Andy's Glasses

Spurs are playing Manchester United on Saturday in the FA Cup semi-final. The cup we care about… sometimes, don’t care about… often, but that becomes a really big thing when you reach the later stages and there’s a chance you might win it. Like every other domestic cup in Europe, it has been seriously ‘downgraded’ since the introduction of the Champions League which remains the holy grail for clubs, both in terms of prestige and certainly in remuneration. For the FA Cup they give you 50 quid, the champions league is worth 76 million just for a first round playoff match against a bunch of Norwegian fishermen. Or something like that. But Cup matches, however trivialised they become, pick up their own momentum in their latter stages. At the sharp end.

I went to the semi-final last year, when we lost to Chelsea but really, really should have won. Had a wonderful day out with Tory-boy in the Wembley sunshine. Same Wembley as this year but obviously will feel different because we’ve played all our home games there in between. I had lunch with Ledley King. My ‘dream date’. Had a chat with Ossie Ardiles. Ahhhhhh… then we fucking lost.

And really, it hasn’t been that great a week so far, footballing-wise. We lost to Man City last Saturday (in case you missed that), then last night we drew at Brighton. Which bothers me solely because we have a nice little ‘cushion’ against Chelsea and every point dropped erodes that slightly. Today’s ‘cushion’ is tomorrow’s ‘panic!!’ So beating Man United will be a massive boost to our confidence (players’ and, more importantly, fans’).

The good news is that Jose Morinho, the esteemed (in his ‘special’ mind) manager of that famous football club, appears to be going into his usual meltdown. Or ‘doing a Morinho’ as its known. When a manager tells the press all the shit about his players and bemoaning their lack of Morinho-ness. When other (I’m not saying ‘better’) managers would be having quiet conversations with a paternalistic arm round the shoulders of the errant superstars, Jose phones the Sun instead.

Paul Pogba, all 89 million pounds worth of him, is ‘possibly leaving this summer’. Anthony Martial is so unhappy with his lack of play that he wants to go to Juventus. Others are on the ‘unwanted’ list. Its a repeating story. Morinho cleverly unloaded some dead wood when he was at Chelsea. Mo Salah was shown the door, Kevin de Bruyne, Lukaku. All seen by Jose as shit. All now world class superstars, the first 2 the undisputed kings of the league this season. Because Jose only wants Christiano Ronaldo. Someone perfect and unfaltering. He’s not prepared to do the work and actually improve players, the way, f’rinstance, Pochettino has done at Spurs. And all good managers do. Jose doesn’t have the patience. Nor the eye for sublime talent that must have been at least evident in both de Bruyne and Salah. (Never been 100% convinced about Lukaku).

So he is now making every effort to destabilise his team. Before Saturday. Maybe he’s a closet Spurs fan. We shall have to see.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

In the ‘dark old days’, if you wanted some butter, you took your glass, or pottery or earthenware dish to the shop or the dairy and they stuck half-a-pound of their finest in it and you went home. That wasn’t called ‘recycling’ back then, it was just called ‘shopping’. Similarly you either took your jug to be filled with milk or they brought it to you in glass bottles. Which you returned empty and they sterilised and used again. But the world was in a rush, became busier and much more affluent once everyone had stopped attacking each other for years on end with heavy artillery and bombs dropped from planes. So they invented ‘convenience’. Which was a combined euphemism for ‘disposable’ and ‘plastic’. Consumers demanded things easy to buy, relatively clean and the manufacturers decided that sterile plastics were so cheap and easy to make that after 1973 the entire contents of the entire planet would be entirely contained, covered, delivered and stored, entirely in plastics. What could possibly go wrong?

In fact it all worked swimmingly. Until water was invented in 1989 by Evian. Previously you just drank water out of cups at the kitchen sink. But then someone decided that water was not just for mealtimes, not even for merely quenching thirst. No. It was something that had to be consumed, or seen to be consumed, at all times. If you weren’t carrying your little bottle of water along the streets you were either a sad fat bastard or a tramp. Who carried cider. In tin cans. Water consumption increased from 1.2 litres per person per day, in 1971 to 15.9 gallons in 2007. They had to build more toilets to meet the increasing, obsessive demands of a world telling us to ‘drink, drink, drink!!!’

And it all came in little plastic bottles. Unrecyclable and toxic. Which has now reached the point that every hamburger, every fish finger, every frikkin mushroom will soon have to include ‘PET’ in its list of constituent ingredients. Because PolyEthylene Terephthalate is in absolutely fucking everything ‘organic’. The stuff of our beloved water bottles is clogging up the oceans, ruining the countryside, filling every little space. Where it breaks down into micro-bits and enters the food chain. Nice. You want full milk? Semi-skimmed? Or double plastic?? It is everywhere. Which is why I have never bought a bottle of water. For myself. Ok, for my family I’ve bought 956 tons of the stuff over the years. And I regret every one.

Everything is now plastic. Look at Lila’s world.

But we’re saved. Because they’ve found an enzyme which actually breaks down PET, that most evil and ruinous substance. It ‘eats’ it. And in doing so it breaks it down into its original constituent parts which are totally reusable. But what if it gets fed up with eating plastic and morphs into a new enzyme that eats people!?!?!? I’m just sayin’.

This enzyme just evolved, in a plastics plant in Japan. Now they’re working on it to make it a bit faster, a bit more potent. But just shows. Evolution is much cleverer than people. Particularly those people who toss used water bottles out of car windows, onto beaches, in rivers. You know who you are.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

What a weekend. It started with high drama as our allied nations joined us in bombing a bit of Syria. But that went well. A ‘clinical’ and ‘surgical’ strike on a chemical weapons plant which even the Russians can’t complain about. Though they are, obviously. Interrupting their usual endless stream of denials (we didn’t poison the Scripals; we didn’t bomb civilians in Syria, we had nothing to do with chemical attacks…) and blaming Britain for all the evil in the world, they said that if that’s the end of the bombings then they’re ok with it. Putin is worried that any retaliatory action may jeopardise the state visit of the Conways next month, which the entire Russian nation is financially dependent upon. Oh, and the World Cup’s coming too.

Then came the wonderful stuff. Like playing tennis IN THE SUNSHINE!!!! Its so lovely. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy playing in the endless months of arctic fucking winds and cloudy wet horribleness, as long as its not actually raining. But to play in actual, honest-to-goodness sunshine?? Holy shit, its almost as if tennis was invented as a summer game. Who’d’a known?

Ok, Spurs lost to Manchester City, that wasn’t so wonderful, in fact it was downright awful, but also somewhat inevitable. And when Manchester United lost to West Brom yesterday to donate the league title to their local rivals, you could see it was just all written in the stars. But I didn’t go to the City match at Wembley.

Because Lila came to stay. She came for her first, solo sleep-over. So I thought we could watch the football together, even though we had friends coming for dinner, then get her too excited to sleep, as I do. Then later, wake her up for a midnight feast. Sweets, chocolates, cakes, maybe some booze, I had it all lined up and ready. But she went to sleep at 6.45 (before the football even started!!) and didn’t make a peep until 7.45 the next morning. Bloody killjoy. But when she wakes up…

She is ‘Lila-the-Destroyer!’, a mythical warrior of viking descent (never knew they had Vikings in the shtetls of Poland, did you? Well you don’t know everything then, do you?) who lays waste to all that comes before her. Rooms, toys and her particular favourite, kitchen drawers and cupboards. I know, you wouldn’t think it possible with that ‘butter wouldn’t melt’ look and all that sweeter than sweet squeaking. But trust me: she’s lethal. Soon as she can stand without help I’m going to take her to martial arts classes; focus all that destruction. Maybe turn her into a hit-man-girl or something useful like that. Suppose I should discuss with her parents first, they may have other plans.

Oh well, the weekend’s over. But its STILL sunny. Halleluyah!

Happy Monday

A xxxx

I’ve fished out my army surplus stuff from the attic; genuine Marines belt, 4 medals, awarded to someone else, a tin helmet and a (broken) gas-mask in a nice little khaki bag. And I’m ready for the call-up. To do my duty for God and the Queen and fly out to Syria. Or Moscow. And if its the latter I can save the War Department a few bob because I’ve already booked my flight there next month with British Airways. I’m ready.

Last night in a co-ordinated event, with America, France and Britain, we bombed a bit of Syria. In fact it was the little bit where the chemical weapons are produced. The bits that hadn’t been moved to Iran or Iraq in the last 4 days since we told them we were coming. Very fair of Trump to announce his intentions. No-one likes a surprise. Especially in war. Its not fair play. So Assad had already moved loads of planes off to safer lands plus anything else in danger. Possibly including his own, sorry, cowardly arse.

The strikes didn’t touch anything even vaguely Russian. Even the cabbage fields were left unscathed for fear of Putin nuking every city in the West. In his promised ‘retaliation for the retaliation’.

So this is just an ‘escalation’. And Theresa May is very comfortable with her conscience for her participation. Not that she actually flew the planes or fired the bombs. You can’t fly an F15 in kitten heels.

But you can authorise an attack on a foreign power without putting it to Parliament first. Because you don’t have to put such issues to the vote, but you can if you want. So Corbyn wanted it before parliament so he could vote against it. Not due in any way to the actual merits of the specific case but because he always votes against attacks of any description. Unless they’re on Israel, obviously, then he’s ok with it. Otherwise he’s been anti war since 1863.

A more interesting question perhaps is why, if chemical bombs are against international law, regular, blowing up, shrapnel spreading, instant death for thousands type bombs perfectly ok? Even on civilian populations? Even atomic bombs are ok. Is a bit inconsistent, don’t’cha think? But those chemicals are rather nasty. Even though dead is, generally, dead.

Lovely to have some sunshine for once; the dream.

Happy, sunny Saturday

A xxxx

It is widely believed that there are three paths to eternal life. Ok, there is no eternal life unless you’re a Bhuddist or a vampire, we know that, but figuratively speaking. Paths that will lead to longer, healthier, fitter lives. I’ll give you a clue; McDonalds isn’t one of them. Even football didn’t make the final cut. And single-malt whisky won’t actually make you live longer but will make what time you do have much more pleasurable.

Yoga, Pilates, Tai Chi. These are the golden dream activities. I read it so it must be true. Things that will serve you well into your old age and keep you fitter and better and… more… better.

I don’t think they mean Tai Chi as I do it. Unless your inner peace is derived from leaving a wake of destruction behind you. With broken arms and missing teeth. They mean just the tai chi ‘form’, that wonderful oriental ‘dance’ that flexes every muscle in your body and keeps you poised and balanced, like wot I is.

Pilates is kind of ‘yoga on steroids’. It takes nice, easy, soft movements and increases them exponentially until they really hurt. I’ve done it. Its horrible. Nasty. Women love it. In that masochistic, ‘no pain, no gain’ kind of way. But its undoubtedly good for your muscles, ligaments, cartilage, all the shit that seizes up when you watch the match on Sunday afternoon.

But yoga is the ‘pure’ activity. Just you, yourself and your peacefulness. Ok, you do a bit of downward dogging and upwardly mobiling or whatever, but its basically… kind of… well… sort of…

Before our Thursday night tai chi class, we have to wait for the yogis to leave the studio before we use it to hit each other. Otherwise you trip over them, lying on their mats with beautific smiles on their faces. No, I didn’t say ‘smug’, how dare you! But they always finish late, which we’re tolerant of, and you look through the door to see 25 adults asleep on the floor. I mean wtf? You really don’t need to spend 100 quid a month gym membership for napping on the floor and then getting trodden on by impatient martial artists. I call them the ‘sleeping bunnies’.

And yet as I look at them (as I try to step over), there is something definitely at peace in their expressions. And in fact in their whole demeanour. Their bodies are totally relaxed, their minds completely at rest. They are, internally, under a lotus bush in Rajasthan, rather than on a hardwood floor in North Finchley and that is indeed an aspiration for us all.

So why do I always think: ‘BUNCH’A FUCKIN’ TOSSERS! GET A LIFE! DO SOME PROPER EXERCISE YA LIMP, FLABBY YOGIC DICKHEADS!!!!?

Rachie took a yoga class in Berlin. “Ommmmmmmm… SCHNELL!! RRROUSSS, RRROUSSS!!! Ommmmmm…” She hated it. But she’s my daughter. If you’re not sweating when you’ve finished then you might as well have stayed at home and watched the football whilst drinking beer.

Peaceful Friday

A xxxx

We’re getting slowly ready for our Russia trip. About 5 weeks’ time. Because everything to do with Russia is done slowly, other than murders and military attacks.They happen quickly. And to check out everything’s safe and ok, I’ve sent Spurs Paul and Mrs Spurs Paul out there this week for a ‘recce’. And so far they’re still alive, which is pretty much an assumption because anyone could have got hold of his phone and sent me photos of the Bolshoi and of glossy Moscow eateries. Anyone. If you can hack into the US electoral system, sending a few whatsapps shouldn’t be a massive issue.

So this morning was ‘visa day’. That eagerly awaited day when you get to stand in line outside a grotty little building in Clerkenwell in the rain and beg the good people of Russia to grant you entry into their fine and… into their country.

Before you go… gawd. You realise why Russia is Russia. You fill in an online ‘application’ which takes no more than a few days to complete. You get not just booking references from your hotels but actual, formal, signed and stamped ‘invitations’, details of travel, details of where any dead relatives you have were when they died. Then, and only then, are you worthy to go and queue up in Clerkenwell (like a little Siberia next to Shoreditch). And get your first taste of Russia.

There’s a big sign on the door that says: ‘STOP SMILING!!’ Well, there might as well be. Because Russians, even when they’re being quite helpful, simply don’t smile. Its not in their nature. Or if it was they beat it out of them at some further stage on life’s pathway. And they’re officious. Even if they’re actually quite helpful, as they were, quite nice, as I think they could be, there’s a box-ticking jobsworthiness that you feel inflicts the entire nationality.

So our form had something missing. NOOOOOOO… FUCK!!! ITS SIBERIA FOR US!!!!

But its ok; you can re-do it on our computer over there. Only a fiver. And you’d pay 50 quid because by then you’ve absorbed the general level of nervousness and perfectionism that accompanies all things Russian. But it was fine. All done, paid for (not cheap) and now we wait for our passports to return so we can start (panicking??) preparing for the trip in earnest. If we’re not at war, obvs.

Schastlivoy sredy (happy Wednesday)

A xxxx

I simply cannot understand the appeal of Jeremy Corbyn. Let me rephrase that: I fucking hate Jeremy Corbyn. Yet people support him and his toxic, evil, destabilising views.

In the wake of the ‘Salisbury affair’ Corbyn remained defiant in defending the right of Russia’s presumed innocence after 2 people, hated by Putin, were found near-death after ingesting military grade Russian nerve agent.

Then last weekend after Assad (with his lovely allies; da Russians and da Iranians) dropped chemical bombs on a civilian population in Douma killing at least 70, Corbyn came up with some wise old words. Sadly, long after everyone else had come up with far more understandable recriminations and offered more pragmatic actions. But eventually, with everyone saying “but you MUST say something!! Its an atrocity; people have died!!!” Jeremy finally stepped up as ‘the statesman’. And said that we need to find evidence first, investigate before condemning and the solution to this problem must be achieved round a negotiating table after a cease-fire”.

What a total fucking tosser.

In fact I think the current status in Syria is one of ‘cease-fire’, maybe it is, maybe it isn’t, the words are empty and meaningless with Assad/Putin/Ayatollah. They do as they please, when they please.

And its Putin’s presence in the mix that gives Jeremy his issues. He simply can’t condemn a man who is a ‘communist’. Albeit, allegedly a man richer than every single capitalist in the world. Thus ‘the cause’ of communism/socialism/whatever becomes more important to Corbyn that the lives a few children.

I suppose no-one’s ever thought of ‘peaceful negotiation’ before. What an inspiration he is.

Oddly, his very strong sense of ‘never comment until you are SURE of all facts’ only seems to apply when Russia is involved. When Israeli soldiers killed 7 Gazans, who it now comes to light were part of a 3000 strong army under Hamas leadership attacking the Israel border with violent intentions, Corbyn was the first off his blocks shouting his condemnation and demanding action. Yet for lovely Mr Assad, with his long history of chemicals-against-the-masses, he is far more equivocal.

I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: I hate that man.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

What can we do about Manchester City? They have a ‘massive problem’. Ok, not in line with chlorine attacks in Syria, the imminent war with Russia, the gender ‘pay gap’, but still, its a problem. The team have won the league. The hardest, most competitive league in the world (Bayern Munich just won the Bundesliga for the 6th consecutive time, Celtic are about to win the Scottish league as they’ve done every year for 9 decades, Real Madrid and Barcelona pretty much win every Spanish title and no-one cares about the French), and City had it wrapped up last October. They might have faltered against Liverpool, buckled against Man United and (may it please the Lord) get FUCKING HAMMERED AT WEMBLEY NEXT WEEKEND, but its a done deal. Though it is a bit odd that the team I myself even called ‘the best club team in the world… probably’ have started to show vulnerability and even fragility. And from a fan’s perspective (the only one I have) the vulnerability against Liverpool hurts but the fragility against Man United simply kills. No fan wants ever to be on the receiving end of “2-nil, and you fucked it up, 2-nil…” (repeat until the pubs have closed and the last buses long gone back to the depot). Because after that, and I speak from a vast experience, you stop trusting your team even when they have a ‘great lead’. You live in a state of panic. You start hearing things at your ground from fellow fans, just after we’ve taken a 1-nil lead, like: ‘oooh, that’s a bit too early for us to score really’. At 3-nil up you’re really worried.

Spurs used to be like that. For decades. Fragile. Unpredictable in adversity. Unable to close out matches. And yet now I have a confidence in them, in the players, in their mind-set, in the way they play, that I’m comfortable with. I don’t get in (so much of) a panic when we’re 2-0 up and concede a goal in the 63rd minute. Well, only momentarily, perhaps. But I have faith. I believe. And trust me, that’s new.

And attributable to Daniel Levy. The club’s chairman. Who just received a yearly pay award of 6 million quid. And as he’s famously ‘mean’ about player wages to the extent where no-one quite knows how he manages to ‘underpay’ (100,000 a week?? Underpay???? But heh, this is football) our array of superstars, but he does and keeps them happy. He found us the absolute best manager in the world who, coincidentally, earns a similar amount, which is a total bargain. And he’s building us the best stadium in the league for next year.

What Toby Alderweireld thinks he’s worth is irrelevant here. Its like bemoaning Stephen Spielberg earning more than Kate Winslet. Its not comparable. Daniel Levy is the boss. He can earn what he wants. He runs a massive, multi-million pound company which turns a very healthy profit and keeps me very happy. His pay is simply not comparable to ‘the talent’. However talented they may be or think they are or, worse still, their agents think they are. Its facile and stupid to compare salaries of people doing completely different jobs.

Happy Monday and if someone says ‘we need more rain’ at any time in the next 6 months, I’m going to kill them.

A xxxx

The White House has a weekly Bible Support Group meeting. So the cabinet can get nearer to Christ. They won’t address the gun-laws which result in the death of hundreds of children each year, but they want to be next to Christ. So they can have Jesus and Donald, kind’a ‘together’. Wow. One turning the other cheek whilst the other puts his hand up skirts to find the other cheek. That’s a kind of symbiosis in itself. Its the first time such weekly meetings have been held there for over 100 years.

And with good reason. Mainly that you really don’t want bible-bashers having any influence on the running of a country. Ever. In any circumstances. Whatever fucking version of the ‘bible’ they choose. Because then you end up with Iran. Or the Taleban. Or to a lesser but more common degree, with Ireland (both Northern and the Republic) and even parts of America itself.

Because the bible imposes restrictions that have no modern right to be there. Its regressive. Its a story-book of allegorical, fictional tales and once you start treating it with any kind of literalism then you’re fucked. And its also, in case you missed it, the most easily manipulated rule-book ever. It can justify almost any atrocity, from burning gays to Apartheid, from Female Genital Mutilation to ISIS, with anti-contraception, banning abortion and female repression all thrown in for free.

There is no mention in any bible of ‘Tottenham Hotspur’. And they’re God’s own team! So how valid can it be?

The dude who runs the White House bible classes offers great insights. He says that ‘homosexuality is not supported by the scriptures’. Like ‘flash player is not supported by Windows 7’. His groups are run by various ministers, but never by women. Again, incompatible, will not compute. Women are in charge of the children but NOT anything churchish or prayish. Its in the scriptures, so it must be obeyed.

As if the White House wasn’t fucked up enough.

Meanwhile, Manchester, last night, OMG. Amazing game, wrong result only because it gave Morinho the right to be even smugger than normal. If that’s possible. But the BIG GAME was at Stoke. And a brilliant and totally deserved result for my boys. Whatever anyone else says.

Tennis rained off agaiaiaiain! Terrible. I’m going to find a bible class instead.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

So a robber breaks into a home at night. Living there is an old couple. The husband is threatened with a screwdriver by one burglar while the other goes upstairs, where lies disabled wife, to find the ‘swag’. A melee ensues in the kitchen and the 78-year-old home owner stabs the burglar once resulting in the scumbag’s death. I make no judgments or preconceptions. Innocent until proven whatever, even if you’re a serial burgling low-life preying on the elderly. As was, errr, coincidentally, the case here.

The police arrested the old man for murder.

And the entire country went: WTF???

Murder. Which involves its own implicit level of preconception, otherwise its manslaughter. So this 78-year-old went to bed and what? Phoned a few burglars up to get one round so he could stab him? He went to the kitchen with the express purpose in mind of committing a deadly sin?

He has since been released to face ‘no further charges’. But really. I mean, REALLY!

The man should have instantly been proclaimed a hero, presented with a medal for valour and given a peerage for ‘helping the community’ by getting rid of at least one totally parasitical, nasty criminal shit-head.

If you stab a man on the street, or a woman (must remember not to discriminate next time I’m looking for a stab-victim), that’s generally a bad thing. On the grounds of ‘why were you carrying a knife?’ But when someone comes into your home with bad intentions and weapons, then I’m afraid all bets are off. You can gun the fucker down. But probably don’t have a gun. Unless you’re Tony Martin and he ended up in prison. Which was the most unpopular move ever perpetrated by police except the repeated shooting of black men in their backs. But that was American police and they have different rules.

So the law, as I understood it (10% information gleaned from the Daily Mail, 90% guesswork), changed after that case so that if intruders are in your home, the force you use may indeed be ‘disproportionate’. Which to me says ‘you can kill who you like in your own house’. So be careful next time you pop in for a cuppa tea. Not that I’m inviting you.

Everyone’s excited about the game tonight. If Manchester City beat Manchester United at Old Trafford they not only win the league but do it at the home of their neighbours/rivals. The final insult. Like when Arsenal won it at Spurs. Like a kick in the teeth. Like stabbing a burglar. Whereas I’m more concerned with the truly massive game at Stoke this afternoon. Every game Spurs play is now a 6-pointer, if not more. And we don’t want Stoke having some kind of ‘resurgence’ at this point in their sad and doomed lives.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx