Andy's Glasses

So Steve & Joey were called back east. After an intense and grueling 4/5 months of working 1 or 2 evenings a month and hanging round the pool the rest of the time, New York was a’calling. And they promised to reveal the secrets of ‘the locked room’. And with it, hopefully, kind’a explain what the fuck they’ve been doing in LA other than tanning. Which is why we’d assumed they were hit-men. Loads of money, did nothing that even vaguely resembled work, and even then not very often.

But they weren’t hit-men. They weren’t ‘family’, nor ‘connected’ other than, as it turned out, rather peripherally. So when the room was finally opened, there was no plastic lined torture chamber, no chopping block and axe, not even any guns.

What there was…

was a blackjack table, a roulette wheel and a craps table. All beautiful dark wood and green velvet, casino quality. Steve and Joey were croupiers. Based in Atlantic City. Where gambling is legal. Which it certainly ain’t in Los Angeles. That’s why god made Las Vegas, a mere stone’s throw away. If you can throw a stone about 200 miles.

Ahhhhhh, croupiers. And this is what happened.

Steve and Joey’s boss? mate? colleague? would sit at a table in Vegas. At a big casino in a high stakes game. And he’d chat to the other players. Who were all generally businessmen over in LA, who loved to gamble. And, particularly if they were Orientals, who just looooooove to lose money, he’d kind’a, just, sort’a mention, that if Mr Kim, or Mr Son or Mr Cheng would like a game before returning to… the East, he knew of a ‘private casino’ right in LA. In Hollywood in fact. You know, where Andy lives? Right in that block. Ahhhh, sohhhh…

No-one ever enters a casino and thinks; ‘when I’m 20 grand up I’m gonna stop’. No. People, even habitual gamblers, are wise enough, or perhaps stupid enough, to set limits according to what they’re prepared to lose. And lose it they will. Whether it takes 30 minutes or 7 hours, they’ll just keep on until its all gone. So all Steve and Joey did was to facilitate that process. Make them comfortable, give them drinks, make them snacks (after a ‘work night’ we’d always go up to their flat which would be fully laden with wonderful things that had to be eaten within 3 days), and let them gamble. The tables were real, the wheel proper, the cards unmarked. But the house always wins. Even if that ‘house’ was in fact 1886 Hollywood Boulevard, appartment 317.

So although our croupiers were the loveliest guys you could meet and ‘no-one got hurt’, it was illegal. Which doesn’t bother me. You can own a gun anywhere in America but you can’t put 5 bucks each way on ‘Son of a Bitch’ to win the 3.30 at Hollywood Park. Yet that illegality makes you wonder. About who organises such a thing.

When I left LA, on the way home I stayed with Joey for a couple of weeks on Long Island. It was like living with The Sopranos. And one night we borrowed his ‘uncle’s’ car. And in the boot was a whole load of dynamite. My uncle’s car in England had a spare tyre (remember them?) and some jump leads. Joey’s; dynamite. Which, of course, we had to ‘try’ and after a rather boozy night at a club, we found a portaloo on a building site and tested Alfred Nobel’s contribution to society. Which, let me tell you, definitely works. Not sure it would win any peace prize though.

How many 65 year old men have a boot full of dynamite? I may have asked some questions, but certainly received no answers.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

There’s sayin’ things and there’s sayin’ things. There’s gilding lilies and there’s calling spades spades and there’s evading issues and there’s cutting to the chase. And then there’s Margaret Hodge. Dame Margaret Hodge. Bless her saintly Baronetcy.

Because ever since Jeremy Corbyn emerged from his cocoon (not a racist term) and thrust himself into the political spotlight as new Labour leader sounding a lot like an old communist leader, there have been ‘issues’ (hateful, all-encompassing, totally vague type word that we all sometimes have to use, so I apologise) with anti-semitism in the Labour Party. Things happened, words spoken, attitudes aligned, in such a way that Jezza, whilst always claiming that ‘he abhors all kinds of racism’ without ever managing to separate the anti-semitism or give it any kind of individual status, he appeared as a wonderful and powerful magnet for anti-semites and Jew-hate narrative. They were drawn to him. Like flies round shit. And he hedged and he hummed and he said the usual ‘taken out of context’ and ‘that’s not what he meant’ (when ‘he’ probably said he wished the rest of the Jews had died in the war, or something nice like that) and he has systematically skirted the issue. With the help of his gang of total, all-out Jew haters like Seamus Milne. The Labour Party has a very strong policy on antis-semitism; deny, deny and deny again.

So they set up an ‘enquiry’ headed by the (exceedingly recently) ennobled Shami Chakrabarti who found there was absolutely no problem whatsoever. Ah, brilliant, job done, all over now, fab.

Whitewashing tossers.

Meanwhile the antisemitism continues unabated to such an extent that the newspapers barely bother to even report it. Like infighting within the Tory party, there’s just too much of it. But Labour set up some committee, because that’s what they do, and in order to ‘keep out the antisemitism’ that they don’t even think exists, they first have to have a good, working definition. Oh, its ok, one already exists. The same definition used in every organisation in the country and every country in the civilised world. Yeah, but we can’t use that one. Huh? No, unfortunately, its not quite antisemitic enough in its defining of anti-semitism for Labour to use. There’s no room within that definition for 98% of our members to speak freely and openly about the sodding kikes. Oh. Ok.

So Labour brought in their own one. Without consulting any Jews, obviously. What the fuck would they know about anti-semitism. Especially the 96 rabbis who complained about the unacceptability of the new definition

And so to Dame Margaret Hodge, the daughter of Holocaust survivors, who encountered Le Corbyn in the hallways in Westminster. And called him a “fucking anti-semite and racist”.

God Bless Margaret Hodge. The Jewish God, at very least.

And of course, Labour, specifically Seamus Milne, has immediately started action for her suspension for disloyalty to the party. Far quicker than anyone ever acted in cases of antisemitism, it must be noted.

Ahhhhh, happy Friday

A xxxx

I kind of ‘grew up’ with Cliff Richard. He was there when I first started appreciating music beyond ‘the wheels on the bus’ but before ‘careful with that axe, Eugene’. I really liked The Shadows, his backing band who were always much better in his absence. He was hailed as ‘the English Elvis!’ but he was as much Elvis as Jeremy Corbyn is Churchill. He was Elvis like Barbar Windsor (god rest her soul) is like Christiano Ronaldo.

Because, other than the fact that his voice always disappointed, weak and breathy with no substance, there was something definitely creepy about Cliff. Always was. Then once he found Jesus (no idea where, loads have looked, possibly in a cave in Thailand?) his creepiness quadrupled. He never married, nor was ever seen in the company of the usual ‘rock’ (to stretch that word beyond any normal limit) hangers-on. No groupies, no actresses, just Sue Barker, the tennis babe, for a while. But even then you got the impression that this was a ‘marriage of convenience’, something for the public to see rather than a relationship in any normal sense.

Was he gay? He’s had long enough to come out for fuck sake. Was he just ‘celebate’? Odder things have happened. He was just a bit… different.

On the basis that every actor/singer/celeb today will, in 40 years time, be up for ‘historical sex offence’ charges, Cliff’s time was now. Whilst the mud was being slung, some of it just had to stick to Cliffy. Poor Cliffy. So the police went to investigate. Check his computers, search his house. No arrest was made, not even cautioned, but ‘an investigation’. And the key bit ‘relating to child sex offences’. Historical, obvs.

The BBC somehow found this out (‘somehow’ being that they were told by the police) and were there the day the battalions of officers arrived, thrusting their big furry mikes at poor, deer-in-the-headlights Cliffy

The investigation concluded, the searches ended and they found… nothing. Not a single jpeg of indecency (unless you count religious shit as offensive, like I do) was found, not a sniff of old underpants, not a phone number that didn’t go straight to God, not a solitary nuffink. Ok, so that’s all fine then, you can go back to living normally again.

But he can’t. And he never will. Because once any sentence includes your name and the words ‘child sex offences’, even if the middle bit says ‘was never even remotely involved in…’ you’re fucked. Royally shafted. You will FOREVER be tarred with the brush that had no tar on it in the first place. You can unscrew a lightbulb but you can’t unscrew a pregnant woman. Nor can you remove the stain that is forever ‘Cliff the kiddy-fiddler’. And that is absolutely awful. Even if you can’t sing for shit and really never could.

So, much as I don’t like ‘Cliff’s Law’ as it will be known, because it will in future gag the press from naming suspects until they’re formally charged or arrested, when they get it wrong, as in Cliff’s case, it could ruin the life of a sad old perv-, sorry, of a national treasure.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

So after a year in Los Angeles, it just seemed to be coming to an end. Not that I wasn’t loving it there but it just seemed to be ‘a sign’ as our merry band of players started to dissipate. Then I heard on the radio (we listened to that in 1982) an advert for ‘The Hawaiian Express’, a daily flight from LAX to Honolulu and back. Gonna be cheap. And for the first however-many to book, it was stupid-cheap. $99 return. Irresistible. So irresistible as to be impossible to get through on the phone. You only had 3 days to get that price and they had, I think, one phone that they just left off the hook.

But I went to a bar in Santa Monica with Steve, the hit-man(?), one night. And indeed did we drink. And went afterwards to sober up in a diner, those wonderfully indispensable American places of comfort, coffee and refuge for the chronically drunk and hungry at 2 in the morning. And sitting in the Denny’s that night were two really gorgeous girls. Not just, like, ‘gorgeous’ gorgeous, but California gorgeous that bespeaks $250 haircuts and the nails and the clothes and the gloss… everything. “So what do you do?” I enquired of one, or perhaps both. The reply came: “I’ve just finished UCLA, Business Studies, and started an airline”. As you do in California. What you do is get an idea, say… cheap flights to Hawaii, then daddy buys you a second hand (from Al Italia) Boeing 747 and you fly to Honolulu and back every day. I was sobering up with Ms Hawaiian Express. Holy shit. So the next day I called, on HER number, and booked my flight. Booked for my mate Paul too. Not because I’m naturally generous and lovely but because he has a sister who lives in Maui.

I went a few days early because I wanted to see Waikiki beach. Hawaii 5-0, surf’s up, dude, the whole thing. I HAD to see Waikiki. It was only once I arrived there I realised why Paul passed up the opportunity. Its a man-made beach dumped in a shit-hole of sleaze and military-on-leave. So its easier to get a hooker than a taxi and there are far more drug dealers on the streets than burger bars. But heh, I survived my days there, hooked up with Paul at the airport and over we went to Maui. Which is as wonderfully, gorgeously Hawaiian as Honolulu isn’t. Spent a wonderful two weeks there, playing tennis, eating steaks (not particularly Hawaiian, I know but man’s gotta eat), driving jeeps up volcanoes and just hanging on black sand beaches (volcanic; odd but quite wonderful).

One night as we parked the car there was this really loud… ‘noise’. Deep, throaty, sharp. Then again. And again. We, very slowly, walked towards the source by the bushes and there was a frog. The size of a dinner plate, but rounder, more like a football. Biggest fucking frog I’ve ever seen. Had no idea frogs could even reach such a size. My mind immediately went to ‘what is going to eat HIM’. I’m not scared of frogs. I’m scared of their predators. Cos that’s life. And dinner. And then I learned that there are no snakes on Hawaii. None. Because if there were they’d be as big as houses.

And then I went back to LA, obvs, its the only place you could fly on that airline, to tidy things up before I left for good. And to finally learn the secret of Joey and Steve.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

another Monday another Trump meeting with a disgrace figure world leader. We’ve done Kim, yesterday it was Poot’n. Next week maybe Assad? Erdogan? Maybe Macron. But ‘its good to talk’. So we’re told. Though it depends indeed what is said.

Trump’s one-on-one with Poot’n went, according to Donald, ‘very well. Very well indeed’. Because? We discussed?? Decisions were made? Plans formulated? Continuation talks agreed??

We’ll never know. What was said in Helsinki will apparently stay in Helsinki. Trump being Trump and only ever saying the headline, twice, obviously, with no substance to follow. No substance to follow. Tosser. Tosser.

What we do know is that Poot’n emphatically denied that Russia had any influence whatsoever on the US presidential elections or the Brexit referendum. Trump believes him. Even though Poot’n’s default position is always denial. And I always believe him too. He had nothing to do with the Scripals poisoning in Salisbury. Nothing to do with Litvinenko. Nothing to do with Ukraine. Is not currently systematically murdering Syrian civilian populations on a city-by-city basis.

But Trump’s… naive? stupid? calculated? acceptance of Poot’n’s denial because it was ‘so strong’, immediately puts the Prez at odds with his entire intelligence network, all of whom are assured of Russia’s involvement and interference. Yet Trump decides to believe his new mate, rather than the acronym squads of the CIA, the FBI, NSC and ITV. The NRA have yet to comment, but safe to say, they don’t like commies. Even multi-squillionaire ones like Poot’n who loves guns and fires them often. Trump has already been accused of ‘treason’. Probably only ‘thought-treason’ where you think an enemy is right and 22,000 intel bods in your employ must therefore be wrong. Maximum sentence 97 years. Though for Trump who always says things twice, make that 194 years.

Its all meaningless. A PR exercise by both countries to show the world that the two nations in possession of collectively 90% of the world’s nukes aren’t going to have a war any time soon.

For which we can all be eternally (quite literally) grateful. This week at least.

Happy Tuesday. Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

So what am I supposed to do now? There’s no more tennis, the World Cup is over (in case you missed that) and the new football season doesn’t start for almost 4 weeks!! The European Championships are 2 years away and the next World Cup not for 4… and a half, because they have to be played in winter due to the abject stupidity and institutionalised corruption of (old; I’m hoping) FIFA awarding the tournament to (fucking) Qatar. Which is too hot for camels in the summertime, never mind pale and pasty Scandinavians. In the winter it will be a cool and moderate 47 degrees, which is fine. Note: fans take fans.

The Men’s final at Wimbledon produced the right result, ie: tennis players 1, big serving giants, lost. But it was unspectacular. Anderson had simply run out of serves after his 6 hour serve-a-thon semi-final on Friday and his type of player has no ‘plan B’. Most players don’t have a ‘plan B’ against Djokovich and if they do it generally fails anyway.

So with Novak (as I call him, fellow tennis players, you understand…) strolling to victory it was time to change channel for the football. Though the BBC is so brilliant you didn’t need to even do that, they did it for you. They pushed the tennis to BBC2 so you didn’t have to go to all that effort of picking up the remote and clicking. Giving you more valuable eating time. Though personally, I chose to change location. Not to Russia but to Lila’s house. On the grounds that even if the football is shit, it’ll be loads of fun with the baby.

Which it undoubtedly was, but the football wasn’t shit. It was fantastic. And controversial.

World Cup finals tend to be rather conservative affairs; very defensive, everyone worried that the first goal might be the last so they’d rather prevent it than score it. No-one said footballers were clever. But this game was played by the two most exciting teams, played with flair and skill and power and pace. Then the French, typically, started cheating. Griezmann went down in a tackle in which, it was later seen, again, and again, and again, there was no contact with the defender until after Antoine was on the floor and already writhing in ‘agony’. Free-kick, own goal, 1-0. But Croatia equalised quite magnificently with a brilliant goal. So the French used the VAR ticket to appeal an incident that was never a penalty in a million years. But that would be the million years before they invented Video refs. And if you slow it down sufficiently, it looks a bit like a handball. At full speed it certainly isn’t, just unintentional contact. So the ref changed his decision and awarded the penalty. 2-1 to France.

To be fair to the French, something I’ve spent a lifetime avoiding, they then just ran away with the game in quite spectacular style. Even the world’s most potentially brilliant but generally as useful as a cricket bat on a fishing trip, player, Paul Pogba, realised at least some of that potential.

Hugo Lloris had a mad moment, which he does and it ended 4-2. The highest score in a World Cup final since VAR was introduced. The most goals… blah, blah, blah.

Then we all cried as the captain of SPURS went up to lift the trophy. And some of us thought… just for a moment… if you screwed up your eyes a bit…

So what am I supposed to do now then? Eh??

Happy end-of-the-world (cup) Monday

A xxxx

I’m opposed to movie sequels. Politically. Ok, there are exceptions, otherwise life would be dull and I thrive on hypocrisy. The ONLY acceptable sequels are Kill Bill 2, because it really wasn’t a sequel, Godfather 2, because it was such a magnificent movie and in a way all 4 parts were just a serialised version of Mario Puzzo’s books. And, of course, Terminator 2, which is still mind-blowingly brilliant even after decades of advancement in special effects in the industry.

Otherwise, sequels are just a form of exploitation of the masses, which sounds a bit Marxian but its true. “They loved Die Hard, so just re-make exactly the same movie with a different back-drop and ‘they’ will love that too. And if they don’t, it’ll be too late because they can only make that decision on the way out of the cinema they’ve already paid to enter”. Cynical bastard movie-makers. The same ones who made Rocky 2, Death Wish 2 and Under Seige 2. And I really liked Under Seige (1) because it used Stephen Segal’s single facial expression (even Keira Knightly has 2) to great effect and lots of things blew up.

The Bourne series, with Matt Damon (coining it) as Jason Bourne were just following the books. I was in my serious Robert Ludlum phase (nineteen-seventy… something) when The Bourne Identity came out. Brilliant book. Followed by The Bourne Supremacy, The Bourne Holocaust, The Bourne Constipation, The Bournes shop at Asda and The Bourne Free. But the books were just as exploitative as the movies that followed. Though being books they tend to be judged differently and in a more hi-brow manner and thus are given licence to exploit and be repetitive.

Yet there is absolutely no excuse for making a sequel to Mama Mia. None whatsoever. Issa fucking song. Not even a particularly good song. On the grounds that Abba made it. And they spun a quite stupid tale around a song and used some really powerful A-listers like Meryl Streep and Julie Waters and Pierce Brosnan and so I went to see it. I was the only man in the place. And it was tragically, pathetically awful. Simply cringeworthy. Not in a Larry David kind of cringey way, more in a overly simplistic children’s tv type way that is embarrassing to see.

But because half the world’s women went to see it, they want them to go see another one, or even see if they can get the other half involved.

Lily James is in it, which would normally be sufficient to have me rushing to any movie theatre, but the thought of Pierce Brosnan (not-)singing again produces an instant repelling effect along with all the pre-release images which show that there can be too much happiness in the world. Too much smiling, too much… fucking Abba.

World Cup final? Wimbledon final?? OMG. No sequels there.

Happy final day

A xxxx

Ok, so now the football’s suddenly gone all non-English and non-interesting, the Wimbledon that I had horribly, cruelly, with such fickle callousness, disregarded, has once again come back into my life with a vengeance. With a rush. With just 5 hours of Nadal (who I love dearly) and Djokovich (who I don’t really) playing the most spectacular game of tennis I’ve seen since this morning in the park when I had a knock-up with Michael from Tai Chi. It was that good. In fact the game at Wimbledon was fucking amazing. Possibly the best I’ve ever watched. Certainly the most recent. Which always raises the ranking.

I didn’t watch the ‘other’ semi-final. The two fucking giants out-serving each other for 6 hours as the crowd fell asleep by the final set 24-22. zzzzzzzzzzzzz

Don’t like big servers. I know, they must be good, one of them (doesn’t matter which) has reached the final and is thus the 2nd best player in the world today, at least. And yet I have no time for them. And really dread the day when being 6 foot 9 and having a fuck-off serve would be enough to see off the Feders and Nadals, the sublime ball-players of their generation. There again, I’ve played virtually every Saturday and Sunday for the last 20 years without taking a serve, so what do I know?

Meanwhile, Trump has elevated the ‘special relationship’ to ‘the highest level of special’. And Donald himself is a bit ‘special’ so he should know. Yet he was big enough to make a u-turn. He changed from ‘a soft brexit is for dipshit, weak motherfuckers who we’ll tax to shit’ to ‘whatever Theresa decides is fine by us, fine by us’. How’d that happen?

The protests went well. Lots of people. Lots. And having already been a bit ‘nyeh’ about them, when I saw that both Jezza and Nicola Sturgeon had attended them, that crossed a red line. Quite literally a red line. Comrade Corbyn is, unsurprisingly, anti-capitalist and thus anti-American. Trump is just the world’s easiest target around which to rally all manner of troops. You can make it about any of his many crimes but really they’re just the excuse to be anti-American.

World Cup final tomorrow. And tennis final too. Then what do I do??

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

Trump’s here. But not for long. He’s off to see Pooot’n in a day or two so is here just long enough to upset Theresa May, probably grab the Queen’s ass and tell a few nob jokes to some hoi-poloi. Oh, and do some ‘deals’. He loves a deal. But only if its a ‘good deal’. And NATO isn’t really a good deal for America. Because, basically, they fund it. And in a way you have to admire Trump because he’s the first American prez to actually come out and say ‘WHY ARE WE PAYING FOR THE WHOLE NATO THING WHICH PROTECTS YOUOUOU?!?!?!?!’ Good question. And he’s also said that a ‘soft brexit’ (note: I can’t be bothered any longer to capitalise ‘brexit’ because its become so dreadfully boring so I’ve relegated it), which is effectively ‘no brexit’ will adversely affect trade with the US who are about to impose big tariffs on European trade and we’d still be part of the European trading thing. Oooohhhh.

Trump calls it as he sees it, no-one can deny that, no matter how many fat baby blimps you float around London. I hope there’ll be at least two of them because Trump says everything twice so it would kind’a poetic. And are these blimps just ‘freedom speech in a democratic nation to express their distaste for a man who is a known for… well, everything rotten really’? Or is it just a extension of the hard left’s apparent hatred of America and all things American, using the new prez as an excuse to further demonise our closest ‘ally’?

I’m no fan of The Donald. In case you may have missed the last 2 years of my incessant slagging off of the most inappropriate president the world has ever known, including Kim Jong-Un and Gadaffi. And I couldn’t give a shit about a couple of Trumpish balloons floating about, disrespectful as they are, but he kind’a needs to be disrespected as a person, if not always for the role he’s currently taking. And there’s the Islamaphobia and the misogyny and the gropage and the sexism and the ‘from these cold, grey hands’-ism regarding guns, to name but a few.

But where were the protestors when ‘we’ had the Saudis over for the full Royal Visit? The nation that has, just last month allowed women to drive; that has sustained the war in neighbouring Yemen responsible for the deaths of hundreds of thousands of innocent civiliains; where torture is common, raped women are stoned to death and all is really peachy? Where were the protests when President Xi came over from China, again being given the full horse-and-carriage reception even after he personally removed the words ‘human rights’ and ‘presidential elections’ from the Mandarin dictionary?

So if the protests are anti-Trump, then that’s fine, but where the fuck were you for previous tyrants and scumbags? If its just Corbyn-inspired anti-capitalism, then I hope they bring out the tear gas, rubber bullets and Boris’s water cannon.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

The photo is of the Trump protection heli-thingumy which flew past my house yesterday and disturbed Lila’s nursery rhymes, noisiest thing ever. Why couldn’t he take the tube like everyone else?

Its over. The dream. Its not coming home. They are instead. After they play Belgium in the most unmotivating match that can ever be played; the ‘losers final’. Or ‘3rd/4th place playoff’ to give its silly and overly descriptive formal title. Especially as no-one ever gives a shit who came either 3rd or 4th, even 5th or 6th. And its pretty much the last thing any of the players want. But its not about the players, its not even about football, nor national pride. Its an excuse to sell a few more tickets and some advertising space on tv. And I’ll watch it.

Not sure what I’m more upset about; losing last night’s match to Croatia or feeling totally manipulated by the press all the way through the tournament. Because they told us how shit we were, then how great we were, then that we had the ‘easiest run to the final ever’ but then with each ‘easy’ victory they claimed how brilliant we’d undoubtedly become to overcome such ‘world class’ opposition. By rolling over shit teams in not totally convincing style. And then we ‘believed’. If I had one video of someone telling me ‘its coming home’ (David Beckham, the Queen, a bunch of chassidic rabbis, Hitler, schoolkids, cheerleaders…) then I had a million. I’m proud of our boys though.

Everyone will remember precisely where they were when England reached the semi-final of the World Cup in 2018. Our (another) ‘Kennedy moment’. And I was… err…

Roger Federer losing, if I’m honest, probably upset me more. Of course I wanted England to win the football but once the second half got under way it just seemed never likely to happen. But I’m used to England losing in championships. I’m not used to Federer losing anything. Unless its his Nike sponsorship contract because Uniqlo have offered him twice as much money. Yet it had to happen. He’s 83 years old now (so you’d believe if you listened to the agist fuckers in the BBC commentary box) and has won everything there is ever to win, 9 times over. But I don’t care about the winning; its how he wins. With style, grace, elegance and most definitively beautiful method of play. But 5 sets against a giant South African serving machine was too much, even for his levels of sublime. Which are a lot like mine, some would say. Ok, I would say. And so we have to ask whether the Fed will ever win Wimbledon again. I seriously hope so.

Serena has no such issues. She’s a fucking monster. And I love her. Just because she’s the ultimate winner and even ranked 131 in the world, there’s no-one like her and in all likelihood, there never will be again.

That ends today’s sports report. There may be others to come, but they won’t feel the same.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx