Andy's Glasses

A lot of people seem to get a great deal of pleasure from a thing called ‘golf’. English people in their millions play it, Americans in their zillions do it. The difference being that between a noun and a verb. But we won’t get pedantic here. Whether you chose to ‘play golf’ or whether you ‘golfed’ is a minor difference between those who know how to speak English and a bunch of foreigners who have abused, misused and hi-jacked a beautiful language to make it expedient and ugly. I make no judgments…

The fact of the matter is that, noun or verb, both leave me equally cold. I just can’t see the point. Much as (TOTALLY IGNORANT) people reduce football to a pointless exercise involving an inflated bladder (at one time), thus golf to me is only ever seen from the reductionist standpoint. I miss the ‘big picture’. You hit a ball with a stick. Big (faarkin) deal. I honestly do appreciate the amazing skill involved, the choice of bats, the amount of power, the line of the greens, I really do. But, like snooker or darts, its just a skill, not a sport. In my definition of a ‘sport’ you have to sweat properly. Not just because Pringle have sponsored you and thus you can’t take off your sweater even though its 97 degrees out there.

And on tv, golf must be the biggest of viewed sports. Everyone seems to watch it. Sky give about 5 of their sports channels over to the big events and won’t give me a penny back if I don’t watch them. I can’t.

But even I had to look in amazement at the incredible personal achievement of Tiger Woods. The Comeback King. Who yesterday won the Masters Tournament in Augusta. America. Somewhere. Somewhere sunny. And stormy.

Tiger last won the Masters 14 years ago, age 29 at what we’ll now call ‘the end of his first peak’. He won everything back in the day. Then came the downfall. The drink, the drugs, in fact all the good things that you can afford and have the time to enjoy them when you’re rich as George Soros at 25. He slumped further into decay as his wife attacked him with (what else?) a golf club after she’d found he’d been looking for balls in someone else’s bunker.

And four major back surgeries. And golf is a very ‘backy’ game. So to come back, looking so amazingly fit and strong, is somewhere way beyond merely ‘remarkable’.

Mohammed Ali had his comeback after being in prison for refusing to fight in Vietnam. Nicky Lauda had a miraculous comeback after nearly dying in his crashed racing car, burning half his face off in the process. Harry Kane came back after six weeks from an ankle sprain and scored a goal at Bournemouth.

But Tiger Woods really beats them all. Shame its golf he plays and not something good or interesting. But there ya go.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

We’re getting down to the pointed end of the football season now. The endgame. In which points definitely make prizes and new stadia are only as good as the last win they host. And thus did the mighty Tottenham Hotspur yesterday beat Huddersfield Town to record their third win there out of the 3 matches played there thus far. Which, quite frankly, amaaaaaazin’.

Ok, Crystal Palace, the first official visitors to the new Tottenham Hotspur Stadium (naming rights available; apply here in the first instance), are not very good, so were perfect to play in our first, rather edgy, little bit nervy game there. But then came Manchester City. The mighty, the invincible, the all-conquering. But in this case they might not, seemed rather more vincible and conquered no-one. Because they were intimidated by a new and proper stadium, the likes of which simply doesn’t exist anywhere up the M6. And then yesterday and Huddersfield. Who are already relegated, can’t beat an egg and came south to lose. And we ably assisted them in this quest. Even without our two ‘star names’, both injured, we managed to score 4 goals and keep our third clean sheet at Le Lane de Blanc Coer. Well, its much too posh to call it ‘white hart lane’ even if it is.

But that’s only half the battle. Because time, and games, are now at a minimum, we need to not only win our games but to wallow mercilessly in the misfortunes of those teams around us who might try to steal our rightful European place for next year. Vis a vis: Manchester (fucking) United, (fucking) Chelsea and (fucking) Arsenal. Because together, we are the four teams fighting for 2 Champions League places.

Manchester United won yesterday, which was horrible. They in fact won on penalties, even though it wasn’t that kind of game. And they remain 3 points behind us. The fact they beat West Ham would normally fill me with some degree of contentment, but not now. I wanted West Ham to win. But just like their own fans, they let me down too.

Chelsea’s failure to win (or draw) at Liverpool today means that they remain 1 point behind us but they’ve played one game more.

Arsenal play tomorrow. At Watford. If the form books are correct then Watford should win. Just because Arsenal can’t seem to play away from home and Watford are riding a wave which has taken them to the FA Cup final. But ya never know. Though you can hope and pray. Which I suggest you all do. Pray for Watford to win. And pray hard. As only real atheist football fans know how.

Happy Sunday. This is very late because we had a (very) little house guest last night so her parents could attend a wedding in Leicester. And house guests of that type and size mean you have NO TIME WHATSOEVER TO DO ANYTHING. Bless her.

A xxxx

The late great scientist and writer, my favourite evolutionist (including Darwin, I might add on the grounds that he was funnier), Stephen Jay Gould, was a wonderfully liberal and tolerant man. Rather than tell proponents of a strict biblical interpretation of the natural world to just fuck off and go pray, like… errrr, someone less tolerant (no names) might do. To those who claimed that ‘the world was built just like we see it just 5,500 years ago, with every mountain hand sculpted by God, every fossil just put there for His fun’, Gould said ‘fine, that’s your “belief”, but it ain’t science’. So he proposed his wonderful paradigm of NOMA. Non-overlapping Magisteria. In which religion could say precisely what it liked, in the world of the spirit, of blind belief, of biblical adherence, but science was entitled to the same consideration in things which are evidence based, empirical or borne out by study. Basically: you wanna believe in fairies, devils and miracles that’s fine and we won’t criticise, but don’t fucking quote them as ‘scientific fact’ cos they ain’t.

I always thought that a very elegant way round a problem, particularly in a nation (that’ll be America) where the teaching of evolutionary theory is still either banned or moderated by insistence of creationist (biblical) theory alongside, in some states.

And so to rugby.

????

Yeah, rugby. Because there’s a royal row going on. Heads are rolling. Because people are not sticking to their own magisteria but interfering with things about which they know precious little other than their own prejudices, borne, as are all prejudices, out of ignorance, and reinforced by some woolly and ambiguous sentence in some part of the bible. The same kind of sentences that justified (in the eyes of the Dutch Orthodox Church) the apartheid system, the stoning of women rape victims in strictly Muslim countries and the almost universal homophobia in the entire world of religion.

Israel Folau is possibly the best winger in world rugby. Fast, strong and a devastating finisher. Yet for some unaccountable reason chose to post a message on social media attacking gay people as being ungodly. Also threw in drunks, adulterers, fornicators (???), thieves, Arsenal fans (definitely ungodly) and estate agents. He had to ‘speak out’ because of his God. Blah, blah, fucking blah.

He has been suspended from Australian rugby. But not before several other rugby superstars had ‘liked’ or supported his comments. Most notably Billie Vunipola, the England Number 8 and, ironically, fairly renowned drunk (no evidence of fornication so far, other than his children). Who now faces sanctions for his own take on the ‘man was created to mate with woman’ biblically inspired bollocks.

I’m guessing that Israel Folau and Billy have a few million followers on Twitter. Who follow them because they are gods of their game. Not because anyone wants to hear their intolerant and antiquated discriminatory views. However much God might be on their side. It’s not their place to make such comments. Not their context. Save it for church.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

I don’t read many books on child psychology. Don’t need to. They all say the same thing: children are horrible. Rotten. More trouble than they’re worth. Which is all undeniably true. But oddly doesn’t apply to grandchildren.

However, were I to read such books, I dare say the virtually universal problem of ‘the terrible twos’ would be explained thus. That at 2 kids are partly verbal. And they’re just able to make decisions for themselves. Something adults encourage at every opportunity. And they do make decisions. Which result in the adults saying ‘NO’. And that’s when the problem starts. A problem entirely of big people’s making. Mixed messages. Basically ‘you decide and as long as its exactly what I want, then you’re fine. Otherwise forget it’. It’s called Theresa May-ing in adult context.

Lila’s first big decision yesterday morning came at about 6.40 when we came down for breakfast. Or, ‘for the first breakfast’ as the mornings are long so why impose arbitrary limits? And as I started to prepare her porridge, she went to the larder and found one of my Easter Eggs. She had no idea what it was, but it was bright, colourful, big and those designers at Cadburys know their shit. It probably stank of chocolate too, which may have had influence. And thus the first tantrum of the day began. Because I have red lines. NO CHOCOLATE BEORE 7.25!!! IS A GOLDEN RULE. Maybe 7.15 if you’re driving. It’s called ‘good (grand)parenting’.

The next issue was her daily one. We get her dressed. In her usual, shiny, spotless, pristine, perfectly matching designer outfit… but we had a refusal at the jeans. ‘No chousers’ she stated, calmly and matter-of-factly. Then she started rummaging through her little clothing bag, came up with a t-shirt that’s way too big (but it has a kiwi on it and that trumps any practical consideration) and stated: ‘wear dat’. There is no argument, no debate. This is not a democracy. Then she pulled out her spare pyjama bottoms and insisted they were the way of the catwalk. The sweater got an outright refusal. Coupled with her boots because due to a dogshit issue her shoes were binned, this is how Lila was presented to the public yesterday. I took this photo in Brent Cross where we went shoe shopping. Lila’s aunt in Berlin commented that she looks ‘homeless and lost’. But they just don’t understand ‘shabby chic’ in Germany. No concept of what ‘cool’ really looks like.

Lila and the Apple store. Uncommonly quiet. And what’s more, as well as having Lila to play with, I fulfilled my ‘one visit to Brent Cross every ten years’ quota. Which is brilliant.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

Julian Assange was arrested this morning. The Ecuadorians finally got rid of the house guest from hell, who they invited in for dinner in 2012 and overstayed his welcome by 7 years. He’d claimed ‘sanctu-ary’, the first person to do so since Quasimodo invoked the same privilege in Notre Dame all those years ago, as voiced by Charles Laughton. Mainly because Quasi was French and would’a said it differently. The parallels run deep. Quasimodo was uglier than sin and so is Assange. Except the silver haired Aussie keeps his grotesqueness on the inside. But we all know that the portrait he keeps in his attic is now The Hunchback!

Assange ran to Ecuador’s embassy back then because he was wanted for arrest. By the Swedes for alleged rape and by the Americans for publishing state secrets. So rather than ‘man up’ and face his detractors across all these continents, Julian decided to wimp out and abuse another nation’s diplomatic immunity. Even though, guess what? He was ‘innocent of all charges’ and it was just a way for America to get revenge.

The rape case has subsequently been dropped by the Swedes. Not because they no longer think he did it but because it time-expired in their legal system. But the Americans are dead keen on extradition. And although we can only extradite to somewhere that has no risk of death penalty or torture, I kind’a hope they make an exception for Assange.

In case you think this is uncharacteristically impartial, somewhat benefit-of-the-doubtish of me, and ‘innocent-until-proven-Australian’, let me just step off my ‘fence’ for a moment for a minor declaration. I fucking hate Julian Assange. I find him smug, arrogant, cocky, dogmatic, annoying and I’d like to punch him. Leaking national secrets is all well and good and ‘transparent’ and for the good of all, but when that involves the names and addresses of operatives of a very sensitive nature, he’s actually imperilling their lives.

Yet the irony is sweet. Assange finally left because someone threatened to publish videos of his time in the embassy. Mildly incriminating, bit naughty, not very nice videos. Which would have caused him some form of embarrassment or disgrace. Which is precisely how he makes his living.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

I don’t want to read too much into Spurs win against (the horrible) Manchester City last night. I don’t wish to overstate the victory nor the effect it has. I want to keep things in proportion and perspective with a calm and cool objectivity.

It was the biggest win EVVVERRRRRR. Bigger than Man United’s 1999 European Cup final, bigger than the World Cup final in 1966, bigger than Leyton Orient beating Gillingham to get promotion to the 2nd division in 1971, bigger than Arsenal winning the league title at Liverpool with the last kick of the game.

But last night was not just the biggest win in football.It was the biggest victory of all time in any match, competition or even war. It was bigger than El Alamein, bigger than the Normandy Invasion, the entire Vietnam War (a goalless draw that one anyway), bigger than the Siege of Leningrad, it was bigger than Hiroshima, for fuck sake!

Manchester City, hate them as we all do, have to be admired. They don’t just win games, they annihilate opposition. They score goals. Lots of goals. From lots of their players. They are, more now under Guardiola’s guidance than even before, a machine. Industrial strength, brutal, relentlessly unforgiving and (previously) unstoppable.

Even though City were awarded the most stupid penalty in history, they failed to score. And although the ‘1’ in the 1-nil scoreline is important, the ‘nil’ is much much more so. Because in Champions League matches, away goals kill you. If anyone reading thus far is not into football, after asking ‘WHY? You got nothing else to do today??’, I’ll explain that after the two games, should aggregate scores be tied, any ‘away goals’ suddenly count double. And that can be devastating.

But just the boost to morale that you stopped City from scoring is massive. Heroic. Epic. As indeed it was.

Pep chose to leave Kevin de Bruyne and Leroy Sane on the bench, bringing them on late. Well, more than just normal ‘late’, but in the 89th minute. Not quite sure what he expected at that point, but YOU DON’T QUESTION PEP. He knows. I’m just not sure what exactly it is that he knows.

Harry Kane hobbled off. Which is tragic. Doubtful to return the rest of the season after turning an ankle.

Yet as soon as Harry is gone, something happens to the world’s favourite Korean. Heung Min Son changes from being a really great player into a world class goal scoring superstar. ‘The king is dead; long live the King’. It happened during Harry’s last protracted injury and yesterday it took barely 20 minutes for Sonny to outclass the entire City defence with his skill, class and determination and score the goal that sent the bookies looking for razor blades and sleeping pills.

Oh what a night. What a day. What a week. What a… what a…

Happy Wednesday,

A xxxx

Certain things excite me. Spurs playing Manchester City tonight is ‘fairly’ exciting. In a bit of a scary way. Lila stringing a few words together excites me much more than it really should do. But something that has always given me the biggest ‘frill’ is speed. Particularly, acceleration. I like driving fast, I like cycling fast and I like skiing fast. But to reach that level of frisson, to reach that ‘whooooo’ moment, you need to be just a smidgen beyond comfortable control. Some might say that’s dangerous. Whatever. It is what it is. I love the acceleration of planes just before take-off. Jet engines have even more horse power than a Porsche. But I never got to go on Concord. Even though I wanted to. Stow away even. But didn’t happen.

But Concorde is history. Our only commercial supersonic plane could never afford to pay for its fuel with its relatively meagre pay-load so was more a spectacular vanity project. To show the world that Britain is great and even though the French really aren’t, they can chip in at times for something worthwhile.

Now we’re talking ‘hypersonic’. Ooooooohhh. Hyper; that’s big. Which is defined as speeds over Mach 13. Thirteen times the speed of sound. Sound travels at 1235km/hour. So Mach 13 is… fucking quick. In fact, should many things happen well, (standard caveat for ‘don’t hold yer breath), they’re looking at a… plane? rocket?? thing that is possible to fly at Mach 25. Holy Moly. 30,000 km/hr!

Might be a bit noisy. I mean Concorde, at Mach 2, stopped the traffic flying 200 miles away and you couldn’t even see it. So within our atmosphere this new thing (as yet unnamed) will travel at Mach 3.3. And arrive in New York in less than 1 hour. Los Angeles in under 2. Southend in 47 seconds.

They haven’t named ‘it’ yet because ‘it’ is not really the problem. The problem is the engines. So they’ve given them a name instead. SABRE. It’s an acronym. Synergic air-breathing rocket engine. And, should they work as expected/hoped/dreamed they will be the key. Because the problem with all rocket propelled flight is that it all tends to get a bit warm up there. Oxygen has to be forced into the fuel and the pressure creates massive heat. So some fairly bright people have invented a game-changing ‘pre-cooler’ which is so clever that it can cool air from 1000 degrees to about 20 in one twentieth of a second. Heat is lost in proportion to surface area. If you increase that you cool down. So this pre-cooler uses thousands of tubes, each finer than a human hair and filled with liquid helium, creating a massive effective surface area to keep things cool.

How very exciting.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

If you look in the dictionary they sell in the shiny new Spurs Shop (the biggest in the world, largest in Europe, shiniest ANYWHERE, bestest, grandest, most magnificentest…) and find the word ‘Schadenfreude’, the definition that comes up is: “Everton 1, Arsenal 0”. Furthermore, for the full effect, for the uber-schadenfreude, taking it to the next level and beyond, just sprinkle in a temper tantrum by Mezut Ozil, throwing his coat around, because there were no toys in his pram.

The German national who loves President Erdogan has always been controversial. He alternates between ‘midfield maestro’ and ‘the biggest waste of 350 grand a week there has ever been’, depending on the fortunes of his club at any particular time. He is emphatically not a player you bring on when you’re losing, to try and turn the tide. That’s not Ozil. He’s a player who excels when his team are totally dominant, running rampage and already 4-0 up. At home. Obviously. Arsenal can’t play away matches and have requested such things be banned next season. In the interest of fairness.

Meanwhile, everyone’s favourite pundit, funny man, wry Scotsman and ginger-haired commentator, Gordon Strachan, has caused something of a shitstorm and lost his job on Sky Sports in the process. The latest in a long line of (2) Scottish ex-strikers to fall foul of the network for inappropriate comments.

Gordon was misunderstood. In that hypersensitive, ultra-pc way that anyone in the media must stand scrutiny. He said that Adam Johnson would be pillaried by the fans if he came back to football following his release from prison for sex offences. That’s the unquestionable bit. Because footy fans just luuuurve a sex offender. The more contentious part when he followed it with: ‘but should we treat the abusive fans in the same way we deal wilth racist abuse?’.

Oh my. What a thing to say. What a… what a… well, in fact, what the fuck?? He’s right. Obviously he’s not comparing being black to being a statutory rapist, nor claiming the same rights for both groups. All he’s saying is: “abuse is abuse; whoever its directed at and needs to be stopped”.But you can’t compare ANYTHING to racism, the current curse of the game. Even tangentially. Even by implication. Like you can never question ANYTHING about Grenfell Tower. The PC red lines are as bigoted as everyone else’s.

He’ll get over it. So rather than worry, this is possibly my favourite ever Lila picture, certainly my favourite from yesterday, at least. A moment of total ‘connection’ that looks as wonderful as it really was.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

When you go and see a play because a friends’ daughter is starring in it, the last thing you expect is to actually like it. Be impressed by it. Even moved greatly by it. But you book it. In part for support and in part because its great to visit one of the many ‘new’ fringe theatres that pop up quite regularly, always in really fab old and interesting spaces. This one called ‘The Pleasance’ in the not-quite-so-nice end of Islington. It’s not in the bit where all the Labour Party big-wigs have to live, its in the slightly rougher, as yet still un-gentrified bit by the Caledonian Road.

We booked it weeks ago. And thought, let’s grab a quick bite to eat on the way. So we booked one of the 117 restaurants that come up on Upper Street when you google it. Ok, a few are cafes and bakeries, some are in fact nowhere near Upper Street, but fuck me, 117! That’s a lot. But 116 are completely irrelevant. Because they’ve opened a ‘Meat Liquor’ there. Holy shit. Which elevates to Holy Grail when you learn that unlike its original sister in the West End, where they queue six miles just to eat a Dead Hippy Burger, this one takes reservations!! Well, in theory, as ours was lost, despite the email confirmation, but hey-ho.

And I finally found what all the fuss is about. OMG they make fab burgers.

But first, having our first ‘Isling-centro’ night for a long time, we learned that the epicentre of our evening, Highbury & Islington Corner, was ‘closed for roadworks’. For those unfamiliar with what looks like a fairly nondescript roundabout linking the shitty end of the Holloway Road with the duff bit of Upper Street that has no restaurants, it is in fact a major junction on the A1. That should be a clue. It’s the first road they ever built. The Romans probably built it so they could go to Ottolenghi. If they fancied a change from ‘what more pasta???’ or eating raw babies, like Caligula. Anyway, Waze earned its keep last night, let me tell you.

The play was called Ali & Dahlia. He’s a Palestinian, she’s an Israeli. He’s arrested, she is his counsel. But they have a history. From childhood. They had been lovers. Oh My! It tells the story of them, but coming back to his present predicament, about to stand trial. It is very powerful. Very real. And best of all, it does what Tarantino did for hit men in Pulp Fiction and gave a much maligned and stereotyped class of person, ie terrorists, a personality away from the riots and insurgence. It gave him a context. A life. A family. A lover. Away from the suicide vests and the rock throwing there’s a real boy-becoming-man in there, growing up with his own perspective, which is totally valid.

It is quite a remarkable 3… er, person production.

Happy avoid-Islington Sunday

A xxxx

What is the link between Black Sabbath and The Charlie Daniels Band? Plus Christina Aguilera and Neil Young. Miles Cirus. Foreigner. And the Kinks. The link is easy. Me. Me and fucking YouTube. It’s music porn for the addictive personality. It’s a simple waste of time and (no) energy. Yet its so good that once you’re ‘in there’ there is simply no escape until you run out of music (good luck with that) or someone shouts at you to GET A FUCKING GRIP!!!

I have no grip. And last night as I was just going to bed… Sky Arts, Legends of the Canyon. Not about mountaineering or there’d be no story. But Laurel Canyon and the music that came from within. Joni Mitchell, a host of others and Crosby Stills & Nash.

That was bed done with then. I love(d) CSN, even with Y when Neil Young joined them for protracted periods. And so after an entire class this morning of tai chi with Judy Blue Eyes and rising blocks accompanied by Teach your children Well, I went to YouTube. ‘Just for a minute’. To rid the ear worms.

An hour later and I’d rediscovered so much. It’s like hooking up with the girlfriends of your youth. But they hadn’t got any older. And then I saw, in the ‘next suggestions’ column, put there by the devil of lethargy personally, I found ‘the 10 best guitar riffs’. Well, what could I do? I’m a sucker for a guitar riff. Otherwise I wouldn’t be wasting my time on YouTube. But I realised there are good riffs, Voodoo Chile, Paranoid, Whole Lotta Love, and there are the ones that make the hairs on your neck rise. Like Layla. Like Smoke on the Water. Like… Iron Man.

But then I drifted in the virtual but inescapable hell and found Adele, whose every not sends shivers down my spine. Christina similarly, but smaller. Lady D’Arbanville by Cat sodding Stevens; I mean…

And then there was You Really Got Me by the Kinks. The first ever ‘rock’ riff for which Dave Davies partially destroyed his speaker to get that ‘fuzz’ sound which would become ubiquitous forever after. The first ‘power chords’ which in turn gave rise to big hair when they were translated into snake-hipped American.

Ahhhh, and it went on. And on. And on…

That’s what happens when tennis gets cancelled. Something has to fill the void.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx