Andy's Glasses

When Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang declared this week that he wants to leave Arsenal to play for ‘a team wot wins things’, I don’t think he was referring to the FA Cup. His fellow (mercenary, badge-kissing hypocrite, journeyman) striker, Alexandre Lacazette said the same. Unfortunately, unless Manchester City, Liverpool or Barcelona are interested in a couple of just over the hill moody Frenchman for ‘just’ about a million quid a month, each, that ain’t gonna happen. Personally I wouldn’t employ them to wash my car, because some weeks you just know it would end up smeary, grubby, mud-splashes still visible, whereas my Albanians in Mint Green leave it pristine and sparkly for just 8 quid. Albanian car-washers are much more consistent than Arsenal football players. In fact tests have shown that in terms of moodiness and sulking, Arsenal players are worse than even teenage girls. With whom they share many other traits.

But the mystery is this. Why is the FA Cup, the oldest club… whatever, competition, in the entire known universe, other than maybe The Ashes, treated with such contempt by everybody in the Premiership, when not so long ago it carried massive prestige and honour? Manchester United won ‘The Treble’, not ‘the double and the FA Cup’. Mainly because winning ‘the double’ has always meant the League and the Cup. The Champions League was always the ‘out of reach’ and ‘totally exotic’ thing seldom won Brits. Forriners won it. Not our forriners, but other ones. Yet now it is the only cup that counts for anything.

The new FA Cup rule is this: if your team wins then you proclaim ‘the magic of the Cup’. If they lose, then ‘the FA Cup has lost its sparkle’. It’s simple and useful. Because you can blame the Cup rather than your useless team.

In truth though, the cup has ‘lost its sparkle’. Because just a few days after playing the totally manic ‘Christmas schedule’ of 19 matches in 4 days, or thereabouts, the clubs, all battered, bruised and with growing injury lists, have to play the 3rd round of the cup. At a time when the league season is turning into something more meaningful and significant and battles intensify at both ends of the Premiership.

And the Premiership is a money thing. It’s not about ‘local’ and its not about ‘football’. They are just vehicles for corporations to reap massive financial rewards. And as most club owners are, firstly, not interested in football so much as they are money, and secondly, aren’t British so didn’t grow up with the ‘magic of the Cup’, they don’t give a shit about it. It doesn’t earn them money and only stands to injure players who then won’t be fit for the league games which pay their salaries. The only Cup any player, and certainly owner, wants to win is the Champions League. THAT has prestige. That has gravitas. That makes you ‘a player’.

The league has always been about consistency over a long season. The Cup is more about occasional brilliance and rising to special occasions. So was generally more of an ‘anyone can win it’ kind of deal. But now only Man City, Chelsea and Liverpool win all the cups, other teams don’t really bother. Why should they when it might compromise their league status?

Which is why we must all hold up Leicester City as a fucking beacon of potential. As proof that it is possible to win big things with little money. Playing within the financial rules rather than writing your own new ones. They alone broke the monopoly of the ‘rich clubs’ winning everything. And it should fill us all with hope.

Unfortunately that’s not an abundant commodity in most football fans. We’ve all been bitten by it too many times.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

Good God, your…
What is it good for?

Absolutely nothing!

Which is not strictly true. War is in fact very good for killing people. Lots of people. Mainly the ones who haven’t started the war, nor those who caused the problems in the first place. But without wishing to sound too Jeremy Corbyn about this, I’m not a big fan of war.

So yesterday we had the new ‘weapons of mass destruction’, which is ‘Qasem Soleimani was plotting to kill Americans’. A rather spurious sounding justification for an international act of serious aggression. However, Trump soundly put this into perspective by claiming that he ‘took this action to stop a war, not start a war’. So that’s ok then. The good people of Iran (are there any? Other than my barber, and he lives here) would have heard that and, led by the Ayatollah, will accept this without question and join together in collective relief that the Chief Exec has averted another disaster. Yeah. Right. That’s why they were burning the flags of America (understandable), Britain (???) and Israel (why not?) in Tehran yesterday. To show the nations they really like and respect.

It does seem rather odd, even in Trump-world, to take an action which will inflame a situation in the Middle East, when he’s spent the last 2 years moaning about US involvement in the region and withdrawing his troops. So one must assume (always dangerous) that Trump’s intel and advisors recommended and approved this action. Or at least hope that is so. And there’s no doubt that the death of Suleimani makes the world a safer place to live. Other than for him, obvs. Because he was Iran’s military brain and leader. He decided on all the horrendous actions taken by Iran’s militia in so many other countries. Unfortunately, in places like Iran, men like him are heroes and leave a legacy of hatred and violence which others will only be too happy to continue.

So whilst the killing of the man is good, even for vegans, you kind’a know that the fun is only just beginning.

Happy Saturday (I hope)

A xxxx

Ok, I’m not going to ‘review’ the Peppa Pig show. I just can’t. Not that it wasn’t a pleasant and totally fucking inane hour, not that it wasn’t cleverly done, not that it didn’t entertain the kids a bit, but…

The odd thing was, Lila was fairly indifferent to it too. She liked it but wasn’t jumping up and down, wasn’t singing along (even at that age some people bristle at the very concept of ‘audience participation’) but was engaged and entertained. Ok, as much with what the other kids were eating as events on stage, but I’m glad we went.

Whereas the tube journey, she loved. Waving at the driver, finding seats, talking loudly about the people sitting nearby, that held her total fascination. And at every station; “is this Peppa Pig??” No, this is Warren Street. “Who Warren?” Ahhhh, Sir Neville Warren was the inventor of the tie-pin in 1724, he lived the life of…

You can always impress kids.

And the day was wonderful. And so different from traveling with Mel. Even though both are about the same size. And both talk a lot. But with Mel you never have to ask if ‘you need a wee?’ Never. She tells me. Frequently and regularly. Whereas Lila you have to ask. A hundred times an hour. And the answer is always ‘no’. Until that moment when she says ‘No…’ followed by ‘I need a wee!’ three seconds later.

But children aren’t impatient. They’re just honest. As adults you learn to put up with slow service in the world as just ‘the way it works’. Kids don’t have that experience. So we ordered lunch in Prezzo, (£3.95 for a three course kids’ menu plus a drink, I mean???). 5 minutes later, after she’d coloured in the kids’ menu nicely. Well, Lila-ly, ‘where my food?’ It’s coming; they’re very busy. ‘Where my lunch?’ Coming darling. ‘Where’s dinner?’ On its way. ‘Where food?’ At which point I collared a server and asked politely ‘WHERE’S MY FUCKING LUNCH????’

‘Where da train?’ Coming. ‘Where da train?’

Mel went to Manchester for the day to see her old dad. So Lila and I had to come home and trash the place all by ourselves. A task we managed with our usual aplomb.

Never mind Peppa Pig’s best day ever, as it was entitled, it was our best day ever. With or without Peppa.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

It’s the 2nd of January. 2020, in case you missed that bit. So its officially ‘back to work’ day, even though I reckon about half the City won’t return til Monday. But for the first time in recorded history, back-to-work day coincides with Lila-day. Ok, Lila’s only 2 so there its not like a burning historical issue or a total eclipse, but its very relevant in my life. But as Lila trumps work (Lila actually trumps EVERYTHING!!!!) we are going to see Peppa Pig. Even Peppa Pid (we still struggle with ‘g’ sounds a bit). Either way, Lila and I are headed uptown to see the hottest stage event since Hamilton. Bigger than West Side Story. And I’m excited. Really excited. Not the show so much, more with the logistics of getting a 2 (and 3/4) year old across London when we don’t so much get a ‘2 minute warning’ for impending bladder activity, but a burning imperative with total immediacy. “I need a wee!” means I’ve started. Lila’s going to watch Peppa, I’m going to watch her. The enjoyment, the excitement, the unbounded enthusiasm and total immersion that only a child can bring to any event.

And I’m going now!

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

The best festival in the Jewish calendar is Chanukah. No arguments, no challenges, no nuffink, its the best. It’s the ‘festival of light’ and celebrates a miracle. When Judah Maccabee fought off the Romans/Greeks/Babylonians/Real Madrid and saved Jerusalem and the Temple. But there was only enough oil to keep the ‘eternal flame’ alight for one day. Blah, blah, blah, it only fucking lasted EIGHT DAYS until they could get to Waitrose and buy more. A miracle! God dunnit!!! To appreciate the magnitude of this miracle some clever shit created an analogy. It’s like you have just 8% charge in your iPhone but it lasted a week!!!! Chanukah. And to celebrate the miracle we light a candle every night for eight days. And to symbolise the oil we are encouraged to eat fried things. Rabbis are either all on statins or they don’t know shit about health. So doughnuts and latkes (potato pancakes) are the order of the day(s). And somewhere along the line, as happens, Chanukah got a bit Christmassy and presents got involved. Kids get a present every night for eight days. So every kid just loves Chanukah. Adults do too. Mainly because there’s no ‘go to Synagogue NOW!’ requirement.

We took our rental car to the Europecar in Jerusalem because in that city you need a car like you need a camel. And the guy ran out to tell us where their car park was, but don’t go now, because the guys from there are all here to light the candles. How many Car Rental Operatives does it take to light a candle? All of them. So come in, said the guy, we’ll light the candles, you can have a drink, a doughnut and then take the car. Which is exactly what we did. They did the blessings (always a blessing), we ate doughnuts, we drank juice and sang. Israelis, us, Germans, French, Jews, non-Jews, everyone. And I thought: THIS IS THE MOST WONDERFUL, LOVELY, TIMELESS, COOLEST BRILLIANT THING EVER. Not just the doughnut, the whole thing.

The hotels all have ‘candle lighting’ at 5 or whenever, and obviously doughnuts. But its a Jewish country and they’re in the hospitality business. But Europecar?

Then on our last night we went to eat at one of our real faves. A place called ‘Miznon’, which means ‘counter’ as in shop counter. And Miznon, other than the food, which is made by the angels, is a vision of Hell. The ‘counter’ is crowded with people eating, people waiting for food, with cooks and staff. The music only plays at volume ‘11’ and most of the staff scream along with whatever’s playing. When your food arrives they just shout your name out, but like REALLY SHOUT IT OUTTTTT!!!!! The only seating is outside on the pavement, plastic tables and chairs. Cutlery is provided but not encouraged. Because most of what they serve comes in a little pitta pouch. And it is fucking chaos. It’s not a kosher place, it opens on Fridays and Saturdays (a sin in some places in Israel) and everyone there is pierced or tattooed within an inch of their lives.

Yet at about 8 o’clock the music stopped, the lights dimmed and they lit the candles. On with a kippa, blessings duly made, shots for everyone!!! In a wonderfully Godless place (other than the food) like Miznon.

I’ve always loved Chanukah, but in the promised land its just so special.

And I only mention this because Spurs Paul made me.

Happy New Year, its 20-fucking-20

A xxxx

It’s life, Jim, but not as we know it.

That could apply to so many things which refer, allude or typify how the world has changed. Driverless cars, video phone calls, V-A-fucking-R. And, of course, political correctness. And yet it seems that being politically correct is just not enough. It is pathetically insufficient, if you’re in public life. You must not only always act in a PC way, but you are not even allowed to know anyone who doesn’t. Whose let something slip. Whose ‘crossed a line!!!’ even though most people wouldn’t realise there was actually a line there.

A caller on the radio was talking about possible leaders for the Labour Party and Jess Phillips name came up. Most callers were receptive to her. I like her. Labour moderates love her, Labour Corbynites can tolerate her. And that’s just about everyone that matters. Except some geezer from Slough (forgotten really, could have just as easily been Ruislip, Croydon, Basildon or Welwyn Garden City) who condemned the MP as ‘transphobic!!!’ Like that, with 3 exclamation marks. Her crime was not of laughing at a 6 foot four geezer with a long beard in a ball gown. It was not telling him to ‘man up!’ It wasn’t even the JK Rowling crime of accusing trans people of actually being born in a particular gender (SHAME ON THAT HEARTLESS BITCH!!) No. Jess Phillips’ crime was to ‘share a platform’ with a transphobic. I don’t know who the transphobic was, I didn’t ask. And I’m not saying that the transgender world and its detractors are not the single most important thing in the nation, because that would cross someone’s line somewhere, but are we not allowed to consider the future for the albeit small minority who aren’t about to undergo genital reconstruction? They get votes too, apparently. But heh, forget Brexit, ignore the economy, the NHS, education, future trade with non-EU countries, the plunging pound. It’s meaningless compared to a man with tits.

And then there’s Scholarship-gate. A benefactor decided to set up a scholarship specifically to help out ‘poor white kids’. And the schools approached refused the money on the grounds that ‘it goes against the inclusivity standards’. These are schools which charge 10 grand a term. And they’re worried about being in some way ‘discriminatory’. Because it sounds a bit off. WHITE KIDS ONLY!!!! Sounds a bit Apartheid, 1973. Or Mississippi, 2019. And yet the reality is that the single poorest educational performers in the country are poor white boys. So Mr Benefactor wanted to help that single group. In the same way that rapper Stormz set up a fund to sent black kids to Cambridge. Except that was completely acceptable to everybody. As it fitted with everyone’s PC preconceptions.

The whole political correctness movement has inflicted a curse which now is hurting the people who previously would be seen as the most needy. It’s all bollocks.

Happy New Year, may 2020 (how the f- did that happen???) be all you could wish for, and more.

A xxxx

Next Christmas I think I’m going to go to England for my holiday. The weather’s lovely, this time of year. Bright and sunny. Don’t care about ‘hot’. Just ‘dry’. So I’m going to see if I can fly there on my airmiles, otherwise we can’t book it. Should I check flights to Europe, or non-Europe? Ooooohhhh! I even managed to play tennis this morning. On a Monday!!!

Donald Trump has announced that ‘he’s going to clamp down on anti-semitism’ after five people were stabbed at a Chanukah party on Saturday in New York. Earlier this month 4 people were shot dead at a Jewish store in New Jersey. No similar attacks have happened in Tennessee or North Dakota. Yet.

So Donald will increase prison sentences for such acts, change the laws a bit, tweak a definition of ‘racially motivated’, all the usual crap that reactionaries love. Locking the stable door after the horse has bolted. The equivalent of ‘throwing more money at the NHS’.

Because these things are sticking plasters to cope with the effect. They don’t address the causes. Which is very symptomatic of Trump. With every incident of gunning down 35 kids at some school, Mr Prez finds some stupidly narrow and specific ‘cause’, like ‘mental illness’, like ‘right wing activists’, like anything at which to point blame that isn’t ‘guns’.

And the underlying cause of this recent wave of anti-semitism in the States is the culture of hard right winginess which has seemed to enable the extremists, to give them an acceptable basis from which to become ‘creative’. Same as Corbyn did over here. He made a culture of bullying, harassing and intimidation acceptable within his party and it spread.

So if Trump wants to really do something, he needs to reign in the right wing, he needs to label them as ‘murderers’ when they murder, rather than ‘part of a riot’. He needs to create a more tolerant, decent, centrist environment from which good things happen. He needs to stop creating ‘enemies’ and building fucking walls to keep them out.

New Year’s approaches, my main source of ‘seasonal cheer’ is that I’m not an Arsenal fan.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

So the weather in Tel Aviv hasn’t been the best. In fact, what’s the opposite of ‘best’? Probably raining so fucking hard, so fucking often that the drains can’t cope, the roads flood and the Israelis all stay in because they don’t understand the concept. Maybe they’re the clever ones. We go out. We get wet. But you have to. It’s in the tourism terms and conditions. Act stupidly and counter to sensible at all times. There again we wouldn’t normally choose Israel this time of year, but heh, its been good generally. And fab at times.

We went to the Museum of Art yesterday morning, just a 20 minute walk in a flood, and the museum is wonderful and… arty and in an amazing building. Then just 20 minutes more of splashing round the streets and we were safely back in the warm and dry.

But when the rains desist, you go out. Tourism rule 174/G-2186.LF. So I looked and thought, let’s go the New Synagogue. Not, like, to pray, heaven forbid, but just to, kinda see it. Google maps said it was a 24 minute walk and as we were now wearing dry shoes and socks again; we set forth.

And the route took us down some uncharted territory. Bits of roads upon which we’d never previously traveled. Or if we had it had been in a car and hadn’t noticed. The surprise. Which really shouldn’t be much of a surprise, but it was. On Allenby Street, 500 metres from the Synagogue, just along from the Carmel Market, we found the ‘sex district’. Well, a few really grotty looking ‘clubs’ of a suggestive nature, a sex shop and a lot of dubious looking people hanging about… dubiously.

I don’t know why I was surprised to find a ‘red light district’ in Tel Aviv, but I was. And yet, TA has a reputation for tolerance, for ‘anything goes’ and for being almost ‘the Berlin of the Middle East’. Not that it has much competition in the region really. It not only hosts the ‘biggest Pride march in the region every year’, it hosts the ONLY Pride march in the region every year. So to find evidence that ‘the oldest profession’ is practiced in the city should not have made me look twice. But it did. Every city has a sex district, as they should, they are important release mechanisms, so why not Tel Aviv? Perhaps its because Israel is the home of western religion, home of the 10 commandments, therefore the home of our concept of morality. The problem is, ergo, of a more philosophical nature. Because you can’t shag morality. Nor philosophy, commandments or ethics. And for humans, sex kind’a trumps everything else. (By ‘humans’, I obviously mean ‘animals’, like YOU, not higher evolved beings…)

So there ya go. Tel Aviv has red lights which aren’t about the festival of Chanukah, and I’ve just arrived back home. Where it rather dry and bright.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

I’ve just seen it. The last ‘ever’ Star Wars. And I’m still crying. Mainly with laughter but also because it’ll never grace our screens again. And in case you haven’t had the thrill, the joy, the moment in your life yet, I promise no spoilers. Because you can’t spoil this film. Everyone whose ever died in the 8 previous ones came back to life for at least part of this one. Even those who really, real life (death?) died, like Carrie Fisher, managed to complete just a few more scenes. George Lucas’s favourite love child had always treated life and death as pretty interchangeable anyway, right from the first film (part 3… or 6), re-writing the phrase ‘bring out your dead’ into ‘re-cast those presumed dead, for a while’. The main message always being ‘there are forces we don’t understand!!’ Things that are bigger than we are. Can you feel it? The Force??

I’ve always had it. Ever since I left the cinema in 1977 after part 1, I started to drive like Luke Skywalker flew into the Death Star. Throw out the instruments, close your eyes, put my foot down. The Force. Normally the Police Force, but before the sirens start ringing, wow!

You know what you’re going to get in Star Wars. You get Luke Skywalker’s grandson marrying Darth Vader’s step-daughter and their child is the most fucked up individual in the known universe. Hans Solo’s niece flew for Lufthansa before going to the ‘dark side’ and working for RyanAir. She married Princess Leia’s god-son and gave birth to a three-eyed Wookie with horns and a trunk.

You know you’re gonna get a massive fight scene, with the goodies all flying round in aircraft made of orange crates and rusty old exhaust pipes from Ford Anglias, but which can fly at ‘light speed’ anyway, even though their engines come from broken Kenwood food mixers. And they’re losing, losing, losing… but then- no spoilers. As if.

Everyone goes back to camp and hugs. The End.

The film is totally stupid, ridiculously predictable, insanely daft and incredibly slushy. But its watchable. And exciting. Totally gripping. Wonderful fun. And you’ll love it. I know I did.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

We went on a walking tour. Of Jaffa. Where they don’t got no oranges, cos its so small and compact and squashed together that there’s just no room to grow their most famous product. But Jaffa can trace its history back 4,500 years, which is a bit special, and is mentioned not once but twice in the Bible. Even Pele only gets one name check, and that’s only in the 1847 Dyslexic edition. There again Jerusalem’s mentioned 16 times on every page. The place, not Billy Jerusalem (played for Derby County in 1237).

We like walking tours. Even when its raining a bit, then sunny a bit, then raining some more… because they’re interesting and incredibly superficial. “There’s a magnificent building!!” They proclaim. It was built in 1263 by Ethelred the Unworthy, or Suleman the Impotent or some such noteworthy historical figure. “And it has a magnificent display of the finest Arabic/Slavic/Nordic/Bohemian/Mediaeval furniture known to mankind!!!! But we’re not going inside. This is a fucking walking tour, you wanna see beds go to furnitureland”. And that’s perfect for me. I like walking and I like seeing lovely churches, palaces, houses, markets. From the outside.

And the guide stopped and asked her assembled 25 people, ‘where are you from’. And it was quite remarkable. Aussies, Canadians, Italians, French, Germans, Serbs, Austrians… it went on and on. And as I waited I was thinking ‘where am I from?’ A good question. Not that my memory’s that bad or that I come from a planet far, far away. But everyone else stated their country. Americans always do that because they don’t think forrinners would know that Nashville or Fort Lauderdale were part of the United States, so they always have to tell you. Could be the other Nashville, up the M6 past Stoke, even though the guy’s wearing a cowboy hat and a gun.

I’m British. But don’t think much of most of Britain. I’m English. Yet have (thankfully) very little contact with most of my country. So whereas everyone else stated their nation, I just said London. Because that’s where I’m from. And it needs no further explanation. If you don’t know where it is then I have no interest in you nor will I mourn your tragic lack of worldliness. And I really don’t want some Moldovan thinking, even fleetingly, that I could come from Manchester or Grimsby. In fact I wanted to say ‘North London’ because I’d thought myself into a terrible state of Cockneyness by that point, but I let it be.

This had nothing whatsoever to do with Spurs winning yesterday. Well, not much to do with Spurs winning yesterday.

Happy Friday

A xxxx