Andy's Glasses

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

Last year January was renamed ‘Veganuary’ as the march of the holiest-of-all-thous sought to spread the word, the seed (they actually allow eating of seeds; if not much else) of the Post Millennial Holy Inquisition that is veganism. Not just a menu option but an entire lifestyle, philosophy and all-embracing concept which needs to be rammed down the throat of ‘unbelievers’ at any opportunity.

This year they’re going to rename January as ‘Vaginauary’ after the part of the anatomy most closely aligned to vegans. Though I must stress, I have no issue with whatever anybody wants to eat, what they choose to wear, what they do. None whatsoever. It’s when it gets a little militant, a little jihadi, holy crusade-like that I start to shiver. And when it becomes an all out assault on the morality of non-vegans, my hackles are well and truly raised.

Because we know about animals and that possibly there are cruelty issues in the meat, egg, milk industries, nothing new there. And here’s the killer irony once veganism goes to the next level. That level of vegan shoes. The whole non-leather shtick. Because who wants wet feet? Ok, so they can make synthetic fibres waterproof, that’s fine. But did anyone realise that ‘synthetic’ is another way of writing ‘plastic’. Man made. Petro-chemical based. And synthetic fibres do not break down. Ever. Instead they stay as horrible little fibres which will, as does everything not biodegradable, enter the animal food chain.

Thus the animals that are the very starting point of the whole vegan thing, end up getting choked by the obsessive extrapolation of that well intentioned start. And the damage to the world’s eco-system by growing non-animal proteins is not great either. It’s not about the volume of wheat compared to the volume of grass needed for dairy cows. It’s about how much land/emissions are required to get an equivalent level of protein or good carbs. And again, those bloody vegans are ruining the planet totally for us animal-product exploiters.

Then there’s the obsession with vegan products which ‘are so much like meat… you might as well… eat meat’ but they’re vegan. And to enhance the taste and texture they load them with sugars.

So become a vegan. End up a great, fat, sugar-laden plonker with a totally fucked up and unsustainable planet.

Yet the most interesting part of the report I read (obvs. Where do ya think all this came from??) was that becoming vegan is the easiest way to hide an eating disorder. And that’s scary and horrible.

I’m home now. Arrived here about half an hour ago after an epic but not too horrible journey. 27 hours door-to-door. It’s 7 in the morning, I feel ready to go to bed despite having slept on and off for the last 15 hours.

Happy… zzzzzz… Tuesday

A xxxx

I didn’t realise when we booked our last 2 nights of the entire holiday, back here in Sydney, quite where things were. So we thought: let’s stay in the middle. What they call ‘Circular Quay’ here. By the bridge, the Opera House, by The Rocks and…

and by 96% of the world’s total supply of Ugg shops. It’s Australia’s biggest natural resource after all the animals that will kill you dead in 4 seconds with just a look. And sheep. Sharks. Opals. Dingos.

Mel wanted to buy some new Uggs (she should have brought her old ones back here to die really, would have been more poetic) and I inadvertently booked a hotel in Ugg Central. Thus the answer to the question ‘which Uggs did you buy?’ is: ‘all of them’. Shoes, gloves, ear-muffs, slippers… What else do they sell?

Fortunately I was down to my last twin for the morning so it was only half as bad as previous but still…

Sydney is a fab place though. We needed to get up to the Eastern Suburbs to see our mates before we leave, so just ‘hopped’ on a ferry. Cost, on an Aussie ‘Oyster’ card, is just 2.70 (less than 2 quid) and it takes 20 minutes on a fast boat ride out in the fresh air. Whereas an equivalent journey on the northern line takes 40 minutes, crushed half to death by halitosis-breathing unwashed slobs playing ultra-metal on their ear-buds whilst inhaling the air-equivalent of 10 Marlboro reds.

Tomorrow we leave. The following day we arrive home. Been special. Been amazing. The journey continues.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

I want to talk about shopping. And to do so I need to discuss that most sensitive of subjects: gender!!!

I’m not saying that all women love to shop whilst all men would gladly RIP OUT THEIR OWN FUCKING EYES WITH A BLUNT, RUSTY T-SPOON!!! rather than to accompany them, because that would be a crude and facile gender stereotype paradigm which would be quite frankly, beneath me. True as it may be.

But today, in Christchurch, I (was dragged screaming) gladly agreed to a ‘wee shopping spree’ accompanied by the Shopoholic Twins. Either of whom could render you suicidal when in shops on their own. But together, the total is way greater than the sum of the parts.

I thought this phobia was possibly mine and mine alone. The whole shopping thing. But then I saw a young couple walking towards me, towards the way out of the store. And the look on the man’s face was one of ‘salvation at hand’, of ‘rescue from damnation’. A look of profound hope. Then, just as he was accelerating doorwards, ‘the woman!’, be she girlfriend, wife, short-term-rental or whatever, just pulled his arm and said: ‘oh, just a minute, darling’ and wandered over to look at one more dress, one more shoe, one more bit of coloured plastic, one scarf, one tea towel, one absolutely fucking anything.

And his face looked so despairing, so ‘shot down on the final approach’, so suicidal, so… so… so much like mine did that I had a revelation. That in fact it must be ALL men who hate shopping and all women who love it.

Yet that’s obviously wrong. It’s a generalisation and generalisations are always wrong. Ha, ha. Because, like everything else these days, this is not binary. It’s not about love/hate of shopping. It’s deeper. It’s about the way we shop.

Men need a car, they go to the showroom. They want music, they go the music store. They want trousers, they just go to the pub and tell their wives the shop had sold out of trousers. But it is specific. We shop FOR THINGS. Whereas women just shop. For fucking anything. Whatever catches their eye, a good bargain, a pretty colour, something… something… that I don’t have. Might be a lampshade in a new colour, a dress that is different from the 12,764 currently in the wardrobe, shoes, table mats, rugs, throw cushions, scarves, heated towel rails, a yacht, FUCKING ANYTHING!!!!! And of course, to buy ‘anything’ you must first examine ‘everything’.

It’s the sheer randomness that kills you. The pure directionless examination of every single item in every single category of items that makes it all such incredible agony.

And this on a great morning which started with ‘just’ a 7-nil win for Spurs. Whilst I was having breakfast. How brilliant. Next year I may have to go away on holiday for the entire season to ensure such amazing results. Llorente? Never doubted him. Errr…

Very happy Saturday

A xxxx

Christmas is always ‘big time’ where football is concerned. Where the tough get going (so traditionally Arsenal don’t do that well) and the going gets tough so… yeah, whatever. But the sheer concentration of games ensures that it is a brutal time of year.

And I’m sitting on a train. The ‘trans-alpine’ train from Greymouth (where???) on the West Coast, to Christchurch on the east. It goes across all the mountain ranges that cars can’t. And hence is beautiful. So far so good on that score. Because this is ‘big country’. Full of big…

Whilst I’m here, at this precise moment in time, Liverpool are playing at the Etihad Stadium in Manchester. And in fact, as I started my journey this morning at Franz Joseph glacier, City went 2-1 up in the 74th minute and then… and then… we lost WiFi.

Which is fine and dandy, in theory. Losing WiFi is great, liberating, free from everything, but obviously is an eternal damnation to hell when there’s football being played. Over there. On the other side of the world where last night is happening this morning.

However, fast forward to the end of the 4 hour journey, checked into our hotel for the night, been out for dinner, and now I have WiFi AND the score. Which was 2-1 at the end. Which, for Spurs fans, particularly those of a believe-y nature, is THE BEST RESULT EVERRRRRR.

Because if Liverpool had won they’d have been a virtually impossible 9 points ahead of my boys. But now its only 6. Which is a bit less impossible, almost slightly probably possibly possible. Also because the loss will deflate the Scousers, like a punctured tyre on a beaten up, 1973 Vauxhall Viva. A stolen one. Which is more good news. Whereas Manchester City may indeed revert to the blinding form they had up to a few weeks ago but they’re only 2 points ahead.

Therefore: I believe once more. In God. (Sort of). In the trans-alpine railroad. In gender equality, but only for really fit babes. And in Spurs. Oh yes, in Spurs.

Happy Friday (and THAT is the glacier of which I spoke).

Leaving for Sydney tomorrow. Gonna miss New Zealand and its stunning beauty.

A xxxx

I’m sure there are a few Kiwis here. Don’t mean the animal nor the fruit, just the people wot live here. Allegedly there are almost a million of ‘em in the South Island but trust me, they’re as rare here as sheep were in our first few days. Because (shock alert!) I’m a tourist here. I know, I don’t look like one, because I have a knack of just fitting in perfectly. Like Zelig. But a tourist I am. And thus generally find myself either with people of the hospitality industry or with other tourists. The former tend to be English, Scottish, German, anywhere-but-here-ish. And the latter are obviously not native either. A majority are Japanese but you can tell these quite easily because they look like they’re dressed for nuclear fallout in a sandstorm. Or a visit by Russians for tea. These people should be avoided at all costs. The rest are ‘normal people of a non-English nature’.

And everyone wants to talk about Brexit. Everyone. The Americans and Canadians don’t really get the whole thing, the few Kiwis you do encounter have no idea what the word even means, nor do they care, and the Europeans…

The Europeans generally can’t understand why we’d want to become insular and isolated at a time when the world is becoming more global, more integrated, more… together. So I tell them about reclaiming the borders, (banning non-Europeans), making our own laws, (all of which are European), how we were lied to by all sides, at all times, to this day, because no-one knew the truth and won’t do until we leave and learn it the hard way.

Breakfast today I’m talking to a German. Happens sometimes, unavoidable. And he said he couldn’t understand how we voted to leave when every Brit he meets is a remainer. This man is a director of VW (owes me 20,000 euros for mis-selling me a Diesel engine on the Golf I’ve never owned; I asked for it in cash) and is based in Japan. And all the Brits he meets we’re remainers. Funny that. All the London-based executives and business high flyers and none wanted to leave Europe. So who could have voted to leave????

I make no judgments. On morons or anyone else. Not my place.

Happy Glacier Day

A xxxx

So what’s so good about Wanaka, New Zealand then? Ok, its got a lake. Everywhere round here has lakes, big deal. It has shops and restaurants, which singles it out quite a bit more. Mountains, yeah, beaches, right, sunshine and prettiness, blah, blah, blah. But what makes it really special is that Spurs won here. Well, they weren’t here, they were actually in Cardiff, but they won when I was here. And that’s the important part.

Because when Spurs win, I am happy. I am joyous. Life is richer, grass is greener, sun is shinier, everything just… just… just better. Same whether I’m at home or away. But some may have noticed that I made virtually no mention of Spurs rather tragic home loss to Wolves the other day. And that’s what’s really good about Wanaka, I can do the grown up version of sticking my hands over my ears and shouting “NAAH NAAAH NAAAH NAAAH…” I just use my new app on the phone. It’s called ‘GoonerBlock’ and, unlike sunblock, insect-block, any other block, it really works. It restricts all access to texts, messages and facebook from any Arsenal fans for the entire time until Spurs win again. Then its released. Otherwise I couldn’t gloat and be smug and horrible. And we wouldn’t want that, would we?

Wanaka, like most places over here, ranks as the most beautiful… ever. We cycled round the lake and just found staggering views everywhere. No TVs, showing the highlights, that would have been nice, but views of, mountains, lakes, rivers and shit.

Next week Spurs host Chelsea in the Carabao cup semi-final. And, following a wave of racial and anti-Semitic issues involving Chelsea fans, all of which have been aimed at Spurs fans, because Chelsea fans are stupid, there will be lots of crowd monitoring. Because if you go to Budapest and sing anti-Semitic, anti-Spurs songs, what will happen at ‘our house’? I hope David Baddeil comes along for the occasion. So he can realise that his fellow fan’s anti-semitism is nothing to do with Spurs fans adoption of ‘the Y word’ but just to the inherent nastiness and evil that Chelsea fans embrace so willingly.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx