Andy's Glasses

I last visited the area of London commonly known as ‘Tottenham’ about 2 years ago. It was a bit of a hole, if I’m honest, with dingy streets and dodgy shops and dirty pavements and dire transport facilities and… decadently… dependable… doggedly desirable… dastardly…

Anyway, in the middle of all this dross stood Mecca. White Hart Lane. The ‘world famous’ (both in Finchley and Seoul) stadium of Tottenham Hotspur football club. Which by itself and all alone, was a place of wonder, awe, reverence and delight. Among the kebab shops, pocket-sized supermarkets, pound shops, ‘massage’ parlours and fried chicken take-aways.

Today I returned. And a miracle had occurred. Not just that the old stadium, the one I’d loved and cherished my entire life, was now gone! But that in its place (and about 14 acres surrounding ‘its place’) stood the New Stadium. Tottenham Hotspur Stadium, even though it will always be called ‘The Lane’, whatever the corporate world thinks otherwise, (terms to be discussed).

And it is a miracle. Because it is massive, magnificent and marvellous. The Spurs shop is the size of Harrods. Without all that horrible green everywhere. It’s the biggest club shop in Europe. The Goal Line bar inside the ground, at 65 metres long, is the biggest something or other in Europe, or the world, or the known universe. Doesn’t matter because the whole place is just one big superlative. As you wander round it simply amazes by not only how fabulous it all looks, but by how it all works and most importantly, how it feels. It feels like home, but a new, bright, sparkly home made to the most unbelievably high standards. And amazingly, uncommonly, for a new ground the atmosphere is just sensational. Even though big grounds generally suffer in such areas over small, intimate, louder grounds. Not here. Not at Spurs. Because the design, as well as being aesthetically beautiful, is stunningly effective. You feel like you’re right on the pitch. You feel ‘right there’.

It was expensive. Very expensive. But what are the alternatives when you desperately need more space, more fans, more tickets, more corporate areas spending money faster than it can be printed? You could build a third rate, atmosphere-free place like the Emirates. Or you could get a ‘ready made’, like the London Stadium, or better still, steal it from the London Legacy, the Corporation of London and the Borough of Newham and just hope that there’s no public inquiry. Or you do what Spurs did and give a massive injection of investment, prestige and positivity to an ugly, undeveloped area so that the local businesses and residents can thrive alongside.

And that’s it. I’m not talking about the football this afternoon, that’s fucking irrelevant to the topic under discussion. I want to remember the moment for the splendour, the grandeur, the massive ‘wow’. Not for some lowly east end scum who chose to not just rain, but to piss on my parade. Though this game was lost by Spurs rather than won by West bloody Ham. I’m erasing that bit from memory… NOW!

What game??

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

Ok, bruvvers wot works for Transport fer Lunduun, dis is ‘ow we copes wiv shit wot ‘appens on are trains, right?

Less take an ‘ypofetical, right? Some geezer, f’rinstance, decides to take a walk along the tracks around Euston, in da rush hour. We need a plan, a guideline, for da union. And its diss:

1. Shut off the power to the line, immediately and wiv’out delay. In case this ‘ypofetical geezer is, like, Usain Bolt, shut off ALL the ‘lectricity to ALL the line. All 97 miles of it. Juss in case.

2. Go for a cuppa tea. Now da power’s off iss all safe, innit, so relax wiv a nice brew to enhance critical thinking.

3. Realise that, in this ‘rush hour’ scenario, there are upwards of 50,000 people trying to travel on the northern line. Well fuck ‘em. They’ll ave ta wait.

4. Under no circumstances make any announcements that might prove useful to these non-union bastards leaching off the blood of workers by using our trains. Announcements can be made, on a strictly local level, but with as little information as is possible IN ALL CASES, not providing any facts that may enable these people to get home by other means. That might cause excess capacity on other lines and our bruvvers there will have to work more.

5. Make sure, at all costs, that the TFL ‘live feed’ on the website maintains the words ‘good service’ for at least 25 minutes after there is in fact no service. Looks better on the page.

6. Remember the line to give to all the 50,000 who approach you for information, insight, advice: “I dunno”.

7. If ya dunno nuffink, might as well take another tea break. No trains, nuffink to do, right?

Last night, coming home to see MY baby, who was waiting for me. 2 hours later she was in bed, night had fallen, I was in an Uber on the last leg of an exceptionally tortuous and circuitous journey. Cos some tosser had gone for a walk along the fucking tracks at Euston. And the multitude of tossers working for TFL make no efforts to give the stranded passengers any worthwhile or workable info. They might as well work for EasyJet.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

Attack is the best form of defence. So we’re told. If you’re in their faces then they can’t be hurting you. Can they? And sometimes you defend before you’re attacked. Then its called an attack. Which is confusing. But we’re not talking war, we’re talking football. In which sustained attacking is the best way of keeping the ball ‘down their end’ and thus away from your goal. Ok, defending teams use this and attack ‘on the break’ and that’s dangerous if you’re attacking too strongly, leaving your own defences weak. You’ve basically got 11 men and its all a matter of how you deploy them.

Last night at Spurs, Chris Hughton, the ex-Spur and nowadays Brighton manager, deployed his men in what is known as the ‘parked bus’ formation. In which you line up your 10 outfield players in front of the goal and keep them there for 90 minutes. The ball gets hoofed away up the field so your forwards can break but… they’re all in their own penalty area so back it comes. Wave after wave. And its very hard for attacking teams to break down. Doesn’t make for the most exciting game of football but it is pragmatic.

And Chris Hughton needs to be one of them. A pragmatist. His team currently sit 4th from bottom. Just 3 points ahead of Cardiff and with Arsenal and Manchester City to play in their last 3 games, he’s hoping Cardiff can fare worse than his team and he might be able to nick a point here or there.

That was the plan. And it seemed to work for 88 minutes. It was also playing to Brighton’s strengths. Because they are great defenders and not too brilliant in attack. Their plan is generally: defend, defend, defend, score from a corner. But last night they didn’t get many corners, enjoying less than 30% of possession.

Yet this wasn’t all about Brighton. There was another team involved. A team who had dodged one bullet when they lost on Saturday because the three other teams who could have threatened their league position all miraculously failed to win. In Manchester United’s case, rather spectacularly. So Spurs desperately needed a win to secure 3rd place in the league, at least for another week.

Indeed a battle of desperation. As so many are.

I almost felt sorry for Brighton when Christian Eriksen’s goal screamed in. Almost. I was too busy shouting, screaming and leaping up and down with the immense relief. The pundits said how Brighton ‘deserved something from the game’ (footballing euphemism for ‘a draw’) but in a way playing with no intention of any kind of attack really shouldn’t be rewarded.

Manchester United play tonight. They play Manchester City. In what is almost the league decider. It’s Manchester City’s game in hand. Win it and they overtake Liverpool. And then, with both having 3 matches left which should all be easily won (as if), that would leave City as champions. And to be honest, no-one wants that.

Brilliant result for Spurs. Sorry Chris, that’s the way it goes.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

What a weekend its been. I can only remember one consistently sunny Easter weekend in my adult life. About 40 years ago when a group of us rented a Thames river boat and spent the time sailing in the sunshine much to everyone’s amazement, ours included. As we’d packed umbrellas, waterproofs, wind-wear, storm clothing, thermals, the usual Easter anticipatory essentials.

But this weekend felt like a summer holiday. Tennis in the sunshine? What’s that all about? Never catch on. But because of Liladay, Mel & I had a 5-day break. Which again never happens usually but this weekend the Gods conspired it. Quite literally as she never works on Easter Sunday (her practice is open all other Sunday mornings) and Saturday was a Jewish holiday upon which she always closes too. So as not to offend many of the ghetto dwellers in her area. Easter and Passover rarely coincide so perfectly due to the Jewish religious calendar being lunar and no-one really knows when Jesus rose up. There’s no Cctv footage. And sunshine is a tonic. No doubt about it. Ok, that and 4 of the top 6 teams in the league failing to win, leaving the status quo unchanged, almost, which means Spurs are still 3rd. Phew. Dodged a fucking bullet.

But best of all; its been a virtually Brexit-free time. As if the entire nation, politicians and press included, just called a great big TIME OUT on the most boring, agonising and laborious political process since… the last one.

We’ve been talking about climate change, and I dodged another bullet there by going to the V&A on Sunday because yesterday the protesters sat down outside the Natural History Museum next door. Fine by me. Good though the Dior was, I weren’t going back.

And there was the terrible bombing in Sri Lanka in which 300 perfectly innocent people died for some cause as yet identified or claimed, but its probably an international Islamist action as apparently the local bunch in Colombo ain’t bright enough to have co-ordinated such a mass murder without help.

So yes, even without Brexit we can still really appreciate just how fucked up the entire world is.

But it felt good while it lasted.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Man cannot live by football alone. He can try but his wife will get royally pissed off. Ok, some leeway is given at this time of the year, when EVERY match is important, when Mel knows that Brighton playing Wolves has a massive impact on my life. When Liverpool at Cardiff is existentially critical to me and Arsenal hosting Crystal Palace is crucial.

Which is why we went to the V&A to see the Christian Dior. The clothes, not the man, he’s long dead. Because I needed a rest from football (NOOOOOOO; DON’T TURN OFF THE TVEEEEEEE!!!), I wanted to expand my sphere of cultural diversity (which normally means watching Championship matches or the Bundesliga) and as tickets had been acquired (its virtually a sell out exhibition) back in about February, we thought it best to leave Everton to their own devices, which they seemed to do pretty well, and venture to South Ken. On the tube, on the most gorgeous Sunday of the year, to wander round lightless basements looking at old frocks. It doesn’t get better than that.

When you enter the exhibition area, in the initial atrium there’s just a few ‘things’ to show you what you’re about to encounter. And today’s photo is one of them. Not just one of them but the most wonderful, exquisite gown/coat (we couldn’t tell, it was rather high up, hence the seeming ‘upskirtiness’ of the pic) which, even to a Neanderthal football thug like me, simply epitomised the beauty and style of ultimate haute couture and French chic. Not the ‘ultimate French chick’, that was Bardot, or Lea Seydoux, but French chic. And as Dior (died in 1957! Who knew? Made a lot of clothes post-mortem) had a mission statement that his clothes were made to enhance and accentuate the beauty and shape of women, this item of clothing exemplified that aim. (Note, I think Dior meant ‘shape of women’ as that lovely hourglass shape, rather than the more Americanised ‘amphibious landing craft’ shape of many of their women).

Unfortunately, for me (ignorant, impatient, gonad-driven) that opening thing of beauty wasn’t matched by any of the following 22,000 dresses, coats, bags or hats. He’d peaked too soon, but there ya go. So we whizzed home in time for most of the Liverpool match.

And I only watched that reluctantly because I really really really wanted to watch Arsenal. Because Liverpool are ‘gone’ for Spurs. That very top bit of the league is over and done with for me. It’s the next two slots that will dominate my life for the next four weeks. And Arsenal are ‘involved’.

Having lost to Man City on Saturday, Spurs looked vulnerable in third place, with Manchester United yet to play and, worse still, Arsenal faced with a seemingly ‘easy’ home match against Crystal Palace.

But Issa funny ole game, is football, and the humour was rich yesterday. First Man United didn’t merely lose but were truly hammered to a pulp at Everton. My only concern about that being that the instant-success-demanding powers at Old Trafford may rue their appointment of Ole Gunnar Solskjaer and come after Pochettino again.

Then Arsenal. Who would have overtaken us with that ‘simplest of wins’ (to be uncharacteristically fair to Arsenal; there is no such thing as a ‘simple win’) but managed to lose. Leaving Spurs in third place. At least for a few more hours until bipolar Chelsea play Burnley tonight.

So to Johnny the Gunner (the lawyer one, not the banker one) who wondered if I was ‘panicking’ after Saturday’s result, I’d just like to state, in a calm, adult and intellectual way: ‘NYEH, NYEH, NYEH!!!!!’

Very happy, gloriously sunny, bank holiday Monday.

A xxxx

I’m not into sequels. If something’s great; leave it alone to stand as that, don’t try and repeat it. Otherwise you end up with Fast & Furious 7 and Death Wish 4 and Friday the 13th part 14. And they’re all shit. The obvious exceptions (and I can make these without any risk of being hypocritical, stupid or abusing generalisations because I can write what I fucking want!) are Kill Bill 1 and 2, because it was one movie in two parts, and Terminator 1 and 2 because I love them. There’s the rules then.

So Spurs returning to the Etihad stadium yesterday for a repeat of Wednesday night’s match there had ‘disappointing anti-climax’ written all over it. Mainly because Wednesday night’s game was the most exciting game of football ever seen by anybody (though I feel that once VAR becomes a more integrated part of the game, rather than the novelty status it currently enjoys, such turnarounds will become more commonplace) but also because you can’t just carry on in the same vein. It was a sequel of a match and, quite frankly, it felt like one. Even though it had many moments of excitement. But Spurs lost. I think every Spurs fan had accepted that we would lose this game, accepted that quite early on Thursday morning. And were quite relieved that it didn’t end 5-nil or worse. We can’t afford to lose any more games. We have to win them all. But that one we were under no illusions about.

But in an uncharacteristic moment of schadenfreude… well, fairly uncharacteristic, I opened the newspaper on Friday morning, expecting to find a big spread about Arsenal’s victory the previous night, taking them to the semi-finals of the UEFA Cup (or whatever they call that thing). Yet instead, I found the most wonderful, magnificent, superlative-laden, two-page feature which could have been headlined: “HOW FUCKING BRILLIANT ARE SPURS??” It was a glowing account of our achievements (not our trophies, obvs, that would have been a much shorter article) and how well we’ve done in comparison to how much we’ve spent of late. Manchester United have spent 500 million over the last year and we’ve spent nothing. Liverpool have spent big. Manchester City spend bigger but keep it well hidden (court case pending). In fact the only team to have spent less (by selling players to create a ‘negative spend’) is Ajax of Amsterdam. Who we now play in the semi-finals of the CHAMPIONS LEAGUE.

And I thought that was so unfair on Arsenal… that it made me even more deliriously happy than I already was.

Ajax, oddly or coincidentally, or bizarrely or whatever, are another team who embrace their inner Jew. The predominantly non-Jewish fan base fly Israel flags, sing ‘hava nagilla’ and eat matzos during Passover. I may have added that last bit for effect. For the same reason that Spurs became ‘the Yids’. Because of abusive and anti-Semitic chants from other teams, back in the 70s, who called teams with Jewish fans (like Spurs) or Jewish owners (like Ajax had), Jewish names as being ‘a great insult’. But was then adopted. So when we meet, instead of the fans fighting in brawls and drinking excessively, they’ll be instead arguing philosophical points in the Torah.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

If you wanted to go to Hennes yesterday from, say, Carnaby Street, just across Oxford Circus, you’d have found your route blocked. By a massive pink boat. And about 2,000 of Britain’s great unwashed, sitting around, getting arrested, being released again, drinking tea, weaving yoghurt, picking nits out of their children’s heads and eating them, other than the vegans, obviously, and generally ‘protesting’ in a very peaceful but also very annoying way. If there were any trees on Oxford Street, they’d be hugged.

Extinction Rebellion is a nationwide movement trying to attract attention to the fact that climate change is ruining the planet and specifically that our government is doing precisely nothing about it. They’d recruited lots of kids. Which is good for the quotes, heart-warming that they care and easy because kids can be wonderfully naive. Like the one yesterday who was saying, beautifully and sweetly, as 11-year olds do, that ‘old people’ have fucked up the planet (my words, incidentally) but its their future that’s in jeopardy. As in ‘like 30 years time’ kind of thing. Rather than the 5,000 years time which is more when the problems would be.

It’s a noble cause indeed. Saving the very planet. But is that any reason to cause such a massive disturbance in London for 2 weeks? I mean, there’s loads of other planets. Billions of them. And in fact there’s loads of other cities too. Ok, there are protests in many of those cities too, so why target London for so long? As one man said, he works in the renewable fuel industry; how can he save the planet when he can’t get in to work?

The end often justifies the means. But not when strikes, protests and disruptions are concerned. And without wishing to sound too ‘London-centric’ about this, ITS THE MOST IMPORTANT CITY IN THE FUCKING WORLD; LEAVE IT ALONE!!! (And the only place to see Champions league football there this season is STILL at Tottenham, just FYI)

The photos of the ‘carbon reducer movement’ piling into 17 year-old diesel powered Transit vans did nothing to impress. Neither did Emma fucking Thompson arriving in a (metaphorical) limousine to join (read: patronise) the oiks.

Also worth noting a couple of salient facts. Britain currently produces 2% of the world’s carbon emissions, which are reducing, even though perhaps not quickly enough. China produces 30% and are building coal-fired power stations as if… as if… as if they had 1.5 billion people all needing heat and light or something. Surely these protests should be in Beijing? Problem is they won’t fly. Too much carbon. Better get peddling now then.

Happy Saturday (currently 1-nil down at the Etihad and I’m not panicking yet)

A xxxx

There’s only one God, all the major religions are agreed about that (if nothing else). Though the Hindus have about 12,000 gods, so we’ll ignore them for the purposes of this debate. And because I’m sure that the God who I don’t believe in was NOT a fucking elephant. Gorilla maybe, lemur, but an elephant??

And today is the start of Passover for us Jews. And is also Good Friday, for them Christians. Maybe its a Hindu festival too and they’re gonna eat bananas and sticky buns. Who knows. But if history is to be believed, on this day… so many thousand years ago, Moses led the Jews out of slavery in Egypt and into the ‘Promised Land’ which then became more ‘The Highly Contentious Land’ even though back then there were no Arabs of any description. Nor Christians for that matter. And then just 2000 years ago, on this very same day, that very same God (not the elephant, the lemur; do keep up!) arranged for his recently dead son to rise up in re-incarnation so he could eat Easter Eggs.

Which is a problem. Because ‘our’ God never had a son. But the Christian God did. Was God leading a double life? Was he ‘playing away’??? I think this needs investigating as about a half the world find this very important indeed.

On Passover we have to tell ‘the story’. It’s our job. And I take such things very seriously. In fact its the only religious-ish thing I really like because we get to eat a lot and drink wine. Fasting and praying can only take me so far. Tonight even Lila is coming round for the story (see above pic).

And this is the story.

Moses, a massive Spurs fan, was a slave in Egypt, under the wicked, cruel, pantomime-ish Pharoah (second cousin, 97-times removed from Sheikh Mansoor) and he (Moses) was pissed off. So he told his wife he was leaving. Not so much leaving her as leaving the whole place, f’rever. Holy shit, said his wife. Before we go we need to do something. We need to take all our plates, bowls, dishes, knives, forks and spoons, pots, pans and food, hide them away and replace them with another set that looks identical BUT which haven’t touched any bread, wheat, corn, nothing. Moses looked at her and said the immortal words: ‘bis tu meshuggah, a bissel sedrate?’ (‘Are you mad? A little insane??’) Don’t you realise that you are cursing the entire future of Jews forever and eternally to repeat this ridiculous thing??? If we do that we won’t even have time to let the bread rise before we run through the parting Sea!!! I won’t be able to watch the highlights from the Champions League Quarter Final!!!! But she was adamant. Maybe should have been ‘eve-a-ment’ but history distorts.

And thus we tell the tale, generation after generation. And, cynicism aside, its a great thing to do. I have no idea why, but it just is.

Happy Pesach/Easter/whatever

A xxxx

I was going to write a poem, an emotional and heart-felt outpouring of love and dedication to honour the most incredible football match EVER, won (errr, overall ‘won’, as opposed to ‘on the night’, necessarily) by the greatest team EVER, in what even the most hardened and cynical of Spurs-hating pundits (Paul Merson, Ian Wright, just pick yer Goon) have called ‘possibly the best game ever played’. And I got as far as this:

There is a new footballing superstar
The incredible phenomenon that is V.A.R…

And I thought better of it. Because VAR only tells you what is absolutely and totally ‘correct’, even if no-one had seen, noticed or appealed it on the pitch. It adds nothing and takes away nothing. And it misses nothing. So no-one appealed Llorente’s goal as a handball but VAR chose to examine it because it ‘might’ have been so. But there was insufficient evidence so the goal stood (THANK GODDDD!!!!) Similarly, when Sterling scored what appeared the injury-time ‘winner’, VAR checked for Aguero’s offside even though referees and players didn’t notice. He WAS offside (MERE THANKS BARELY ENOUGH THAT TIME) so all VAR did was correct an injustice. Hmmm.

What VAR doesn’t do is emotion. Passion. Excitement. Shattering disappointment, explosive joy, gut-wrenching agony.

But I also realised that to achieve what Spurs did last night, and last week too, just to keep the big picture in view, was so amazing, so incredible, so odds-contradicting, so seemingly impossible, so mind-numbingly brilliant, that however that had happened would have been a startling achievement. If we had parked a fleet of buses in front of goal and never ventured outside our box, the win would be sweet. Because winning was everything. And we won. Against one of the hardest teams in the world to beat. And we’re now going to play in the semi-finals of the Champions League. Which is massive and a first for Spurs.

But it weren’t like that at all. The result was the same but the journey… fuck me. What a journey.

Five goals in the first 21 minutes of the match. That’s never happened before in the C.League. But Spurs still ahead on ‘away goals’, even at 3-2 down on the night. Then the killer, Aguero scored, 4-2, or 4-3 on aggregate; we’re out. But then the Llorente goal and then, at the most heightened and tense time of the match, deep into injury time, the goal-that-never-was. But before it became that, for Man City, it was just ‘the goal’. And they went fucking ballistic. Every player, fan, coach, steward, tea-lady and cleaner just lost it totally. Similarly every Spurs fan, player, etc., etc., sunk into the deepest darkest depths of deepness and suicidal horrendous ness.

Only for that to be reversed at the flick of a ‘replay’ button on the VAR. Oh well, ya win some, ya lose some.

Lila can now say Son Heung Min. I mean; how many two year-olds can do that? (Answer: all the 2 year olds of Spurs fans).

Amazingly, floating on air, Thursday

A xxxx

So Nigel Farage has resurfaced, as sharks do, with his new, shiny ‘Brexit Party’. Firstly because he is all and only about leaving Europe and secondly because he is quite uncanny at harnessing the feelings of ‘the people’, particularly if those people are keen to leave Europe. So to all Brexiteers, Farage’s new shtick is the ‘second coming’. It’s like when Jurgen Klinsman came back to Spurs when we were in trouble. The new messiah. Be very interesting if there was a general election, Farage won, became PM, took us duly and immediately and democratically out of Europe and then…

Then what? Resign? Dissolve the party? Or move over to the Far Right like UKIP did when it got bored with ‘playing nice’ and didn’t have anything else to talk about.

But on the other ‘team’ we now have ‘Change UK’, the quasi-party that started life as a few disgruntled remainer MPs pissed off with Corbyn and May and forming The Independent Group. Which has since metamorphosised into ‘Change UK’, probably with an exclamation mark or two, just so you know its not same old same old but something new and revolutionary. Without the revolution. But to their credit, at least they are ‘centrist’ which is a good thing. And they’re all ‘remainers’, which is a bad thing for 52% of the voters.

And maybe we’re ready for something new. Because if the last decades haven’t dulled our keenness on the 2-party status quo, then the last 2 years have killed it off completely. The Tories, currently, are worse than useless and for any right-minded individual of a non-Trotskyist leaning, Corbyn represents the death of the nation, should he ever lead it. God for-fucking-bid.

So where goes one’s political allegiance? If you’re a natural Tory (you know who you are), then which of the 17 infighting factions therein do you currently ‘support’? You’ll need to choose which Tory party you want from within the disordered and murderous ranks. Which cheating, back-stabbing, self-serving nob do you fancy?

And if you’re a Labour person, does your leftist centrism go as far as the Corbyn/McDonnell vision of red flags, party berets and the bullying totalitarianism that they really want? Are you comfortable with a man whose hatred of Israel is so great that he has allowed rabid, unchecked anti-semitism to run through the entire party machine? A man whose idealistic ‘model’ of a fine nation is Venezuela. Currently on the verge of civil war with rabid inflation, no medicine and a starving population.

I’m ready for a change. Just not sure if I’m ready for a Change UK, but it’s possible. Anything would seem better than what we’re currently enduring.

Happy Wednesday, except for distraught Manchester United fans. Well, what d’ya expect from Messi & Co.?

For Spurs tonight is a ‘destiny match’. The biggest, almost ever.

A xxxx