Andy's Glasses

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

Britain has announced that by 2030 no more petrol or diesel cars will be registered. Only ‘lectric, like the Renault Zoe, pedal, like Fred Flintstone’s car, or… or… other good ways of powering cars. Hydrogen maybe. Or sand. Norway is doing it by 2025 because they’re a small, rich country full of very compliant blond people who already have over 15% of their vehicles electric. France is going for 2040 because they are essentially a stroppy and argumentative nation of people whose favourite word is ‘non!’ America is introducing the Chevy Brontosaurus, a supercharged 12 litre, V-16 monster, burning Super-high-leaded petrol mixed with nitro-methane, does 0-60 in 2 seconds, has no steering wheel because you really wouldn’t want go anywhere but in a straight line, and has a fuel consumption of 1.7 miles per gallon. I have one on order.

And Australia, home of the ‘hole in the ozone layer’, is doing… nothing. “Cars are a problem? Not here, mate.” Australia evolved separately, which is why their mammals have inbuilt handbags, and continues to ‘evolve’ along the human branch of the mammalian genus. Not necessarily in what could in any way be described as ‘advancing’ the human condition, but evolution doesn’t work on ‘advancement’ anyway. Which is probably why the Aussies are so good at it. Because its more about simple reproduction.

And its also ironic that over half the world’s current production of lithium, the stuff what makes the batteries in all electric vehicles, comes from Australia. Yet they still hang on to a kind of muscle car culture, down under. Not in the big cities, they’re as pretentious as city dwellers everywhere, trading their Mercs for Priuses, their big Beamers for I3s, but in the ‘backwoods’, which holds about 90% of the Australian population, the places where restaurants close at 8 and you walk down the Main Street feeling like you’re in a scene from ‘Deliverance’. And they drive Holdens. Australia’s very own cars. Well, it was until 2017 when they closed all domestic manufacturing plants. But Holdens were fab. Based on the American ethos of ‘take a piece of shit and stick the biggest fucking engine you could possibly cram under the bonnet, making sure that you NEVER try to improve brakes or suspension once you’ve done so.’ We rented a few on our great Aussie tour of 2011. Looks like a Vauxhall Dull-as-dishwater, drives like a dragster on steroids. My kind’a car.

But I’m ready to embrace the fossil-free revolution. Hmmm…

Happy Friday

A xxxx

And here is the news:

Covid covid covid, covid covid, covid covid covid covid covid covid covid. Covid covid covid covid, covid covid; covid covid covid, covid covid, Trump, covid covid covid, death, covid covid covid, hospitals, covid covid covid covid covid, election fraud covid covid covid covid covid, Boris covid covid covid covid, Arsenal covid covid covid covid covid, more death, covid covid, Manchester, covid covid covid covid. Covid.

Vaccine, vaccine, vaccine, vaccine, vaccine, space rocket, vaccine vaccine vaccine. Vaccine, vaccine, vaccine, Tottenham vaccine vaccine vaccine Footsie 100 vaccine vaccine vaccine, environment vaccine vaccine vaccine vaccine Biden vaccine vaccine vaccine, vaccine Dominic Cummings vaccine vaccine vaccine vaccine; London vaccine vaccine vaccine vaccine…

We’ve all learned a lot about statistics during this epidemic. We know that number of positive tests are meaningless. We know that ‘deaths’ are not all they’re made out to be. So we’ve moved on to averages rather than actual raw numbers. And rates of change. Comparisons. Rates of rates of rates of change. And the big one, excess deaths. Those over and above what would normally occur at this time of year. And that is really interesting. Because of massive regional variations. In England. I can’t be concerned with other nations at this point, I’d drown in numbers.

The North West has a 30% increase in ‘excess deaths’. Thus presumed to be covid linked. London has 0% increase. That’s quite staggering. I mean, we know that the good people of Manchester and Liverpool aren’t accustomed to washing their hands, nor much else really. But 30%!!!

If we look to football fans, this means that there are now 30% less Liverpool and Everton fans than there were in January. 30% less Manchester City fans. Manchester United fan numbers are unaffected. Arsenal fan numbers relate to covid rates in Iran, Saudi Arabia and the caves of Afghanistan. For Chelsea and West Ham infection rates please refer to Her Majesty’s Corrections department for current information. Spurs fan numbers also remain constant. Until there’s a barmitzvah. Then they spike a bit.

In other news, Jeremy Corbyn yesterday showed that in order to get back into the Labour Party he would make the most spectacular ‘u-turn’ on everything he’s been saying for the last 5 years. “Anti-semitism in the Labour Party has NOT been exaggerated or overstated, even though I did say precisely that last week. I must make this plain and clear… (cut to the ‘opposed to racism’ line)… and not just to wheedle my skulking way back to parliament like a grovelling worm”.

Thank you and good night.

A xxxx

So what do we do about old people? Who seem to be the major losers in the great Covid cull of 2020 (soon to be extended, by popular demand!!) Ok, there are benefits here because old people are, generally, a disproportionate drain on national resources. They need more power to heat up. They take pensions. They don’t pay much tax. They’re a massive drain on the NHS. And they need care. Yup, there’s not really much good to say about the aged. Pretty worthless group of non-contributing parasites.

Other than, we like them. And we love having them around. And they bring the essential balance to the lives of the young, the younger and youngest.

This is my dad. He’s going to be 96 on Tuesday, by the grace of God (not even one day is taken for granted at such a time of life), he should live so long, pth, pth, pth. And so, with ‘visiting’ temporarily banned due to lockdown, we arranged a ‘fly by’ happy birthday. With him inside his care home and us in the car park, shouting the birthday song as loud as our voices might manage to get it through the double doors and somewhere near his hearing aids.

So Rachie and I went, met up with Lila and Joey and their mum and dad, in the rain, to scream at ‘Poppa Moishe’ through the glass. And wave. Because Joey doesn’t know the words to that particular song we let him sit down in a puddle he found instead. (What was he thinking??? Do babies think at all???)

And it was sad that he is locked in, especially as yesterday morning I received an email telling me that one of the carers had just tested positive so all have to isolate in their rooms for 14 days. But they wonderfully made an exception. Because some carers really do actually care.

His face says it all. There may have been some kind of minor risk involved, who knows, but he’d take that any day, and so would I, for the sheer pleasure those 5 minutes gave him.

My dad was on LBC last Sunday morning. Telling them that he’s an old soldier, a WW2 veteran, never committed a crime but is a prisoner of government diktat. And in what is inevitably their last few days/weeks/months/years if they,re very lucky, isn’t protecting the very old from Covid arguably more dangerous to their overall health and wellbeing than letting them have the massive benefit that contact with their families brings?

Difficult decisions. Not sure its been thought out properly, but there again, what has?

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

I’d just like to stay with the televisual theme for a little while, which is appropriate as THERE IS NOTHING ELSE WE’RE ALLOWED TO DO without risking arrest. And its almost a case in point, having referred to the addictive nature of even the most banal, trite, trivial, mindless and almost brain-dead of tv offerings. And nothing exemplifies all those adjectives more than ‘Married at First Sight’. For current purposes (as its the only ones I’ve seen) we’ll deal with the ‘Australia’ sub-group of the species.

The premise or ‘experiment’ as they loftily call such a shag-fest in Australia, is a simple one. Take two people who’ve never met before, tick a few ‘dating app’ type boxes and let them meet ‘under the alter’ for the first time. What could possibly go wrong? Ok, its not a ‘real’, like, ‘legally binding’ wedding, but there’s white dresses and top hats and families and rings and stuff.

Then they spend time working out whether they actually like their new ‘mate’. (In all senses of that word, particularly in Australia). Oh, and rather than get bored watching one couple making tea and arguing about toilet seats for 3 hours, there’s 10 couples. All living through various forms of optimism, delusion, frustration, realisation and disappointment. Loads of disappointment.

The younger daughter is temporarily back with us from her new native Berlin and when not working she can often be found in front of the tv upon which are groups of young people slagging each other off. There are 4,652 programs involving such social studies, all of them totally moronic.

Except Married at First Sight. Which is brilliant. Because these people are Australians. The nation least in touch with its emotional side. Where, if men have empathy for women it manifests itself by the purchase of a bottle of white wine to accompany the 54 crates of beer. The place where, if men ‘get’ women at all, they have to keep quiet about it. They don’t ‘wear their heart on their sleeve’, unless its a tattoo and the heart in question has a dagger through it.

So now we ‘binge’ on this series. Only as a study, NOT because we like it in any way. We watch it, even though its way beneath us, as an intellectual exercise in what rubbish ‘other people’ might watch.

So for God’s sake, DON’T watch MaFS. One minute is too much. 47 hours not enough.

Happy binge-watching

A xxxx