Andy's Glasses

Sometimes its just nice to have validation. Sometimes you do things and you ‘just don’t care’, and others may be offended, but that’s life. Most of what I do or say will offend someone, I just hope that someone is the person I’m talking to or I’m not doing my job. Because offence is just an extension of disagreement and if everyone agreed all the time the world would be duller than… duller than… another nil-nil draw at Arsenal… duller than Brexit talks… duller than… Harry and Meg’s career move.

And to have something controversial validated by authority is a wonderful thing indeed.

The Oxford English Dictionary, no less, have changed the definition of the word ‘Yid’. It still means an offensive term aimed at Jews, a horrible word, a nasty expression. But now they’ve added ‘a player or fan of Tottenham Hotspur football club’. They’ve also added ‘Yiddo’ into the category as a sort of ‘pet version’ of an abusive phrase. As if you’re fond of the person you’re verbally abusing in a nasty but loving way, perhaps.

So thank you, OED, for the clarification we’ve been seeking for decades, for the validation of our name. And most of all, for the upset this has caused, is causing, and will continue to cause, to David Baddeil and a whole host of other supersensitive supporters of other London clubs, the fans of which stick to the strictly former OED definition and use it abusively, nastily and filled with hate.

Tottenham Hotspur football club have demanded ‘clarification’ from the OED because, basically, they suffer the fallout from their naughty fans and have never and obviously can never endorse the ‘y-word’ in any way shape or form. Even though that costs them probably 27.8 million quid a year in lost sales in the Spurs shop from the very potential of ‘yiddo’ merchandise.

So the OED say that’s not their job. They’re there to reflect language usage, not make judgments or political statements. If words are used other than in their intended origin that’s not their problem, they just tell you about it.

When used by Spurs fans there is absolutely no anti-semitism attached to the term. It is the opposite. Used with pride and is just a ‘je suis Charlie Hebdo’ thing. “I am Spartacus!” It is standing together with the Jews and becoming one, united, indistinguishable group. It is anti-anti-semitism, which is precisely how it began.

It is also one, single, solitary instance of fans getting one over on their club, the League, the lawyers and, of course, over David Baddeil. God bless the OED. Our God, their God, any god will do.

Happy Friday

A proud Yiddo
xxxx

So HS2 is going ahead. I would say ‘full steam’ but that’s so inappropriate, so 1874, so… downright wrong! Even though steam itself is clean and carbon-free, the coal used to produce that steam was a whole other kettle of pollution-ness. Those old choo-choo-puffers never spewed ‘steam’ out of their chimneys but DEATH!

Thus the new HS2 trains will be ‘lectric. And fast. Fast as fuck, in fact, as they whizz you to Birmingham in 45 minutes, Manchester in just over an hour. But wait! That’s just the start of things. From Manchester (which no-one wants to go to), you can link up to Crewe!!! How exciting is that? And Wigan! And all the way to Carlisle! The other link goes to Sheffield! And Darlington and all the way to Newcastle!!!

I can barely restrain my excitement and enthusiasm. At least 15 places that I never wish to see, all linked by a railroad I’ll probably never use, and all for 100 billion quid. Though by the time its completed, you know that’s going to be 200, or 500 (half a tril!!!) or more.

But then it’ll whizz people who do wish to do such traveling up there using so little carbon that they’ll almost have vegan status by the time they get to Harrogate. By Durham they’ll have turned into Greta Thunbergs. God help Durham.

Boris is big on ‘including the North’ into ‘England’ whereas before the last election, for most people, ‘England’ stretched only from Streatham to Pinner, Woodford to Richmond. And because, in a fit of Brexit-madness, the northern provinces all voted for him, this is the quid pro quo. Or, 100 billion quid pro quo.

What about the poor bastards cut off in Exeter? Norwich? Bristol? We’ll never (have to) see them again. Stuck with sloooooooooow trains and shitty roads, they’ll be cut off from all the ‘action’ in the rest of the land.

And that land will be different. According to the environmentalists our green and lush Island will become grey with concrete as HS2 quite literally steamrollers over all the villages and trees in its wake. Homes crushed, people moved, lives destroyed. The impact on wildlife alone has caused a new alliance between the rabbits, hedgehogs and worms, whose lives will never be the same again. Ironically the major cost, and major carbon problem, is because protecting the Chilterns means running a lot of the line through tunnels. Which are incredibly expensive. If they just flattened the hills it would be cheaper but apparently some people like them, so they’re staying.

Oddly, the Conservatives have spent a vast part of the last decade defending austerity and financial prudence. Yet Boris, so excitable, a bit like Lila, seems to be jumping (us) headfirst into massive projects at incredible expense. Spend, spend, spend. (Lila is 2-an-free-korters; Boris isn’t).

Happy digging

A xxxx

Korea.

And deservedly so? Is Parasite as good as 1917? Better than Once Upon a Time in Hollywood? A greater work than Joker? Who cares. It’s quite brilliant. And unusual in that it comes from a different culture, ie Korea rather than Hollywood, and it represents its culture, the good and the bad. Which is why its made such an impact, because it shows how (presumably) a lot of Koreans live. In poverty. Scraping a living with minimum wage, cash paid jobs, living from day to day. And it juxtaposes such people with the ‘other side’. The super-rich. Mansion-dwelling, urbane, teams of staff around them and luxury. And its funny. Really, cleverly, beautifully funny as the poor family struggles and becomes involved with the rich one in a fabulously almost-credible way.

That’s the first half. We’ll call that ‘the half before it all TURNS TO SHIIIIIIITTT!!! in a big way’. A very big way.

Because Parasite is a game of two halves. Lots of films are, but in an odd few those halves are markedly different in everything. Like Dawn to Dusk. Starts off as a hi-jacking, segues into a vampire movie half way through, as the director’s drugs kicked in.

Parasite is more subtle than that. Much more subtle. Yet shit and fans still combine in the inevitable way. And the last 20 minutes are quite shocking. In every way (no spoilers).

The characters are all brilliant. And brilliantly played. It makes its point too. Strongly. But not in any Corbynist way, more just pointing out the not so subtle differences in the lives of the two distinct classes in Korea. Even though both look the same. Albeit one a bit grubbier. And swear at each other more.

It’s about time America realised that there’s a whole world out there, some of them even making films. Some of which aren’t even comic book franchises!

Ya kind’a have to see it now anyway, because of all the fuss. But you won’t be disappointed. Unless you can’t read. Then you won’t have a fucking clue.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

It all started with a Samsung. As these things so often do (?) At some point I decided that I didn’t need an iPhone and acquired (cos you don’t really ‘buy’ them, in any meaningful sense) my first Samsung. I liked it. More importantly, Mel could use it. Like, most of it, without too much help. Which was an amazing testament to the facility of the Android system. Even a self-confessed technophobe can handle a Samsung phone. So we went Korean. And haven’t looked back. We’re now on 3rd or 4th upgrades over, maybe 10 years, and they do everything we need them too. Which may be way less than many people ‘need’ to do on their phones but we’re happy!

Then, in 2015, Spurs bought a player from Bayer Leverkusen. Son Heung Min. And after about 3 years of him being ‘that Chinky geezer’, or ‘a noriental bloke’, even the most die hard Spurs fan accepted that this fabulous and fabulously happy player who we all by then loved dearly, was in fact Korean. South Korean (the good bit) and in fact the captain of their national football team. Nothing at all to do with North Korea, with Kim Jong Un, with nuclear threats, nothing. Just a nice, smiley, goal-scoring SOUTH Korean. As a consequence of which, Spurs on match days is now a version of ‘Little Seoul’. Of Korea-town. They flock to White Hart Lane from as far away as Loughborough, Kettering and Milton Keynes to see and adore their national hero.

In 2016 a Korean movie re-made ‘the handmaid’s tale’, called The Handmaiden. It was a truly brilliant and beautiful film, remarkably so. And in fact started the international obsession with the book which followed. With a tv series (never seen it, no idea how they drag a wonderful story out to cover 19 seasons of 10 episodes each, but that’s tv), the re-launch of the book, the sequel, the prequel, with Handmaid’s tale-mania.

And then last night. The coup de gras. The night when South Korea finally found its place on the map. When the movie Parasite won the Oscars for best movie and best director. Both of which are Korean. It’s a forrin film. And never before has such a thing won anything at the Oscars other than ‘best forrin film’. To win ‘best film’ when it is sub-titled, non-American, non-English-speaking and downright slanty-eyed is positively humongous. YOU WANT DIVERSITY????? The Academy ‘shouted’, TAKE THIS MUTHA THEN!!!! I didn’t know that many Academy members could actually read that a sub-titled movie could win, but there ya go. I’ve underestimated that fine nation yet again. Not Korea, you don’t underestimate them, but America. Always truly worthy of underestimation.

I’m going to see Parasite tonight. In my defence I booked it yesterday BEFORE it won the Oscar.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

Tennis was abandoned this morning, before it started. Even though it was dry; the main and usually sole criteria for tennis playage round here, the winds were so strong that, although not totally ‘unplayable’, reduces playable to miserable. Cos balls swirling round is horrible and frustrating. And all because of storm Ciara. Why they had to pick a silly name for a ‘c-word’ I don’t know. Is it Ki-ara or Si-ara? They could have just used ‘Clive’. Colin. Cevin.

And as I ventured over to see Lila and Joey, I think ‘blustery’ was the word I’d use. Along with ‘horrible’ and ‘bollocks’. But still dry-ish, just sort of damp wind, nothing more. Then I came home, same again, having picked up all my local shop stuff. But forgetting the newspaper which wasn’t delivered this morning. Grrrrrr. So I popped my jacket back on and popped round to the shop, just a, quite literally, 2-minute pop away. Picked up the paper. And stepped out into Armageddon.

WTF??? The air was solid with water. Diagonal, hard, massive lumps of rain. I’m fine, I had my faithful Spurs hat. Ok, its wool, but how wet can it get in 2 minutes? The answer to which is the superlative of your choice. Mine is ‘totally fucking’. Along with my jacket (showerproof, not deluge-proof), my sweatshirt underneath, my trousers and even, best of all, my underpants. Only clean on last Tuesday but now ruined with soakage. Fortunately I’d had the presence of mind to bury the newspaper under all my layers before stepping into Hell, so Mel can read ‘YOU’ magazine when she comes in. As if nothing had happened. As if her devoted husband hadn’t risked life, limb and drowning to get the fucking thing. I HOPE SHE ENJOYS IT!!!!

Lila is fine. Joey is great. I arrived and Lila was at the window. Saw me and started jumping up and down waving her arms. A lot of people did this during my Elephant Man days and people who know me tend to do it anyway, just before running away as fast as they possibly can. But Lila’s reaction was pure. Was real. Was just Lila. In its most distilled form.

Saw a play last night. Ooooooh. A musical. Aaaahhhhhh. At the really sweet (but horrendously uncomfortable) Park Theatre in Finsbury Park. Called ‘Rags; the musical’ its the tale of Jewish migrants into America in the… 1920s? 30s?? And their plight. Set to music. Good music. And it was highly entertaining. Very funny. Tragic at times. Jolly at others. And at about 30 quid a ticket represents fantastic theatrical value. When to see any musical in the West End will cost upwards of 120 quid.

It was timed perfectly for people to watch the end of the rugby and get there in plenty of time. And watch it we did. And enjoyed England’s glorious, if brutal, win against the Scots. Who used to be the ‘Auld enemy’ but have promoted to the new one as well. Lucky we stuffed ‘em.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

… The white geezer.

Same as always. They gave one to Sidney Poitier in about 1975 and that was enough ‘diversity’ for any distinguished organisation, surely? What should they do? Give an Oscar to Philip Schofield just to keep numbers up? Would it be better if some of the nominees (all white) turn up in ‘black face’? Just to… sort of… well, ya know. Was just a thought. Possibly not my best.

You’d kind’a think that on the back of the ‘me-too’ thing and the whole ‘exposure’ of Hollywood norms and practices, that the big-wigs would just do something right, just in the interest of not causing more of a shit-storm than you really need. Would it have been so difficult for the ‘academy’ to find a few non-whites to nominate? How hard is it when our screens are simply teeming with wonderfully talented racial diversity? And its not like “well that would compromise our artistic integrity” because as we know from every previous year, the Academy has no integrity and makes its selections on purely political motives. So that’s all bollocks. Therefore they must actually have made the decision to reduce diversity. Which is indeed controversial. Which explains the furore surrounding tomorrow night’s little party.

Philip Schofield is gay!

First thought: who gives a shit?
Second thought: which one is he, again?
Third thought, once you realise which one he is: big surprise, that one. Course he’s fucking gay.

The whole thing is about ‘bravery’. He’s so ‘brave’ to come out like that, on tv. He did so because for years he’s had people make revelations about such things, to the public, and he’d thought ‘they’re so brave’. And so indeed Philip decided to be brave. So brave that having been married to a woman for 27 years he needed to… what, come clean? Make a rapid choice? Twenty-seven years. Unless he ‘caught’ his gayness in the last virus to emerge from China. The gay one. Because otherwise, presumably, he’s always been gay. I can’t speak from experience on this because I’m the world’s most heterosexual stud-machine manly of men. But I know what went through my mind, to the virtual exclusion of all else, between the ages of 13 and… and… well, I’ll let you know. And presumably Philip had thoughts too. Maybe more ambiguous than mine, who knows? But 27 years?

Who cares. Lila’s coming home. With Joey. Tonight. That’s way more important.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

King Tut has always had a special place in our hearts. His heart was removed and buried near him a little box with his organs and a few other ‘bits and pieces’. It was the Egyptian way. But King Tutankhamen wasn’t like the BEST EVER pharaoh, nor the tallest, sexiest, ugliest, meanest, most successful or in any way particularly notable. Yet he’s the one we know. And by ‘we’ I mean everyone in the world. It’s that picture, the beautiful face with kohl eyes, the headdress and scarf-thing, that is so instantly recognisable. Not Ramses, (the only other I can think of, so I’ll make up a few others just for good impression), not King Kevin, Pharoah Phil nor Nigel the Great! But Tutankhamen. Tut was a king at age 9 and died just 10 years later. Hardly set the world on fire. That was Nero.

So why Tut? Because they managed to find him. That’s why. He ‘survived’. Ok, not ‘him’ in the normal sense, but his tomb. Unlike the other Egyptian royalty three and a half thousand years ago, Tutankhamen’s grave was never found by the gangs of grave-robbing tomb raiders. Even before Angelina Jolie was born those wily ‘gyptians worked out that kings were buried with more material wealth than 2000 regular civilians could make in 2000 years. So in a rather pre-Marxist way they worked out a system of wealth distribution. Called theft. Much like most post-Marxist forms of wealth distribution. They robbed the tombs. Filled with gold, jewels and shit-loads of stuff. Intended to see the dead king through his passage in the underworld.

And thus yesterday, Mel & I ventured to the Valley of the Kings (Road) to see what was hailed as Tutankhamen’s Final World Tour!!!! by those misrepresentative fuckers at the Saachi gallery, who used that iconic King Tut image in all their advertising.

But he weren’t there. The king. Nah, mate, he’s in his final, FINAL resting place in a museum in Cairo. With his most famous sarcophagus and lots of other old gear. What we got ‘ere is ‘the stuff wot was buried in the tomb with ‘im’. Ahhhhhh.

And it is quite amazing, and magnificent, verging on obscene what was buried in the other 3 rooms of the tomb which the king didn’t occupy. Shitloads of stuff. All beautifully, airlessly preserved for 3,500 years. Tons of stuff (literally) including this fearsome ‘guard’ of the body.

The stuff is great. The building now home to the Saachi looks fab from the outside but feels like a disused school building or hospital from the inside. Smells like it too, unfortunately. But its Chelsea, so its posh, and a bit poncey. And fitting for a king. Dead or otherwise.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

So there’s a BA flight from New York. Guy pops into the bathroom before take off to… well, whatever. Looks at the sink area (4 inches x 3, as they always are) and sees hand-wash, sanitiser, hand cream, 2 passports and a Glock 17 automatic pistol. Looks at the passports (I’d have fired the gun, personally, just because) and sees one belongs to David Cameron. Yup, ‘that’ David Cameron. Hands them in, lots of fuss, flight delayed, BA want to turf him, the finder, off the plane, for some reason, gun returned to Cameron’s bodyguard and eventually all is well for departure.

I want to know why the guard put his gun down. Was he holding it in his hand? No, they call them ‘concealed weapons’ for a reason. So you don’t have to walk around waving it in the air. So it was in a holster. They sell them. In gun shops, probably. On his hip? Under his arm? Whatever. People get understandably frightened when they they see a man with a gun, so hide it. So did the guard take the gun out whilst he was… concentrating? In case a terrorist burst into his toilet and he could shoot him? Like, sitting there with some toilet paper in one hand and a Glock in the other? As we all normally do. What are the protocols for armed security people on the bog? They must have guidelines. Rules. Regulations. I wonder if he’d been having sex with Cameron in the toilet, mile high club thing, like that Bodyguard in the tv show did with his PM?

Trump gets acquitted of all possible crimes and misdemeanours by the senate. He was innocent! All along. Never had a doubt, myself. But its good to have it proven in a court of law by a bunch of jurors who owe you their careers and livelihoods, voting you free. No conflict of any interest there.

Or at Spurs. Where another stunning victory was played out last night at the Lane (for want of a better, or more expensive, name). Southampton it the FA cup replay. We were losing, we were losing, we were playing badly, second best, we were still losing, then we were drawing, then we got a penalty and won in the 90th minute. VAR ruled it was a fair call so all the Southampton players and fans were happy with that, and Sonny (bless his little Korean soul, or Seoul?) dispatched the winner.

Underserved. Second best. Playing badly. The best wins of all.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

They held the Iowa Caucus on Monday. One of those vague and impenetrable American things which happens every few years and no-one over here knows what it means or what it does and then they announce a winner! This year it was different in that no-one over there appeared to know what was going on either as they screwed up the vote counting and the announcements and then decided that the young gay guy was a better option than the woman or either of the two really really old guys in wheelchairs. In the battle to win the Democrat nomination to stand against Trump in this year’s election.

They have no fucking chance. None of them. Which means we’re going to be stuck with another four years of Donald J. Trump. Another. Four. Years. Because without a really ‘stand out’ candidate Donald will breeze in, virtually unchallenged.

Jo Biden was the go-to guy, the man almost responsible for Trump’s impeachment, but he apparently gave an awful speech and fared poorly in the results. Coming in 4th. Which is good in, say, the London marathon, but not so good in a 4-way competition. As this was. He’s 78 years old. If he won the election he’d be nearly 83 by the time his first term was over. I’m not making judgments about that, nothing ageist, but its stupid.

Elizabeth Warren came third. She’s a woman. Is America ready for a woman president? We thought so last time when Mrs Clinton stood up to be counted, but just not ‘that woman’. Could it vote for this one? The senator from Massachusetts? Who is about as high profile as my milkman. Who we never see.

In second place was Bernie Sanders. The ‘socialist’ billionaire. Jeremy Corbyn meets Alan Sugar. With just about the charm of both. Also 78, Bernie is as he has always been, unelectable. America doesn’t do socialism.

But can it do ‘gay’? Pete Buttigieg is the current mayor of South Bend, Indiana. Population about 100,000. And seems, unusual in such situations, like a good guy. A nice guy. A clever guy. All of which is commendable and voteable. Which is why he came first in the Caucus. But would the rest of America feel comfortable enough to vote this man as president? I’m not thinking New York and LA here, I’m thinking Kansas and Wyoming (Brokeback?) and Tennessee. I’m thinking… redneck. I’m thinking opposition to gay marriage. I’m thinking the religious south. A gay president? I would love to think that the Unaaarted States of Ameeeeerica was so enlightened and liberal. But it ain’t.

So to choose the only candidate that would appear worthy would be to condemn the Democrat party to a sure loss.

Hence, more Trump.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I had the privilege, the honour, the just damned good fortune to be at Spurs yesterday. Because I don’t normally go but made an exception because… because… because I wanted to. And wanted to parade my new-found facial deformities before the 62000 assembled there. Though most of them didn’t appear to notice. They were too busy enjoying themselves. And enjoy we did. Well, the ones in navy blue and white did. The odd few sky blue scarves sat beneath faces somewhat less joyful. I’m pleased to say. Thrilled to say. And delighted to say.

Normally a visit to Tottenham High Road on match day fills me with anxiety. I get bad feelings, lack of confidence, thoughts of terrible defeats. Match day nerves. But yesterday, unaccountably, I actually went to the match feeling really positive, really ‘up’, really good about it. Very un-Spurs fannish.

But I think this feeling was in some way reciprocated by my team. They knew I was there. They appreciated me coming. And they made just that extra effort and commitment for their main inspiration.

What a match. It had it all. And not necessarily all in a good way. It was exciting, it was at times beautiful and it was at others, totally stupid, ridiculous and pathetic. Because that is what VAR is doing to the game. Making it a joke.

I was going to go into great detail about the events around VAR-gate and how it ruined the game. But I deleted it all because it didn’t ruin the game. Perhaps only because we later won and therefore become more forgiving of the Keystone-kopsian ridiculousness of that part of the match. Because in the fractious aftermath Zinchenko was booked, and soon after was red carded. 2 minutes later we scored. To put that in perspective, it was our first shot on goal. 63 minutes. During which we’d been equal in play but, in the parlance of the terraces, ‘wanted it more’. We were so wonderfully combative, fighting for every loose ball (obviously giving away a few of our own, as we do) and Harry Winks, bless him, simply took Kevin de Bruyne out of the game. Sanchez was immense at the back. Loris majestic (which is French word meaning ‘didn’t fuck anything up’) and the team looked good. Other than poor Son, who looked off, until he scored our second goal. Then he looked much better. Even I looked better as I could feel my face deflating with every great event on the pitch.

I had to wait for my mate who was giving me a lift home. At the pre-arranged spot. And he took ages. But just sitting there watching an endless stream of wonderfully happy, blue-scarfed, smiling, singing, shouting (ok, a bit of abusing but nothing Man City don’t deserve) was really what football is about. The fairly unfamiliar glow of a fabulous victory.

Very Happy Monday

A xxxx