Andy's Glasses

The football league table was invented in 1873 by Ronnie League-Table, after whom it was named. And every week Ronnie would sit down, at 5 o’clock on Saturday, when ALL that week’s games were over, with a quill and an abacus, and perform his calculations for the teams’ positions. But now its different. Not only are matches played virtually every day, but they also use the ‘as it stands’ table. Which updates with every goal scored. So even though matches aren’t over and winning teams can still lose or draw, until that happens, they have their precise position, as it stands.

This picture is the one from yesterday, just after Harry Kane scored Spurs goal at West Brom. The photo arrived from Spurs Paul with the message: STOP THE COUNT!!!!

If only. Unfortunately it was merely a snapshot, and 28 minutes later Leicester scored at Wolves and ‘as it stood’ went top of the league. Where they are now.

But football matches are much more important than presidential elections. And no amount of law suits can alter the league table. I’ve tried. On grounds of diminished responsibility. Pleas of mitigation. Based on morality, when Chelsea or Manchester City are involved, obviously. But the courts aren’t interested. Football has its own ‘court system’ anyway and its called VAR. Unfortunately it is total shite and not worth the cost of the tv screen.

Liverpool played after Spurs and could have gone top with a win at Man City. But it wasn’t to be. Even though Etihad Airlines sponsor the video refs. In cash. And City duly won a really dodgy penalty but amazingly the never-failing Kevin De Bruyne actually failed to score it. But the draw was sufficient to keep Liverpool below Spurs. Even though Leicester’s match had by then finished and they were top.

Yet the best was yet to come. I didn’t watch it because I would never spend 15 quid on pay-per-view to watch Arsenal. In case they won. However, they didn’t win. They rather catastrophically, rather beautifully, rather… wonderfully, managed to lose 3-nil to Aston Villa. Who I noted, when I did see hilights later on BBC FOR FREE!!!, were just brilliant. And played… well, played like Arsenal once did, all speed of attack and fabulous, flowing, one-touch wonder. And Ollie Watkins. The ‘kid’ who’d put three past Liverpool, yesterday scored 2 against Arsenal. Bless him. Until he scores against Spurs.

Ahhhh, delightful Monday. Because for those 28 minutes, I was living the dream. Its time to ‘believe’!!!!

A xxxx

If you buy a newspaper purely for the annoyance you know it will give you, then you can’t really be surprised that you end up angry. And if that paper is The Mail, then really, what the fuck do you expect?

On the front page of today’s Mail on Sunday was no mention of the American Election. The one the world has been waiting a week to be resolved and the immense relief arrived yesterday.

Yet the Mail chose to lead with its ‘FREE INSIDE!!!! Lose up to 7lbs in lockdown with Slimming World’. And even pushing its ‘12 page eating plan’. Food is big our lives, I get that. Overeating is even bigger (fat-joke) I get that too. The main headline was how the government are searching Ministers’ phones to try and find who leaked last week’s lockdown news before it was announced. There was also a picture of the Queen in a Royal Mask. Well, a regular black mask but it becomes ‘royal’ as soon as she puts it on, obviously. She went to lay a wreath on the grave of the unknown soldier. For remembrance weekend. Though it appeared she was the only one who remembered as no-one else was there. All normal such activities falling under the rule of 6, or just 1 if its a Queen, or possibly its a Tier 4 thing, or a ‘sporting activities’ ban, golf, tennis, darts and wreath-laying.

You had to go to page 7 for the start of the ‘11 page election special!!!!’ To find out that Biden won. Well, that’s what 359,999,999 Americans believe. The other one thinks differently. The other one is so deluded that he believes he won the election, ‘by a lot’. Wow. That’s amazing Don, ‘a lot’, wow.

But the real reason for the Mail’s stance is that they are massive Trumpites… Trumpishers… Trumpaphiles, whatever. They fucking love him. So the editor (who was probably at one time a fundraiser for the British National Party and now chairs the ‘Blue-rinsed lives Matter!!!’ campaign) chose not to honour Biden (a virtual communist in the eyes of the Mail) and so relegated him to page 7.

Note to self: cancel Mail on Sunday subscription, its not good for you.

Happy Sunday (Spurs could go top with a win this afternoon. At least for a couple of hours, but ITS A START!!)

A xxxx

I’d like to speak on behalf of all American citizens. Even though I’m not one. Never have been. And wouldn’t become one for all the Cadillacs in Detroit. Possibly all the hamburgers in California though, in case you’re thinking about asking me. Because otherwise I think my bodyweight is too low for full citizenship.

And I’d like to offer a massive thank you to President (for the moment) Donald J. Trump. (And I just learned that the ‘J’ does NOT stand for ‘Jerkoff’. How did they miss that?) Because ridiculous presidency aside, what Donald has shown the world is that the Home of the Brave, Land of the Free (other than to vote by post) and richest, loudest, most… everythingest nation in the Universe (the mere ‘world’ is simply not big enough for all that everything), is incapable of running an election worthy of the term.

The Greeks managed it 3000 years ago without computers. The Europeans (including, for one more month or so, Britain) are masters of the vote. Third world nations filled with illiterate people, manage to perform elections easily and, for the most part, correctly. Impoverished African nations do it simply and effortlessly.

Yet America, who can send men to the moon (allegedly) and put on The Super Bowl every year, simply can’t get their shit together at voting time. They’re still counting fucking votes in Pennsylvania. Four days after the event. Same with Arizona. Georgia they managed but… they’re doing it again, just to check. There are a whole bunch of ‘military votes’ (soldiers overseas) which won’t be counted until November 10th. I mean, I mean, I mean… didn’t they know in advance that there was going to be an election? Weren’t they told the date? Was it a surprise? A secret?

If you have an election on Tuesday, you should know the result on Wednesday. That’s it. Anything else you may have to do should be done before. Like postal votes. Like military votes. Like election fraud. Oops. And then the system would be safe from stupid and senseless allegations by cry-baby bad losers intent on litigation.

So, thanks Don,

A xxxx

I’ve said it before, but I’m going to say it again, particularly for the 67 million Americans (and counting) who must have missed it the first time round. Donald Trump is a tosser. But a tosser of such juvenile, verging on infantile, inane, moronic, almost insanely narcissistic, AND narcissistically insane proportions, that he becomes The Tosser. The one against whom all others must be measured. And will come up lacking.

The man has declared himself ‘the winner’ of this election. Even though he’s losing. And he won’t let the mere trivial fact that lots more people voted for his opponent, which is fairly irrelevant, or that said opponent currently has more college votes by some way, (very important) detract from the unarguable ‘fact’ that He Has Won! Yeah, more people may have voted for the other guy but I won! Because… because…

Trump thinks its his right to win. And any possible obstacle to that end point must, ergo, be wrong. Thus ‘democracy’ must be wrong if it failed to send the Orange One back to the White House. And therefore accusations must fly as to why that is so. And legal suits will ensue to ensure that it is rectified back to ‘right and proper’.

This is classic narcissism on an industrial scale. If I didn’t win then the system is broken. So we’ll sue that system until I do win.

By declaring ‘major electoral fraud’ Trump has thrown the entire American voting system under the immense bus of his personal vanity. Even though there is, as yet, not one iota of evidence of fraud. Only that he is not winning. So it must be fraud. Obviously nothing to do with the fact that he’s the most divisive, moronic, toxic dude ever to legitimise racism and misogyny whilst holding high office. But heh, I make no judgments. I don’t even get a vote.

And just as well because what the fuck is going on in Pennsylvania and Georgia that it could take over 3 days to count votes? Should we buy them a calculator? Philadelphia has been on 99% for 48 hours. It’s almost as much an embarrassment as their President. I mean, in China, they have an election in which 1.6 billion vote and the outcome is known immediately. In fact its known beforehand. Chairman Xi won. All the votes. Almost as democratic as the Trump way.

Happy Friday,

A xxxx

It’s a big day all round really. In America they’re counting the votes and we should have a result some time around… June, possibly August, depending on how long the legal action takes. So that’s very exciting. Wake me up when someone dies. At the time of writing both candidates are claiming victory. Don’t know how that’ll work in practical terms. Amazing really that something as fundamental and basic to the American Way as demo-cracy is such a problem to implement. They’ve had long enough to practice after they threw us out. And all you have to have is the ability to add one more.

Over here its our last day before ‘Lockdown re-dux’ so we’re all out eating in restaurants, drinking in pubs and having weddings (for 6 people… the party, not the actual wedding, that would be illegal, except in Utah), and playing tennis. Because the bastard mother-fucking government just yesterday morning chose to ban tennis during this forthcoming (lack of) action. Tennis. A game so naturally distanced, so remote, so far, far away, that if the opponents come within 5 metres of each other its all gone wrong. But its banned. Along with golf. So you’re allowed to have a long walk, but not dragging a golf bag along with you. Makes sense. Periodic arm-swinging increases the spread of coronavirus by… by… by at least 7.

But you can no longer meet people. Not of your choice. Only your family. And ‘support bubble’ type stuff (that’ll be Lila and Joey then). Though you can, outdoors only and not for too long, meet ‘one other person’. But who is he? Or she? What are his/her pronouns? Is it the same person that everyone has to meet? Or do we get to choose our own? You can only meet up with one other person. His name is Kevin McMahon and he lives at 47 The Grove, Salisbury, Wilts. Do we have to make an appointment then? Before he books up totally for the month? Come on, Kev, just gimme 10 minutes on the Heath, otherwise I have no-one!!! (But my bloody family!!)

And I’m just not sure how effective this new lockdown will be. It’ll be very effective at ruining at least half of all pubs, bars and restaurants. It’ll be the kiss of death for most of the events and tourism-related industries, and it will murder retail in the Christmas run-up. But will people treat it with the same reverence we did the first time in March? Hmmmm…

Happy Last Day of the Universe

A xxxx

I’ve been in consultation with the Premier League, the Football Association, FIFA, EUFA, Sepp Blatter, Michel Platini and all others in various prisons throughout greater Europe to ascertain that we, as in England, have now moved from a ‘big 6 club’ situation to just a ‘big two’. No longer can the words ‘big’ and ‘six’ be used in relation to football in the premiership without legal action forthcoming.

This has been a long time in coming. Well, ‘long time’ in Covid world, which is not really as long as in ‘real time’. And it basically happened at about 8.30 last night when Gareth Bale (hallowed be his name) hit the winner against Brighton, elevating Spurs to second place in the table. Or, as we call it, ‘just one below our rightful place’. (Well? If Liverpool can bemoan their ‘30 years of sorrow’ when they didn’t win the league, as if it was some kind of right, try fucking 60 years!!!! Scousers don’t have exclusive rights to whingeing about their sense of entitlement, even though it often seems as if they do.)

And so, in finding ourselves right at the top, in the ‘breakaway group’, it has been decided that the appalling Manchesters no longer warrant big club status. Arsenal don’t deserve anything for their paltry win at Old Trafford, other than contempt. And Chelsea are too horrible to be included in anything that doesn’t involve the criminal courts.

It may be true that we are in fact only one meagre point above about six other teams, half of which have a game in hand. But that really misses the whole ‘big 2’ issue by a million miles.

So as the new lockdown, which isn’t really a lockdown, but in practical terms it is (direct interpretation of the new rules and regs, which will be different by bedtime tonight) comes into play, Spurs are hanging off the shoulders of Liverpool, who really won’t be able to sustain a worthwhile campaign this season because Virgil van Dijk is missing. And thus, they might as well abandon the season, due to Coronavirus, and give us the crown now. I think it safe to say that, unlike Liverpool, we’d take it anyway, anyhow, anywhere, any time. ‘Tainted’ works for me. What time does the bus leave Haringey Town Hall?

Happy Monday (possibly your last one til Christmas… New year… June ‘21)

A xxxx

Ok, so here’s a question for anyone who ever bought an album. Like, a real, vinyl, big, flat, black plastic thing with a hole in the middle. Designed specifically so that the protective cover would be the totally perfect surface for rolling a joint on. If it hadn’t been for cannabis, records would have been little pyramids. Honest.

Anyway, you buy an album. Why? Because you love the band? Because you’ve heard it at your mates? Because everyone’s talking about it? Possibly. But generally its because you’ve heard one track, maybe a single taken from the album, maybe it was a track on the Old Grey Whistle Test, maybe, maybe. And so you bought it. And so very often then realised that, aside from that brilliant track, the rest is a total disappointment. And as albums were a ‘major investment’ at £1. 50p (in today’s money, £4,274.58), that scenario really pissed you off.

But when you bought an album and every track was, like, brilliant, every song amazing, life-changing, hairs-standing-on-ending, then that was the dream.

The first I remember is probably Sergeant Peppers. Though I was just too young to really appreciate just how brilliant it was. But as I aged, I learned the wonder and the relative rarity of a ‘perfect album’.

The first time I listened to Steeley Dan’s Pretzel Logic, on my way to sell double glazing to the good people of Swindon, who didn’t even realise they needed it, in Gary’s fabulous Triumph TR6, smoking Rothmans all the way down the M4, made me a better person. As did putting Elvis Costello’s My Aim is True on the turntable for the first, mind-blowing time. The energy, the wonder, the sheer brilliance and raw power of punk-era rock and incredible lyrics (“I know this world is killing you”), OMG.

Before those came two albums of such perfection that I’m still shuddering, 49 years later. Ziggy Stardust and Lou Reed’s Transformer. And I kind’a have to add Bryan Ferry’s These Foolish Things too just because.

Songs in the Key of Life, by Stevie Wonder, Paul Simon’s Graceland, Combat Rock by the Clash, Stevie Nicks’ Bella Donna, just… just… just…

Remain in Light wasn’t the Talking Heads finest album but it came out just as Natalie was born. And David Byrne had just sprogged too, so it was all about the timing.

Then came an album by someone I’d never really liked, more because of what they look like than anything music-related, and it was a paradigm shift. The Style Council’s Cafe Bleu. Much as I loved The Jam, Paul Weller made my skin crawl. But that album. It was simply, brilliantly, uniquely, wonderful. And still is.

Last night I watched a documentary about it, and about him. He still makes my skin crawl, just his horrible accent is bad enough, before the suedehead/mod beginnings, but as a musician and songwriter, he remains remarkable. And from the aggressively angry Jam to the soulful, heart-warming Cafe Blue was such an incredible distance to travel.

Ok, let’s hear it for ‘perfect albums’.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

Jeremy Corbyn is now intending to take legal action against the Labour Party over his suspension. And bizarrely, he has a very strong case. Because I, and my legal team (Lila, Joey, Sheister and Co.), have scrutinised every word in that Party’s rules, minutely and with fine toothed combs and nowhere is it written in the ‘suspensions and disqualifications’ section that you mustn’t, wilfully and persistently, be a total c**t. So therefore, in the absence of a judicial review, Corbyn will be reinstated accordingly. Leading to a massive rift in the Labour Party, so profound that it won’t survive. It will split into what will be henceforth and forthwith be known as ‘The Labour Party’ and ‘The Virtually Communist Corbyn Party for Antisemites, Nazis, Bullies and all other Shitheads’. Unfortunately, ‘the money’ (Len McClusky) will go with the latter. Leaving a proud and decent political party, full of… decency and pride and… errr… penniless.

There was a meeting last night of ‘all the usual suspects’, being Momentum, John McDonnell, Diane Abbot, where they all agreed that the antisemitism issue was just a nothing which was blown out of all proportion by the right wing media and the fucking Jew, Christ-murdering, baby-eating, miser bastards. Of the 237 people assembled, 229 voted to have Corbyn reinstated, with just 135 opposing. Diane Abbot did the count. Obviously. There were 7 abstentions.

The best way to solve any problem is to deny it is a problem in the first place.

If only Boris could do that with Coronavirus. Trump is trying, and doing quite well, losing just 1000 people a day who are dying with the virus. The same virus he promised would be ‘gone by Easter’. Because he doesn’t know how to cope with anything that you can’t do a deal with, bully, shout at, write tweets to or grab by the pussy.

Another lockdown. Another furlough scheme? Depressing. Never mind, Christmas is only round the corner…

Happy soggy, wet, no-tennis Saturday

A xxxx

I went swimming yesterday morning. Actually, I never swam one single stroke. I went to the swimming pool yesterday morning. With Mel. Which would have been fine, in a way, I’d have done my 7 lengths before boredom had me thinking whether drowning was in fact such a bad way to go, then got out and waited for Mel to complete her 100, as she does every morning. The problem was that we took Lila and Joey with us.

I tried to explain to Joey, as he insisted on being carried into the pool, that social distancing rules preclude such activities, but he was having nothing of it. Reckons he can’t even swim. As if. Won’t wear our Peppa Pig float suit, because its like going into the water in a suit of armour. A waterlogged plastic one. Won’t use arm bands or a float. And who can blame him. They’re for babies. Oh, forgot…

Lila can almost swim. And when I say ‘almost’, I mean… she can’t. At all. Not in any way shape or form, even though I’ve been taking her for her lesson every week this term. If she’s not ploughing her way across the English Channel by January I demand a refund.

But to be honest, its not the pool that’s the problem with little kids; its the changing rooms. Showering with Joey is a pleasure. But sooooo fraught with danger and Mel was little or no help. Though she was in hers with Lila. We neeed 7 other people just to form a ring round Joey to save him from himself.

They banned Jeremy Corbyn from ‘his’ very own Labour Party. Holy shit!!! But he, like, owns it! He was the boss! Banned! Thrown under a bus by his new boss. The bus that has on its destination board: “Kier Starmer, 10 Downing Street”. And for what crime was Corbyn guilty? Well, nothing. The Equalities commission found him and his party guilty of ‘crimes against Jews’ but really it wasn’t that which was the problem. Not for Sir Kier. Corbyn merely enabled, encouraged, participated, engaged and shared platforms with any and every antisemite who thought to publish, shout about, abuse, harass or bully anyone ‘of the faith’. No crime in that. Then he personally was involved in ‘disciplinary decisions’ which should have been totally independent of his office. That’s fine too. Should be encouraged. In any dictatorship. What Starmer found unacceptable was that Corbyn’s first words after hearing the Commission’s damning verdict on His party were to deny anti-semitism was a problem, was to blame the press for over-inflating it, to accuse the right wing of his own party of the same thing. Same as he’s been doing all along. Though what should have elevated his punishment from banishment to death was when he repeated, for the 35,729th time: ‘I am opposed to antisemitism in all forms…’. Because then he becomes just someone who, as for the past 5 years, simply isn’t listening.

Good Friday, well, fairly good

A xxxx

If you’d gone into a coma in January and just woken up; well, obviously, you’d be begging to be allowed back into that coma, but if they didn’t let you, there’d be a whole new world to re-enter. With different words. New words. Or old words realigned. So I think its worth offering a few good, useful working definitions of some of the words and phrases now in common usage but which didn’t exist last year.

Pandemic.
An epidemic changes to a pandemic when two things happen. Firstly, when it becomes global and secondly when Boris Johnson is in charge of it. And epidemic is exclusively medical. A Pandemic is when the powers that be elevate it to a problem in each and every facet of life. Preferable term: shitstorm.

Lockdown.
The ‘lock’ is effectively what happens to the population who are locked in. And the ‘down’ refers to what happens to the economy as a consequence. Preferable term: lockdisaster. Alternatively: shitstorm.

Quarantine.
This involves going straight home from the airport and going nowhere for 14 days. Except maybe to walk the dog. Or someone else’s dog. The goldfish. Otherwise NOWHERE. Ok, maybe the pub just for a quick one. Or two. Then HOME. Then out again. It’s just finding the correct balance between civic responsibility, personal sanity and stocks of alcohol.
Preferable term: a 2-week bender.

Bubble.
This is the selected group of people that you care insufficiently about that you’re happy to infect them. Alternative term: anyone you know.

Rule of 6.
This refers to the 7, 8 or 9 people who are allowed by Boris to meet in certain situations. People arriving at your house but parking down the road do NOT count as part of the 6. Nor do others who arrive by other means. For Christmas the Rule of 6 means no more than 27 people together in one house, bed or sofa. Adhering to social distancing, obviously.

Banned words.
Handshake.
Hug.
Birthday Party
Conga chain.
Football fanS.
Moshpit.

I hope this helps. Otherwise, try Comas-for-us, who offer special family rates.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx