Andy's Glasses

Sometimes football is wonderful. Sometimes its shit. Sometimes it hurts and sometimes its drab. But sometimes it is all of the above and then its just a matter of the end justifying the means. And that was yesterday when Spurs went to Fulham.

Before that happened Liverpool had a major scare when lowly Palace dared to score a goal against them. And then had the sheer audacity to pull back from 2-1 to 2 all. Eventually the Scousers won 4-3 to stay top. Man City beat Huddersfield, the team who have scored the least goals in all 4 divisions. So big surprise there.

Arsenal beat Chelsea which, for once, was a good result for Spurs. Keeping Chelsea at bay. But then the strangest thing happened. The Chelsea manager, in the post-match interview, turned into Jose Morinho. He attacked his players, their attitude, their mental strength, their desire. He stopped short of calling them a bunch of overpaid, useless tossers but the message was there between the lines. It was so nasty it could even been Antonio Conte. But slag them off he did. The scapegoat culture runs deep at The Bridge.

Wolves beat Leicester 4-3 with the winning goal coming in the 95th minute. But no-one really cares about Wolves and Leicester. Only Gary Linneker.

Then Spurs played. But a reduced Spurs. Son has gone, my least favourite rhyme. He’s playing for South Korea in the Asian Cup. Harry Kane can’t play after limping off last weekend with an(other) ankle injury. And we looked ‘reduced’. The energy was missing, the direction, the clinical efficiency. It all seemed to peter out in the final third of the pitch. Ok we have other players but losing those responsible for scoring and creating most of your goals leaves you confidence lacking.

Lila’s dad assured me that Llorente will definitely start scoring some goals now he has a chance to start. And score he did. Unfortunately it was at the wrong end and we were 1-0 down. Fulham have had massive problems scoring goals this season so we helped them. Then equalised. Which was great. But we didn’t want a draw (would have been our first of the season) against Fulham. No disrespect to Fulham but they’re shit. Second from bottom and you really NEED to beat those teams to have any aspirations whatsoever. And the game went on… and on… and on… we created and we failed and we missed and we squandered and… then it was almost over, it was so nearly over as to be dead. But Poch had brought on, or brought back from the dead perhaps, Georges-Kevin Nkoudou, not out of desperation or total lack of any possible options, but… because… because we love him (?) and he put over the most wonderful of crosses which, with just 20 seconds left in the game, the wonderful Harry Winks nodded home.

1-2 to Spurs, free points, well deserved (?) and Spurs go marching on. Though without Dele Alli, who’s marching days are temporarily curtailed after hobbling off with hamstring problems. Grrrrrrr…

Happy Monday

A xxxx

I was blessed this morning. It was cold, it was bright and beautiful and it was about 1 measly degree away from a thick frost which would have stopped tennis. Instead, it was perfect. In a cold way. Which I don’t mind. Because I was dressed ‘appropriately’. The chap on the next court was dressed for the ski-slopes in February. And wondered why I wasn’t cold. Without a hat. Without a thick jacket, scarf, gloves. BECAUSE I FUCKING RUN AROUND!!! was my reply. I was sweating like a… sweaty thing, and he was playing a leisurely game of doubles, which I hate. And thus won’t play. Unless I’m in Sydney and I have to. I think that’s what they mean by ‘Aussie Rules’. If you wear a little less, you can move much more easily. And warm up more quickly, hopefully before hypothermia sets in.

And since I’ve been home all I’ve heard on the radio is Brexit Bollocks. Tories saying how they’ve been totally let down by their government, because they’re ‘leavers’. Tories saying how they’ve been let down by their government because they’re ‘remainers’. Labour supporters pissed off with Corbyn because he’s a ‘leaver’ and other pissed off because they’re ‘leavers’. And Corbyn has splinters in his sorry ass from sitting on the fence for so long.

Brexit is not a partisan thing. If it was it would be much easier. Then it would be just same shit different day. This is more complex. And leaves us in the situation where all the Brexit fans just want to leave; deal or no deal. And that’s because they all voted in abject ignorance in the first place. Remainers obviously didn’t, because remaining would have maintained the status quo that had existed for 40 years. And no-one could accuse the machine that is ‘Europe’ of being perfect, cos it most certainly ain’t. It’s almost as expensive as wasting 2 years of immense expenditure ignoring every other issue that the nation may need. It’s almost as stroppy, intransigent and frustrating as Brexit negotiations. And its full of tossers, just like Westminster.

And now its all about ‘no deal’. The doomsday scenario. Jumping off the proverbial cliff. That’s what leavers really want. Just LEAVE!! Whilst most of us just want the whole thing to go away.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

I just love this. This is a serious version of ‘the future’. Well, part of the future, the bit long after Brexit (should the world still be functioning that far into eternity), but not too far. Hopefully the bit just after Arsenal get relegated.

We already accept autonomous vehicles, even though they kill a few people in tests. We accept that ‘driverless’ is the way forward because as much as anything else, it avoids parking issues in an increasingly space-conscious world. That’ll be my world. The Lundun world, as opposed to the New Zealand world where priorities are different.

Uber are geared up for ‘driverless’, the only question is where all those Mohammeds will work after it happens? Surely there aren’t enough mountains? And all the car companies and online platforms are desperate to hook up and tap into this almost infinite market that will arise.

But this is special. This is just that little bit ‘outside the box’. I saw it the other week but due to pressures of the world (Brexit, Spurs, holidays, Spurs, Lila, Spurs and stroke-prevention medicine) was awaiting the chance to comment.

It’s a driverless taxi, obvs., but its different. Can’t remember who makes it but basically its a ‘Transformer’. A real one. It starts life on the ground, all looking surprisingly like a… like a taxi. But when it is called by someone with difficulties, like a wheelchair, the wheels extend on legs and, as shown, can back up over stairs or any obstacle. It also has a door on all 4 sides (no driver, no steering wheel, so no constraints). Furthermore, the legs can actually ‘walk’ as well as wheel. So if there’s a snow drift, or a fallen tree, or a dead body from the previous driverless taxi, this ‘thing’ can just step over it, using the wheels as ‘feet’. It can’t kick a football. Not yet anyway.

But how brilliant is that? Someone not just looking to make something ‘equivalent’ to what’s already there, but instead using proper top-down thinking to see what is needed and working from there. And even making it happen. Applause, applause.

Happy Saturday. Arsenal vs Chelsea; OMG that’s big. Battle of the bastards.

A xxxx

So when they said: ‘you need a 7-day heart monitor’, I envisaged something the size of a postage stamp, fixed under my belt, a couple of neat little stick-on electrodes wirelessly linked to it by blue-tooth and life would just work around it all, almost oblivious to its presence.

I didn’t expect three fucking great stickers holding 15 metres of cabling all attached to a car battery on a string dangling round my neck. I mean, WTF???

How am I supposed to work, play, LIVE MY LIFE!!! But it mustn’t come off. Other than in the shower. Which I do a lot. Other than that, it will monitor my every heartbeat. Literally. It’s its job, innit? Tennis will be interesting. I feel some sellotape may be useful.

I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t like Jeremy Corbyn very much. Not because he’s an anti-Semite, nor because he’s an Arsenal fan, not even because he is the worst political leader since… ok, he’s the worst political leader ever. At least Hitler got the roads built.

His only interest is in making political gains for him and his party. The country can go to shit for all he cares. He refuses to join in the collective, cross-party discussions about Brexit. He makes noises that its about ‘THE CATASTROPHE THAT WOULD BE A NO-DEAL BREXIT!!!’ in fact very loud, shouty kind of noises. But he wants assurances. Or he won’t play. Yet if the will of parliament is ‘no deal’ then who the fuck is that tosser to say otherwise?

Meanwhile, his own party condemn him because he won’t join in their demands for a new referendum. The ‘official Labour Party line, other than their leader’, as it could be known. But he won’t commit and he won’t join in. Which he should. Theresa May has essentially asked that for the sake of the nation, the parties jointly decide their priorities and requirements. That itself is impossible given the diversity of Brexit feeling within each party. But it can be attempted. Including the second largest party would be of benefit. To the process and to the nation. But ‘he’ doesn’t give a shit about either.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

There are worse outcomes to a vote. You could get none and the opponents 434. You could get 100 and… yeah, ok. But losing a vote in parliament by 230 votes is fairly… significant. Ok, its fucking humongous. Although the result has almost always been something of an inevitability, it was just the magnitude that was to be decided.

Jeremy Corbyn immediately tabled his ‘vote of no confidence in the government’ for two reasons. Firstly because it was politically expedient to do so, and secondly because he’s a tosser.

Because I think he was the only man in parliament yesterday who reckons Labour could do it better. Even though he has never said and will never be seen actually stating how ‘better’ would be achieved, or even what ‘better’ might look like, nor how he’d simply fly this ‘better’ past Europe who would embrace it totally. Due to his ‘charm’ no doubt. His statesmanship.

Tosser.

I rarely quote Boris these days, I’d gone right off him. Until last night after the vote, when he stated, quite rightly, that we should treat this not as a loss, more of a mandate from the British Parliament to say to Europe that the crock-of-shit deal that THEY put together and twisted and mangled from any form of British acceptability has been summarily rejected. Try again, and try harder. Lose the fucking ‘backstop’ for one. Don’t leave Britain in the situation where we’re obeying all European laws and rules but getting a say in none of them.

Even Boris, who never misses an opportunity for self-promotion, said that leaving Europe is not about WHO is doing it, its about WHAT is being done. Theresa May is merely the messenger. Plus, in reality, would Boris want that job now? Would anyone??

Oh yes, Corbyn wants it. I forgot. But only because he’s so stupid to imagine that his party would all pull together for this mythical ‘better deal’. The remainers would hug the leavers, the hards and softs would align in harmony and they’d all sing ‘the red flag’ together. Diane Abbot could count the votes.

For the total and absolute bore that Brexit has become, last night was very exciting. And that excitement continues. Probably won’t get boring again until next Tuesday.

As to ‘where we’re going’; NOBODY KNOWS.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

So following the ‘curious incident of the left arm at breakfast time’, when said arm went ‘weak’ and shaky for about 3 minutes with no after effects nor any other symptoms, the medical world went frantic. Well, my medical world did. Because every doctor is assured, positive and with no ifs, ands or buts, that it was a ‘TIA’. A mini-stroke. Sure as eggs is ova. And there is a process. Most of which was done before my holiday, in the interests of even surviving the holiday! I had the neurological work-out, I had 20 different blood tests, I had an ultrasound scan of my neck arteries and I had an MRI of my brain. And everything was negative. Or positive. Depending on your perspective. It was all good anyway. No signs, no nothing. Don’t need statins, don’t need blood thinners, blood pressure shit, nothing. I AM the perfect specimen of frail old man. And thus needed to see a cardiologist. To eliminate the possibility of an irregular heart rhythm sending shock waves in my blood causing little clots. As I understand it. And quite frankly I’m a bit bored with the whole thing now so tend to drift off during the technical explanations.

The Doc last night was from Georgia. The Russian one, not the Confederate slavey one. My neurologist is South African. The Radiologist Indian and the neck one a little Jewish man from London. Without being too cynical, 3 minutes of arm weakness has so far provided two holidays, a term of private school fees, a 3-carat diamond and a BMW X-5. But ‘it’s a process’ and must be done proper.

The technician lay me down and shaved my fucking chest!!! I mean; where’s the dignity? Where was the stylist? This beautification was strictly utilitarian. We need electrodes ‘there’ and there’s hair in the way. No ‘how would you like it, Sir?’, not even a ‘who did your last chest hair cut?? Awful mess…’ Nothing. Just razor, buzz and I have a bald patch on each moob. ECG or EEG or whatever was fine. I produced a lovely graph showing movements of the FOOTSIE over 5 years. Ultrasound showed all was lovely and super. Well, it showed I do have a heart, contrary to popular belief. So he injected some of my own blood into my own fucking vein (like there’s not enough blood in there anyway), but having mixed it with sterile water first. Don’t ask. It was all good.

So if I’m so startlingly, perfectly, amazingly, deliriously fucking healthy, WHY DO YOU ALL FEEL I HAD A TIA???

I’m picking up my heart monitor on Thursday so they can check a week’s worth of rhythms. And pay for the ‘all weather package’ on the BMW.

Happy HEALTHY Tuesday

A xxxx

Don’t you hate it when a plan gets de-railed? I mean… I mean… I mean, could Theresa May have had any idea, when she formulated the now infamous ‘Chequer’s Plan’ that the extent of the de-railment caused would be this catastrophic? That it would lead not only to a massive rift in parliament, across all parties, including her own, but that it would also cause an immense disaster for Tottenham in the quest for THEIR DESTINY, by allowing a defeat by Manchester United yesterday at Wembley.

I could never vote for a party who could allow such a travesty. It is… unconstitutional. That defeat was undemocratic. I’m thinking of going to court for a judicial review to see if Rashford’s goal could be annulled as it hadn’t been ratified by parliament before he scored it. Just sayin…

And although some people may consider that the seemingly everlasting farce that is ‘Brexit’ has very little to do with top-of-the-table clashes in the Premier League, those people, I would suggest, probably don’t live inside my head. A place where connections are tenuous at best, conspiracy theories reign supreme and no man is an island. Except for Kevin Madagascar.

Today’s paper was full of ‘news’. But to me it all boiled down to just 2 stories. Tomorrow’s vote in The House over whether Theresa May should just be shot or instead hung, drawn and quartered, and the football result. There was only one. The rest don’t count. Harry Kane limping off towards the MRI scanning department only added to my woes, along with Sonny getting in an Uber for Heathrow for the Asian Cup.

The only good to come from yesterday (other than Lila turning up at my tennis court) was that Jeremy Corbyn is finally being seen for what he is. A tosser. His own party are abandoning his direction and planning to back ‘the deal’ in tomorrow’s vote. His ‘private army’, Momentum, are leaving him because they are fiercely pro-Europe (everything Momentum do is ‘fierce’) and he is a wishy-washy, fence-sitting Old curmudgeon who has absolutely no plan for Brexit, nor remaining, as long as he’s allowed to wear a duffle coat and spout his socialist mantras over and over and over and over… again.

Not a great start to any week. There again; it can only get better! Can’t it?

Happy Monday

A xxxx

I’d just like to say from the start that Sir Andy Murray is the best tennis player this nation (depending on where you choose to put the borders) has produced since Boudicca ruled. Not that she could hit a ball, too busy fighting. He is a startling athlete, an amazingly tenacious competitor and to win Grand Slam tournaments and Olympic gold medals in the generation of Federer, Nadal and Djokovic is quite frankly outstanding.

But…

Sorry, I’m still in praise mode, mustn’t forget that. The hip injury is a major pisser. I mean, he’s only 31. Ok, ‘money worries’ probably won’t be an issue in his retirement. Which he’ll probably spend either as a pundit, a commentator or possibly by attending the charm school which he managed to miss out completely in his formative years. And later years. All years.

But…

His intention to retire speech had me in tears. Not as many as were shed by him, but tears. Because its not fair. Not right. He should have a few more years in him yet but no sportsman wants retirement in a wheelchair and I dare say that 5-set tennis at 90mph is not the best ‘therapy’ for a really dodgy hip. He wants to play knock-up tennis at 60 like proper people. Like English people.

But…

No, I mustn’t. Not today. Today its farewell (either after the Aussie tournament now, should he survive it, or at Wimbledon in the summer) to Andy Murray. The best BRITISH tennis player EVER. Not even any competition for that title. Double Wimbledon winner, US Open winner, double Olympic gold medalist and one of the top four players in the world, when the world was blessed with 4 incredible exponents of the game.

But…

No! No mention of whingeing, not a word about whining, nothing to do with the inherent Anglophobia, nothing about miserable bleeders AT ALL. Not today. Not allowed. Today I come to mourn Murray, not to bury him.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

So first night back on Tuesday, having had breakfast on the plane about 3.30 am, Mel went to bed about 9, I tried my hardest to watch the second half of the Spurs Chelsea match, sat down with a cup of tea, took one sip and promptly fell asleep. Nothing to do with Harry Kane, with Dele Alli, with the VAR, I was just ‘done’. Went to bed. We woke up at 5.45 and that was it. By 6.30 we were out of bed and, pretty much, bouncing round the house. With what appears to be ‘energy’ but in fact is something much more sinister. Its just a false sense of security manifesting as bright and breezy. Though we both managed to get through the working day, probably due to the ‘catch up’ factor of first days back. We ate, then Mel fell asleep, quite literally, over her dinner plate. Took a bath and went to bed before 9. I followed soon after when the eyes would no longer do my bidding. We were up at 4am. Bit early, even for Lila Day. Talked til 5 thinking ‘this is it then’ and then a funny thing happened. It was 8 o’clock and Lila was knocking at the door. HOLY SHIT!!! Didn’t really matter because Lila can’t really tell the time yet. Though even she probably realised that the tick had tocked way longer than it should.

The (possibly only) good thing about long flights is that you get time to watch a few movies. Ones that you wouldn’t spend money on in the cinema but were deemed at least ‘watchable’ by those who (think they) know. Or movies that Mel won’t go and see. Like Ant Man and the Wasp. Well reviewed at the time even by serious filmos and I love all SuperHero stuff. I wanted to be one. But failing that, love all that shit. And especially women Superheroes. Nothing to do with skin-tight Lycra and tiny little skirts at all; what do take me for??? (Other than what I am). And so good, and funny and clever was Ant Man, that on the way back I watched WonderWoman. Every schoolboy’s fantasy. Ok, Amazon women, all alone and manless on their little island, but children get born. Odder things happen in the Bible. But I believe Wonder Woman. Another really well reviewed film and rightly so. It’s brilliant. Clever, funny, even political; massively anti-war and intrinsically ultra-feminist. And Gal Gadot…

But Identical Strangers was the real winner. The documentary about identical triplets (itself rarer than Mancunian United fans) who were separated at birth under an adoption plan. Which turned out to be some horrendous, almost Orwellian type psychological experiment in cahoots with the adoption agency. Starts off all schmaltzy as the triplets finally meet by chance but get darker. Much much darker. Amazing. Stuff.

Happy… Friday?

A xxxx

Do you remember when a ‘selfie-stick’ was called ‘your mate’? Or ‘a complete stranger asked to take your photo’? By the Taj Mahal, Victoria Falls, Shelf stand at Spurs. And because no-one now moves from their lounge to the toilet without a fantastic, super-efficient, self-editing, telephoto-enabled, high definition camera with in-built distribution system in their very hands, that’s not the way it always was. Just 20 years ago you’d have had to entered that toilet with a camera, developing kit (with little red light and chemical baths) and a fax machine. These days, before you’ve even ‘shaken’, your selfie is being ‘liked’ all over the frikkin world.

In previous ages the first item you’d pack for your holiday was: The Camera!!! Complete with 7 alternative lenses, ranging from 35mm wide angle to the monster 200mm telephoto which was 3 feet long and as heavy as the rest of your luggage combined. Nowadays its almost an afterthought. And I’ll be honest, if I’m visiting a city, I simply wouldn’t bother. The phone would more than suffice. And if I wanted something ‘special’ photographically, I’d use the iPad.

But packing before our recent trip, I just kind’a found my camera whilst rummaging for other shit and thought: hmmm, camera, I remember them, maybe I’ll take it.

It’s not a ‘big’ camera. I stopped doing the whole ‘SLR’ route when I heard of a bloke who fell off a ski-lift in what would have been a very ‘nothing’ event, but he fell on his Nikon and cracked most of his ribs. After that I went ‘small’. Compact. And my camera, which I bought at least 12 years ago (when did YOU last buy a camera?) is about the size of a phone. But has the capacity of 25 paparazzi. When we went to the Galapagos (probably the last time my camera was properly deployed) I took a stunning picture of some bird or other, from the boat, miles away, with my tiny little pocket Panasonic Leica. And it was brilliant. (I won’t mention the 22,000 crap shots of my sandals, blurred animals, Mel’s left ear and other delights that accompanied it). New Jersey Steve who took the same shot with a fuck-off Nikon on a special tripod he had to carry for his special ‘Guns of Navarone’ type telephoto lens, asked for a copy of MY pic!!!!

I’m not a photographer. To me ‘composition’ is an essay on the Merchant of Venice done in the 5th form, very reluctantly. I don’t have ‘the eye’ for ‘that shot’. But sometimes, like the famous ‘enough monkeys with enough typewriters producing the complete works of Shakespeare’, I get a good shot.

This one was again from a boat. In Doubtful Sound. I shouted for the sea lions to move to their left a bit, but did they listen? Did they fuck! Otherwise I’m proud of this. And for the fact that no phone on the planet (including mine; I tried) could get such a shot at about 200 yards on a distant rock.

Happy Wednesday. Apparently I have to go to work. What’s ‘work’ again?

A xxxx