Andy's Glasses

Decades before some pretentiously right-on, anonymous graffiti-fucker started daubing neo-political messages on the back gate of number 73 Halstead Grove, Esher and other such ‘galleries’, the world was blessed with another ‘Banksie’. This one also an artist. But of a different type. An artist of the goalkeeping type. And whilst asking the normally rhetorical question: ‘what good has ever come out of Stoke???’, the answer is undoubtedly: Gordon Banks.

Gordon was from the age when footballers were modest. Gentle. Decent. No full-body tattoos, they didn’t earn enough to pay for them, back in the day. No bling. No Bentleys. Just honest-to-goodness geezers grafting an honest day’s work. So the legend goes.

And no-one embodied that legend more than Gordon Banks. An unquestionably fantastic goalkeeper, he rocketed to world renown with just one save. A brilliant save. Which itself would have done no harm to his reputation. But this was in a World Cup match, so was viewed by all 4 billion of the world’s population in its entirety. And most of all; it was from Pele. Who was the best of the best of the best. Ever!!! And if Pele thought it was an amazing save; IT WAS FUCKING AMAZING! End of.

So, career be damned, it all came down to one save, from the best player the world has ever known, playing in the best team the world has ever seen in the best world cup there ever was. 1970 in Mexico.

Of course, Banksie was a World Cup winner too, in 1966, which immediately gave him legendary status, albeit more locally sourced than he later achieved.

Basically, when people die their stock rises in memory. They were always that bit better, nicer, more heroic than actual history recalls. But not Banksie. He was the real thing. Who lived up to his legendary status.

Until yesterday. RIP Gordon.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Its a 3-horse race.

The fight for the Premier League. 3 teams left with a proverbial ‘shout’. And one of them, lets’ be fair/honest/realistic, is possibly suffering from equine flu, in the wold of stretched metaphors.

But even limping along, those mighty Spurs keep hitting the net when it counts, keep seeing off opposing teams, keep those 3-pointers ker-ching!-ing away. And its not always the prettiest, and its not always, for Spurs fans at least, totally comfortable viewing. But football’s not about comfortable and its not about showing off (see ‘Manchester City’ below), its about WINNING. And that’s precisely what we did against Leicester yesterday. We winned. In part because Christian Eriksen is a magician. In part because even when Son is below par he’s still much much better than virtually everyone else. And in part because Jamie Vardy doesn’t just look ugly; sometimes he plays ugly too. And the arrogance with which he DEMANDED to take his team’s penalty, which he missed, was the only thing of beauty attributable to his name.

But if its a 3-horse race, there must be 2 others involved. You do the maffs.

Liverpool won in seemingly easy manner at Bournemouth. As they should. Though Bournemouth did thrash Chelsea the other week, which I would say is ‘not an easy thing to do’, but again, see: ‘Manchester City’ below. And the Scousers were redeemed from their recent ‘lapse’ in their form.

And then the other horse. The pure-bloodied, Arabian thoroughbred that are/is Manchester City. Because they didn’t just beat Chelsea yesterday. And those west Londoners do run both hot and cold this term. But City annihilated them. Humiliated them. Extinguished them. Put them to the sword. I mean, 6-nil. That’s something against a ‘top 6’ team.

Because it was a statement by City. Oddly the statement wasn’t aimed at Chelsea. They were merely the messengers. The message was for Liverpool. And I hope to think, to Spurs to. And the message was: THIS IS HOW FUCKING GOOD WE ARE.

Well BRING IT ON!!! That’s what we say. Us Spurs fans. Though not too loudly, in case someone hears it.

It was scary to watch.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

If I had to choose between being a vegan or becoming totally ‘carb-free’, I think I’d just get on a plane to Switzerland and let Dignitas have its way. (Note to any potential suicides out there: I CERTAINLY WOULDN’T JUMP UNDER A SODDING TUBE TRAIN BECAUSE ITS THE MOST HORRIBLE, INCONSIDERATE, SELFISH AND EVIL THING YOU CAN DO). Because although I love meat, I love bread too. And simply could never imagine life without a sandwich.

But we all have variations on the Earl of Sandwich’s 18th century invention, so legend has it. I mean, what’s a pizza? It’s bread and stuff. That’s a sandwich. What’s a kebab? Bread and stuff. Let’s not get precious about how its arranged, take bread, add ‘things’ and you have a sandwich.

The classic British sandwich is bread-heavy. Two doorsteps of horrible white bread with the merest sliver of cheese, or ham, or cucumber, and loads of butter. Which is not to my taste at all. I NEVER put butter on a sandwich. Normally there’s no room.

When my kids were little and Mel went back to work on Saturdays, I always made her a sandwich for lunch. Because I couldn’t trust her to do it PROPERLY. She’d just shove a tiny morsel of anything in between bread and seal the deal. So I would step in and make The Sandwich. Which Rachie, always and forever a total foodie, would help me create. Natalie would be upstairs screaming because I’d opened a jar of pickle and that always was and still is a rather hysterical red-line in her life.

Rachie is home from Berlin for the weekend, for her birthday. A tradition with her friends. They come round, drink 19 bottles of vodka between them, then hit a club somewhere. Wherever Uber takes them. So she needed some food beforehand. And requested The Sandwich. Which was, as always, a Friday-night-dinner-leftover sandwich. But taken to new levels.

I cut two (fucking massive, but not too thick) slices of challah. The best bread anyone has ever made. I start with a layer of Branson pickle (sorry Nat), then spread chopped liver across the slice. Next is stuffing from the chicken, followed by avocado. Then the cold roast chicken, followed by tomatoes. Spread some (low calorie, obvs) mayo on the top slice and you have something that looks like it came off ‘Man vs Food’. Three inches thick and simply oozing. The ‘challenge’. Which Rachie, who on the other 364 days of the year is the most good-food-conscious-person alive, put away like a champion. With a smile all over her face.

Happy Birthday (tomorrow) babe

(d)A(d) xxxx

Oh, now I get it. It’s taken me a while, but now I get the whole ‘Corbyn’ thing. Ahhhhh.

In a MORI poll published yesterday, Our Jezza polled the lowest popularity for any political leader since Michael Foot in 1983. Its taken 36 years to find a leader almost as hated by the public as Footy was. Both men share the same tailor but I don’t think that’s the issue here.

With the ‘general public’ (ie just people; across all party supporters) Jezza polled a massive 17% who like him. Which beats Michael Foot’s 13% by some way but no-one else in recent memory. Even the polls taken just among Labour supporters rate him very lowly. Because those that are happy with his facile and stupid brand of socialism hate him because of his (total lack of) stance on Brexit.

So I feel very happy and somewhat relieved that this man is so unpopular. That people are finally getting it.

That a man whose business plan for a nation is that of Venezuela; whose political dream is Russia or North Korea, and whose model of ‘opposition to discrimination of all forms’ is Auschwitz, is perhaps not someone you want running Britain.

But meanwhile, who is running America? Jeff Bezos if the richest man on the planet, having mined digital gold for many years, but he’s not in charge. That is Trump. Who has a great mate called, wonderfully, aptly and rather pathetically, Mr Pecker. Who owns a stupid tabloid almost-joke rag called The National Enquirer. Which, if you’ve never seen it, makes the Daily Mail look tolerant and accepting, makes the Sun look puritanical and makes Beano look positively hi-brow. And in a effort to… actually I have no idea, no-one in America takes the National Enquirer seriously and hasn’t since it started running “ELVIS IS THE FATHER OF MY LOVE CHILD!!!” and “MY MOTHER-IN-LAW WAS ABDUCTED BY ALIENS AND NOW SHE’S RADIOACTIVE!!!” type headlines. But in an effort to get Jeff Bezos to publicly state that the NI is non-partisan and has no political bias (much like the Daily Mail hasn’t) it threatened to publish naughty photos of Bezos and his new woman.

Which shows the level of thought, or lack of, occurring within the editorial offices of the NI. Because you can threaten poor people but Bezos, who owns the Washington Post, Trump’s nemesis in print, has now created a major shit-storm about the corruption, blackmail and coercion attempts against him. Which, if it ever finds its way back to any Trump input whatsoever, could be… interesting. Pecker vs Pecker.

Happy Saturday. It’s better to play tennis in a gale than not to play at all.

A xxxx

Its a harsh, cruel world, in all its grim reality. Which is why you may have noticed (or not) that my postings of the vital information I provide most days has been a little more ‘random’ than usual. More erratic. Not in content, that’s always random and erratic. Abusive. Insulting. Disrespectful. Hate-filled. Lila-obsessed… That’s why you read it.

But its been the times and absences that have caused the magnitude of disappointment and loss in your heart.

Because to demonstrate the sheer pain of living, I’ve been having to get in to work early. I know, I know, ‘what a tragedy!’, but it means that rather than putting my daily thoughts down in leisurely fashion over tea and my banana, pondering life’s mysteries and inconsistencies, exorcising my demons so I don’t end up with my head doing a 360 and spewing out green shit, then sauntering in just post-rush hour; instead of all that, I take the early tube and head to t’City. With the hordes of great unwashed. And all because I allow my staff to holiday. Well, I did. Never fucking again!!!

Yet even without my daily ‘outlet’, I can’t still my beating head. If ya get me drift. And this morning my thoughts were about that the word ‘random’, which actually applies to virtually every facet of our lives. Even football. Because it all comes down to chance. And chances. Because Harry Kane (the world’s best striker) converts 17% of his shots into goals. One goal every six shots. But here’s the horrible thing about all statistics; you don’t know which of those six shots is going to work. He could score 3 goals in 3 shots and not score for the next 3 matches. Of course, when he’s FUCKING INJURED!!! that reduces both shots and goals. Obvs. And then Billy Useless comes along, averaging 1 goal every 273 shots, someone like Lukaku, Janssen, and gets a hat-trick. Its the sheer randomness that makes you realise why statistics will never let you know who’s gonna win any particular game. Averages have no predictive value whatsoever. Its a wonder any team ever wins the league; its all so random.

I’m going to sit in front of the tv for the Leicester match on Sunday and with Lila helping, will try and make some quantifiable sense out of things.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

Pope admits clerical abuse of nuns including sexual slavery

What do you feel when you read a headline like this? Is it disgust? Shame? (Catholics) Envy? (priests) Or just ‘same shit different day’? I thought nuns and priests was just for certain particular porn-sites but heh, in art as in life. What gets me most though is that no-one, not even the Pope, actually ‘gets it’. Or if they do they won’t admit it because of the immense repercussions for the Church. That forced celibacy simply doesn’t work. The idea is noble, if a bit stupid and, as would appear, unrealistic, Celibacy actually originates as ‘unmarried’ and as IN THEORY sex is only allowed after marriage, that kind’a precludes anyone ordained to the Catholic church. Furthermore, even those few priests who are married are expected to be sex-free because it ‘compromises your love for God’. Or some such bullshit. Ironically God’s name is called out passionately more than any other during orgasm, (Last Tango in Paris, et al, 1974). Because its safer than calling your partner’s name in case you get the wrong one.

So to clarify, we have sexual abuse of priests of choirboys, orphans, the underprivileged, anyone they can get hold of. We now have nuns as sex slaves. Of course the church normally just hushes up this kind of thing, because its not new. Odd that the Catholic church is opposed to gay marriage on the grounds that its ‘unnatural’. Yet tries to enforce celibacy which, as would certainly seem the case, is unnatural verging on outright impossible, leading to abuse and disgrace. I’m never going to church again.

Meanwhile, back in the (safe, nice, decent) world of football, we seem to be at a precipice. Of sorts. Lofty Liverpool looked about 400 million pounds off the mark on Monday night at West Ham. That’s a conservative estimate based on the Conway formula (cost price of the under-performing players, plus a week’s wasted wages multiplied by the number of Bentleys in the car park). They were shit. They scored the season’s most offside goal and then did nothing. West Ham should have won.

Manchester City had had a terrible run (by their standards) before beating Arsenal on Sunday. But beating ‘mid-table’ teams has never been an indication of potential success. Particularly mid-table teams who are unable to defend and, on Sunday, attack either. Tonight City go to Everton, possibly the most under-performing team of the last 10 years, and if they lose Guardiola may explode.

But third in the league is the other contender. Not the bookie’s favourite but my favourite. Sitting pretty, resting their players, getting fit again for Leicester on Sunday. Harry Kane was fit enough to go to the Superbowl, he must be getting ‘close’. I’m almost starting to believe again.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

As the world gets more populated, it consumes more meat. As it becomes more affluent, it consumes more meat. I should probably add: ‘as it becomes more obese and heart-clogged, its eating more meat’, but that wasn’t part of the study I read so I’ll leave it out for statistical purposes. But as the world becomes more enlightened, it consumes a much higher proportion of chickens and less ‘red meat’ than it used to. And obviously, as it becomes increasingly more stupid, it stops eating meat altogether.

The biggest (in every sense) consumers of meat are (drum roll, but really no suprise) The Americans!!! Followed by the Aussies, Kiwis and Argentinians. Those 3 collectively known as the countries with more animals than people. So you gotta eat meat just to keep control. The inhabitants of all those countries eat over 100kg of meat a year, on average. Us Brits come in at about 80kg per person. But I reckon I eat that in 2 weeks, so someone out there in ‘average-land’ is not pulling their weight.

The world consumes about 50% meat and 50% foul. In 1970 it was 75% meat. Which is good for health, and also good for the environment. Not quite so good for the chickens. It ‘costs’ a lot more to raise consumable cattle than edible chickens. And the cows have much higher carbon footprint, or ‘ass-print’ in their case due to the expulsion of all that methane gas.

In the poorer nations meat is a luxury item so consumption is way down on the relatively astronomical amounts eaten in the West. In African countries its less than 10kg per person per yer. In India its the lowest of all, at less than 4kg. And only cows are sacred to Hindus, not chickens or pigs. Sheep or goats. Deer or dogs… So its not a ‘God’ issue. Hindus actually have more gods than they have butchers’ shops.

The population of the world has doubled since 1961 yet with meat being reduced all round due to health, environment or obsessive reasons, meat production keeps rising. And that can only be a good thing for those who don’t care about any of the above. Cos then there’s more for us.

There ends the debate(?) about meat. Its a great thing but only when taken in vast quantities.

Happy, heart-stopping Monday

A xxxx

Ok, so I couldn’t play tennis yesterday as there was an inch of frozen ice covering the courts. Which, rather pissily, is still there this morning. As temperatures here have stayed at about -15 for a week. Ok, -1 for a couple of days, but that’s cold enough. Chicago the other day was -27. Though they were different minuses to the ones we know. They were Farenheits. And here’s a funny thing. I grew up in Fahrenheit. I lived my life in Farenheits until they changed it. So I only really think in Farenheits, when its hot. I know that 28c = 82f. And I know 82 is hot. Whereas 20c means nothing to me. I can’t ‘feel’ it. However, when it all goes minus, Farenheits just stop making any sense. Because zero celcius is +32 Fahrenheit. So 15F is…. is… I have absolutely no idea. Whereas -5C I can feel in my soul. Just reading it makes me shiver.

So yesterday, after my usual early martial arts class, which energises and wakens and fires every fucking synapse in my body, I was somewhat deflated by the lack of tennis. But I was saved. Because Lila was coming over to watch Spurs play in the early kick-off. She simply wouldn’t miss it. And this is how the first half panned out: Spurs attacked, and attacked and attacked, Newcastle defended and defended and defended. Those Geordies treated the half way line like an electric fence. They stayed back, they were resolute, they were solid, they were FUCKING DULL!!! And devoid of attacking promise, never mind threat, and were content to sit back with 9 at the back. Though to give them (some) credit; that is a very difficult and energy sapping way to play a game. The first half ended 0-0. The second half thus started 0-0 and looked like carrying on the same way forever. And then, with just 7 minutes to go, the absolute God that Son Heung Min has become scored the goal which, effectively, saved the entire planet. It saved us from a draw. It saved Manchester City from 2nd place in the league, it saved Liverpool from any early delusions of grandeur they may have and it saved me, Lila and her dad from total depression. And saved Fernando Llorente from disgrace. Because he may not be able to hit a barn door at 3 yards, but he can find a South Korean with a questionable handball just when we needed it.

Then, after a fabulous walk in the winter sunshine, with Lila’s buggy slipping round on the ice, there was the rugby. England playing in what has become the killing fields of Dublin. Where even the All Blacks couldn’t win. But win was what we did. And it was magical and it was magnificent and it was majestic. My my. Mako Vunipola may sound like the sushi special of the day in a Roman restaurant but he is in fact the best prop forward in the world. But every forward was outstanding. Every back was incredible. This was really the battle between Eddie Jones and Joe Schmidt. And Eddie won. Ably assisted by 20 total superstars.

Happy Sunday,

A xxxx

I love a bit of anti-semitism. If I wasn’t Jewish I’d definitely be an anti-Semite; its so much fun. Here’s what you do:

Just blame the Jews for everything. Even though there’s only 274 of us and we remain quiet most of the time. But blame them for any shit you can find, then when they defend themselves and accuse the anti-semites of being anti-Semitic, they can then turn it round and say: you’re making this about anti-semitism!!! when its really about: the Labour leadership, Israel’s defense force, the price of eggs, Arsenal’s inability to defend from set pieces.

So f’rinstance, Jeremy Corbyn ‘facilitates’ or ‘allows’ or ‘encourages’ or ‘enables’ masses of anti-Semitic comments, actions, slurs, abuse and violence, whilst all the time ‘being opposed to anti-semitism in all forms’. So now they’re accusing ‘the UK Jews’ (that’ll be me then, Mel, my 94 year-old dad and the chief Rabbi) of conspiring with the Blairites to bring Corbyn down! It always starts with a conspiracy theory. If we’re not ‘controlling the press’ or bringing down socialist tossers, we’re using the blood of Christian babies sacrificed for our consumption. That’s ‘the Jews’ for you. The same ones who will throw out an egg if there’s a blood spot in it because it renders the food ‘unkosher’. And unless you’re talking about eating Christians born with cloven hooves who chew the cud, their babies aren’t kosher either. But heh, let’s not get mired down in the pedantic or even the pragmatic here. Let’s keep it to tropes, stereotypes and ancient hatreds.

The only difference is that in ‘the old days’, the east European ‘shtetls’ (villages) and pogroms by the lovely locals, the Jews were bookish, pale, bespectacled and defined the word ‘nebach’. The holocaust, the subsequent state of Israel and the ‘never again’ paradigm since then was a game-changer. No more nebachs. Though we do allow a few and keep them in long black coats and massive hats for easy recognition. Now we breed ‘supermen’. Look at the Israeli army for this. Look at the fact that tiny little Israel, sitting for 60 years in the middle of billions of enemies, is simply still there. And feared. Because the Jews learned to bite back.

And this has continued right up to Rachel Riley, bless her. Because not only would she not be intimidated by the hateful abuse she receives, but she proved herself tougher, certainly more clever and more fearless that her detractors. And a great pair of legs too.

On Monday the Labour Party is once again examining its internal issues with anti-semitism. And already (great, almost essential word in this context), the disciplinary committee is distancing itself and its actions from ‘the leadership’ of the party. And have refused to comply with request for ‘transparency’ regarding the number of incidents and people it is currently investigating. (The working definition of ‘investigating’ is ‘sweeping under the carpet’, under the Rule of Chakrabarti.)

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

People doubt the existence of ‘God’. Of a directing, possibly benignly controlling, force, acting upon the entire universe. To keep it… errr… universal. And big. In fact so big that we can’t get our heads around it. And historically any concepts beyond mere man, like the universe, like ‘infinity’, like ‘well; what’s at the end of the universe, when you get there?’, things like life on our planet and its (sometimes) perfection, all those inexplicables just fell neatly into the ‘God dunnit’ category. Then you don’t have to think about them any more. ‘Beyond human capabilities’ to even ponder such things. Of course, as human understanding expanded, with great resistance from religion, historically and currently, so the ‘domain’ of ‘wot God done’ became reduced. We (well, not me, but some boffins in Cambridge, Harvard) understand ‘the infinite’. We now know, or think we do, what’s end of the universe (not telling). And we accept evolution and possibly even the Big Bang, or at least its possibility as an explanation. And we know that the world revolves around the Sun, even though Copernicus was arrested for heresy for saying so. And we know the world is not flat. So all God really has to do nowadays is death and the afterlife. Mainly because science can’t get there to experiment. What else do we need a God for explanation?

Football results, that’s what.

Because if ever you needed proof of God, look no further than these midweek results. You’ll be on your knees/prayer-mat/temple before you can say ‘Bournemouth 4, Chelsea 0’.

Spurs won last night. 1-0 down, at home to Watford, up until the 80th minute. And then we scored an equaliser. And just 7 minutes later, Llorente hit the winner. And if anyone ever needed divine guidance and assistance it is Llorente. But we know that Spurs are God’s team, that’s a given. However, the extent of His power manifest itself in the other results too.

Liverpool failed to beat Leicester at home. Manchester City lost at Newcastle and then Chelsea went down massively at Bournemouth. That’s the top four and only one winner. If we extend the list to the top 6, then Arsenal did win. But Manchester United only drew.

West Ham lost too. Which isn’t very significant other than me and God fucking hate West Ham.

Happy Spiritual Thursday

A xxxx