someone else dies in the meantime.

I was not alone in writing kind words about our most Edinburgh of Dukes. No. A few newspapers printed the odd word and even a picture or two. Or three. Thousand. Or more. Endless photos, stories, tales of his youth, his navy days, his marriage, his (alleged!!!) affairs, his children, his grandchildren… fucking everyone and everything he ever did. And in 99+ years, that was quite a lot. The BBC also went into ‘famous death’ mode and extended their news bulletins, whipped their ‘specials’ out of the pending file and went into full Philip meltdown for the next 53 hours, suspending all other broadcasting.

This may be because the Philip archive, both in print and film, has been growing for about 73 years since anyone first heard of him, and had reached the point where storage had become a problem, so it just came bursting out in an explosion. Especially as, since he came out of hospital a few weeks ago, editors have been sitting with their fingers poised of the red ‘PRINT!/AIR!’ buttons.

So now the inevitable. ‘There’s too much stuff about Philip’. ‘He weren’t that great’. ‘Only a bloody consort’. ‘I’m bored with Princely rubbish’.

So for all those moaners, tomorrow the newspapers and tv stations are having a special day. A no-Philip, coronavirus and Brexit special! To let them know exactly what they’ve been missing whilst we’ve been crying over big Phil. Maybe just a few pages about the ‘troubles’ in Northern Ireland. Something we’ve all really missed in the last 20 years. I’d quite forgotten how much I love a burning bus.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

Parenting is a skill. An art. For which there are no rules. Which is why I was so good at it, I fucking hate rules. (Hence my deep and profound love of all things ‘pandemic’, for which there have been more rules in 13 months than in the previous 472 years combined). And when I say ‘good at parenting’, I suppose it all depends on your standpoint. Like, when does ‘just let them do what they want’ slip over to ‘gross criminal negligence’? When does ‘enough rope to hang themselves’ result in hanging? Is a high-powered drill a suitable toy for an almost-2 year old? He’s only holding that because my gun’s at the workshop and he got bored with the samurai sword. Children need to learn limits, rather than have them arbitrarily imposed by parents, or in fact, even grandparents. Especially grandparents. Joey likes to ‘drive’. So rather than just sit there like a… like a… like a child!, I give him the keys and get him to start the engine first. He’s gotta learn to do things properly. Or he’ll ‘never learn at all!’.

One things for sure. He’ll never know Prince Philip. Who died, tragically, at the age of 99. Shame. He didn’t survive to get a telegram from the Queen. But I’ll miss him terribly. For Joey and Lila he’ll just be yet another ‘dead royal’ who’ll appear in history books along with 42,000 others. For me, his passing (hate that word in that context, but it just seems appropriate at this mournful time) represents the end of… errrr… the end of the Queen’s husband. A straight talker who called a spade a spade. And, unfortunately, also called a Chinaman ‘slant-eyes’, Indians ‘darkies’ and every other ethnic minority some other form of insulting, discriminatory and abusive term. And I really hope, though never heard such a thing, that he had abusive terms for Jews too. Because anything that is a red line in the world of ‘woke’ gets a green light from me.

Philip was born in Greece and in his early adult life, ran the family kebab shop… oh, alright, he was born ‘royal’, just not our ‘royal’. His father was the prince of Greece and Denmark (puzzling but true) and his mother was a Battenberg. She was yellow with pink stripes. Honest to goodness. With a buttercream centre. Royalty meets Bake Off. He joined the navy, married the Queen, who wasn’t the Queen yet, just Liz-babe at that time, and spent the rest of his life walking four paces behind her. He was the first man to win a gold medal Duke of Edinburgh award, so they named him after it.

But he did it with style. And, more amazingly, when you consider the nature of his actual ‘role’, he did it with an individuality and with charm and incredible wit. He could have spent 73 years as a Dennis Thatcher. Mr Background. Seen but never heard. But Philip didn’t. He spoke his mind. Often with disastrous consequences, but heh, he sleeps with the Queen; who’s gonna tell him off?

He was that most unusual thing; an interesting royal. Now that mantle passes to his son, Andrew, who is ‘interesting’ for different reasons. Like, ‘of interest to the police’.

RIP Duke of Edinburgh.

A xxxx