Andy's Glasses

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

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