Andy's Glasses

Theresa May will NOT be attending the World Cup final, should England proceed that far. She will definitely NOT be going if we’re out before then. Fortunately, Harry Kane is NOT part of this strong political stance and WILL be attending, should the unthinkable actually occur. But no Theresa. What a tragic loss for the players…?

Its all about relations with Russia. And the aftermath of the Salisbury thing. Words were slung, relations plummeted, like an aunt falling from a plane without a parachute. And much slagging off occurred.

But then the World Cup started and it has been a masterfully controlled occasion for everyone to enjoy. The security and policing have been fantastic, there’s been hardly any ‘trouble’, just a little skirmish on the tube after the Colombian match on Tuesday, but boys will be boys. And thugs will be thugs. So everyone’s in a really “I ‘heart’ Russia” place at the moment.

Then Amesbury happened. Holy shit. Two more people are hospitalised suffering the effects of novichok nerve agent. Same one used on the Kripals in Salisbury. But this time the couple involved were not spies against Russia, they weren’t cloak-and-dagger types at all, cold warrers or anything clandestine or sinister. This couple was more likely to be found lying on a pavement outside Tescos with their eyes rolled back.

Because they are addicts. Him to heroin, her to alcohol. And murder may be how the Russians treat their own poor down-and-outs, to clear the streets before the football began and create a peachy impression for the glut of tourists, but they have no right to do so here. Not that the couple were homeless, because they weren’t. Yet obviously they were somewhat ‘alternative’ without wishing to get too Daily Mail-ian about it.

And in a way its unfair to even mention the previous difficulties of this couple. Which is probably why I chose to do it. If they were chartered accountants or schoolteachers the tragedy would be no worse. But it does make it ‘different’ and I’m not sure why. Not sure I even like myself very much for even asking the question.

Long and short of it is: its either another ‘attack’ which is most unlikely, or this poor couple stumbled across the discarded nerve agent; but over 3 months after the original attack? Or the entire Greater Salisbury area is awash with fucking toxins so strong that you’ll never be the same again if you come within 200 yards of them. None of which are particularly comforting.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

The best thing about Lila Days is that you get to play with Lila all day. The worst things about Lila Days is when they start. I know you can’t have ‘too much of a good thing’ but at the 5.20 call this morning I had to keep reminding myself of that.

And I know that whilst most of you may wince slightly and go “oooh, 5.20, that’s a bit early”, when I see Spurs Paul he’ll go all Monty Python on me and say “5.20!!!! Bloody luxury!! That’s what we call ‘a bloody good lie in’, wasting half the day away. Why, when I were young…” But he’s a stockbroker so has no choice. He has to be up before the markets open in some fucking God-forsaken corner of a far-Eastern world, stay at work til Sydney closes, 19 hours later, then get blind drunk in a lap-dance bar, stuff 42 grand in used 50s down a pole dancer’s underwear and try to make it to bed without his shoes on. Ok, that may have been Leonardo di Caprio but they’re almost the same person.

Yet this was no ordinary Lila-day, this was… The Day the Witch Arrived… Day… Lila Day… whatever.

Because as you can see above, we now have a really ugly witch in the garden. Which daughter-in-Berlin called ‘hideous’ and you’ll probably think is stupid, ugly or both. But we love her. And, of course, she’s supposed to be hideous. If she looked like Gigi Hadid she wouldn’t be a witch, would she? No, she’d be either the broomstick or we’d tell everyone we’ve got a new ‘anorexic-on-a-broomstick’ in the garden. Though it would be prettier.

When we first visited our sculptor friend in Israel he had a witch on a broomstick, almost life size (no idea how big a witch is, never met one), and we both loved it. But it was solid iron and although very inexpensive, the cost of shipping ran into thousands because it weighed half a ton. That was 10 years ago and Mel’s never forgotten. And then we met Michael. A wonderful local artist who sculpts out of chicken wire. And he’s the nicest man in the world. Because he just charges you the cost of the materials (in this case, about 30 quid) and gets you to make a donation to the cancer charity who helped him when he was a patient. And how fucking wonderful is that? So now we have a super-lightweight witch, Mel’s happy, Michael really enjoyed the challenge (like how to keep her upright) and the charity get a donation.

She’s going to be called Jeannie. Don’t ask why. No really, don’t ask.

Happy exhausting Lila Day

A xxxx

I’ve never really understood the literal message of the whole ‘football’s coming home’ thing. Great song, wonderful sentiment but football is at home. Well it is in my home, all the bloody time (as Mel would say). Its here. In England. Home. Obviously it means the World Cup is coming ‘home’. Yes, the Jules Rimet trophy is as English as… as a baguette. As a Renault. As a baguette the size of a Renault.

But let’s not get mired down in pedantic literalism on the morning after the GREATEST NIGHT OF OUR FUCKING LIVES!!!!!! Unless you have sufficient personal antiquity to remember that magical day in 1966. But only old people remember that, not us kids.

Everyone had said all along how Columbia are a great team, an underestimated team, a team with skill, talent, ability and lots of goals in them. And all of that is true. But is not how they decided to play the game. Because Columbia is not Japan. Where Japan has sushi, Columbia has cocaine. Where Japan has honour, Columbia has cocaine. Where Japan has a desire and dedication to always achieve to the maximum of individual and collective potential; Columbia has cocaine. And so the Columbians played in a way that their culture accepts. The culture of Pablo Escobar, who murdered, maimed and tortured. That was apparently their model last night as they set out not to ‘play’ but to inhibit, to foul, to wrestle, to disrupt and to try to upset England’s flow and rhythm rather than establish their own.

Unfortunately it worked. And the Columbians didn’t so much ‘park the bus’ as ram it constantly into the England team. Which worked up until the 57th minute when one assault on Harry Kane proved just too much and we won a penalty. Which Harry, obviously, dispatched with the class and style that we’d all expect of the BEST STRIKER EVER TO WEAR THE SHIRTTTTTT!!!!

And then a weird thing happened. The Columbians were forced by circumstance to actually try and play football. And they did. And they are good. Yet in a game of very few ‘chances’ for either side, they never really looked threatening. We were ‘hanging on’ and it looked comfortable. But if 24 hours is a lifetime in politics, 24 seconds is an epoch in football. One great shot from Columbia, one corner kick, one goal. In the 94th fucking minute.

Extra time was dull and predictable other than one lovely move ending in a half-chance for Danny (Spurs-til-I-die!! or til someone else pays me what I’m really worth) Rose. And so to the heart-stopping, nail-biting, hide-behind-the-sofa-ing penalty shoot-out. OMG!!! England NEVER win those. And yet, 10 penalties later, one brilliant save from our goalie and three wonderful strikes from Spurs… sorry, from England, plus some other bits and bobs resulting in anguish for the Columbian-Arsenal keeper, we had won.

We had actually won a penalty shoot-out in a world cup match, FFS.

So is it ‘coming home’? Whatever ‘it’ may be? I have no idea. I’m still trying to digest the obscene amount of pizza I ate last night as my contribution to the ‘national effort’.

Bring on Sweden. I’m ready. Got Dominos on speed-dial.

Amazingly happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Now I know what it must feel like to be Swiss. To be someone who is ‘neutral’. Not in a gender way, though that’s very popular at the moment, but in a life way. To be neutral. To spend your life sitting on fences, being impartial and enjoying the security and comfort that whatever happens won’t really affect you in any meaningful way.

Well I’ve mastered watching football as a ‘neutral’ and that’s a definite start. Because from being in a position of ‘yeah, world cup, whatever…’ its all changed. The metamorphosis started on Saturday when France played Argentina, when I sat down as a moth (this is going to be the most stretched, distorted and abused metaphor ever). I entered the pupa phase when Uruguay beat Portugal and went through various stages of caterpillar as all the penalties were taken on Sunday. Last night I became a butterfly. A fucking great big one, snowy white with a red cross running symmetrically down my spine and I’m LOVING THIS WORLD CUP LIKE NO OTHER!!!

Let’s hope I don’t get sprayed with ‘Raid’ tonight.

But my full emergence was due to the brilliance of Belgium, the resilience of Japan, the wonder of the world cup to amaze and excite and the fact that I was neutral. A big, white and red neutral butterfly.

At the start of the match I wanted Japan. Mainly because my favourite car stereo is Japanese. And because they were underdogs. And fought like dogs. And they’re small and sweet. But by half time I was bored. Bit dull, bit reserved and the usual questions about whether Belgium’s unquestionable superstars can actually play together as a team. I asked Mel, she was busy in the garden so I had to work it out for myself watching the second half. And what a half of football that was. The best come-back in a world cup match since the last one. The most exciting… thing since shit last happened, the bestest, fastest, meanest, wickedest everything ever.

Japan scored. OMG. That was a turn-up, they couldn’t have read the script properly. I blame the translators. Then they scored again, with a fantastic goal. OOMMGG!!! Belgium are going out! But then something weird happened. Maybe it was inspired substitutions, maybe they ‘stepped up a gear’, maybe, maybe, maybe. But Belgium solidified, gelled, and were then galvanised by Jan Vertongen’s amazing goal. Which was either the luckiest, jammiest, flukiest goal ever, or the inspired touch of a true genius. It was a Da Vinci goal. Fellaini scored the equaliser and Japan looked worried.

I still wanted Japan to win, just because. And the match was heading towards extra time. The 93rd minute of 94. What we pundits call ‘late’. And in an exquisite move which moved the ball 92 yards in 11 seconds, Belgium scored the winner. Kevin de Bruyne suddenly looked like Kevin de Bruyne again, having looked like the check-out girl from Tescos for most of the match. Lukaku did what he absolutely had to do for his team to score, which was leave the ball alone. (“Belgium Emile Heskey, you’re just a Belgium Emile Hes-Key…”) And (ex-Spurs ‘legend’?) Nacer Chadli slid the ball into the net. We all went mad. Me, Toby, Eden, Romelu, Mel, all of us. And suddenly I became a Belgium fan. A massive one. Just like that.

Because that’s what being a ‘neutral’ is all about. Comes so easily to a man.

I won’t be neutral tonight. Tonight it’ll be more… total fucking panic.

Happy Tuesday (we can pray)

A xxxx

Ok, I’m convinced, this world cup is the best ever. Firstly because its happening right now and all the others, even the 1966 one, happened years ago, but also because its just brilliant. I never wanted to like it, I didn’t think Russia should benefit from the prestige of hosting a world cup whilst they’re attempting to assassinate state enemies in fucking Salisbury on sunny afternoons, bombing the shit out of civilian populations in Syria and being totally and habitually Russian. Yet it works. And so well. Russian people have actually been seen smiling during the duration of the competition.

Having managed to miss almost every second of all 32 group matches, feeling deflated after England lost the only match they played against a decent team (I don’t care how many changes you make, how much it might benefit to finish second in the group, I HATE LOSING FOOTBALL MATCHES), feeling once again my lack of enthusiasm for international matches in general, suddenly Saturday happened. I never expected it, coming so soon after Friday had barely finished, but come it did. And brought with it France against Argentina. The most wonderful game I’ve ever seen (I say that quite a lot, like ‘best films’ or ‘favourite songs’), and the world’s new ‘superstar’, Kylian Mbappe. I discovered him. Myself. At home. On the telly. Unfortunately Paris Saint Germain discovered him a few months ago and paid Monaco 160 million Euros (not pounds, note, even pound notes, so its not like its ‘proper money’). For a 19 year old kid.

And he is so skilful and so wonderful and so utterly, blisteringly, cheetah-ishly fast that he makes Usain Bolt look like your grandma. Long as she is 7 foot tall. And this ‘kid’ had the calm, the presence, the confidence and the ability to simply take Argentina apart. Ok, the French had a few other players on the pitch but most of them stood around smoking Gaulloises, texting their mistresses and sipping espressos.

So it was France 1, Messi Out. End of the World Cup for the world’s best player, possibly best EVER player, because he’s now old and useless and ready for pasture.

Then still on Saturday the feast from Russia (an’ I’m lovin’ Russia, loving the vibe there, the atmosphere, the enthusiasm, all those famously non-Russian things) continued with the next course. Ronaldo, the other ‘greatest player in his head’, sorry, ‘in the world’, also bowed out as his Portugal lost to Uruguay.

Then yesterday, whilst I was having another (fucking) away-day in Leeds, enjoying the sunshine in various motorway traffic jams, the mighty Spanish went out to… Russia!!! of all lowliest of lowly teams, and on penalties. And if that wasn’t exciting enough, the Croatia Denmark game also ended the same way but with Luka Modric’s Croats beating Christian Eriksen’s Danes. I generally view all football through the prism of Spurs connections, it works better that way. But penalty shoot-outs are so brutal, so harsh, so Darwinian in nature. And so exciting, as long as your team is not involved and the Germans aren’t taking the penalties.

And now I’m supposed to work??? With all this football going on??? Brasil are playing Mexico at 3 o’clock FFS. Then its Belgium playing Japan this evening. But tomorrow… tomorrow…

Need more football

Happy monday

A xxxx

The world needed a new word, and here it is: foneley. Its neat, succinct, durable(?), errr… washable, comes with a 2-year warranty and is very flexible in usage.

Foneley Harry Kane would’a kept that shot down. Foneley I could have caught the earlier train. Foneley that tennis ball would have stayed the right side of the f-f-foneley line.

Its compatible with all languages, long as they’re English, and it never runs out of charge. So there you are. And its free. At the point of usage.

I’m so bored with Brexit. Foneley the great unwashed weren’t allowed to vote. Foneley the politicians hadn’t all told lies. Foneley we could have seen the future and realised that it pretty much doesn’t exist. Foneley.

Even the Europeans, the Barniers and Tusks and Junkers and all those horrible, nasty, anti-British foreign people are bored with waiting. ‘Bring us a plan’, they demand. ‘Anything’. Ok, so they can shoot it down in the fucking water, but at least that would be movement. But it ain’t happening. The government can’t agree what terms and conditions they want the Euros to reject. Which they obviously will, its what European parliament always does; reject proposals until 63 new laws have been introduced to ratify the situation.

We can have a ‘soft Brexit’ in which so little changes that it really isn’t a Brexit at all. More a Br-stays the same. The good thing is we retain free trade which means all those overseas companies manufacturing here would have no need to relocate to mainland Europe to save export taxes. The bad thing is that we’d have to have open borders, free passage to Romanian pickpockets and we’d still be answerable to the European legal framework. Ireland would remain Ireland.

If we opt for ‘hard Brexit’, we basically tell all those horrible people listed above to fuck off because they’re no longer needed in our lives. Companies would possibly leave, taking lots and lots of jobs and giving them to French or German workers, who we hate, at least til the World Cup is over. We’d shut our borders to everyone, except possibly skilled workers, whatever that might be, and crop-pickers, who we need. Ireland will become a massive problem. Which is nothing new, but in a different way.

I think the Labour Party has it about right. Do nothing, say nothing, spare all opinions and hope it goes away. Good to have positive opposition.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

Yaaaay! England won!!… the rights to enter the ‘easy’ half of the draw for the rest of the World Cup. And depending on how long that ‘rest of’ may be will decide if the manager’s decision to ‘rest’ 8 of his starting players for a game that ‘didn’t matter’ was a brilliant one or possibly the penultimate one he makes as England manger. He still has at least one match guaranteed to play. Though I am a big fan of Gareth, approaching man-crush status.

My own preparation for yesterday’s big match was a long one, starting at 5.30 in the morning for early training. Ok, Lila was in-da-house and woke up, giggling, calling, happy-as-fucking-Larry at 5.30 in the morning. There simply is no ‘rolling over and going back to sleep’ when such a thing occurs. Firstly she certainly won’t let you and also you’d miss the wonder. Sleep’s overrated anyway. Though doesn’t feel it when so brutally disturbed.

And there’s no doubt that by finishing second in our group rather than top, we have an ‘easier run to the final’ but that is a statement beyond any normal limits of ‘presumptuous’. Because the price paid is that all that winning mentality will have slipped, regardless of any justifications after the fact. Like, it will be easier to progress. Like, we were only playing a ‘b-team’. The players, at the end of last night’s match, weren’t punching the air in jubilation for not having to meet Brasil, France, Argentina or Uruguay until the final. No. They were upset and despondent at having lost a match. And that is a feeling that lingers and destabilises.

But heh, by the time we play Columbia our star players will return, having rested for over a week. So we can get the Spurs boys back. And its ‘only Columbia’. Who are, by all accounts, a fairly useful team.

I missed last night’s game. Saw the beginning, thought we looked quite good, I love seeing the kids trying to impress. Then I went to Tai Chi. Because football is all well and good (as I constantly tell Mel) but my martial arts will ensure my physical wellbeing, my spiritual harmony and my never-ending quest to hurt people really badly.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

Yippe-yiiy-yaay; Uber have been given another licence to… to Ube. Once more we can press a button on our phones and be taken anywhere in the entire fucking world for nothing. Well, not exactly ‘nothing’ but without the need to handle that dirty, folding stuff for payment. And that is, quite frankly, brilliant. A 15-month ‘stay of execution’ granted ‘on probation’. To appease the 850,000 Londoners who helped the appeal. The argument levelled by Mayor Sadiq Tosser of TFL and his personal army of ‘Ackney Carriage drivers is that of depriving individuals of their livelihood. Which was not the nature of the failed licence, which was about safety, security and other issues. Because we don’t allow monopolies here, even lovely quaint ones like black cabs. And the argument against, basically, viable competition could be leveled by corner shop owners every time a Tesco local or M&S Foods or a Lidl the size of a small African state opens in their neighbourhood.

So Uber goes on in London and the 850,000 people who signed the petition had their wish come true.

Uber is very clever. You get it on your phone, you part with no cash, your destination is in there when the driver arrives to pick you up. And it works brilliantly. Efficiently. Reliably. Until you go abroad, then its a whole n’other kind’a experience.

In Delhi we paid £1.20 for a journey of 20 minutes. Bargain. In Russia you’re warned by everyone ‘DON’T USE THE TAXIS! THEY’RE THIEVES, MURDERERS, RAPISTS AND VAGABOND COSSACKS!!’, so you call an Uber and you get the same basic personality type but with the constraint that Uber brings. That they’re not allowed to rip you off, rape you, murder you or whatever. They don’t have to be ‘nice’ though, and they’re certainly not. But good value and almost reliable sometimes. Almost.

In Rome last week it was different again. You pay more for an Uber than a taxi. But they come in fancy schmancy BMWs and Audis. And the drivers smell nice. But aren’t always that reliable in arrival times and stuff.

But basically and, probably unaccountably, I DO trust Uber. With my daughters, with my ancient father, with my wife and, most importantly (always) with me. So I’m glad they’re still going. And we’re used to them, they just can’t take them away. We can’t ‘un-know’ them, can we?

Happy Wednesday, BENNY!

A xxxx

They say Rome’s hot. London’s hotter. Trust me, I’ve tested it. And
apparently its hotter than Rio, hotter than everywhere. We are, in the
rather silly world of ‘competitive weathering’ Heat Central. Which is
fab, of course, until you get on the tube or try to sleep. But we cope
because its so wonderful to wake up to clear blue skies and sunshine.

That is the end of the weather. Not, like, forever, just the end of
the report. You know…

Its hot in Russia too. And although I’ve kind of ‘engaged’ in the
England matches, I’m not properly ‘into’ the football as yet. How
excited can you get when Portugal play Iran? And yet it was a match of
interest. And violence. And VAR. And the worst refereeing decisions
since the last match played out there. And its always nice to see The
Great Ronaldo! taken down a peg or two as his European Champions could
only draw with the Ayatollah’s boys. In fact he should even have been
sent off, so they reckon, for an elbow into the face of some lovely
Iranian boy who’d been wrestling him to the ground just moments
before. Yet he was only booked. Takes a brave ref to send off The
Great Ronaldo!

And we beat Panama. Beat them soundly. So immediately the British
press are in 1966-mode and we’re going to ‘win the thing!!!’ We won’t
be happy with semi-finals, even losing finalists, its ours for the
taking. Even though we haven’t played a decent team yet. Which happens
on Thursday when we play Belgium to decide who wins our group. And I’d
love us to win the World Cup but really? Can it happen? Who knows.
Loving the thought. As I have done every 4 years since 1966.

Today does feature an interesting possibility rather than an
interesting match. Nigeria play Argentina and, essentially, the winner
goes on and the loser don’t. In fact if Argentina win and Croatia lose
to Iceland (anything can happen) then Messi’s boys are still out.
Which is quite unthinkable for the Argies whose team is filled with
superstars and led by the superstars’ superstar, Leo Messi. Such a
massive game that I’m going to play bridge. Its what the tough do to
survive.

And before you ask, you can’t buy Lilas at Waitrose. Because they
don’t have a barcode.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

We didn’t exactly get ‘thrown out’ of the Vatican, because at the last moment I managed to not cry out ‘YID ARMEEEEE’ on grounds of impropriety. But we were turned away from the entry. Because Mel is such a hooligan. Ok, she was wearing a (gorgeous little, obvs) dress that failed to cover her shoulders. Which was the official reason given but I think its just because the catholic police know trouble when they see it and sometimes it comes in very small packages.

The covered shoulders thing is a red line out there in Pope City, they turned many away. Because bare shoulders are… hmmm… are obviously… sexual? provocative? alluring? will lead inevitably to sin and therefore HELL!!! But heh, we didn’t argue, rules are rules. Nor did I point out that behind half the closed doors upstairs in the Vatican you could probably find little alter boys giving ‘spiritual relief’ to rotten old cardinals. But bare a shoulder and yer outta here.

But its Rome. And full of magic absolutely everywhere. So although my idea of Rome is along the lines of ‘how many coffee shops and cafes can you sit outside and watch the world go by before its time to start on the spritzers?’ Mel needs some pure culture. Not culture by association like wot I like. So we chose a museum. Out of the 43,591 that there are there, we chose to visit the Palazzo Altemps. And its the best one here, by miles, and that’s based on probably seeing 3 of the others (possibly) over the last 15 years. An informed choice.

Its an old palace. Doh. And therefore big and airy and wonderful. And its quiet and cool and peaceful, where just 20 steps away there’s 20 million tourists screaming and shouting and taking selfies. The rooms are massive but have maybe 2 or 3 sculptures in each, a couple of paintings, that’s it. And there’s funny too. The original artefacts from the 16th and 17th centuries and the collections of antiquities were arranged by the artist/designer Fornasetti who chose to add bikes and electric guitars to the mix. And, in the photo of Mel’s filthy shoulders above, a ‘person’ taking a selfie, but its just an installation. No-one there would be so uncool as to take a real, non-ironic selfie.

From there we chanced upon an incredible church, San Andreas della Valle. Fucking massive place with the second biggest dome after the Vatican and the usual art and sculptures and Jesus dying a million deaths, all depicted by the great masters. But the place barely gets a mention in the guides. Which is great because it was quiet and free. And more fashionable than the Vatican because bare shoulders are almost ‘de rigeur’ in there.

And while all this was going on, England have almost won the bloody world cup. Showed them Belges what ‘goal difference’ really means.

Happy Monday

A xxxx