Andy's Glasses

Chelsea football club is for sale. You’ll need a few bob to buy it. But you’ll need much, much, much more to sustain it. Because Chelsea, like most (but thankfully not all) ‘big’ clubs, makes massive financial losses every year. Which turned Abramovich’s initial 140 million purchase of the club (including the debts) into a ‘loan’ over the last 15 years, of 1.1 billion quid. Fair enough, he can afford it. Because for his investment of 1.25 bil, Abramovich has first and foremost bought himself a place in society, a place somewhere near, but not quite immersed in, a community (of right-wing, aggressive, hard-core, violent anti-semites… and David Baddeil) above whom he hovers as benign and omnipotent benefactor and the enabler of their dreams. That was his mission. To create a profile. Not as a gangster. Not as one of Putin’s ‘untouchables’, not as someone who sold his soul to many devils to acquire massive wealth in such a short time. But as a kind of ‘celeb’. As someone ‘clean’.

He also raised Chelsea’s profile, from mid-table wannabes to consistent league winners and, most coveted of all, winners of a Champions League, albeit the worst final (for Spurs fans) ever. And as the team becomes bigger and attracts true world class star names, so the ‘brand’ of Chelsea becomes more saleable. Sponsorships become massive, sales increase worldwide, tv gives more. And thus, if you want to buy Chelsea today, and some even want to, the minimum to be considered is 2.5 billion pounds. But remember; what you’re actually buying, just from a business point of view, is the right to spend at least another billion (plus the new stadium in all likelihood, for another bil) over the next decade. By which time you’ll sell them for 6 bil. That seems to be the modern football business model. Invest, invest, invest until you’re very blood runs dry, then sell for a massive profit.

Clubs get bought and sold. Managers get bought and sold. Players get bought and sold.

I’d like to offer myself as a ‘fan for sale’. I’m good, loving, loyal (for the purposes outside the present conversation), devoted and really proficient at annoying fans of other clubs. I shout loud, swear often and sing like a dog-during-castration. I’ll even buy my own scarf. A bargain at £220,000… ok, £125,000 if its lower league. But £5million for Arsenal. And there isn’t enough money for me to go to West Ham or Chelsea. But Abramovich is welcome to make an offer through his usual channels.

Happy bank holiday monday

A xxxx

So its a rotten, shitty, rainy, grey, nasty day. What better thing could you possibly do than drive from Manchester to London? Its in all the guide books. Just after ‘nice things to do on Tuesday evenings’ and before ‘rotten things to avoid before you die’. So to make it really interesting, they operate it as an obstacle course. How exciting! This is how it plays:

Day 1. Drive up to Leeds on bank holiday weekend. The M1 is at its finest; crammed with cars, with roadworks (temporarily suspended because you wouldn’t want to see any workers at all actually doing something on the 18-mile stretch of motorway they’ve marked off with cones, would you? That would spoil all the fun), and with the odd accident or broken down car. All in all, a fairly painful 200 miles and great relief at your arrival. Until it actually dawns on you that it is in fact Leeds you’ve just arrived at, rather than somewhere nice, somewhere desirable, somewhere cool.

Spend the night at father-in-law’s place, go to bed early (the easiest way to ‘make it go away, Mummy!’) to be fully prepared for the main event on:

Day 2. After breakfast set off cross country (M62) to Manchester. In the (fucking) rain. Just in case Leeds isn’t quite awful enough, they send you there. Attend to business there (care homes, wardened flats, fun, fun, fun!!!), have the worst possible version of industrialised, mass-catered, leave-on-a-hotplate-for-a-week-it’ll-be-just-fine, slops and then set off for London. The Holy Grail.

Its still wet, still raining, misty, grey and… well, its Manchester; what d’ya expect? Within 5 miles we had hold up number 1. By hold up number 3, 50 miles down the M6, Waze took us off that road altogether and across country (the other way, A50), over to the M1 because an accident earlier at the M1/M6 interchange had fucked things up beyond all normal levels of fuck-up. The M1 was fine. For about 30 miles. Then it stopped. Just stopped. Engine off, phone a friend, feet up on the steering wheel, stopped. Eventually it started again but then Waze once again took us off the road because there was a broken down coach, 2 lanes closed. Waze led us (‘blindly’ doesn’t even half cover it) round the back of Stony Stratford, over a few farms, through a campsite, across a river (no bridge), in that Waze way, and we returned 15 miles south and into almost flowing traffic.

Arriving home (THANK FUCKING CHRISTTTTT!!!!!) just 5 hours after leaving.

Fun, fun, fun.

Happy rest of Sunday. Mine is.

A xxxx

Ok, its not really a ‘sequel’, as such, more an alternative indication that just how, as a species, we’re either doomed by genetic predisposition, or by later indoctrination. Or ‘religion’ as it is sometimes known.

The Pope is visiting Ireland. Lucky Irish people. Even though since the last papal visit to the Emerald Isle, in 1979 (different pope; same dress), church attendance has dropped in the Republic from 90% of the population to 40% now. That’s a big drop. And probably due to the missing 50% of the entire population of Ireland having the sudden realisation that as children they were abused by the church, to some degree or other.

SPOILER ALERT!!! I fucking hate the Catholic religion. Just so you know. Ok, I pretty much hate all religions including the one I’m nominally a member of. I only accept my own as a cultural legacy between a group of people who lack all sense of irony and eat chopped liver. Spiritually; I’m done with it.

But the Catholics get you from birth. All babies are born with ‘original sin’. So you start life with your first ever cry with a score of minus 20. Not appreciating and rejoicing the wonderful innocence and simplicity of a newborn, but seeing it as the result of their perception of someone else’s sin. Guilty until proven innocent.

But that really is the least of it. The next 18 years of church and education see the physical abuse by nuns in schools, the sexual abuse of priests and teachers of boys and girls alike and heaven help the kid who is taken ‘into care’ by ‘the church’. And its not just ‘the odd priest’ that is a sicko, paedo perv. Its a high number. Such a high number that the church itself has sustained a consolidated cover-up for quite literally decades of horrendous crimes of which it has been fully aware. And so concerned for ‘the image of the church’ that known child abusers are not sacked and banished, but that would lead people to ask ‘why?’ So they’re just kept on and shifted sideways to abuse others. Better that than risk embarrassment, surely?

And the reason? Celibacy. Its unnatural. Its stupid. Its immoral. It opposed the human condition. And thus it breeds frustration. So the nuns get violent and the men take out their frustration in more traditional ways.

So the Catholic church, across all 5 continents has basically fucked itself to death. In every sense of the word. And the cover ups simply MUST go back to the Pope. Whichever one is wearing the dress at the time.

So ‘welcome him to Ireland’? I’d have him arrested.

Happy Papal Saturday

A xxxx

What do you think of when you hear the word ‘humanity’? What are the
defining characteristics that it takes to be human? Ok, we speak, we
are self-conscious and we use our opposable thumbs so we can text more
quickly, but there is more. There should be more. We can show
compassion. We help the needy. Rather than eat them, as done by most
of the rest of the animal kingdom. We can be altruistic.

But the flip side of humanity is a darker one. We can be nasty, mean
and horrible. Animals fight over food or mating, humans fight because
they like hurting other people or to show how ‘big’ they are. Humans
murder, whereas other than one type of chimp, (our nearest genetic
‘relative’ sharing over 99% of our genes), animals never kill in that
way. They don’t plan a murder. Not pre-meditated. Only manslaughter.
Ok, animalslaughter.

I spend a little time with my granddaughter, in case you missed that.
And in doing so, without wishing to make you positively vomit, it is a
longitudinal study of human development. And that development is
rapid. Not just in Lila, even though she has an intellect and
understanding of the world way beyond her months and is so far beyond
merely ‘perfect’ as to be unique (in my world), but all kids develop
massively over the first two years; basically going from ‘nought to a
person’ at exponential rate, then it slows down. And in fact by the
teen years it reverses again and they re-evolve as animal/monsters.
But we’re at almost 17 months old and all is wonderful.

So we went, after the inevitably predictable Lila-day rains, to the
park. To the playground. We weren’t alone. Who’d’a thought that on a
sunny afternoon in mid-August there’d be other parents and carers
taking kids to play on swings and slides? Haven’t they got tellies?
Anyway, Lila walked (in her stumbly way) to the play-house, occupied
by two sweet LOOKING little girls about 4 or 5. One of whom tells
little baby Lila ‘THERE’S NO ROOM IN HERE!’ which, as we know, is
kiddie-speak for ‘fuck off!’ Lila, unperturbed by this act of (to her
witnessing grandfather who was looking for a big, heavy stick at that
time) OUTRIGHT HOSTILITY due to her being a veteran of nursery, walked
to the climbing frame. Upon which was a little boy, who we shall refer
to as ‘the TOTAL FUCKING BASTARD!!!’ for the purposes of convenience.
Because as little Lila put her hands on the platform upon which TFB
(about 2, 2-and-a-half, maybe) was standing, he carefully, gently but
quite purposefully put his shoe on Lila’s fingers.

My martial arts training immediately kicked in and I stepped forward,
broke the offending leg, pulled my sword and eviscerated him with one
stroke. Well, that’s what I wanted to do. Its not allowed in the
playground. There are signs. No dogs. No smoking. No eviscerating
TOTAL FUCKING BASTARDS!! His mother (probably a crack-whore; though if
so she was a pretty well-dressed one) didn’t see. But I did. Lila
cried, for like 1 second and the little shit walked away.

But I know his face. And will never forget it. And I thought; what is
it about the human condition that makes kids act in nasty, spiteful
ways? Its almost like they’re preconditioned to towards humanity but
towards being an absolutely spiteful little shit. Not Lila, obvs.

Happy but worrying Friday

A xxxx

I keep reading articles about how unpredictable things are in the Emirates. Not the stadium but the actual place, which was obviously named after the stadium because its full of Arsenal fans. Just last week a British citizen, who happens to be Swedish, was arrested at Dubai airport because she had the smell of booze on her breath. The drink was given to her on an Emirates flight out there from Heathrow. Free. She wasn’t drunk, loud, offensive or hostile. Though did start filming things when the immigration officer got a bit nasty as he refused her entry to the country. She spent a few nights in jail before charges were dropped. How was YOUR holiday?

Now an engineer in Abu Dhabi is on bail after being in jail for six weeks charged with ‘sexual assault’. He’s a 52 year old grandfather accused of sexually assaulting 2 ex-military young men in a hotel lobby. Because apparently, in Emirate-land, any form of ‘touching’ is a bit of an issue. Even when you brush past someone in a hotel lobby, f’rinstance.

Visitors are now warned that they must avoid any ‘touching, swearing or offending anyone in authority’. Which happen to be the list of my 3 favourite hobbies. Also be well to avoid boozing, smelling of booze, looking Western or being too ‘there’, presumably.

So for all its supposed luxury and six-star hotels and fucking submarines to get to restaurants, you should do what I do, and just never go to the Emirates. There are places to visit in the middle East where touching is commonplace, swearing compulsory and arguing with authority figures is just a way of life. And the car park attendants may wear smart uniforms but don’t have powers of arrest. Well, ok, there’s ONE place in the middle east.

Manchester United are a team torn. Again. Jose Morinho is really pissed off that he’s only spent 400 million pounds on players since he arrived 2 years ago. And that he couldn’t get the centre back he needs and wants. Even though he personally bought the two current incumbents, useless as they appear to be. The chief exec won’t give him more money and as this chief is responsible for the current £3billion valuation of the football club, he has ‘some influence’ there with the Glazers. Let’s just hope they stay in as much disarray as possible until after we play them on Monday night.

Happy Lila-day

A xxxx

I eat anything. More importantly, I eat everything. If there’s food
there, I’ll eat it. Yes, I eat my meals, yes, I have ‘snacks’ but if
there’s more food there, then I start on that too. Especially nuts and
chocolate. I think somewhere down my lineage there was a labrador. We
don’t so much ‘eat’ as ‘inhale’. But I don’t put on weight. Great.
Lucky. Fortuitous metabolism. Exemplary genes (ever seen a fat
Labrador?)

But that doesn’t mean, at the grand old age of 62, that the weight I
do have won’t change its distribution around my body. ‘It all goes
south’ as the saying goes. And in my case, I have developed these
horrible ‘love handles’ at the sides of my waist. My stomach is as
flat as it was when I was 16 but these 2 little ‘things’ hang over the
side of my jeans and I hate that. It bespeaks ‘unhealthy’.

So I decided to take affirmative action. Grab the bull by the horns,
but not, on this occasion, to eat it, top to tail. So we’re doing the
5-2 diet. ‘We’ because Mel loves anything health and fitness related
and would never miss the opportunity for some masochistic deprivation.

On Monday (day 1) I went to Pret and bought a salad for lunch. 125
calories. Tuna, egg, lots of good, healthy, tasteless shit. Came with
a little pot of dressing, which it so desperately needed. But that
tiny pot held an extra 325 calories on its own, should you and your
conscience choose to deploy it.

Today is day 2. But I’ve been helped. Had a ‘eureka’ moment. Well, a
‘eureka’ program on tv last night. A documentary basically debunking
each and every eating craze and fad currently obsessing the first
world. And it was wonderful and it was systematic. From
‘multi-vitamins’ which are just a way of producing high cost urine
with no benefit to the host body, to ‘anti-oxidants’ which, in
‘Smoothie quantity’ don’t really anti-oxidise at all. And from ‘detox’
(basically eating/drinking totally unpleasant shit for a week with
ABOLUTELY NO HEALTH BENEFIT WHATSOEVER), to showing that bacon
(grilled) and eggs (boiled) is a breakfast way more beneficial than
either multigrain cereal or fruit and yogurt. But best of all was
water. THE obsession of the naughties. Water offers no more
hydratating benefits than does coffee. The best drink of all is milk.
Not almond (fucking) milk or soya (sodding) milk, nor dandelion, kale
or aardvark milk, but good, proppa milk from a cow.

So I thought: its all such bollocks. Just eat normally but CUT OUT THE
ADDED STUFF. LOTS OF THE ADDED STUFF. How hard can it be? (The photo
is my desk).

Happy thinner, healthier Wednesday

A xxxx

The problem is a simple one,
for poets all around,
that lots of words so need to rhyme
when uttered as a meaningful sound.

So whilst ‘wheel’ is easy peasy
aardvark is certainly not
Similarly phlegm is virtually unrhymable
and must be replaced with ‘snot’.

And thus we come to Brexit,
that nouveau little word
invented just a few years ago
by a total and utter turd.

Because really and truthfully
honest as I can be
‘Brexit’ rhymes with nothing
so compromise we must indeed see.

The bastard lovechild of Farage
with David Cameron as well.
WE MUST BE LEAVING EUROPE!
they’re thieving, evil and smell!

Up pops Boris Johnson
with integrity, honesty and charm
WE’LL SAVE 350 MIL A WEEK
For next time you break your arm.

WE’RE TAKING BACK THE BORDERS
came the rallying cry
showing pictures of non-Euros
on boats entering Europe or try.

Brexit-Lite is simply not an option
we need a total withdrawal
So united we will stand
and alone we will indeed fall.

‘No deal is a good deal!’
So Nigel would have us believe
Leave those bastard Europeans
watch them suffer and grieve.

And that leaves Theresa May
with the most rotten job on the planet
Cameron’s little legacy
will challenge her very sanit(y)

Her party is divided
like Moses’ and the Red Sea
Half are pompous creepy Leavers
and half are more like me.

Labour here is useless,
OK, nothing in that sentence is new
They’re too busy fighting elsewhere
FOR THE MANY; NOT THE JEW.

The NHS is worried about drugs,
there’s uncertainty in the city
No-one knows how this will end
Either way its gonna be shitty.

So as talks resume today
In English, I sincerely hope
I feel, yet again,
That we’re dangling on a fucking rope.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

We love a grave. Can’t get enough. So in our spare time Mel & I go and visit the dead. Nothing morbid, nothing bizarre, perverse or even more than a touch ‘strange’ but we love a good cemetery. We eventually did Highgate, possibly the world’s most famous burial ground, we’ve done Recoletta in Buenos Aries, possibly the world’s most visited burial ground, and we’ve walked round churchyards in dozens of little British towns and villages and in most countries we visit. Because they’re just so interesting. They are little stories, hundreds of them, all in lines. Obviously the best ones are the stories so old that they can’t even be read after 200 years of weather, elements and ghosts. (If you want to be noticed or remembered, only use granite. Nothing else lasts. You’ll thank me for that tip 200 years after you die).

Yesterday it was Abney Park, just along the road in Stoke Newington, a stone’s throw from that other famous burial ground, The Emirates. And Abney Park is just that; a park. But filled with graves. 200,000 of them, apparently but I chose not to actually check. And it is a gorgeous place and incredibly ramshackle and dilapidated. The graves are so close to each other that the dead of Stoke Newington were never lonely. Rows upon rows of headstones, touching each other and with more rows behind. Some obviously are more grand (fucking capitalist fat-cats) and all tell a tale.

And thus I missed all of the Manchester City annihilation of Huddersfield but did manage to catch the end of Brighton’s annihilation of Manchester United.

Jose Morinho last week said of his local rivals that ‘they can buy top players but they can’t buy class’. In which case, I’d definitely go for the top player option, Jose, cos then you might win a fucking game. ‘Class’ is just some mere abstract concept relating to the judgment of others and way beyond his intellectual remit. And how coincidental that after reading that their esteemed manager is really unhappy with United’s inability to land his desired signings in the transfer window (current players read: YOU AIN’T GOOD ENOUGH FOR ME OR THIS TEAM) the United team put on a really lacklustre performance showing terrible attitude.

Jose is always and only about Jose. When they win its HIM. When they lose its everyone else; ref, owners, players, tea-ladies, anyone. And that’s ‘class’???

Happy alive Monday

A xxxx

We have a little flat roof. Over the extension we built onto our kitchen 12 years ago. The guys who built it have long since vanished into that netherworld ether of shitty craftsmen who you never want again to darken your doorstep. Or lighten it, re-shape it or fill the missing chips. Nor anything else in the house ever again. The ‘builders’ who are unfit to change a lightbulb. But they’re gone. Names changed, phones disconnected, addresses never existed in the first place. History.

So we’ve had half of the extension replaced over the years and all was seemingly fine, until water started to come onto the dining table one friday night. And no-one likes watered down chicken soup. No-one! We did a ‘DIY’ job, which was putting a big bowl on the table under the leaky bit of ceiling. But I knew that was never really permanent. So our builder came and said ‘holy shit! look at the roof!!’ Which, I must confess, I hadn’t done much of in the intervening 12 years and it just looked like some lead sheets. With a big gap in the middle. Which probably (though I ain’t no builder) was the problem. So Mo patched it up and sent his ‘roofer’ round.

We’ve used Mo for 10 years. He’s a proper building contractor and is the most reliable and available dude in the world. And no, you can’t have his number, I’d give you all my pin numbers first. And most of my family. And Mo sent Martin. The Roof Guy.

He’s actually Marcin, so he looks likes Martin but he’s Polish. And he arrived to ‘inspect’ with several lanyards round his neck. All various badges of honour, medals of valour almost, within the roofing fraternity. He’s a master roofer. He’s specially licensed as a fibre glass roof specialist. He’s a health & safety approved, officially… errr… healthy and really safe guy, and other things too. Which he lets you know. Often and repeatedly.

What Martin isn’t is modest. What Martin is though, is fantastically professional, efficient and neat. They even covered the lawn to save it from dust. And the roof? OMG it is a thing of such beauty I just have to share. And not just the neatest, most beautiful flat roof ever, but, according to Marcin (because Martin wouldn’t have said it like this) it is g-varanteed for 20 years, backed by an insurance, AND he included all the ‘isolation’. You know, the stuff that prevents heat escaping. Isolation.

God bless him, is what I say. And his chest-full of lanyards.

Happy Sunday (Man United fans excluded, obvs)

A xxxx

That’s it then. The football season’s over so this must be the final table. Finished early this year due to… because… errrrr… as the new stadium at Tottenham is delayed because the interior designers can’t decide on the final colour scheme in the toilets. So the Premier League said ‘play today and then its over’.

So, true to my prediction, Spurs won the league. Bournemouth (my newly elevated second team after last weekend’s trip there) finish second. The rest don’t count. And the only team not on the picture above, because either the first or last had to ‘go’ due to space allowances, is West Ham. I mean really. Like, ‘if only’. I have many West Ham friends who I’m rather fond of. But as a team, and as a collective fan-base, they stink. Awful, nasty, horrible and they hate Spurs. But like really hate Spurs. So for today only, as Monty Python said: I fart in their general direction. Arsenal managed to avoid relegation.

I also have to laugh at the irony that is me. I start my Saturday, as every week, at my martial arts class. Which today, among many other things, had us essentially hitting each other. Ok, we use big thick padded bags but we hit. And kick. And punch. And we all come out (often as not) unscathed, unmarked and unbleeding. Then I go to tennis, that genteel of sunny-day sports, and beat myself to shit. The other week it was my face I managed to hit, today my left ankle. Really hard with my racquet. And it became more painful as the day went on. So I iced it. With a leaky (didn’t know at the fucking time, obviously) bag. Ended up with a wet sock, but also with a less swollen ankle. Oooooh, that’s clever. Must google ‘padded tennis racquets’ and see what happens.

So even though I didn’t got to Spurs/Wembley today I realise why the football season is so great. Because it has the power to lift spirits. When you look and we’re 1-1 with Fulham after 65 minutes it is depressing. But when it ends 3-1, oh that’s so nice. Reaffirms your faith in… everything.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx