Andy's Glasses

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

Man United didn’t win a game!!! Ole Gunnar Solskjaer is shit. Sack him. After a winning start of 8 consecutive matches since Morinho was kicked out (doubtless every win causing him increasing pain, suffering, humiliation and hurt, but probably no self-dout whatsoever), United were lucky to draw at home to Burnley last night. And then only due to a penalty in the 92nd minute. In ‘Fergie-time’. Or ‘Ole-time’ as we now call it.

Whereas local rivals Manchester City, (used to be the ‘also rans’ of the Manc set; the ‘Everton’ to United’s ‘Liverpool’ the ‘Luton to Watford’, the Arsenal to Spurs, but then acquired a squillionaire money-laundering, financial-fair-play-flaunting cash cow Sheikh and have won every game since; just coincidence) went to Newcastle. Who are having their worst season since… well, they’re all pretty bad but this one was seemingly even more precarious than usual, teetering around the drop-zone. City went 1-0 up after just 1 minute of play. And probably thought ‘ere we go. As they have scored bucketloads of goals this year. But their well apparently dried up and Newcastle managed 2 of their own to take the game. And the points.

Which means if Liverpool beat Leicester tonight at Anfield, they go 7 points clear at the top. And I know its only January (just) but that’s getting on for a ‘mind the gap’, as we say at Embankment tube station. Of course Liverpool could lose. And that’s why we love football. Anything can happen. If Newcastle can beat City, all bets are off.

Spurs are playing Watford. I’m playing bridge. But will be glued to… whatever I can find that won’t interrupt the other (bridge) players but will keep me appraised of all events at Wembley which will be crucial to my cards. Son is back. Many others aren’t. But in an interview yesterday our saintly manager swore his allegiance to the blue-and-white cockerel and that gives up hope against hope. Man United can keep Ole, even though they only drew last night, and Poch stays at the Lane. Assuming we ever get back to ‘the Lane’.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

PS I want you to try Lila’s pilates pose. Legs straight, hands and feet flat on the floor. Its easy. Unless you’re over 3.

In a year’s time we’ll all look back on ‘life in Europe’ as a distant memory and probably laugh at all the bother and the price exacted at (and certainly prior to) the point of our actual departure. Which itself is now a bit in doubt. But we’ll know more tonight.When ‘they vote’!!

Again. This time on the amendments to Theresa May’s exit plan. Although the way our democracy works in fact makes trumped-up little, possibly sex-offending Speaker of the House, John Bercow, the most important man in the world. For about an hour.

Because everyone has tabled amendments. And I mean ‘everybody’. The MPs, some Lords, a few cleaners, security guards… and they can’t all have the opportunity to air them. So its up to the Speaker and he alone, to decide which amendments even get voted upon.

And if the Yvette Cooper amendment is heard, that one suggests a delay to Brexit. We need more time. 2 years was impossible. Particularly as nothing much happened during the first 21 months because… well, it just didn’t. It took 21 months to come up with a ‘plan’ which 2/3rds of the House rejected. What Yvette thinks we can accomplish in a further 6 months, who knows.

The Corbyn amendment is just a load of bollocks and won’t be heard. He probably wants us to turn into Venezuela. If nothing else because the leader of the opposition there is just about to take power.

And there are others. Dominic Grieve has one, the head of the 1922 committee has one, and its all down to John Bercow to make the call.

The supermarkets have issued a warning though. Like, all of them. Unless is just more ‘project fear’. That fresh food will be a bit of a problem if we leave with no deal. No problem, just starvation for the masses. And if you couple that with the terrible divisive nature of Brexit for the whole country, verging on civil war, by this time next year we could be Yemen.

And all because…

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

This time last week I was positively jubilant. Spurs had just beaten Fulham, with our terribly banged-up, starless, bandaged-together team and all looked ok. Then the best news ever on Friday: Korea had lost in the Asian Cup to Qatar (no allegations or implications at all here, I’m sure those Qataris are all little Messis-of-the-desert, its totally WRONG to associate ‘Qatar’ and ‘corruption in football’ together… TOTALLY) so our Son is coming home.

Though by then we’d had the Chelsea debacle in which those horrible Chelsea boys did what they, or even someone else, does every year and knocks us out of a cup at the semi-final stage. Though before we get the ‘its a bit Spursy’ rubbish from fans of Oldham, Peterborough and West Ham, just a question: HOW MANY SEMI-FINALS HAS YOUR POXY TEAM REACHED IN THE LAST 3 YEARS?!?!?!?!

So understandably knocked by that match, we went to Crystal Palace yesterday afternoon. I didn’t because, like a black cab after midnight, I don’t go south’a the river. Its a long way, and much longer when you lose. As we (fucking!!!) did.

And the reason I don’t go south of the river is because as soon as you cross a bridge, or emerge from a tunnel, you’re back in 1974. The Thames warps time. So you leave the serene, family-oriented, friendly, post cold-war 2019 and come out in Crystal Palace, or indeed Millwall, where gangs of thugs are waiting for you with razors and Stanley knives and the sort of racist abuse that elsewhere died out with John Barnes, back to ‘Inter City Firms’ even though back here in the real world Inter City went away with Maggie Thatcher. Millwall, where time stopped still. Dinosaurs roaming the streets. FFS!

No more DOMESTIC cups for us to worry about then. Just that pesky Champions League. Such a distraction…

Happy Monday

A xxxx

I saw the best film ever made last night. No two ways about it, no competition, you can argue from now til hell freezeth over about the runners up; Godfathers and Star Wars and Gone with the fucking Winds, but ‘Vice’ is just… brilliant. And who’d’a thought??

It’s about Dick Cheney. Who? Yeah, we all know the name, but… errrr… American… political… who knows? Who fucking cares?? Well as of last night I do. I care deeply. Not so much about the man as about the movie. And about Christian Bale, who plays Dick, from his 20s to his 70s, piling on the pounds, losing the hair, but heh; we’ve seen make-up before, we’ve seen Robert Di Nero pile on the muscle in Raging Bull, nothing spectacular there. But Bale is beyond brilliant. As really, he always is. Like his cousin, Gareth (well, they’re both Welsh, most Welsh people are a bit inbred, he must be a cousin somewhere!) the man is a genius. Not with a ball at his feet (though he may be) but with a script in his hand.

Yet this movie is really about Adam McKay. He’s the geezer wot wrote, produced and directed it. And I learned this morning (God bless IMDB) that our Adam used to be the lead writer on Saturday Night Live, the incredibly long-running comedy sketch show which catapults brilliant comic talent to the A-list. Like Chevy Chase, John Belushi, Bill Murray, Eddie Murphy, Steve Carell; all former SNL alumni. So I’m guessing that to be the head writer, you gotta be at least ‘reasonably funny’.

And Vice is way more than ‘reasonably funny’. But in such a dry way that you’re barely aware when its being funny, it just is. That magical ‘light touch’ which, along with irony, is usually just not part of American artistry. Ok, so the script is brilliant.

But its the direction that makes Vice so amazingly special. It moves from past to present, from harsh reality to positively surreal, in the flick of a camera, never losing the path of the plot for a second. It’s powerful, even scary (George W Bush being president is scary enough, once you learn who Dick Cheney really was as the ‘quiet, unassuming’ V-P, it gets scarier still).

In case you missed it; I LOVED THAT MOVIE. Go see it. You have time just after Spurs play at Palace today, before you sit down to read about West Ham and Arsenal and Brexit and all the other disasters in the Sunday papers.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

There’s trouble in Benezuela. Big trouble. The Prez there, Moduro, has led the country to rack and ruin, taking the mantle of destroyer-in-chief from his predecessor, the late Snr Chavez. Now Trump has said that Moduro is no longer the president and America won’t recognise him as such any longer. Instead the Americans have installed leader of the opposition, Juan Guaido, as acting Prez. Several other nations, including our own and many, US-backed South American ones too, have joined in by accepting Guaido as the ‘new prez’.

I wasn’t aware that Donald Trump could do that. Like, decide he didn’t like a president and install a new one. Circumventing all that ‘election shit’ and delays and any involvement by, like, anyone who actually lives in Venezuela, and unilaterally deciding to put his own man in there.

Ok, Guaido did make the announcement that he was taking over first but as yet doesn’t have the backing of the army. The Venezuelan people would take Mickey fucking Mouse as president at the moment because they’re starving. Quite literally. Once they start measuring inflation in so many ‘millions percent per year’ then you’re in trouble. Prices double every three weeks. Ten percent of Venezuelans have left to become refugees in Columbia, Bolivia, even trying for the US itself, and good luck with that. And all that in a country with more oil reserves than Saudi Arabia. Which itself takes a bit of doing.

Fortunately for the corrupt, mis-managing, clueless, hapless, hopeless Snr Moduro, hated by the whole world and especially by his own people, he has an ally. In a world crying out for his head, one voice cries out its undying support for him.

Jeremy Corbyn.

On the basis that Moduro, like Chavez before him, is a socialist, almost-Marxist. And that, in Cobyn-world, trumps (no relataion) everything. The fact that this socialism has failed, as it has absolutely everywhere, and a nation is on the verge of starvation as a direct consequence, is of no interest to Jezza. The corruption, the waste, the tragedy for an entire nation, just so much ‘phah!!!’ to Corbyn. Its the socialism that counts. Even if that is the reason for the entire national and humanitarian disaster.

Just the kind of man we need to run Britain.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

Ever watched 7de Laan? Nooooo!! But its the most popular Afrikaans soap opera ever! Watched by millions of… Afrikaaners, its… errrr… brilliant, no doubt. Like all soaps, the stories of which won’t particularly ‘add up’ in the real world but exist within the rarified context of their own little soap bubble. Which now and again burst into the outside. And on 7de Laan that happened when they showed their first ever mixed race kiss. Yup, just 25 years after the end of Apartheid, a black man and a white woman sucked face on the little screen. And there was uproar. It was the Boer war all over again. Two years ago the same soap screened its first ‘gay kiss’ and there was minor complaint. But mixed race!!!

Which is why I really don’t like South Africa and will never return. Place is beautiful but has, to my heightened sensitivity, a really strong ‘undercurrent’ of unease. And whilst never feeling that I was at risk (but I never do) I just felt ‘uncomfortable’ most of the time. Hated the vast inequality between the mansions of Cape Town and the shanty town next door. Yet people love it and return year after year.

Apartheid died (in the official sense, if not the socio-economic one) 25 years ago yet they can still be offended by this kiss. And I don’t know why I’m surprised because the American Civil War ended 150 years ago but there’s still ‘that attitude’ to be found all over the South. And some of the North. Bit of the West…

Over here we have different races. We have Diane Abbott. And a columnist in the paper last night was bemoaning that on Question Time last week Fiona Bruce (all bow; we love Fi-fi) was aggressive and disrespectful to a ‘black woman in politics’. Because there are so few at ‘that level’. And that comment itself is itself racist. Fiona Bruce, eager to make her mark on the programme, is aggressive and disrespectful to all people WHO DON’T GET THEIR FACTS STRAIGHT OR CONTRADICT THEMSELVES STUPIDLY. So to ask for better treatment for Ms Abbott just because she’s not a middle-class white man is wrong. Fiona was confrontational to Diane Abbott because she’s an idiot. Whatever colour she may be. Time to call a spade a spade.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

Not just a song by the Bee Gees, ya know, the word has a proper meaning. A real meaning for something that’s gone horribly wrong. Like poor Emiliano Sala, the Argentinian striker. A double tragedy. First he has the misfortune to sign to play for Cardiff City, and then, if that’s not bad enough, he doesn’t even make it to the Principality to start. As his plane crashed into the sea just around the Channel Islands. A little plane. Coming from Nantes in France. With just two little propellers. No jets. What a terrible thing. There by the grace of Harry Kane go I…

So following the great mystery quasi-TIA, possible near-death, almost tragic (more ‘tragic’), incident of 2018, I’ve been tested more than any lab rat could ever imagine. If rats can imagine anything, that is. I’ve been prodded and probed and scanned and filmed and screened and wired up for the last week. And that’s all great. But is probably all for nought (we hope).

What I’ve also done, as per every medic I’ve seen or spoken with (and they are legion) is take Aspirin. The world’s favourite blood thinner. 75mg every day. Doesn’t exactly ‘keep the doctor away’ in my experience but is an all round good thing to do.

And remember, this whole palava started because I was reading the paper and it so perfectly described my funny little event and warned me to CHECK INTO HOSPITAL NOOOOW!!!! AND DON’T COME OUT TIL YOU’RE FIXED OR DEAD!!!! without worrying me in any way, obvs. So how surprised was I to read today, in that very same paper, that ‘taking Aspirin will turn you into a silly bleeder!!’ or words to that effect. That the routine taking of that seemingly harmless little sweetie leads to more cases of stomach bleeds, ulcers and problems than it cures. Well, didn’t actually imply that statistical probability. What is said was that out of every 200 Aspirin addicts, 1 will possibly develop some bleeding problem or other.

Basically; WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE. That’s what the newspapers really say by endlessly contradicting their own advice. Though we know that anyway. Its more a matter of ‘when, exactly??’ And possibly ‘why?’

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx