Andy's Glasses

I walked out the house this morning and there was… sort of… like… water! like, coming out of the sky! Really!! Where the air is normally, virtually always, dry, it was wet! I mean, WTF???

This phenomenon, I eventually recalled, is know as ‘precipitation’, more commonly as ‘rain’, often called ‘fucking rain’, especially by tennis players of the outdoor variety. Yet I’d forgotten. After the hottest summer for 2 billion years (before the ‘atmosphere’ had properly formed and long before weather girls had been properly formed), the best late summer, a fantastic Indian summer, a brilliant early autumn, and the warmest mid-to-late autumn we’ve had since the term was invented 2 minutes ago, I’d forgotten about rain. Our normal, British, accompaniment to all activities.

It was only a kind or ‘drizzle’ so I biked it to the station. But when I arrived at Embankment, it was proper rain. The big wet kind. Not nice. Ah, I have an umbrella. Everyone in the country carries one at all times. So I dug in my ruck-sack and fished out the little flip-up fold-up thingy that lives there and had lain undisturbed since about March. I pressed the ‘protect me NOW!’ button on the handle and… half of it opened. The other half was dead. Dislocated. Sprained. Dysfunctional. And I thought; ‘shit!’ But then realised that half an umbrella is better than no umbrella. Much better. You only use half anyway. Ok, a shoulder gets a bit wet but your head and most importantly, you glasses, stay dry. People use newspapers on their heads. Plastic bags (fucking planet-murderers!), briefcases, so half a brolly? In the valley of the wet the one-sided umbrella man is king.

Which immediately made me think (don’t ask ‘why’, there is never a ‘why’ in my head) about evolution. About how the human eye was always held up as ‘undeniable proof’ of divine creation. So complex, so wonderful, so brilliant, the creationists would say. ‘How could that “evolve”?’, from what? And then the killer: ‘what use is half an eye??’ Ok, we now realise that the bible-bashers had no concept that an animal that had some form or rudimentary light perception, seeing shadows of predators, whatever, would bestow a truly massive advantage over his mates who lacked such a facility and who were known as ‘dinner’.

Half is good. Half is better than none. Unless its a balloon. An airplane engine. The hull of a ship.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

Sometimes football is the greatest thing ever invented, (that’d be when we win then), other than perhaps the wheel, V8 engines, Cadburys and… oh yeah, and women. And sometimes it feels like shit and you really wish you were like the 24% of the country who just say ‘oh, who played last night then? Did Stanley Matthews score again?’ Because if you’re going to lose, at least do it properly. Losing can be humbling but it can also be dignified, motivational for the next game, a test of character. But ‘losing’ by conceding a (virtually) last minute equaliser is really really horrible. And nasty. Unfriendly. Its actually a draw but it feels like you’ve lost. Just as those horrible Dutch fans felt like they’d won the World Cup when that goal went in last night at the ‘Phillips Arena’ somewhere in the Netherlands. And if you think where abouts your ‘Nether regions’ lie, I think that just about says it all.

So now we’ve played 3 matches in the Champions League and have 1 point to show for them. Just 1. But now I’m going to think positive. We can still qualify for the knockout stages. We just have to beat Barcelona in the New Camp, and how hard can that be, really? And beat some Italians and also beat PSV when they play us on proper, British soil, in 2 weeks time.

Before then, it would appear that 120,000 Americans are going to receive parcel bombs in the mail. That’s if they’re sent to all Democrats and not just those who’ve spoken out against Trump. Is this Donald’s Mohammed bin Salman moment? Because the bombs, all nine of them thus far, have all been received by Trump critics. If they intend to send to every such person in the world they’ll run out of explosives. So they’ve started in New York. With Hilary Clinton. Barak Obama. Various other politicians and Democrat supporting media groups. Which is fine. They’re in the game, they know the risks. But this morning, the 9th parcel was sent to… Robert De Niro!!! I mean, come on; the man is royalty, verging on deity. I’m not talking about Fockers and Fathers of Bride and all that pension-lining garbage. Taxi Driver. Godfather. Goodfellas. He was the Italian’s Italian. Still is really.

Though I suppose its when they start on overseas, Trump-critical bloggers that I really need to start worrying.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

First you need to understand the concept of the nation of Turkey getting royally and very understandably pissed off about the killing of a journalist in their fine land. Ok, anyone gets pissed off about any foreign nation coming into their home to commit state-sanctioned murder. But Erdogan stressing that Khashoggi was a representative of the free press, using freedom of speech to criticise his homeland, and that in doing so was merely exercising his right to free speech is just a tad rich.

Its like Jeremy Corbyn demanding that the government are taxing the rich too much. Its like Chelsea fans trying to ban anti-racist songs. Its like IS fighters singing ‘give peace a chance’.

Because Turkey doesn’t have a very good record (and ‘give peace a chance’ was a really good record) with journalists. It has, and is now, been responsible for locking up more journalists than any other nation. When the coup against Erdogan failed, the first thing he did was to lock up all the journalists. And most of the country’s academics too, for some reason. Anyone with a good brain represents a danger to him. What does that say about Erdogan’s rule? What? 3 years down the line? Most are still incarcerated. Trials? What are they??

Whereas Trump has a different take on things. Always. He is more concerned that the ‘cover-up’ was the worst in the history of ‘cover-ups’, that it was laughable, ridiculous, how can any decent nation operate a cover-up so poor, pathetic and facile and still wear a headdress with any pride? All of which is true. But it may be worth pointing out, during his flurry of disappointment and disapproval, what exactly was being covered up. And why the need to cover anything up in the first place. We’re talking about a sovereign state organising a murder in someone else’s country, including a 15-man hit squad, torture, death (obvs; murder, innit?) and dismembering the body before disposal to location(s) unknown. But that cover-up, sheesh! A joke!

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

There are so many cases going on involving detachment from reality.

The first is the Khashoggi ‘incident’ in Turkey. First the Saudis said ‘no, he’s just missing’, which changed to ‘there was a fight’, later morphing into ‘he is dead’, which eventually ended up as ‘he was murdered!’ No shit, Shylock. Then they added: ‘but by a rogue group’. So you know it wasn’t an authorised, legal murder. Presumably most murderers involving Saudis aren’t ‘rogue’. Bit like Russia. But at least most Saudi murders are perpetrated with good ole British weapons.

Then there was the woman on the radio phone-in who will ‘never, never, never, never (four ‘nevers’, that’s serious) vote Conservative again if ‘we don’t get the Brexit we voted for’. Heavy. Will the conservatives survive into the future without Carole from Bexley Heath? But the point is that Carole wasn’t voting for a specific Brexit. She voted to leave Europe. (That’s the ‘full stop’. Same one as on the ballot paper.) Did she not think that there might be a few ‘details’ that need ironing out before we take our little Union Jack flag out of Brussels permanently?

And there’s Jezza. Le Corbyn. The anti-semite’s anti-Semite. He’s simply loving the whole Brexit debacle. As any labour leader would. Sitting back in the opposition benches watching the government of the day fracture and self destruct day by day. So he finally perked up yesterday, as he does about every 4 weeks. He came out of hibernation to repeat: “The Conservative government is in a shambles and don’t know what they’re doing. It’s time they GIVE WAY FOR A PROPER GOVERNMENT WHO ARE CAPABLE OF NEGOTIATING EXACTLY WHAT WE WANT!!!” He always ends up shouting these days, obviously part of the image make-over. But no amount of image enhancement, or shouting, can make Jeremy Corbyn a statesman. He’s a duffle-coat forced into a suit and tie. He’s a protester and banner-waver, and I’m sure a very good one. But negotiate with Europe? Maybe Kier Starmer would lead the charm offensive on that front. God help us all. Though none of them have come up with any details. None of which would be acceptable to the Europeans anyway.

Back to reality. For a while. Don’t like to spend too much time here, its depressing.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

I cycle to the station every day. Long as its not raining. Its not far, maybe half a mile, but its far enough to save time and be much more enjoyable than the walk. Though in winter it takes longer getting home. Do up jacket, put on scarf, hat, gloves, hi-vis vest, lights, remove front chain, back lock… zzzzzzz. Then I’m off!!!

But because its the same journey every day you become very sensitive to changes. High winds; headwinds are no friend to a cyclist. Especially a fat cyclist. You need streamlined, wind-deflecting, rather than wide as a bus. Wet roads. And changes in your bike. Subtle changes. Breaking getting more difficult, gears not changing smoothly. And the ride getting just harder. Feeling like you’re dragging an anvil behind you. Everything much harder work than it should be. So whereas you normally take that little hill in 5th gear, now I’m in 2nd and struggling. Maybe its me??? Maybe I’m having a bad day? Getting too old to ride?? Weak legs??

So I took the bike for a service. Easier that taking me for a service. Cheaper too. In fact much cheaper. And they changed the break pads, cos they were worn (20 quid) and fitted a new chain (20 quid). Did you know chains on bikes wear out?? Who knew?? I’ll tell you who, the geezer in the bike shop who spent 25 minutes showing me everything that was worn or dodgy, why it had worn, how it had worn, the reason it was dodgy, the history of the person who first discovered that dodginess in 1863, absolutely everything about my old bike that I never knew, never wanted to know, never needed to know and yet now I do. I just wanted to say ‘THANK YOU BUT JUST MAKE IT BETTER!! But he was so nice.

The bike now feels turbo-charged. Oil on the chain, pump up the tyres and that’s what happens, I reckon. Almost feeling ready for some lycra. Nooooooooo…

Happy Monday

A xxxx

The good thing is that Meghan Markle, aka The Dutchess of somewhere or other, is pregnant. Nothing to do with me. Sadly. But a new royal is currently being growed. The bad news is not that her dad wasn’t told but that the Mail on Sunday deemed as ‘front page worthy’ that ‘he heard about it on the radio!!’. And that’s why we love the Mail. Because they either don’t understand the words ‘they are estranged’ or else they think its only specific to certain events, like the wedding, so have to show their apparent amazement at each and every instance of their estrangement.

And the ‘ugly’. That’s how Spurs won yesterday. Ugly. It’s the new way. Liverpool did it too at Huddersfield. ‘Winning ugly’. A newish term but I actually really like it. You can win a game like Manchester City did against Burnley yesterday (not that the result there was ever any kind of question) with style, flair, amazing moves involving speed and skill and accuracy and wonderful flowing teamwork, scoring 5 unanswered goals in the process. Or you can grind out an almost painful 1-0 win against a team you really should beat with ease and grace but instead just dig in, defend for all you’re worth and pray that you have a world class goalkeeper who can keep your sheet clean. Even if he likes a drink or two… before driving home.

In ‘home’ matches you expect more. And Man City were playing at home indeed. Spurs don’t really have a home as such currently, even though its getting closer every second. (According to a ‘reliable source’; on the first ‘safety check’ they performed on the new stadium, a few months ago, it failed on 98 out of a hundred criteria. Can’t wait to go. You can buy hard-hats in Spurs colours.) But at our temporary (we hope) ‘home’ we play proper. Away from home we look less confident, less flowing, less… Spurs. And yet we manage to win. Ugly. I’m happy with that and will take it any day of the week.

Manchester United were 2-1 up at Chelsea in the 95th minute. The very last minute of added time, when Chelsea equalised. The draw was probably the ‘right result’ (a truly subjective term, its never ‘right’ when you were winning, always ‘right’ when you’d been down) and it was definitely one of those draws that felt, for Chelsea, like the sweetest victory ever. And thus, for Jose Morinho, especially as it was at Chelsea, it felt like the worst defeat ever. And thus he deemed one of the Chelsea coaching staff’s celebration, right in his face, as ‘inappropriate’ and possibly ‘excessive’. So he did what any thinking person would do and tried and kill the sneering motherfucker with his bare hands. For once I think he was in the right.

Happy ugly football days

A xxxx

There’s no taxes in Saudi Arabia. Whereas death…

Well, there’s death everywhere, obviously. People die. In Yemen in fact, lots of people die, innocent children whose school buses are targeted by the ‘government’ troops. Which in fact are not of the Yemeni government but their next-door neighbours’, Saudi Arabia’s government. What’s even better is that those amazing fighter planes and the guided missiles they use are all from the UK and the US. But heh, that’s immorality by proxy, its once displaced, therefore it doesn’t really count. We aren’t guilty. We sell them weapons, what they choose to do with them is their business. Though when America chooses to allow the sale of guns to every and anybody, we condemn them as being guilty by association. It’s not easy.

Anyway, Saudi Arabia (my least favourite country in the world, and that really takes some doing to reach that particular summit), for years restricted, constricted and tightly bound by their ultra-conservative form of Islam known as Wahhabism, is ‘changing’ because of the wonderful(?) and revolutionary(?) reforms taking place under their new leader, Prince Mohammed bin Salman (MBS, as he’s known). He’s young, he has new ideas, he wants to ‘liberate women’, he wants to introduce things like music to a population previously never encouraged to use their leisure time in any way other than studying the Quran. Every holiday is a busman’s holiday.

MBS was going to allow women to actually drive cars. Obviously with expressed permission from their ‘man’ (husband or father) every time they go out, but to drive themselves. Hasn’t worked out that well but it was an apparent start. A step towards the liberal. A demonstration of his nation’s eventual acceptance of certain world expectations. Good man, that MBS.

Until last week. When Jamal Khashoggi, outspoken critic of Saudi Arabia, entered the Saudi embassy in Turkey. Where, by all accounts, and there are plenty, he was tortured, mutilated and dismembered, either before, during or after actual death, and then dumped in the forest. Certainly dead by now.

The people entering the embassy at that time, 15 of them, were Saudi ‘security’ (great title, see ‘KGB’ for full definition of this term) agents. Most of them MBS’s personal guards and aides. And it is believed that the murder, and the horrendous brutality of that murder, were ordered by MBS himself. Oh.

Saudi have now said that ‘there was a fight and someone may have got killed’. Which, were that the case, would beg the question as to why the poor victim of this ‘accident’ was hacked up and buried in a forest rather than calling perhaps the paramedics? Or even the undertaker?

Trump loves MBS. Well, he did. They both love a great trade deal and abusing and repressing women. But now even the POTUS has to consider the perceived morality of friendship with the roguest of nations that manages to command respect due to its wealth, oil resources and buying power. 60 billion dollars of trade is a lot of morality.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

I’ll be so pleased when we leave Europe. I know, I’m a ‘remoaner’ and anti-Brexit and feel, like all such holier-than-thous that the 51% of my compatriots who voted ‘leave’ did so because they are an ignorant rabble of racists, Europhobes, sub-educated dick-heads, gullible nob-ends, the Boris-believing-brainless and me mate Wayne. And my dad.

But when we leave (assuming it’ll happen in my lifetime, or even Lila’s) then we’ll be free from the European law-machine which is the only truly evil bit about life among the Euro-heathens. Ok, and the billions it costs every week to run the EU machine and keeping the Euro-MPs in the ridiculously excessive, expense-abuse lifestyles that we currently fund. But the laws. OMG, so many laws and so ridiculous. Did you know I’m not even allowed to beat my wife with a broom handle any more? (EU: 2568554121221/AGLEYUUU/254AG56S/323288kk). But more importantly, I have to allow my co-workers to take holidays.

I have to. Its… in their contracts. And sort of, like, law. But that means I have to miss out on Lila-days on occasion. Because someone’s gotta bloody be there! Jesus. So yesterday I had Lila-morning but that was it. I didn’t hear a nursery rhyme all day! Do you know how hard that is? I missed my share of ‘our’ morning almond croissant. Because I had to leave and go to work. Though the couple hours we shared did in fact prove sufficient for me to pull a muscle in my back, so the day wasn’t completely wasted. And I know its not nice to blame lovely, innocent little Lila for all my bodily woes of an orthopedic nature, mainly because there’s so many of them, mostly self-inflicted. But I know that when I went to bed on Wednesday night my back was fine but by the time I cycled to the station it certainly wasn’t.

So I did what any sensible person would do in the circumstances and went to my martial arts class. Didn’t hurt it but not sure it helped it much either. So I’ll do another tomorrow morning before making any judgments.

But its all because of staff holidays. They’ve got to end. Even if I have to fucking chain them to the desks.

Happy achy Friday

A xxxx

They’re clever, those football people. Every year they run loads of international ‘friendly’ matches, meaningless events with unlimited substitutions in which great players get hurt, the games are awful because they’re trying out ‘new systems’ every 20 minutes and no-one really gives a shit who wins or, in my case, who is playing. So they invented the UEFA Nations League. An equally meaningless thing but playing by normal football rules (ie 3 substitutions as per usual) and little league tables, in this case very little with only 3 teams in each, and hyping up so it feels almost like a World Cup, but just for Europeans. And Russians. Israelis. Kazakhstan-people. Sort of ‘fringe’ Europeans. They live somewhere near Europe, get ‘em involved. Nice.

And it works. Much as I hate international breaks disrupting the sanctity and integrity of our football season, I find myself actually turning on the tv when I remember that there’s football being shown. With a degree of actual excitement.

I didn’t realised Israel were playing Scotland on Thursday night until I saw it in the paper the next day. I was on my way home as England beat Spain in rather sensational style. And last night I eventually remembered that France were playing a very lacklustre Germany who were doing very badly. So I passed on the Wales vs Ireland game on the other side, because it looked dull in comparison. And watched the second half between the two teams that my entire nation hates more than all others. The French because they’re French. And the Germans because they win enough already and we have a history (read ‘Mein Kampf’ for the full version). But they have stars. They have talent. And Germany, having lost on the weekend to Holland, have been shit. But apparently, in the first half, France were shitter. And consequently 1-0 down.

But football being the game of two halves, I was watching the French one. As they were awesome. Even Paul Pogba looked like he was for once playing for a team he wanted to be with.

Antoine Griezeman scored a fantastic header to equalise. A header. He’s 4 foot 7 and outjumped half a dozen German giants. Actually he didn’t. He just performed a miracle. Watch it and you’ll see. It is stunning. Then he scored a penalty and won the match.

England were great against Spain. 3-0 up at half time is quite an achievement. And we looked good. But more importantly, Gareth Southgate is looking to the future. So unlike former managers, he is not afraid to gamble on younger players who are not so tested in the international part of the game. And it worked.

It’s coming home. Football’s coming home. (Rinse and repeat for the next 2 years til the Euro finals start. And repeat. And repeat…)

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Ok, you can go on a pilgrimage to Mecca, but they call that ‘the Haj’, or you can do one to Rome, and if you’re a Roman Catholic priest you can even do a pilgrimage to Chang Mai (cryptic and cruel in just one little suggestion). Druids have pilgrimages to Stonehenge. Rockers go to Graceland, gamblers make theirs to Vegas, Spurs fans to Glen Hoddle’s house. But really, if you want a proper ‘pilgrimage’, a proper religious journey as part of spiritual enlightenment, Israel’s the place. Jerusalem is so packed full of spirituality that you can sometimes see all the Gods actually arguing above its hills. Bethlehem is, for some reason, a bit of a place to be seen, as is Lake Tiberius. Caesaria. Mount Carmel. If bushes burned there, seas parted there, tablets were brought down there, martyrs martyred there, then it probably happened in Israel. If not you get a full refund. In the next life.

I don’t come for any of that. I make my annual pilgrimage to the shwarma bar in Hertzliya. To the iced coffee machine at Aroma, the amazing restaurants of Tel Aviv and the ice cream shops everywhere. Mine’s a pilgrimage for food. Yeah, praying’s all well and good but basically, for a man of my culture, sophistication and level of enlightenment, if ya can’t shove it in yer face, I ain’t gonna be there.

That’s not to say I’m totally oblivious to the amazingly vast and colourful truly multi-cultural history and symbolic importance of the Holy Land, its just that if I’m honest, the chilli sauce you get there is probably of greater significance in my life. At the moment.

So at the airport on the way home was (I’m guessing) a group of pilgrims from Italy, led by their Main Monk, the Head Hoody, the Boss Bishop, whatever. They all stopped to say a prayer over some beans. I really didn’t get that. And if I wasn’t so Omni-tolerant to all mankind, however fucking misguided they may be, I’d have possibly pointed out that ‘its all a load of bollocks’, but chose not to. Mainly because the Italians seemed such a nice bunch of misguideds.

Then I decided that the Father was on his phone because there’s a new ‘confession app’, available from www.vatican.com/dog_collar/dog’s_bollocks. It’s brilliant. You just click on the sin icon (remember that in this context, ‘icon’ means ‘little symbol on your keyboard’, not ‘THE FINGERNAIL OF CHRIST!!’) and that might be having lewd thoughts about the choir, stealing from the collection plate, hot-wiring the pope-mobile at night, and the app works out what you need to do to stay on that heavenly course. Say a few Hail Marys, whatever, and bing-bong, yer back on track.

Also at the airport yesterday, pretty much a first for me at Tel Aviv, were groups of men in kilts and Scotland shirts. Ahh, I said to one in the security queue, you must be football fans then. To which he replied, ‘I was til Thursday’.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Now I’m home. And its cold and grey and dark.