Andy's Glasses

I was looking at the Sunday magazines the other day. Probably Sunday. And I’m always drawn to images of food. And the photos all look fab, but then you read the recipes and I can’t help thinking that there is a fundamental issue with the whole genre. That there are only so many foods and once you’ve mixed them all up in every possible permutation and combination, then you can only re-invent the wheel. Ya got meat, ya got fish, ya got vegitibals, innit. Then ya got chilli powder, curry powder, za’atar and coriander. Ok, you can add pomegranate or tahini or even dandelions, but a roast chicken is a roast chicken, whatever.

And that got me to thinking about a simpler time and place for food. Some of the places I frequented on my great world tour of Los Angeles in 1982. And when I say ‘simpler’ I generally mean light on the za’atar (wasn’t invented until 2007, even though its actually mentioned in the bible, Exodus, ch 14, v.19: ‘Moses cooks up a storm’) and high on the… calories and speed. I mean places which are open 24 hours a day, specifically to cater to the massive California market of partying drunks and stoners. Generally places you wouldn’t necessarily term ‘restaurants’. More ‘caravans’ or ‘stalls’.

Tommy’s Burgers were legendary. I’m guessing, and hoping really, that in the intervening 40 years they’ve survived and still thrive. Because they were fantastic. There was one branch ‘downtown’, which, back then, was a fairly ‘no-go’ area at night due to gangs and guns. But for a fabulous burger, there is no danger or peril too great for this heroic foody. So as the bullets whistle by your head you could zone out into the awesome sandwich and hope you were still alive to finish your coke. Which, in terms of probability, had a greater chance of killing you. Tommy’s also had a branch ‘in the Valley’, which was safer, but 20 minutes away from anywhere.

White Castles are New York’s ultimate street food. Tiny burgers. Single, double or triple, and so small (40 years ago a ‘slider’ was an out of control car) that you ordered, like, 3, or 7. Or 12 if you were really hungry. Or really stoned. The US soldiers in Afghanistan had White Castles flown over for their requested Christmas dinner. A caravan in the middle of Long Island but international in fame.

Best of all was ‘Oki-dog’ in West Hollywood. They only sold… Oki-dogs. Which was a great big tortilla upon which they laid 2 hot dog sausages, covered them with cheese and pastrami, then added a shovel full of chilli beef, just in case the rest wasn’t enough. Then it was wrapped in such a way that the first bite was sufficient to have half the rest of the contents on your lap. Brilliant. They don’t make food like that any more. Not since the word ‘obesity’ became a watch-word and Americans, as in so many other walks (or ‘waddles’) of life, led the way.

I just checked and in fact all three of these businesses are still there and (hopefully) thriving.

Next week’s food item will feature vegetables. Possibly salad. Bit’a fruit maybe. Or at least mention them.

Happy eating

A xxxx

Spurs played 3 matches in a week. All played ‘away’ from home, if such a thing has any significance with the partisan effect being obviously absent. And all won. One of the 3 teams we played I’d even heard of previously. Southampton. The other two, played in all the glory and splendour of the Europa Thursday Night League of Shame, I initially thought were clues in an anagram puzzle. But then learned that Lokomotiv Plovdiv and Shkendija are in fact real. And correctly spelt. And represent Bulgaria and Macedonia, respectively. Or, for the purposes of this essay, disrespectfully.

But that’s the rule in the Europa Cup. As it is written: (eh-hem) “and thou shalst travel, on the night of the Thursday, to a far away land in the East. Never to the south, where its warm. Only to the East, where it is bleak and cold; where racists and anti-semites are free to walk the streets and make obscene gestures to away teams. Sometimes to the North, where games are played in the Scandinavian arctic in permanent darkness where the population of the town must never be more than 37.”

But heh; you can only play who they bring. And always better to win rather than lose. So we were triumphant.

In the following 8 days we play 4 more games. Tomorrow its Newcastle. Who have been shit, but only for about 8 years, yet seem to be ‘resurging’. If one win in the league and thrashing Morecambe in the league cup could be grounds for such a claim. It’s a ‘must win’ for Spurs. We seldom have ‘must lose’ games these days.

On Tuesday its Chelsea in the Carabao Cup. Which would be an ‘ooooohhhh’ but its the Carabao Cup so only really warrants a meagre ‘oh’.

Thursday we host Maccabi Haifa in the Europa. Just 3 days after Yom Kippur, Spurs (the Yids) have invited Haifa (bunch’a Jewish people) to their home in North London to celebrate the festive season. Happens all over that part of the world. With the hosts showing off their latest gadgetry and fancy shmancy appliances and telling of all the work they’ve just had completed by a wonderful bunch of Polish builders, and it ‘only cost a billion quid!!!’

Finally, if any of our players are still able to walk or stand, we’re off to Old Trafford Sunday week. To play the Manchester United team that was so full of promise, until they actually played a match. Then the promise seemed to turn into the same old lies. But ya never know.

So that’s it. That’s ‘ALL’ we have to look forward to in terms of football. As long as the Covid rules don’t change again. Or as long as they change but then change back again really quickly. Either scenario is distinctly possible.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

Sorry? Pardon? What??? Say that again?

These have been my most commonly used words over the past… while. Not saying how long, just a ‘while’. But… NO MORE!!!

I have just acquired a pair of… hearing aids!!! Yeah, I know, shoot me now, Dignitas time, its all gone to shit. I am OLD. But hearing aids??? Holy shit. I mean, my hearing is fine! If I put on Smells Like Teen Spirit at volume 11 through a headset, my hearing’s perfect. It’s only at times there’s a problem. Like people speaking. The phone. Talking to someone who’s using a hands-free kit. It’s only a problem when sounds are involved. In particular, sounds you need to hear. Otherwise, I have no problem at all. My knees are fine.

So I went for a ‘test’. And they looked and said, ‘ahhh, there’s wax there, need to get that out first’. Ok, hack away. No, you need to go away and put olive oil (note, only the best for me, extra virgin stuff, imported from Tuscany. Morrison’s vegetable oil would only help the wax in a lorry driver’s ear, not mine) and then come back and we’ll remove it. So for 2 weeks I anointed my ears twice daily with the oil that Ottolenghi would use on his most delicate of salads. And I reached the point, having dislodged all this stuff, by Wednesday, of blocking both my ears. Totally. Absolute deafness. Most horrendous thing ever. Taking a credit card payment on the phone from a woman (higher pitches are my specific problem) took 3 hours and 27 minutes. After my first 4 phone calls I stopped saying ‘is anybody there!!!’ really loudly. I’d forgotten completely that ‘f’ and ‘s’ are actually two different letters! Like, who’d’a known?? ‘D’, ‘T’ and ‘B’ similarly. All the fucking same ta me.

Yesterday the dude ‘syringed’ my ears. They actually use a tiny little sucker thing. And, in my case, supplemented this with an industrial shovel. I will spare the details. That action changed my life. I could hear again! It was fantastic. But, not quite well enough, as the following test showed up. High range? What high range? I don’t have one any longer. So try these matey; and he programmed up a pair of little hearing aids. Digitally!!! So, rather than just having, like, a miniature Marshall amp in each ear, these are programmed for the specific ranges that an individual is missing. And I tested them.

I took a piss. And heard it in the most glorious of full, Dolby stereo, panorama-techno-colour-for-ears, quadraphonic sound ever. If Bang & Olufsen took a piss, it would sound like that. And I can even hear a sibilant ‘s’ once more. Yesssssss…

Happy loud Friday

A xxxx

Like Churchill before him, Boris Johnson is inspiring the entire nation, every man, woman, person, object, thing with multiple bits, undecideds, crossovers, gender fluids and any group I may have inadvertently missed, to fight, fight fight!! this horrible pandemic. We are all being encouraged to stand up, get battle ready, bare arms, join together (no more than 6, obvs) and… and… go back home, lock the doors and stay inside. Hmmmm. Harder job to motivate people to do as little as possible, rather than Churchill’s fighting them on the beaches.

Viruses aren’t like Germans. For a start you can’t see them. They don’t wear helmets. In fact they wear crowns, but only at microscopic levels. So Boris’s job is in fact much more difficult than Churchill’s. To get people to agree to limit their lives in every single respect and aspect. And even then, as has been shown over and over, Boris and his team of incredibly clever and professorial advisers, know approximately the square root of absolutely fuck-all about the spread of this virus. Which is why the rules change on a pretty much daily basis. Along with infection rates.

The main problem we have here, which probably accounts for why we ‘lead the world’ in infected people and deaths, per 1000/100,000/million of population is that we’re rubbish at testing. And without tests you have no chance. Most surprising comment of the last few weeks, and certainly the funniest, was from Dame Dido Harding. The gel wot is in charge of our nation’s testing. Da big boss lady. And she stated, live on tv, that ‘we possibly underestimated test requirements because no-one predicted that rates might rise when the kids went back to school’.

Well I knew. She only had to ask. The man in the butcher’s knew. The bus driver knew. The masked up Uber driver knew. People, whose lives have all been reduced and concentrated into the microcosm of Covid-world, now talk of nothing else. And everyone, from Nicola Sturgeon to possibly someone even more obnoxious, simply KNEW that when the schools reopened it would be a turning point, possibly a tipping point. But the ‘models’ used by the government advisors are waaaaaay more powerful than mere logic and common sense. So, ‘no, we never knew’. So we can’t test ailing teachers, or kids with symptoms, so have to take out whole year groups and force them into isolation.

I’m isolating. I’m in the City of London. The only place left where you’re truly safe from bumping into people. Where you’re at least 200 metres from the next soul.

Happy quietest Wednesday since May

A xxxx

I think HSBC should be praised for the 2 trillion (!!!) pounds worth of money laundering they’re responsible for over a 17 year period. It shows ingenuity, creativity, inspiration verging on desperation. They not only did this activity for companies they suspected of being ‘a bit dodgy’, but carried on even when assured that assumed dodginess was the real deal. That shows true determination right in the face of common sense, of regulations, even of what is actually legal. But carry on they did. ‘Fuck ‘em all!!!!’ they cried as they shifted masses of illegal funds around the world. Millions, billions and, eventually, trillions of the stuff.

So why is it that when I want to transfer £14.73 to the milkman’s bank account for 12 pints of semi-skimmed and a whole grain loaf, I have to find 7 pieces of ID, nine utility bills, 13 different passwords, 4 different user names and receive 7 coded messages by text before they let me do it? If you query this it is stated by your bank that this is to prevent money laundering. I find no inconsistency with this whatsoever.

We had an issue at work on Friday. Drain issue. Toilet blocked. Drain jammed up. Bad smell. Awful. It got even worse before the unblockers came, much, much worse but I’ll spare the details in the interest of keeping your breakfast down. But for an entire day we couldn’t use the toilet. So my receptionist went next door to our mates and used theirs. Whereas I just peed into the sink. Well why not? It’s easy, convenient and I would possibly say ‘a piece’a piss’ but that would be rather crass. However, I did think, at that point, that I’m so lucky being a man. I’m a man, ergo, I can piss in a sink. Now that’s what I call ‘gender fluidity’.

Carlsberg don’t make grandchildren. But if they did, they’d be Lila. Not that Joey isn’t the most wonderful grandson the world has ever seen, even if he leaves a path of destruction in his wake. Yesterday I was on the school run, taking Lila to her nursery. Or ‘university’ as I call it because SHE’S SO BRIGHT AND CLEVER, obvs. I arrived at her house to find her jumping up and down on the spot with excitement. She talked non-stop on the way there, rode her scooter from the car to the classroom, showed me where its ‘parked’, led me by the hand back to her waiting teacher and bounced up the stairs, carrying on the conversation but seamlessly with the teacher. En route we’d passed a little crying boy who wouldn’t let go of his mother and enter the building. Lila was fascinated by this scene. Counts as ‘drama’ in nurseryworld. And yes, she has been known to have a tantrum, does ‘have her moments’ of defiance, but generally, her boundless enthusiasm for absolutely everything is a total wonder. I’ll stop now.

Happy pre-‘nother-lockdown-day

A xxxx

Gareth Bale arrived in the country on Friday. 2 days later Spurs rolled over Southampton at St Mary’s, 5-2. I mean… I mean… I mean that’s a big score. A resounding score. A proper score. The score of dominance, the score of class, the score of… top 4 contenders! If not the league itself, if not the Champions League!! Which, ok, we’re not even in this year, but that is just NOT THE POINT.

The point is that this is football so you can make whatever claims you like, based on the minimal evidence of one meagre 90-minute spell and then everyone can call you a nob next week when it all goes tits-up again.

But such is the magnitude of the ‘Bale effect’ that even when he’s not playing, not eligible to play, injured and out for 4 weeks, as he is, even then, that effect is massive. Almost incalculable. Though if I had to, I’d estimate it at 14.73. Maybe as much as 17.18. Go on; prove me wrong.

And after last week’s crappy performance against Everton when ‘my world was ruined’ (for the 877th time in 60 years), the arrival of Bale followed by this fantastic victory has reset the clock, totally.

Son Heung Min, everyone’s favourite South Korean, scored 4. Harry Kane had 4 assists and then scored the 5th himself. So I just cut this from the BBC site:

With the return of Gareth Bale, Tottenham have the potential for a front three that could rival the very best in the world.

Yep, Firmino, Mane and Salah are sooooooo 2019, Chelsea’s new boys just a bunch’a tossers, Arsenal only have 2 up front and they’re both French and Manchester United’s performance last night, not just losing to Palace at Old Trafford but being completely outclassed by them, means they don’t even enter the competition.

I’m not normally into hyperbole, nor ridiculously overblown predictions based on nothing but hope and totally unrealistic expectations, but this year… this year…

THERE IS NOTHING SPURS CAN’T DO!!!!!

Extremely Happy Sunday. Everyone will always remember exactly where they were when Spurs beat Southampton 5-2.

A xxxx

In today’s big match, the final result was: Covid 1, God didn’t.

Because its Rosh Hashannah, the holiest day of the entire… week? month? Year? Whatever, its fucking holy, is what it is. And as the Jewish year is up to 5781 (we started so long before anyone else, Christians didn’t learn how to count til Jesus taught them, and he was a bloody Jew as well), this is the first time that the New Year celebrations have been… not ‘cancelled’ exactly, but let’s say ‘seriously curtailed’. So seriously that some people, deprived of their annual trip to the synagogue, are even possibly going to be playing tennis instead!!!

And in those almost 6000 years, it hasn’t all been an ‘easy ride’. Yet the New Year was always celebrated. When Ancient Palestine was invaded by Egyptians and Mesopotamians and Babylonians and Assyrians, the Jews of old managed a quick pray before the arrows started flying. When exiled to various ghettos and hostile environments all over Europe, Rosh Hashannah carried on. In the traditional style of religious festivals: you gather, you pray, you EAT! THEN EAT MORE!!!!

But today, because of a ‘cold’, any kind of normal celebrations are illegal. Anti-covid. As opposed to anti-Semitic. Therefore you can only have, like, one person in the synagogue at any one time. And a rabbi. Separated by several metres. No hugging, no kissing, hand-shaking, elbow bumping, hip knocking, foot-touching, nothing. And no honey cake. I unselfishly gave my place to someone more needy.

Because what you do on Rosh Hashannah is add up all the sins you’ve perpetrated in the preceding year. Takes fucking hours. But fortunately, in the last 12 months I haven’t sinned at all. So I’m good, thanks very much, you can have my place. YOU NEED IT!!!!

Japan is in crisis. No-one’s having babies there. The population is ageing at an alarming rate. In 20 years half the population will be over 65. They also live longer than anyone else in the world (its almost enough to make you eat sushi every day. Almost…) so they’ll reach the point where the pension pot runs dry and there’ll be insufficient workers to fill it up again. I think we should go to Japan and make some babies for them. They’ve obviously forgotten how to do it. Or have just become so weirded out by their rather bizarre conservatism, in which its not appropriate for men and women to strike up conversation in bars and clubs, among other strange behaviours, that they’re not hooking up in any meaningful way. They’re great at raw fish and karaoke, no good at pulling. And now the whole nation’s in jeopardy. Which in itself is more than a little strange, because every culture starts with rules for births, deaths, marriages. Kind’a the ‘essentials’. How did Japan miss that? They were too busy making Sony Walkmans, that’s how.

Happy New Year, May it be sweet and healthy

A xxxx

All religions have some kind of ‘second coming of the messiah’. Even though most don’t really remember the first one. Jesus was a good dude but no-one realised how good til he’d died. Then was reborn, then died again. And THEN did he become the stuff of legend. Well, the ‘Virgin birth’ bit helped. They’d never believe that in the Wirral. ‘Virgin births’ every day up there.

The Jews believe that if enough people do enough good things, the Messiah will come down to earth. Like a spiritual lottery win. You’ll know him when he arrives. Old geezer with a long white beard, black hat and shiny coat.

But now and again messiahs do arrive. One such was Jurgen Klinsmann, hallowed be his name. He’d played for Spurs and was already, like, a normal ‘god’, for the classic ‘dive’ goal celebration if not for everything else he did, which was totally wonderful and of genius calibre. He left and then, when all was going to shit down the Lane and the bottom had fallen out of our lives, HE returned among us. Like a normal mortal, but with a German accent. And He turned our season around totally. Whilst all the while being the total uber-mensch that we all remember. Eloquent, wry, witty and charming.

Well now we’re ready for another messiah down the Lane. It’s (fucking) time. After Sunday’s appalling season opener, its perhaps a bit early to write off yet another year, even for lifelong Spurs fans for whom ‘optimism’ means ‘we won’t get hammered too badly’. Yet if God moves in mysterious ways, he still couldn’t outrun Gareth Bale on the wing. No-one could. I hope that his years as a full-time golfer haven’t affected his speed or ability too much, but it would appear that, in answer to all our prayers, Gareth is coming home. Back to the team that didn’t exactly spawn him, but that made him into a player of such status that his move to Real Madrid made him the world’s most expensive footballer. And rightly so. He was, as our forays into the Champions League showed so greatly, totally unplayable. Mocking the world’s best defenders, scoring for fun, making the outrageously impossible look just plain normal. Like any true God should do.

I’m going to pay him 300 grand a week, from my own furlough payments, and Real Madrid will pay the other half. Otherwise he might go hungry.

But for the boost it will give the team, for the added dimensions that we currently sorely miss, for just the presence of Gareth Bale in Spurs kit once more, no price is too great.

Am I building this up too much? I don’t think so. In fact, I barely think at all any more. I just know. Gareth IS the messiah!!!

Happy signing day (I hope)

A xxxx

The rule of six came into force on Monday. I’m relieved. No idea why, it’ll make no difference to anyone. Unless… unless… unless you spy on your mates!!! And report them!!! To the ‘hotline’!!! The ‘scummy, scabby, snitchy grass-line’ as it will be known and as recommended by policing minister, Kit Malthouse. Who, when he was at school, used to ‘tell tales’ and shop all his mates and blame everyone else, and name names!!!

What a tragic state of affairs. We can’t test properly, even though most third world, impoverished countries (like Italy) have no problem. We can’t track and trace. And we can’t prevent the rate from going up. But we can tell everyone to spy on their neighbours and report them to the authorities. Like the Cultural Revolution in China. Like the Stasi did in East Germany. A society becoming devoid of trust.

There’s a whole host of people who are and have always been opposed to any form of ‘lockdown’ on civil liberty grounds. I’m not sure I agree with them totally, but have to admit they have a point. And grassing up yer mates and snitching on your neighbours is no way to endear yourselves to those people.

But there’s more important news around than increasing Coronavirus rates, this week. Gareth Bale wants to return to Tottenham! He actually wants to. According to his agent, Jonathan Barnet, who really doesn’t care where Gareth plays as long as he gets his percentage of the Welshman’s 25 million pound a year salary. You don’t even need that big a percentage either. And if Gareth wants to come ‘home’, we certainly would just love to have him. So that’s perfect then. Gareth might actually get to play in a few football matches as well, an added bonus for him, and much more than he’s done in Madrid for the last few years. So that’s settled then. Oh, the money? Well, I’m sure Gareth would find it a privilege to take a pay cut of around 75% to play for a club where he is loved, rather than reviled. 400 grand a week to be loved by me. Less than I charge Mel.

COME BACK GARETH!!!!

Happy overly hopeful days

A xxxx

I have had a request. A first in the entire history of this esteemed and much respected blog, which always aims to provide honesty, clarity, ‘transparency’ (steps aside to avoid vomiting on i-pad) and impartial, well-balanced… reporting? Opinionating? Ranting??? Whatever. It’s fucking impartial, innit. And will remain so until becoming partial provides a funnier scenario. As with the honesty and transparency shit. It’s only good whilst its funny, then dishonesty and opacity becomes the way forward.

The request came from far away. From the Bulawayo Boy, currently residing in Sydney, Australia, where many a good criminal was once sent. Or rather, all the bad criminals. The ones that were caught. And he has requested clarity on the current farce surrounding Brexit in which Britain is poised to ‘break international law’, reducing our national standing in the international stage and making us a pariah state, like Iran or North Korea, that nobody will ever trust or deal with again. Like Russia, but without the nerve agents.

And I wish I could be bothered to even read all the intricacies and posturing surrounding this latest ‘development’ in the longest political ‘saga’ (read: TOTAL WASTE OF TIME, SPACE AND ENERGY), but now the football season’s started, I simply don’t have the time. And if I’m honest, I was actually thinking of painting a wall just to watch it dry rather than have to delve into this latest Boris-driven-fiasco.

Briefly: the French are total bastards and the Germans inflexible tyrants. Together they created a Brexit plan, signed by a succession of limp-wristed, wishey-washey, Eton-educated ‘Brexit ministers’ and ‘Foreign Secretaries’, as they gave up the will to live, one after the other. We (I speak for my entire nation, even the Welsh, here) will pay the EU about 40 billion quid, possibly 50, maybe 60, depending on which yacht Barnier finally decides to buy, and we ‘leave Europe’ whilst still being governed by 98% of their laws.

So Boris has now said that we RESERVE THE RIGHT to imply our own rules over Northern Ireland trade. Which would be in breach of this so-called ‘international law’ but we actually don’t give a shit because keeping the Irish from murdering each other is a bit more important than some esoteric philosophico-legal construct made in Brussels.

And we want to be able to bail out failing companies with government aid, which again breaches EU laws. Because they are heartless bastards and we are caring and loving to all mankind.

No international laws are breached until either of those actions actually takes place. Talking about driving too fast is not a crime, neither is talking about ‘breaking international law’. But we might do either. Certainly the former.

And that’s it. I could have saved the bother and just replied: ‘it’s all Euro-bollocks’ but its actually much worse than that, so deserved a full response.

I HOPE YOU’RE HAPPY NOW, JON-BOY!!!

Happy awful start to the football season day

A xxxx

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