Andy's Glasses

Its happened. What, for all other people is ‘hot news!!’ about a splinter group of MPs leaving the Labour party today, but as I predicted and anticipated this yesterday, for you, this is old news. I am Nostradamus! Why have they left? I think one sub-headline on the BBC’s newspage sums it up beautifully, reading: “A guide to Labour antisemitism claims”. Its such a vast topic that it needs a user-friendly ‘guide’ to plot you through it. But good luck to Chukka and Luciana et al who are presently just gonna sit there as ‘independents’ but inevitably, in time, either Corbyn will be assassinated by me or they’ll form a new party. John McDonnell, the Scumbag-in-Chief’s chief Scumbag, said that they shouldn’t have left. That they’d be better off ‘fighting their corner’. Like Luciana Berger hasn’t been doing just that for 2 years producing no change other than the increase in the levels of personal abuse she suffers. McDonnell continued: ‘Labour is a family’. Right. A totally dysfunctional family of abusers, wife-beaters and morons headed by a unilateral totalitarian dictator in a fucking beret. Someone should call social services. A mere 7 have run so far, but I fear (read: ‘Hope’) that more will follow.

Meanwhile Shamima Begum wants people to show her some sympathy, some compassion, and let her come home. She was ‘just a housewife in Syria’. Well, she should have gone to Bradford instead, then she could come home any time she wanted. Her new baby was born yesterday, so mazzletov to her and the family. Though its not about whether she’s in Syria or Turkey or Bradford or Ruislip. Its about why she went. And that was to become the Jihadi bride that she wished for. And in doing so she bought into the whole IS shtick. And I’m sure she showed ‘compassion and sympathy’ as her husband and his mates and her whole new ‘family’ (not the Labour ‘family’, a different one bent on a different kind of destruction) beheaded and raped and killed and tortured their way across the Levant.

And its not just the arguments about the morality and desirability of ‘welcoming’ home someone with a poisoned mind, its a logistical nightmare too. Britain has no diplomatic ties to Syria. Has no forces there, no consular staff, no-one. So before we decide what to do with her, she has to make her way to Turkey. Back the way she came just 4 years ago. I would say ‘wiser’ but somehow I doubt it.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

I love movies. I love all types of movies. Action thrillers, action thrillers and also action thrillers. Ok, that’s a joke. I’m not even keen on action killers and wouldn’t see a ‘Bond’ if ya paid me in gold-plated Aston Martins. But I will see a thriller and I’ll see art house and I’ll see absolutely anything by the Coen Brothers and wouldn’t miss any new Woody Allen, even though he’s now Hollywood’s most celebratedly perverse and sick hate-figure of a Hollywood abusive Jew, after Harvey Weinstein. Sometimes art must transcend life. I suppose I really like ‘Indy’ films because they’re always a bit ‘different’ from the mainstream. But then the Indys get bought by the mainstream studios to increase their offerings beyond mere blockbusters and thus really should rename them Ds. Because no longer independent they must ergo be Dependant.

But its Oscar time. When all the good movies come out. They save them. For the ‘recency effect’. The last great film you saw was the best film you saw. Unless its shit.

So we went to see ‘If Beale Street could talk’ last night. Which was a million miles from ‘shit’. It’s a powerful film. It’s a sad film. It’s a charming film. It’s a tragic film. And most of all it is an exceptionally beautiful film. But a film so self-consciously aware of its own beauty that its also something a very slow film. And I don’t know how they do that when the plot seems to move much more quickly than the action. Yet every shot is considered, contemplated, cogitated upon, mulled over and presented in the most wonderfully beautiful manner. The acting is fantastic and strong. The characters believable and, yes, beautiful. So for 2 hours you wallow in this astounding beauty whilst feeling the pain of the plight it represents. Because this is not a happy film. You want it to be as happy as it is beautiful but that is probably the whole point. Beauty is skin deep and in this case that skin in black, in Harlem, in nineteen sixty-something. And the poignancy of the tale is in stark contrast to the amazing cinematography.

Thus it becomes a very ‘interesting’ film. Slow but never boring, spectacular to watch but rather sad and tragic. And, obviously, the tale of institutional racism. Back then. Which is rather like it is ‘back now’ but without so much shooting.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

Half the priests in the Vatican are gay. Big fucking surprise there. In the new ‘revelations’ from a book about the homosexual life within the most outwardly homophobic ‘state’ in the world. Other than maybe Saudi, Iran, Qatar. The other 50% of the Vaticanees fondle little girls. Ok, maybe I made that up, maybe I didn’t.

But in the book’s exposee of Catholic Central was one detail that is purely exquisite. That there is a group of prelates who regularly go to a particularly down-market section of Rome to find rent boys. And they refuse to wear condoms. I presume this is on ‘religious grounds’, certainly not for health reasons, and that is just so beautifully, superbly, sordidly, outrageously hypocritical and wonderfully ridiculous that it should be enshrined as the number 1 sin in the ‘problems with the Catholic Church’ list. Currently 4 volumes. It’s like a rabbi asking for no butter on his bacon sandwich because its not kosher to mix ‘milk’ with ‘meat’.

And now we’re just 40-odd days away from Brexit and… and… and what? Not much happening on that front. Never mind, loads of time. But more exciting is the prospect of a ‘breakaway group’ of Labourites. Those few moderates who haven’t been deselected or forced by Corbyn and/or Momentum to swear blind allegiance to their leader in the face of any normal form of democratic process, have finally got pissed off. With his horrendous disinterest over Europe and his quite ridiculous failures about sorting out the anti-semitism problems rife among his supporters.

This will be a good thing. Because a few ‘moderates’ (ie right of Marx, left of Blair) will leave the Labour whip and… who knows? Presumably form a new party. New NEW Labour. The Almost Labour Party. The Anti-Corbyn Party. And even if its only 4 or 5 that’s fine. Because more will follow as they realise that their current leader is a toxic and dangerous person. And it will give the rest of the ‘normal’ party a nice, easy escape route back to the sanity of a more centrist political agenda.

Trump’s no centrist. He’s building a wall. And so disgusted is he with the ‘illegal immigrants’ and the ‘drug gangs’ (like there’s no white, Anglo Americans involved in the drug trade) and the whole Mexico thing that he’s going to declare the building of the wall a ‘National Emergency’ so he can fund it without going to Congress. But Congress will fight him in court to prevent it. He’s worried that the lack of wall is preventing ‘America becoming Great again’. Because once Jose has picked a basket of oranges for 10 bucks an hour, the entire fabric of American society is threatened.

Oh well, happy Saturday

A xxxx

Shamima Begum wants to come ‘home’. To Britain. Where she was born. Where she was raised. Where she lived until she was 15. At which point, along with 2 mates, she took the very long and winding road to Syria, via Turkey, to join ISIS. And although as we all know, a 15 year old girl is nothing to be toyed with, they have opinions, normally very strong ones, they have ideas and they are fiercely independent, legally, at 15, they are ‘minors’ and therefore their actions are not considered their own. Thus Shamima, and her mates, were ‘groomed’, which doubtless they were. By evil men and women of ISIS ideology intent on building up the number of foot soldiers for their cause. Or, where women are concerned, its more ‘bed soldiers’. Painting some kind of glamorous and exciting lifestyle all ‘for the cause’.

Shamima went, she was married a couple weeks later, still 15 years old (ISIS make their own rules, in case you missed that) and has had 3 children with a 4th on the way, in 4 years, though sadly 2 died. And because of that, she’s worried about the new one. And therefore wants him to be born back ‘home’ in the Britain she left for better things. Or worse things. Certainly more ‘beheady’ type things, which apparently didn’t faze her at all. Does she have remorse? Regrets?? No, she regrets rien. As the song almost goes. But health care is better in Bethnal Green than on a sand dune on the Syria/Iraq war-torn border so this is where she wants to be.

And that’s a big problem. Because instinctively: WE DON’T FUCKING WANT HER! Because she’s dangerous, she’s been ‘poisoned’, she’s been ‘brainwashed’ and she’s spent 4 years in the midst of horrendous violence which she has normalised. Her babies were raised as jihadis-from-birth, so God help them. And remember, ISIS did not exist in the isolation of the Levant. Its ‘messages of love’ spread to Manchester and Nice and London Bridge and Westminster Bridge and Belgium and all over the Western world. So when Shamima joined ISIS, or married ISIS, or even just shagged ISIS, she became part of something sworn to the destruction of the homeland and value system to which she now wants to come running in order to protect her children.

Being a hypocrite is not a crime. Unfortunately. Being a British citizen means we almost have to let her back. And its not her children’s fault. None of it. Can you ‘de-radicalise’? I’m not sure. The ‘de-briefing’ will be useful in the ongoing battle against terrorism, but if she ends up in prison she could do way more harm than good.

Its a tricky one.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

Its a truly beautiful morning here in London town. Springlike. Sunny. Mild. Gorgeous. The flowers are getting ready to bloom, the birds are singing their songs and Spurs beat Dortmund in the Champions League last night. How could any day get better than that? Lila turning up at half seven was a massive bonus, day-wise. Oh, its Valentine’s Day too, but quite frankly I’m over that. Not that I’m not a ‘romantic’. I was even a ‘new romantic’ at one point. With an eye patch, pirate’s jacket and Flock’a’Seagulls BIG hair. Otherwise known as a ‘total tosser’. Now I’m definitely an old romantic. But I can’t see how celebrating a massacre is romantic. And more importantly, I need no-one to tell me when to show love or affection. Have you ever met me? I’m just gushing with it. I don’t reserve it for some arbitrary date set by the card manufacturers and rose importers intent on liberating as much cash as they can from my pockets.

So let’s talk love. In particular, our love for Tottenham Hotspur, the greatest football team in the world. And the ‘ONLY PLACE TO SEE CHAMPIONS LEAGUE FOOTBALL IN LONDON THIS YEAR’.

Dortmund were strong favourites to beat Spurs. I don’t know why. In Europe Spurs seem to have ‘underdog’ tattooed on their collective chests. But looking at the details, the numbers, the statistics, perhaps the bookies were right to favour the Germans. Who are at the very top of the Bundesliga, right where Bayern Munich usually sit, but not at the moment. And Dortmund do produce and acquire a wealth of prodigious talent. Both in players and in managers. Like Jurgen Klopp. Can’t get more brilliant, nor more German, than him. And then there’s the state of the Spurs squad. Missing were our talismanic striker, the Lord Harry Kane, and his main dude, Sir Dele Alli. So ‘what chance did we stand???’ Ok we can see off Newcastle and Leicester and Bournemouth but even then with a struggle.

On the other side of the statistical, pre-match analysis is Son Heung-Min. He has scored more goals against Dortmund than against any other club he’s ever played.

Then throw in the wild card that is Juan Foyth, our young defender with a massive liability potential, stick Jan Vertongen, the best centre back in the world (other than our other one) out of position at left back and it would appear to be a recipe for disaster.

And yet we won. Not just won, but won 3-0. The ‘3’ is positively massive in a two leg match, but the ‘0’ is way bigger. No away goal. Double 0 and you still have 0. Sonny scored, inevitably, Vertongen was man of the match and all their wonderkinds went crying back to Germany, wishing they could play for a proper team like Spurs.

HAPPY VALENTINES DAY. So you get a break from football. Well, from proper football.

A xxxx

Decades before some pretentiously right-on, anonymous graffiti-fucker started daubing neo-political messages on the back gate of number 73 Halstead Grove, Esher and other such ‘galleries’, the world was blessed with another ‘Banksie’. This one also an artist. But of a different type. An artist of the goalkeeping type. And whilst asking the normally rhetorical question: ‘what good has ever come out of Stoke???’, the answer is undoubtedly: Gordon Banks.

Gordon was from the age when footballers were modest. Gentle. Decent. No full-body tattoos, they didn’t earn enough to pay for them, back in the day. No bling. No Bentleys. Just honest-to-goodness geezers grafting an honest day’s work. So the legend goes.

And no-one embodied that legend more than Gordon Banks. An unquestionably fantastic goalkeeper, he rocketed to world renown with just one save. A brilliant save. Which itself would have done no harm to his reputation. But this was in a World Cup match, so was viewed by all 4 billion of the world’s population in its entirety. And most of all; it was from Pele. Who was the best of the best of the best. Ever!!! And if Pele thought it was an amazing save; IT WAS FUCKING AMAZING! End of.

So, career be damned, it all came down to one save, from the best player the world has ever known, playing in the best team the world has ever seen in the best world cup there ever was. 1970 in Mexico.

Of course, Banksie was a World Cup winner too, in 1966, which immediately gave him legendary status, albeit more locally sourced than he later achieved.

Basically, when people die their stock rises in memory. They were always that bit better, nicer, more heroic than actual history recalls. But not Banksie. He was the real thing. Who lived up to his legendary status.

Until yesterday. RIP Gordon.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Its a 3-horse race.

The fight for the Premier League. 3 teams left with a proverbial ‘shout’. And one of them, lets’ be fair/honest/realistic, is possibly suffering from equine flu, in the wold of stretched metaphors.

But even limping along, those mighty Spurs keep hitting the net when it counts, keep seeing off opposing teams, keep those 3-pointers ker-ching!-ing away. And its not always the prettiest, and its not always, for Spurs fans at least, totally comfortable viewing. But football’s not about comfortable and its not about showing off (see ‘Manchester City’ below), its about WINNING. And that’s precisely what we did against Leicester yesterday. We winned. In part because Christian Eriksen is a magician. In part because even when Son is below par he’s still much much better than virtually everyone else. And in part because Jamie Vardy doesn’t just look ugly; sometimes he plays ugly too. And the arrogance with which he DEMANDED to take his team’s penalty, which he missed, was the only thing of beauty attributable to his name.

But if its a 3-horse race, there must be 2 others involved. You do the maffs.

Liverpool won in seemingly easy manner at Bournemouth. As they should. Though Bournemouth did thrash Chelsea the other week, which I would say is ‘not an easy thing to do’, but again, see: ‘Manchester City’ below. And the Scousers were redeemed from their recent ‘lapse’ in their form.

And then the other horse. The pure-bloodied, Arabian thoroughbred that are/is Manchester City. Because they didn’t just beat Chelsea yesterday. And those west Londoners do run both hot and cold this term. But City annihilated them. Humiliated them. Extinguished them. Put them to the sword. I mean, 6-nil. That’s something against a ‘top 6’ team.

Because it was a statement by City. Oddly the statement wasn’t aimed at Chelsea. They were merely the messengers. The message was for Liverpool. And I hope to think, to Spurs to. And the message was: THIS IS HOW FUCKING GOOD WE ARE.

Well BRING IT ON!!! That’s what we say. Us Spurs fans. Though not too loudly, in case someone hears it.

It was scary to watch.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

If I had to choose between being a vegan or becoming totally ‘carb-free’, I think I’d just get on a plane to Switzerland and let Dignitas have its way. (Note to any potential suicides out there: I CERTAINLY WOULDN’T JUMP UNDER A SODDING TUBE TRAIN BECAUSE ITS THE MOST HORRIBLE, INCONSIDERATE, SELFISH AND EVIL THING YOU CAN DO). Because although I love meat, I love bread too. And simply could never imagine life without a sandwich.

But we all have variations on the Earl of Sandwich’s 18th century invention, so legend has it. I mean, what’s a pizza? It’s bread and stuff. That’s a sandwich. What’s a kebab? Bread and stuff. Let’s not get precious about how its arranged, take bread, add ‘things’ and you have a sandwich.

The classic British sandwich is bread-heavy. Two doorsteps of horrible white bread with the merest sliver of cheese, or ham, or cucumber, and loads of butter. Which is not to my taste at all. I NEVER put butter on a sandwich. Normally there’s no room.

When my kids were little and Mel went back to work on Saturdays, I always made her a sandwich for lunch. Because I couldn’t trust her to do it PROPERLY. She’d just shove a tiny morsel of anything in between bread and seal the deal. So I would step in and make The Sandwich. Which Rachie, always and forever a total foodie, would help me create. Natalie would be upstairs screaming because I’d opened a jar of pickle and that always was and still is a rather hysterical red-line in her life.

Rachie is home from Berlin for the weekend, for her birthday. A tradition with her friends. They come round, drink 19 bottles of vodka between them, then hit a club somewhere. Wherever Uber takes them. So she needed some food beforehand. And requested The Sandwich. Which was, as always, a Friday-night-dinner-leftover sandwich. But taken to new levels.

I cut two (fucking massive, but not too thick) slices of challah. The best bread anyone has ever made. I start with a layer of Branson pickle (sorry Nat), then spread chopped liver across the slice. Next is stuffing from the chicken, followed by avocado. Then the cold roast chicken, followed by tomatoes. Spread some (low calorie, obvs) mayo on the top slice and you have something that looks like it came off ‘Man vs Food’. Three inches thick and simply oozing. The ‘challenge’. Which Rachie, who on the other 364 days of the year is the most good-food-conscious-person alive, put away like a champion. With a smile all over her face.

Happy Birthday (tomorrow) babe

(d)A(d) xxxx

Oh, now I get it. It’s taken me a while, but now I get the whole ‘Corbyn’ thing. Ahhhhh.

In a MORI poll published yesterday, Our Jezza polled the lowest popularity for any political leader since Michael Foot in 1983. Its taken 36 years to find a leader almost as hated by the public as Footy was. Both men share the same tailor but I don’t think that’s the issue here.

With the ‘general public’ (ie just people; across all party supporters) Jezza polled a massive 17% who like him. Which beats Michael Foot’s 13% by some way but no-one else in recent memory. Even the polls taken just among Labour supporters rate him very lowly. Because those that are happy with his facile and stupid brand of socialism hate him because of his (total lack of) stance on Brexit.

So I feel very happy and somewhat relieved that this man is so unpopular. That people are finally getting it.

That a man whose business plan for a nation is that of Venezuela; whose political dream is Russia or North Korea, and whose model of ‘opposition to discrimination of all forms’ is Auschwitz, is perhaps not someone you want running Britain.

But meanwhile, who is running America? Jeff Bezos if the richest man on the planet, having mined digital gold for many years, but he’s not in charge. That is Trump. Who has a great mate called, wonderfully, aptly and rather pathetically, Mr Pecker. Who owns a stupid tabloid almost-joke rag called The National Enquirer. Which, if you’ve never seen it, makes the Daily Mail look tolerant and accepting, makes the Sun look puritanical and makes Beano look positively hi-brow. And in a effort to… actually I have no idea, no-one in America takes the National Enquirer seriously and hasn’t since it started running “ELVIS IS THE FATHER OF MY LOVE CHILD!!!” and “MY MOTHER-IN-LAW WAS ABDUCTED BY ALIENS AND NOW SHE’S RADIOACTIVE!!!” type headlines. But in an effort to get Jeff Bezos to publicly state that the NI is non-partisan and has no political bias (much like the Daily Mail hasn’t) it threatened to publish naughty photos of Bezos and his new woman.

Which shows the level of thought, or lack of, occurring within the editorial offices of the NI. Because you can threaten poor people but Bezos, who owns the Washington Post, Trump’s nemesis in print, has now created a major shit-storm about the corruption, blackmail and coercion attempts against him. Which, if it ever finds its way back to any Trump input whatsoever, could be… interesting. Pecker vs Pecker.

Happy Saturday. It’s better to play tennis in a gale than not to play at all.

A xxxx

Its a harsh, cruel world, in all its grim reality. Which is why you may have noticed (or not) that my postings of the vital information I provide most days has been a little more ‘random’ than usual. More erratic. Not in content, that’s always random and erratic. Abusive. Insulting. Disrespectful. Hate-filled. Lila-obsessed… That’s why you read it.

But its been the times and absences that have caused the magnitude of disappointment and loss in your heart.

Because to demonstrate the sheer pain of living, I’ve been having to get in to work early. I know, I know, ‘what a tragedy!’, but it means that rather than putting my daily thoughts down in leisurely fashion over tea and my banana, pondering life’s mysteries and inconsistencies, exorcising my demons so I don’t end up with my head doing a 360 and spewing out green shit, then sauntering in just post-rush hour; instead of all that, I take the early tube and head to t’City. With the hordes of great unwashed. And all because I allow my staff to holiday. Well, I did. Never fucking again!!!

Yet even without my daily ‘outlet’, I can’t still my beating head. If ya get me drift. And this morning my thoughts were about that the word ‘random’, which actually applies to virtually every facet of our lives. Even football. Because it all comes down to chance. And chances. Because Harry Kane (the world’s best striker) converts 17% of his shots into goals. One goal every six shots. But here’s the horrible thing about all statistics; you don’t know which of those six shots is going to work. He could score 3 goals in 3 shots and not score for the next 3 matches. Of course, when he’s FUCKING INJURED!!! that reduces both shots and goals. Obvs. And then Billy Useless comes along, averaging 1 goal every 273 shots, someone like Lukaku, Janssen, and gets a hat-trick. Its the sheer randomness that makes you realise why statistics will never let you know who’s gonna win any particular game. Averages have no predictive value whatsoever. Its a wonder any team ever wins the league; its all so random.

I’m going to sit in front of the tv for the Leicester match on Sunday and with Lila helping, will try and make some quantifiable sense out of things.

Happy Friday

A xxxx