Andy's Glasses

I like bad behaviour. Always have. Mel will confirm. But not just my own. I have certain expectations of certain classes of people. I expect politicians to be sexually-assaulting, expense-rigging megalomaniacal tossers. I expect footballers to be semi-literate flash-Harrys oozing gold and diamonds, with the number of supercars in their garages higher than their IQ score. If they can spell ‘IQ’. I expect estate agents to be bastards, doctors to be patronising, nurses to wiggle round in little blue dresses and Chelsea fans to be horrible. And I expect rock stars to be rock stars.

Perhaps I just like confirmation of stereotypes. So when they are confirmed it pleases me. And the new almost-authorised biography of Eric Clapton has just been released. Almost authorised because Eric (as I call him; like what else?) gave the writer access to all his diaries and contacts and phone books and then later withdrew his permission. But by that time all the interviews were complete, the notes taken, the damage done. Publish and be damned.

The author is Philip Norman, the world superstar of rock bios. He ‘did’ Buddy Holly, Elvis, John Lennon, Mick Jagger, Elton John and others. Now Eric. And although I read very few biographies, I might break the trend and check this out. Not just because I love Eric Clapton, guitarist, singer, songwriter, but because he was undoubtedly the baddest of bad boys.

He crashed 3 Ferraris. Avoided a helicopter crash by changing seats in the last seconds. Lost his 4 year old son in a tragic accident on a New York hotel balcony, spent 10k a week on heroin for 2 years whilst putting away 2 bottles of brandy every day (well you can’t live on heroin alone, ffs) and had over 1000 one-night stands. He also stole his best friend’s (George Harrison’s) wife.

So what’s to admire? How about that at 72 years old, he’s still alive and still playing the guitar better than anyone else around. He should, by rights, have died at 27, the chosen age for lifestyle-challenged rock’n’rollers through history. Yet he has endured. And all you really have to do is listen to the opening notes of ‘Layla’ (written for Patti Boyd, George’s then wife), or play ‘while my guitar gently weeps’ and if you don’t have tears in your eyes then you’re not human. You’re a fucking ‘bot!!! Something I’ve suspected for a while now…

My Philip Norman Story.

I don’t know him well but our daughters were and still are friends and I’ve known him indirectly for 20 years. He’s a very very quiet man. A thoughtful, clever, intellectual man. A man of words. Which he speaks very softly. His lovely wife produced the movie ‘Into the Void’. They’re clever people.

I went to pick up the daughter one night from their house about 11. Knocked on the door, no reply. Knocked again, nothing. So, being Hampstead I had to walk around for half an hour to get any kind of phone signal and eventually I called this mild, gentle, bookish man. Who answered the phone thus, in his mild, gentle, bookish way: “IF YOU DON’T STOP FUCKING CALLING THIS NUMBER I’M GONNA CALL THE FUCKING POLICE; I’VE FUCKING HAD ENOUGH OF THIS BOLLOCKS NOW GET OFF THE FUCKING PHONE AND DON’T FUCKING CALL BACK EVERRRRR!!!!”

Nice. Apparently they’d had some prank caller problems and he’d already called just before me. But still…

Happy Monday

A xxxx

Over dinner last night with my Man United supporting mate, (obviously short-term happy with the win at Bournemouth, long-term panicking as to whether Morinho can keep his team out of the relegation zone. Ok, he termed it as ‘getting into the top 4’ but we all know what he really felt, deep down), and he said ‘Spurs MUST win a cup this year’. Not because they’re so wonderful, not because their cup play is superlative (see: ‘champions league’ for more on this), but because they’ve gone so long without a trophy that they just simply MUST win a cup. And this year! To which I could only say: ‘or what?’

Will they cease to exist if we don’t bring the Caribao Cup to N17? Will Brexit collapse if we get knocked out of the FA Cup? Will the new stadium fall down? Even though its not up yet??

Oddly, his Spurs-supporting barber had said what I too feel, which is: I really don’t care about the cups. Be nice to win them, but so what? Of course winning cups is lovely, makes everyone happy (‘cept the losing finalists, obvs.), you have a little procession, boosts morale, wonderful. But personally I don’t see it as any kind of essential validation. I’m sure Arsenal would have swapped the cups they’d won recently for entry into the Champions League. Because we’d all rather play Barcelona than Rotherham. And you get about 50 million quid more for doing so.

I’m not discrediting the cups. Ok, the Caribao one maybe, but cups in general are wonderful. Knockout games are always another level of excitement. But what we want is progress for our teams. Well, security first, as any West Ham fan will tell you, virtually every year, and then progress up the league table. The cups may flatter (Wigan?) but the league don’t lie.

And then I read about the (agaiaiaiain) proposal for the ‘European superleague’!! Which they’ve been banging on about for decades. A 16 team league of ‘Europe’s Elite’. And there was no mention of Spurs. Liverpool, Man United, Real Madrid, even fucking Schalke get a call, but not Spurs. Not ‘elite’ enough. Not ‘European’ enough (?)

But maybe its about cups. We don’t win them very often, we haven’t won the league since 1961. Liverpool haven’t won it since the 70s but they’ve always been this mythical ‘big club’, plus the amount of Scouse whingeing that would ensue if they were left out would make Brexit negotiations look like buying a Whopper at Burger King.

Yesterday’s win at Wolves felt more like a failed suicide attempt than a normal victory. Fortunately for me I was eating at the time in Hampstead. The last ‘wilderness’ that has virtually no phone coverage and about half a ‘G’ of downloadability. Otherwise I’d have spent half an hour of my life in yet more panic. Rather than stuffing my face.

We’re forth in the league but I remain seriously unconvinced. Wish we could just play West Ham every week.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

I played tennis this morning. Nothing new there, I play every Saturday and Sunday morning that has ever been invented. Today I played Aussie Johnno. He flew in from Sydney specifically and solely for the purpose of playing tennis with me. Why not? Other people I play come from as far away as Finchley, Golders Green, Barnet. Australia’s only a bit further. In the scale of the galaxies. Tomorrow he’s flying to Rome to play someone else. The competition is too strong here, so he needs to find some fat, debauched, Caligula-like Roman character for an easy ride. Although when they play it’ll be ‘girlie-tennis’. Not ‘proper tennis’ like wot I plays.

Girlie tennis, and please forgive any misconceptions of that being some kind of prejudicial or discriminatory or patronising term, which was never the intention, merely the interpretation, is how the game has degenerated. It’s the game where they keep stopping for a rest. Hit a ball (‘serve’, I believe its called), have a rest, then hit a second one. Play for 2 minutes then stop for a rest and some barley water, have a sit-down, maybe a back rub from the Physio before playing another gruelling 3 minutes of stop-start to take you to another 5-minute break for refreshments.

If you cut out all the rest periods and forget those horribly time-consuming serves, you end up in the real game where you play non-stop for an hour or more, running round constantly, chasing everything, not even stopping when the ball goes out of play. Who cares? Just play it back anyway. Because there’s no scoring in ‘proper tennis’ the purpose becomes just to keep playing, just hit it back. And hit it hard, fully and aim for the very corners. Because if you miss it just simply DOESN’T MATTER. And if, like me, you enjoy the chasing down of lost causes, shots that you might be able to get to but it’ll be a hard run to get there, just go for it. Or not. No-one cares, no-one judges, and no-one scores.

That’s the bit that gets to people. “How can you play tennis if you don’t score? If you don’t serve??” That’s what they say. What they mean is ‘how can I establish my undoubted superiority if there’s no statistical analysis to validate it?’ What’s the point of playing if you can’t WIN.

You play for the love of playing. For the sheer joy of being out there on a gorgeous, sunny, autumnal morning. And you’re liberated from everything that may inhibit or restrain you.

What’s the point(s)?

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

Look, everyone hates vegans. They don’t taste very nice. Ha ha, carnivore/cannibal joke. Bad taste. Ooops, ha ha, fucking haaah.

And there lies the meat of the issue. Is it acceptable to joke about vegans? Apparently it is not. William Sitwell, the former editor of Waitrose cooking magazine just resigned because he did just that. Stated in an email a suggestion that vegans be killed, one by one. No-one is accusing him of incitement to murder. Therefore they know it was a joke. So why the fuss? Even if its not the best joke around? He didn’t get sacked by the humour police.

And the reason is two-fold. Firstly that the journalist who sent William a ‘pitch’ about an article she was suggesting about vegan cooking, received his now famous reply and immediately went public with it. Rather than just replying ‘that was sick/poor/unfunny/whatever’. I think it safe to say she will never work in this town again. And quite rightly.

And the other reason is that the vegan ‘movement’ is strong. You can feel the force. They are a ‘protected minority’ as are all adherents to any particular belief system. Most ‘belief systems’ are about God. Veganism is, in my mind, just as misguided but better in some ways because its about food. And I believe in food. Ok, I’d believe more if there’s meat in it but generally, if its edible then I’m a believer.

But if you attack, even humorously, the members of such a belief system then you’re upsetting the whole yin and yang of the entire universe. And must be punished. As was poor William. Ok, he resigned, but come on, did he have any choice?

Therefore his crime was basically one of blasphemy.

The same crime for which Asia Bibi, a Pakistani Christian, was sentenced to death in her country and was just released after serving 8 years whilst waiting execution. Upon her release she’d be well advised to leave her country forever. They’ve never actually executed anyone in Pakistan for blasphemy. Because they never live long enough to go to jail or face the charges in court. They get strung up by mobs, stoned to death, beaten to shit, whatever. Any police around at the time of such lynchings either join in or turn a blind eye, not willing to incur the wrath of the imams. Who are generally leading the attacks, being very spiritual people. You can see the imams because they wield the biggest sticks.

And, just like the radical and extreme Islamic protectionists of Pakistan, the Vegan movement takes no prisoners when it comes to blasphemy.

It’s surely not long before eating meat in public will be banned in the interests of political correctness for not wanting to cause upset to the vegans. And it will be enforced by groups of these ultra-moral, animal-loving, holier-than-thou Uber-veggies patrolling the more foodie streets stringing up diners and demanding the death penalty.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

They’re testing a ban on petrol and diesel cars in the City. That’s my city, the one with a capital ‘C’. The City of London. Just so you know its not Manchester or Salisbury, Birmingham or Norwich. Do people drive in Norwich? Anyway, they’ve picked a little road near Moorgate and they’re going to ban ‘normal’ cars there either on a permanent basis or from maybe 7am to 11pm, kind of thing. If the trial is successful then they may roll this out to the entire square mile next April. To improve air quality. Which is noble. And needed. But what about deliveries. There are (literally) millions of deliveries every day. And collections. From our postman. So he’d have to get a ‘lectric vehicle too, presumably, to avoid the £130 fine. And the delivery companies may be forced to change a fleet of vehicles. Or a significant part of it. The DHL type people. FedEx. Which is fine. They may be able to afford it. But many deliveries are done by owner-drivers, trundling round in beaten up, 14 year-old Transit vans, eking out a meagre, self-employed living. And yes, they spew out diesel fumes and all manner of toxic waste into the environment, but can they afford to cough up 25 grand (guessing, got no idea what they cost but that’s pretty much a starting point for the class) on a new leccy model? Or need to find an extra 600 quid a month in payments?

The idea of a ban on oil burners is a good one. Personally I’d be happy with a total ban on all vehicles in the entire central London area on safety grounds. But a City of 12 million people that produces as much as London does needs a lot of service. And services. So although the best time to attend to the air pollution problem is ‘now’, there’s a lot of contingencies to consider.

Particularly as ‘tests have shown’ that, and this’ll surprise you, electric cars ‘fall short on mileage claims’. Which is a bit like virtually every other type of claim for new cars being shown to be rubbish, but the ‘e’-variety of rubbish. So they don’t get the emissions figures wrong. They don’t grossly overestimate the fuel consumption. They just promise you more miles than you’re ever going to get. And they all do it, and they’re all way short. Like, 100 miles short on the promised 300 on offer. That’s ‘short’ by any standards. You think you’re gonna get to Newcastle but you conk out in York and have to sit with a plug for half an hour pulling your hair out. And this creates a new phenomenon called ‘range anxiety’.

And I’ve never had that. I’ve had ‘almost run out of petrol’ anxiety, I live with ‘is Lila ok’ anxiety, almost thrive on ‘what can I eat now’ anxiety. I could be anxious for England. But range anxiety? I want some. You can never be too anxious.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

The motto from the holocaust is ‘lest we forget’. Because it mustn’t ever be forgotten. Having said that, it was a long time ago and we like to think that such a thing could never happen again. Even if Corbyn did get into power (heaven forbid) you like to think that persecution of the Jews would remain at its more sneaky, pesky, insidious but manageable levels. Probably like the comfortable, contented and affluent German Jews felt before 1936.

So perhaps it’s because I was born in 1956 to parents who’d lived through the war and its aftermath when the holocaust finally became revealed in all its horrendous destruction, I never do forget.

I read ‘Exodus’, a sanitised and easy story that alludes to the event rather than exposes it. I read other books. Saw movies. Heard the tales. Visited the memorials around the world.

I’ve read lots. From the Boy in the Striped Pyjamas, the Hollywoodised ultimate ‘what if’, almost revenge tale, to the recent Tattooist of Auschwitz. German stories. French stories, Czech stories, autobiographies and all manner in between. I’ve seen Life is Beautiful, Roberto Benigni’s autobiographical account of his camp, I’ve seen Schindler’s List. I’ve seen the most brutal movie ever which is filmed in the first person and that person works in the ovens in a death camp. (Not all camps were death camps, even though hundreds of thousands died in the non-death camps too, the ones that probably rated higher on Tripadvisor). I read my dad’s mate’s personal account of his time in Auschwitz, something all survivors were encouraged to do to try and ‘exorcise the demons’, speak the unspeakable.

I know about the holocaust. About the gas chambers, about the ovens, the chimneys, the starvation, the beatings, the random killings, the constant life/death choices every day, I know about the dehumanisation of an entire people. Doesn’t mean I’m inured to it, just that the actual physical side of it has become very familiar and though always sickening and saddening, I get that bit.

But what I obviously never really ‘got’ was how hard it was for survivors to actually survive the liberation. To cope with survival when so many, in most cases all the rest of your family, didn’t survive. And the struggle affected their loved ones, massively, and into future generations.

And I’m reading a book now called ‘The Choice’ about just that. An Auschwitz survivor (from Hungary. Most survivors are Hungarian because their Jews weren’t sent to the camps until 1944, ‘just’ one year before liberation) who became a psychologist so she could help traumatised people but found the most difficult person to help was herself. She lived in part-denial, never spoke of her time there, tried to ‘protect’ everyone around her. Whilst actually damaging her close, personal relationships.

Her then 10 year-old daughter comes to her parents holding a book with a photo of the liberated at Auschwitz. The filthy, skeletal, almost dead in their ragged stripes. The mother rushes from the room and throws up. Her husband tells the daughter ‘your mother was there’.

Reading that in the bath the other night I suddenly started sobbing. Not, ‘tears in my eyes’ as I do in rom-coms, adverts involving puppies, goal celebrations, happy times. No, this was actual sobbing. The bath was going to overflow. An outpouring of… what? Empathy? Understanding? Realisation? I don’t know, haven’t worked it out. But it was powerful.

And that was the night that we learned of the Pittsburgh synagogue massacre. With the neo-Nazi dickhead shouting ‘death to all Jews’.

And people wonder why we’re paranoid.

Happy, healthy, free Wednesday

A xxxx

If we have dinner together, I will probably eat something off your plate. Just grab it. With my fingers. Or fork. Possibly with my toes. When you’ve finished I’ll eat what you’ve left. If we ‘share’ something, you better get in quick. If my fork is busy, I’ll use yours. If yours is busy too, I’ll use your knife. If we are eating crisps, or chips in communal ketchup, I will double dip!!

Double dipping is when you dip your crisp (or carrot baton, if you really must) into some, say, hummus, bite it, then put the half bitten crisp/carrot back into the hummus for more. Double dipping. Apparently there are 2000 times the amount of bacteria consumed when you double dip. Holy shit! How am I even still alive? Though it’s ok if its at my house because I’ve probably already sneezed in it before it made it onto the table, so the bacteria’s mine anyway.

If I drop food, I pick it up and eat it. Ok, maybe not from the pavement, like Lila does, but at home. Where Lila also does. I have the 3-second rule. Plus extra time.

When someone blows the candles out on a birthday cake, there are a whopping 12,000 times more bacteria on the icing. Perhaps they’re suggesting that you blow the candles out and throw the cake away. The metaphor ‘the icing on the cake’ should be replaced with ‘the bacteria on the icing’.

Bacteria is not all bad. Yoghurt is full of the stuff. And people have become convinced that by eating ‘live’ yoghurt they’ll live 100 years longer. They can have mine. But more importantly, you have to get your body ‘immune’ to bacteria. You need to eat germs. Early on and frequently. Babies put everything in their mouths. Food, germs, toys, chair-legs, bed-clothes, mud, sand, grass, whatever. And its important. So why the big fuss about sharing bacteria in food? It actually keeps us healthy. Improves our tolerance, reduces infections and allergies.

So reckons this pig.

And all because talking about football is just too painful. Ok, after conceding a goal after 5 minutes it looked like it could get altogether more humiliating, but Spurs held it together to survive the first half and looked positively impressive in parts of the second. But couldn’t score. Harry couldn’t score. One touch in the Man City box. Not enough. We looked better when Dele and Eriksen and Winks came on, but it was late by then. And if we’d played that kind of attacking formation early on we’d probably have conceded 7 by half time, without the midfield muscle.

But losing is horrible. Even if it was always somewhat inevitable.

Happy-ish Tuesday

A xxxx

I’d like to use my blogger’s, non-parliamentary privilege to name Philip Green as the businessman implicated in the spurious allegations of sexual misconduct and racism for which the Court of Appeal upheld the non-disclosure orders on the staff concerned. In doing so I appreciate that I’m making a farce of the country’s legal system but I’m prepared to do this because this is a matter in ‘the public interest’. In that the public really hate Philip Green and will really enjoy sniggering at this latest discomfort for him, and will probably enjoy reading all the sordid details too. I’d also like to stress that there is absolutely no conflict of interest here for me personally, even though I am a paid consultant for the law firm acting to overturn the gagging orders.

Thank You.

Lord Tosser of Ulterior Motive.

Thus spake Peter Hain, who unilaterally decided that those pesky gagging orders were wrong and thus, being much cleverer and more switched on and morally astute than a bunch’s trumped up judges, effectively overturned their upholding of the gagging orders. More ‘steamrollered’ than overturned in his case. Because what’s said in Parliament is protected against legal action. Even for dickheads.

There’s a lot of issues here. What we all dislike about Philip Green not being one of them.

There’s the whole non-disclosure orders thing (NGOs). They were invented by some clever legal bods to protect things like the recipe for Coke. For financial company details. Corporate business shit. They weren’t created to protect lascivious directors when they behave in Neanderthal manner. Or rapist footballers.

But that’s what gagging orders have become; a rich man’s (let’s face it; its ALWAYS a man) tool for trying to avoid getting caught for what he obviously did. Not in a ‘getting caught in a burglary’ kind of way; that can’t be avoided. But for being naughty, immoral, disgusting, vile or just awful.

There’s also that no facts have been established as to the allegations against Green, though doubtless they’ll follow soon, but that leads to a presumption of guilt. Which is wrong. Though it must be noted that people who spend hundreds of thousands of pounds on gagging orders, plus the inevitable ‘pay-offs’ that often accompany them, can’t really be viewed in any way as ‘innocent’.

I don’t like Philip Green. Who does? I’m sure once the facts do emerge they’ll be horrible and sordid. But Peter Hain was so wrong in his action. Because what he basically said was ‘you think no man is above the law? Well this one is.’

Happy Monday

A xxxx

I’ve never had a season ticket for Tottenham. Never. When I was young (horrible phrase) I couldn’t afford one and when I was older I always preferred to go to selective games rather than the total commitment of going to every single match. You could say that ‘I lack commitment’ and in this most cases you’d be right. I love going but choose when to go.

The only time this changed, when I did choose to go to every single home game, was in the late 70s. Because when Glenn Hoddle was playing you simply couldn’t afford to miss a game. So me and me mate Stan (alas no longer with us) would pitch up at White Hart Lane and stand in ‘The Shelf’. Before Hillsboro’ you could do that. Just pitch up to virtually any ground and, because so much of the ground was for ‘standing’ with, rather bizarrely, only the so-called ‘stands’ designated for seating, (whereas actual standing was done on the Terraces), you could always get into a match. They weren’t big on limits on crowds back then and, if worse came to worse, you give the turnstile guy a fiver and he’d let you jump over.

Spurs were a good team back then, not a great team, that came a bit later when Ozzie Ardiles and Ricky Villa came from Argentina to join Glenn in the midfield. But we were good. And had always tended to go for the skilful rather than the pragmatic type players. We loved a showboater, we adored brilliance and if we didn’t win as many matches it was the price paid for the team being wonderful to watch.

But when Glen started he was given freedoms that other rookies aren’t. Because he was ‘special’ right from the start. He was, quite frankly, a footballing genius. It wasn’t just the skill, the art, the sublime finishing that made him thus. Many players have amazing technical skills. What set Glen apart was his vision. He saw things that others simply didn’t. He would thread a pass 60 yards to a player who no-one knew was there. Sometimes even the player himself barely knew. He would do the unthinkable, see the impossible, confuse the opposition, and sometimes his own teammates, and best of all, he had the amazing talent to put his visions into reality.

And now he’s ill. Had a (presumably) quite massive heart attack at the tv studio yesterday.

If you didn’t know Glen Hoddle, the player, the magician, the wonder, or weren’t around when he spun his magic, just google: ‘Glen Hoddle my sweet lord’ and watch the best 3 minute video of total amazement.

I wanted to talk about Philip Green today (invoking my non-parliamentary privilege), I wanted to talk about the massacre in the Pittsburgh synagogue, but today my heart is with Glen.

Get well soon.

A xxxx

They’ve found the ‘pipe-bomber’ who sent 14 bombs in the mail to top Democrats and Trump critics. He lives in Florida. In a white van totally covered in ‘support Trump’ stickers, ‘make America great’ banners and photos of democrats all superimposed with ‘crossed hairs’ over them. Nothing particularly incriminating there then. His name is Cesar Sayoc. And when I heard that on the news my first thought was ‘Keyser Soze’. Must be his cousin. He’s guilty as fuck. But will probably get away with it and limp away. Or not limp away…

The crisis in America is divisiveness. Same as it is here about Brexit, over there its about Trump. Americans have always split along bi-partisan lines. You’re a Democrat (if you’re a decent, moderate, compassionate human being) or you’re a Republican (if you’re a semi-educated Southern Baptist with a confederate flag on your Chevy pick-up, 14 guns in the cupboard and sympathy for the KKK if not actual membership). You vote as your father voted and as your kids will vote. Both kids if you’re a Democrat, all 9 kids if you’re a Republican. I make no judgments. Fine with me.

Because under previous administrations, whoever wins, about half of America doesn’t have its chosen representation. But heh, it is what it is; you cope, you manage, you survive. The Republicans may have disliked Obama or Clinton but they accepted him. The Democrats would never have chosen Bush or other Bush but that’s what it was. Fine.

Until Trump. Because he has caused the great divide. So much as now, post-mail-bombs, he stands up and calls for unity and an end to ‘divisions’, and says how threats and violence have no place in politics, prior to this week he’s always been the main culprit. Endless tweets of threats, derision and attacks on the press, the inevitable ‘tough guy’ stance on everything, verbally attacking Democrats.

The divisions are indeed great in the States. They never had been thus before. The politics is the same, the people are the same, only the President is different. You do the maffs.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx