Andy's Glasses

Tottenham Hotspur have signed a new football player!!! It’s true. In fact they’ve signed two!!! And everyone thought we were just ‘done’ with the transfer market forever. As long as Harry Kane breathes air there shall be NO MORE PLAYERS in our club. We had enough. Loads of ‘em. You only need 11, FFS, and we must have about 30. We also signed Leeds winger Jack Clarke but he’s staying there on loan for this season. Because we just don’t need him. We virtually ‘strolled’ into the champions league after a unique ‘no-one signed in twelve months’ period. So now we have 2 new players!! Holy moly, we might even WIN the Champions League!!! Now we have a new player. His name is Tanguy Ndombele and he’s a Frenchman (we’ll forgive him) playing for Lyon. As our most expensive player everrrrrr, our hopes and dreams rest upon his not insignificant shoulders. He is, hopefully, Paul Pogba without the attitude, the moods, the absences, the toys thrown from prams.

And Lyon. How significant. Because that’s where, last night, England Ladies bowed gracefully out of the World Cup, losing their semi-final to the USA. Who cheated their way to victory with the help of VAR, by hacking down our striker and then having the audacity to save possibly the worst penalty kick I’ve seen from a sighted person. My grandmother could have saved that.

I watched the game. Most of it. Ok, I’ll admit I fell asleep for part of it, installed (or fucking tried and failed!!) our new printer for other bits, but I watched a majority of the game.

Because I was exited by the prospect. But tragically disappointed by the reality. Women footballers do ‘the same job’ as their male counterparts. Like I do ‘the same job’ as Roger Federer when I play tennis. Or when he plays at optician. But I don’t expect the same salary as he gets (if fucking only!) because he plays it at a totally different level. And tragically, possibly temporarily, the women play football at a different level to the men. Maybe that’ll change with time. Maybe the player pool is too small to find 20 superstars. But that should increase now the World Cup has certainly raised the profile of the game. The Americans have a bigger population and their women have been playing football for decades. Or ‘sucker’ as they insist on calling it. So they are indeed better.

But as a definitive ‘premiership snob’ you get used to possibly the highest level of football there is and other matches (like the men’s internationals too, if I’m honest) tend to disappoint. The women’s game is technically very good but just really lacks ‘fizz’. It lacks the magic, the unpredictability, the moments of wonder and awe. I’m sorry, but that’s how I see it. But maybe, with time…

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Wimbledon’s here. Well, its always here, just round the corner from Kingston upon Thames, if you can face the journey. Down the A3. Follow the roadworks all the way and you can’t miss it. But I mean ‘Wimbledon!’ The tennis tournament. And again, I mean ‘THE’ tennis tournament. There are loads of others, some of them apparently quite big and important. But nothing like Wimbledon. Americans may view the tennis season slightly differently, the Aussies view everything differently and the French would argue just because they’re French and its what they do. But Wimbledon is just… its just Wimbledon.

I love tennis. I play it every Saturday, every Sunday at my little club. Summer, winter, rain (to a degree) or shine, I’m there. Because I lack the imagination to think otherwise. And I speak to the coaches there who often say, ‘you going to watch the final today?’ with all due excitement. ‘It’s **********ova playing ***********ova in the Roland Garros!!!’ Or, ‘the men’s final at the Open!!!’ And the answer is always the same. A brief and abrupt ‘No’. Non. Nein. Nyet. Simply not interested in any of it. I sometimes cast a cursory glance at the results of these ‘other’ tournaments in the papers, but for me, the ONLY tennis to ever watch is at Wimbledon. To be there is to be in a place of total magic. And on tv, it is just the best. Though due to ‘constraints’ (work, Lila, eating…) I am limited most of the week to the highlights program. Which is fab. Quick fix. John McEnroe. Claire Balding. It’s still on ‘series record’ from last year. They should offer ‘lifetime record’.

And yesterday was such an amazing start to the fortnight. A little gel of about 12 beat Venus Williams. Who is 39 (how did that happen?) and played yesterday like a 49 year-old. But even as such, she’d be a 49 year-old Williams. And they’re not like mere mortals. The force is strong. Ok, Coco (as I call her) Gauff is actually 15, but is the youngest player ever to qualify. And the youngest ever to win a match in the tournament proper. And the youngest… yeah, ya get the drift. She’s fucking amazing, precociously talented and ‘the next big thing’. Without a doubt. But how can a 15 year-old have the mindset to beat her own idol on a stage the likes of which she has never before encountered?

But wonderkinds can peak early. Is Naomi Osaka, the American and Aussie champion, already ‘over the hill’ at 21???? She lost yesterday in the first round to a tiny little girl from Kazakhstan. And Naomi didn’t look champion-like at all. Though the little Kazakh is something of a nemesis to Naomi.

And in the mens, Setefano Tsitsipas looked awesome. Even though he took 5 sets to beat an Italian. But the Greek hits the ball harder than anyone. Harder than Federer. Harder than Djokovic. Harder than me. Though he doesn’t have to fish them out of the brook when he hits them that hard, like I generally do.

Happy Wimbledon Fortnight

A xxxx

We popped over to my old mate’s yesterday. And when I say ‘popped’, I actually mean ‘struggled for hours against he hoards of incompetent lane-blockers, reverse-gear-only tossers, clueless fuckers and, even more profoundly, ROADWORKS!!!’ Because my mate lives in Kingston. The one that’s ‘upon Thames’ though its probably quicker to get the Jamaica one on the basis that you don’t have roadworks in the sky.

The trip from my house to his house (women have NO ownership in my world) is about 14 miles. I’ve done it thousands of times. Round the North Circular to Chiswick. Down to Kew (the pretty bit) on through Richmond Park (the gorgeous bit) and there ya go. What could be easier? I’ll tell you what could be easier, is if they left the fucking roads alone. Which local councils seem totally incapable of doing. And their preferred choice of roadworking is on the weekends. Cos no-one’s going to work, are they? Maybe not. Some do, but on a lovely weekend what’s nicer than to ‘pop’ round to an old mate, to the Park, to Epping Forest, to Hampton Court, to the seaside, the countryside (if you must), to any of London’s vast array of ‘stuff’ wot is great on sunny days.

But you can’t. Because they’re doing roadworks. Everywhere.

Took an hour and half to get there. Should be 40 minutes. But I spend the extra time quite usefully. Growing ulcers. Shouting. Screaming. Swearing. Its nice.

We finally arrived. Exhausted. But a barbecue for 17 people sorted that out. Even though there were only the 4 of us. And we played. My mate’s house is a shrine to Steve Jobs, apples everywhere, not one of them to eat. But he loves toys. Including this rather super ‘little’ Harley Sportster. I’d show you the video but its been banned by the noise abatement society. Cos that bike is FUCKING LOUOUOUOUOUDDDDD!!!!! And its mildly incriminating as I rode it without a hat. Ooops.

For the return leg we used Waze. And in Waze we trust. Spent pretty much 40 minutes going over speed bumps down tiny little side streets then landed on the North Circular at Wembley. Going the right way! Who’d’a known that places like Acton and Park Royal actually exist? Like, in the real world.

Almost a pleasure to get back on the tube this morning.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

In 2008 Lehman Brothers, the American investment bank, went bankrupt. The fourth largest investment bank in the States was the first and certainly largest casualty of the ‘sub-prime’ loans scandal and of other really dubious investments vehicles, created by arrogance and greed by people who thought themselves ‘untouchable’ by virtue of their immense and obscene wealth. And at the time, we all thought ‘fuck ‘em! Greedy bastards, got wot they deserved’. Which was in part true and in part bitterness that we hadn’t spent years capitalising on the misery of others to accrue 157 million dollars in our personal bank accounts.

But the story of those Lehman Brothers is so brilliant, amazing and incredible, an immense tale of genius and from ‘nothing to everything’, the living of the ultimate American Dream, that they made a play about it. The Lehman Trilogy. And they got Sam Mendes, the world’s best ex-husband of Kate Winslett, and not a bad theatrical director either, to stage it. And it is a truly inspired masterpiece of production. Because its not a ‘drama’, though its dramatic, not a ‘comedy’ though its very funny, not a musical, not ‘noir’, not nuffink. It’s just three amazing actors telling a story. For 3 hours. They split it into 3 so you don’t get cramp and so they can sell more drinks but its one story.

The story of German Jewish immigrants in the 1850s. Why is the ‘jewish’ relevant? Because they weren’t the type of modern day Jews that inspired Jeremy Corbyn into his hatred. These were ‘real’ Jews. Black hats. Long coats. Beards. As we all should be, even in this heatwave. And they opened a shop in Alabama selling fabrics. Which led them into the cotton trade, and onto coffee, coal, railroads, tobacco, everything. They just had a knack of knowing the next ‘big thing’. Much harder than thinking ‘yeah, I knew that was gonna be big’ 5 years later. They built the Panama Canal, FFS.

But its about the characters, the personalities, the relationships, the kids, the wives, the everything. And it is simply brilliant. You should see tomorrow!!! Unless…

Unless its the hottest day in the history of British hot days. Like yesterday. Because the Piccadilly Theatre is described as ‘art deco’. Which, as any theatre buff knows actually means ‘hasn’t been renovated since 1915’. When the average man (I’m assuming) measured no more than 5 foot 3. And there was still the end of the ice age to contend with. So don’t expect air-con, nor even a fucking fan. Unless you bring your own. As we did. But its not enough. By the end of act 3, with 1000 people overheating and the stage lights burning bright, it must have been 50 degrees of hotness in there. Which is unacceptable and spoils the fun a bit.

By winter it will be over. Alas.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

The wonderful G20 summit is just about to come to a close. That super event in which the leaders of the top 20 economic powers in the entire (known) universe come together and… and… and show how much they fucking hate each other.

It’s not supposed to be like that. It’s supposed to be like a Glastonbury for grown-ups. All hugging, drinking (water, out of recyclable cups, except the Americans who use plastic bottles brought in plastic bags and kept cool using their own, diesel driven generators), but not much in the way of drugs. It’s supposed to be a love-in so that superpowers can reaffirm their bonds and deals and renew alliances and… love.

Instead we have The Crown Prince of Saudi Arabia, everyone’s favourite murderer. Awaiting charges for the death of journalist. But everyone has to be pally with him because of the oil and the ‘stability’ his nation provides in the Middle East. Except Yemen. Where ‘stability’ becomes ‘bombing’.

Then comes Putin, the hated person’s hated person. Telling how ‘liberalism has had its day’ so now, presumably, we need more plutocrats, more dictators, more secret police and less money wasted on trials, the judiciary and democracy. Just stick a few oligarchs in the mix and you have perfect communism. ?????? Putin also didn’t deny involvement in the Skripal poisonings. Instead he said ‘treason is the greatest crime you can commit against the state’, implying that anything that is done as a consequence is totally justified. Even sending a hit squad to fucking Salisbury. Though Jeremy Corbyn has insufficient evidence to make comment.

Never mind; Trump’s here. Who also has dispensed with any known form of liberalism but in his own way. A blonder way. A louder way. As well as decency and pleasantry. Who fucking needs ‘em?

The last to enter the fray, sorry, enter the party, was President Xi. China’s best known Elvis impersonator. And Trump’s nemesis. They’re in mid-trade-war, racing to hike their reciprocal tariffs and there is serious bad blood. The capitalist (billionaire) and the communist (billionaire). Can you tell any difference?

Theresa May is there of course, in her role as ‘dead man walking’. Or ‘dead woman limping’ as is probably more accurate. So all the European leaders hate her and none of the others can see any point talking to her because she’s out of a job in all but very short-term title.

What a happy world

And hot, don’t forget hot.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

They published the most tragic photo ever. I don’t mean, like Lila grimacing or Joey in mid-poo, I mean an horrendous picture of a father and daughter both dead on the banks of the Rio Grande, having failed in an attempt to swim across from Mexico to the USA. They’re from El Salvador. Well, they were. Now they’re not anything. And the photo is emotive and quite frankly devastating. And shows the desperate measures people are prepared to take ‘for a better life’. Maybe a life of greater standard, better education, more affluence, or maybe a ‘better life’ free from the ridiculously high death rate in near-lawless El Salvador. Either way, America is the dream. Which became the absolute worst possible nightmare. Because dead El Salvadorians is always tragic. But a dead kid, a 2 year-old, is simply the worst of everything imaginable. And the front page on the Evening Standard the other night was that terrible picture with the headline along the lines ‘Trump did it!!’ Almost murdered them himself. How? By putting up a border and imposing limits on immigration, checks on refugee applications and for not just simply saying ‘come in, everybody, we can help you!’

Much like we do here. And they do in Australia. And (now) Germany. And France and Canada and virtually every country THAT YOU’D EVER WANT TO LIVE IN.

I hate Donald Trump. I think he’s stupid, dangerous, awful and the most ‘fake’ man ever to accuse the entire world of fakeness against him. I find him a loud-mouthed bullying half-wit. But America had border controls before Trump and will certainly have them after. They just weren’t, and won’t be, as loud as they are now. And no country can afford to simply open its doors to millions of doubtless worthy causes banging on their door. Britain voted to leave Europe to ‘take control of the borders’. Whatever the fuck that might mean in Nigel Farage’s mind.

That poor El Salvadorian took what he considered a ‘calculated risk’. Unfortunately his risk assessment was awry and it ended in total disaster. As it does for thousands every year who die in similar circumstances trying to ‘break in’ to a country, however good and genuine the reasons for wanting entry may be. Talk of ‘wall building’ didn’t kill this poor couple. Desperation did.

On a brighter note, things are looking up for Jeremy Corbyn. Oh, actually, they’re not, they’re looking pretty bleak. He let twice-shamed anti-Semite Chris Nicholson back into the party after his latest suspension and caused a stir. Well, in fact, ‘Jeremy’ had nothing to do with it at all. It was the ‘national executive’ wot dunnit. But everyone knows that its all rigged and nothing that happens in the current Labour Party happens without political considerations, consent from the top man and maximises the number of true Corbynites hanging round Westminster. 108 Labour MPs have signed a petition against bringing Nicholson back. That’s a lot. That’s not a mere protest. That’s a revolution. I hope. And if the guillotine is dusted off in Labour HQ, let’s hope that Corbyn is the first to test its potency.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

You can always tell when England are playing in a big sporting tournament. Well, generally you know anyway because World Cups and stuff are quite well publicised. But its the headlines. They’re the real benchmark for progress. And its always the same, whatever the sport. It starts with the massive optimism. The ‘blank slate’. The ‘everything to play for’ mentality and the sometimes true belief that ‘we can win this!!’. As happened with the cricket. We have home advantage and as number one ranked in the world in one-day cricket we entered the tournament as favourites. Which never ends well.

After a win or two the excitement reaches explosive levels and it just becomes a foregone conclusion, a virtual parade to the trophy. Then we lost to Pakistan. Oh well. They were never supposed to be that good, brought us down to earth, good reality check, don’t get over confident, blah, blah. Then we lost again. And yesterday we lost again again to the auld enemy. Not the Scots, they’re even aulder and not actually playing, but Australia. And that stings. That’s mean and horrible. We hate losing to Australia more than any other cricket team. It’s like losing to Germany at football.

And that’s when the headlines change. When the parade to victory becomes a little more statistically complex. We have two games left and if we beat both India and New Zealand then we’re in the semi-finals, no problem. But if we win just one of them…

Then it all comes down to other teams doing things, or not doing things, which may, or may not, affect our ranking, depending on the results of even other teams doing yet more stuff. Its like being a Spurs fan. So basically; we need to win. Every game. I’m sure that never featured in the original game plan, because we already won the tournament before the first ball was bowled. But now its important. Winning. Against two very good sides.

COME ON ENGLAND!!!!

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I watch the BBC news. Every night. It’s on ‘series record’. Forever. Can’t miss it. It’s like my 5 prayers a day all wrapped up into a neat little 25 minute segment. It’s sacred. And it has to be BBC. Because I pay 175 quid a year, and will my entire life, even after I’m 75 for my sodding license and I need to get value from it. Ok, I watch Killing Eve too so that’s becoming something of a bargain. Add in a few ‘rockumentaries’ on BBC4 which were all made in 1983 and that’s my tv for the week sorted. Until the football season starts, obvs. I can’t watch the news on ITV. It’s horrible. Sky News is just rubbish and the 24 hour news channels simply endless padding and waffle. If I want to know about the trade in locally sourced, recyclable, hand-made straw baskets from Ethiopia employing at least 14 people and regenerating somewhere I’ve never heard of, I’ll google it. Don’t need to watch a 75 minute ‘story’ on CNN.

So I ‘know’ the main team at the Beeb. Some I love, some I don’t. But having researched this, pretty unconsciously (as in most of my life) I’ve reached a conclusion. Concerning the two journalistic ‘stars’ of our nationalised tv channel.

I like John Sopel (America; never seen without a White House), but don’t like Lyse Doucet (middle-east; terrible voice). Love Clive Myrie and Hugh the Welshman and Rita Chakrabarti and Sophie Rayworth.

But the two who dominate the news screens, and have since the whole Europe issue began (ie before the vote, when it was all stupid buses and other lies) are Laura Kuensberg (Politics) and Katya Adler (Europe). Both are quite brilliant. Incisive. Talented. Analytical. But their styles are so different.

Katya Adler (who speaks 73 languages fluently and 27 more just because) presents a warm, accessible face, always quite positive, even if the news she’s delivering isn’t. Always bright, matter of fact and upbeat. She’s always interviewing a Barnier or a Junkers or some other Euro stuffed shirt and asks difficult questions with charm and friendliness.

Laura Kuensberg interviewed Boris yesterday. She prefers a more… IN YER FUCKIN’ FACE!!! approach to journalism. She has one of those naturally whingeing, nasal voices and only employs it in a very negative and completely aggressive way. She is a pit-bull with a Scottish accent. So she cuts straight to the point. No messing, no circling round issues. “Mr Johnson, what do you say to people who think you’re an untrustworthy CUNT!!??” That kind of thing. She doesn’t leave wriggle room. In fact she doesn’t really ask questions but just puts very strong opinions, always scathing, and forms them into questions. “Would you say that failure to talk about the row with Carrie just leaves people questioning your character and fitness to run a government?”

Today she’s interviewing Jeremy Hunt. God help him.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Here’s the sports round-up. Though if you substitute ‘football’ for ‘sport’, which my mind pretty much does on its own, there is no round up. Other than the Under 21 European Championships, which I seem to have completely missed. And the Women’s World Cup, which actually became of minor interest yesterday. Which I’ll come back to later because there are 2 British sports-people who actually did rather well yesterday.

One was Lewis Hamilton who notched up yet another Grand Prix win in France yesterday. He started the race first and ended first. In the intervening 4 hours, safe to say, absolutely nothing happened. Other than pollution. Lots of pollution. But we don’t shrug off Hamilton as a mere whizz kid. He’s no longer really a kid, for a start. And he is rapidly becoming ‘the best F1 driver ever’. Which makes me kind’a proud. If only I could ever force myself to watch it.

And then in a much more real sport, Andy Murray won the final at Queens. Ok, it was ‘only’ the doubles, and real men don’t really play doubles. Really. But considering he had a new hip fitted about 4 months ago, you have to admit he looked ‘fairly mobile’ as he hurled himself round the court, twisting and turning and… being Scottish. The only surprise is that the new hip seemed to have made him smile more. I only saw the bits of the tennis they showed on the news (can’t watch tennis on tv unless its Wimbledon, absolute red-line rule) but he smiled more in six 20-second snips that he usually does in 27 hours of Wimbledon. Great surgeon.

I turned on the tv and there it was, before my very eyes: football. Played by women, but football. England were 3-0 up and it was 65 minutes gone. So I’d definitely missed the good bit. What I saw was decidedly underwhelming. But then I heard what had preceded and I was impressed. The Cameroon team were elbowing people in the face, spitting at opponents, shouting and screaming at the ref, arguing with the God that is VAR. It sounded brilliant. Yet all I was left with was a bunch of pony-tails, and a few affro hairdos, strolling round a park. With a ball.

Don’t think they played any cricket yesterday. Another sport I can’t watch but otherwise love (go figure).

Happy Monday

A xxxx

The good things about gardening are:
1. Your garden looks lovely
2. …
3. Errrr
4. …

And that’s what I’ve been doing. (Fucking) Gardening. And its… great!

Normally I limit gardening to using very loud and powerful devices. If ya can’t fill it with petrol it ain’t fer me. But sometimes the rules need to bend a little. In the interests of marital harmony and a pretty garden.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my garden. Front and back, both beautiful and gorgeous and flowering with… flowers… an’ shit. But when Mel says ‘we need a few border plants’, my heart sinks. And my back starts aching before we’ve even reached the garden centre. Where we buy little packs of flowers in disgusting polystyrene cases (very environmentally friendly they are too; and you know how much I care!!!) and they’re such good value that you can fill a car boot for 40 quid. Hundreds of plants. Purples and whites and blues. Never red. Mel doesn’t like red flowers and I find anything in Arsenal colours offensive. Even a pansy. Interesting choice of flower…

And that’s ‘job done!’ But of course its not. Because every one of the little fuckers needs to be dug in, composted, protected, loved, nurtured and watered within a centimetre of drowning. Every fucking day. And as I’m in charge of all ‘dangly things that spray all over the place’, the hosepipe becomes my own cross to bear. My own ‘bete noir’. (And if you’re familiar with French euphemisms for ‘nob’, mine ain’t black).

I rose out of bed this morning at a strange angle. I didn’t have a protractor handy but guessing, I was listing by about 30 degrees from the vertical, just from the waist up. I walked past our mirror and saw a bent up old git looking back at me. Which is a depressing way for any young man to start the day. However: I did what I do every Sunday, when the toll of Saturday’s physical excesses reduce me thus, and have a soak in a hot bath. That makes the problem simply go away! And then, once I’m on the tennis court, the movement improves it back to 100% very quickly.

But ten minutes bent over a flower bed with a fucking trowel and I’m Groucho Marx once more.

Therefore I need to spend much more time on the tennis court and way less doing gardening. Doctor’s orders.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx