Andy's Glasses

France are in the World Cup final. The country everyone hates, along with all the others, has made it. Beat Belgium’s ‘golden generation’ in quite a thrilling but not very exciting match. Which left all that ‘gold’ somewhat tarnished. Again.

And tonight its our turn. Against them Croats. Our destiny. And every time I hear Gareth Southgate speak I’m impressed. I haven’t started wearing a waistcoat yet (nor fucking EVERRR will) but surely its only a matter of time until we all do. Metaphorically at least.

Christiano Ronado can afford all the waistcoats he wants. He’s left Real Madrid in a massive(ly expensive) move to Juventus. He’ll earn 30 million Euros a year. After tax. Not that anyone pays much of that in Italy, not even the presidents. Which will provide a nice little ‘nest egg’ for his retirement. So he’ll be able to afford winter fuel when he’s old.

Last night they had a program on about time travel and its possibility, or not. No-one watched the program because it was on at the same time as the Belgium/France game, but it looked interesting. Because I’ve always (but haven’t we all?) been fascinated by the prospect of such an endeavour. Even after Einstein came up with his famous equation (none of which have ever been proved wrong) which shows that were you to reach the speed of light, as you’d need to to travel in time, you would pretty much cease to exist. Not that anything can ever travel faster than light anyway. But you’d either vanish or something else weird would happen as the equation would have you turn into the square root of a minus number. Which doesn’t exist in the real world. Not that Einstein’s world was that ‘real’ in any meaningful sense. But real enough. Though the silly thing about all this ‘time travel; can we? can’t we? will we? won’t we?’ is that we know the answer is unfortunately an emphatic ‘Non!’, like Brexit offers. Because if anyone had ever invented such a mechanism, even in 100, 1000, 10,000 years time; they’d come back. And then we’d know. In fact they’d have come back to 1753, bringing their super-technology and waistcoats with them. If anyone will ever devise time travel we’d have always known it. And don’t mix your tenses when talking about anything else.

Happy Wednesday

COME ON ENGLAND!!!!!

A xxxx

Ok, forget yoga and tai chi guaranteeing that you live forever with
the body of a Greek God and the brain of Einstein. It don’t work. Not
today, apparently. No matter how many ‘warrior’ poses you perform, how
long you spend in ‘downward dog’, you’re gonna be a fat bastard but
without the wherewithal to realise it.

Because that was last week’s news. This week its all changed. Must be
evolutionary. Surely they couldn’t have got it all so tragically wrong
in the past?? 10,000 steps a day (Mel counts every single one) means
less than NOTHING in the post-July-9th world. Now you need work outs.
Proper, muscly, sweating in a stinking gym, dumbbell, push-ups type
work out. 12 times a week for 17 hours. Real work. Ya lazy bast…

Apparently from 35 years old we start to lose muscle. Well, you do,
I’m fine, so by mid-50s you need to be working on that. Yoga and
pilates and tai chi are fine but just not enough, which is completely
unsurprising really. Lying on a mat saying ‘ommmmmm’ for 45 minutes
actually DOESN’T cause weight loss or improve muscle tone. Who’d’a
known? And you lose 90 grams of muscle a week/day/month (can’t
remember). So you wake up on a Friday and you’ve only got one tricep.
Bummer. And then you metabolise differently which further increases…
everything bad and horrible. So to combat this terrible decline, you
need hard work.

But, and thank the Lord for always being a ‘but’, if you are a
gymaphobe, like me, then there’s a kind of ‘light’ version that
doesn’t involve sweating in smelly places with too many lycra-clad
sweaty gits. Because ‘a brisk walk for 11 minutes twice a day’ will do
for a start. So I’m fine, I walk for at least 30 minutes on my daily
return commute and I only ever do ‘brisk’. I elevate ‘brisk’ in fact
to ‘GET OUT MY FUCKING WAY YOU SLOVENLY GIT!!!!’ And if you carry
‘heavy shopping’ that counts as muscle work for the over 40s, which is
almost as sad as it is unbelievable. Gardening counts, not that I’m
very keen, but I do mow the lawn. Which does 2 things, it makes me
sweat and makes me drink. Beer, JD & coke, things like that.

Alternatively, the path to true happiness (unless you’re Boris Johnson
who is not only a fat git but destined for HELL) is to watch football,
eat pizza, drink lager. How could anything that feels so good be
anything but?

Happy healthy Tuesday

A xxxx

I suppose the question is: how much sport can you watch? Coupled with: and what are the priorities? Because I normally watch Wimbledon religiously. But this year my god has deserted me. Or perhaps been replaced by a bigger god, the World Cup, the MOAG. Mother Of All Gods. An interesting phrase that the more patriarchal among us will have hours of fun with.

But this is not some philosophical fucking debate about theology, this is important! This is sport!!

For getting on for 40 years, since my repeatedly dislocating right shoulder put an end to my own, personal aspirations to Harry Kanism, tennis has been my game of choice. I’d loved it before but, ironically considering tennis for a right-hander is the most right-shouldery game you could ever get, it was fine to play. Not so brilliant now but we all live with pains. Some people are married to them.

And I play tennis every week, outdoor, summer or winter, regardless of who the Prime Minister might be, what terrorist activity is occurring, whose winning the Ashes. Because I love playing it. But watching it is different. I virtually never watch the US Open, the Aussie (don’t do 4 in the morning for anyone… except Lila) nor the French. Can’t be bothered. But when Wimbledon comes along I’m hooked. Normally. This year I haven’t even put the hilights program on series record. An act of treason in the post-technological world.

On Saturday at Wimbledon, whilst England were beating Sweden in Russia, centre court was less than half full for the match being played. Phone use is strictly banned at Wimbledon, quite rightly so; you don’t want to disrupt an important second serve at 15-40 because someone’s mate ‘liked’ your photo of lunch with the usual electronic fanfare. But its conflict. People who bought their tennis tickets, jumping for joy in March that they’d actually ‘won’ in the annual ballot, are now desperately trying to sell them on if they happen to be for the men’s final. Normally the ‘hottest ticket in town’, now that there’s a chance England may play in the World Cup final on the same day and at virtually the same time, they’re abandoning Wimbledon in droves. Even though a day at Wimbledon is a truly magical experience.

Ironically, yesterday, there was no sport on tv. I don’t count grand prix, sorry Lewis. Mel had a ladies’ lunch birthday thing and I was ‘free’. No football, no tennis, no nuffink. My day was ruined. I had to meet friends for lunch at a gorgeous pub on the River in Kew. Terrible. Such a waste of prime tv-watching time.

They’ve had 4 years to sort out the scheduling, the problem could only have been that the Wimbledon admin bods didn’t ‘believe’. About the ‘comin’ home’ thing. Now they’re paying for it.

Shame

Happy Monday

A xxxx

Its comin’ home, its comin’, football’s comin’ home… (rinse and repeat. And repeat and repeat and repeat until your phone simply has no further capacity for alternative takes on ‘its coming home’ and won’t free up the space to take 17 more photos of Lila!!)

The team done good. Our boys was mangificent. At the end’a da day, free points was free points. And we got’em all. Even though you don’t get no points. Nah. You get to play in the semi-final instead, ‘gainst Croatia on Wednesday. Innit.

The superlatives are flowing, the hyperbole excessive and the grammar appalling, following the biggest England win for 28 years. Lila’s mum was 2. Her sister a mere fertilised egg. Gary Linneker was a player, our national captain and leader. Maggie Thatcher came to the end of her reign and passed the baton over to John, slightly-interesting Major. Queen Victoria was… dead, Winston Churchill was… also dead, Gary Glitter was not in jail and the number one song in England was something so unmemorable that I have no idea. Ahhhh, 1990.

Because the world cup semi-finals are a big deal. Its a very big deal. And I think, on reflection, I’m happier playing Croatia than Russia on grounds of safety, security and everyone staying alive long enough to finish the game. And Croatia are the smallest country, by population in the world cup. But what else do we know about them? Personally, I know next to nothing other than they’re part of that horrible, confusing mish-mash of Bosnia, Serbia, Macedonia, Kosovo and so many others that at one time were called ‘Yugoslavia’. No more. Now they’re all split (no pun intended) but Croatia did the best of all because they managed to steal the entire coastline ensuring lots of Adriatic seaside. And all the people have names ending in -ic, which is pronounced -ich. Like Modric, Rakatic, Digadic, Withoutahic and Fuckingric. There ends today’s lesson on Croatia.

Yesterday’s game against Sweden wasn’t an exciting match, very few expected it to be. It was, as we say, ‘comfortable’. Croatia will be different. They can play. Although they too were stifled in their match yesterday by the Russians and had to win on penalties. So I’m interested to see if MY England can win against a ‘proper’ team. A team who want to play and win, rather than stifle and inhibit. But if we win… omg, if we win… then we can play one of two teams in Belgium or France, who really know how to play.

Happy no-football Sunday

A xxxx

England are the only ‘non-European’ football team left in the world cup. With the loss of Brasil yesterday to Belgium, there ended the ‘rest of the world’s’ contribution to the games. I love Brasil and always have; they have a magic about the way they play that is truly unique to them. But Neymar, in one cheating, face-clutching, writhing, girly fucking dive, managed to shatter decades of wonderfulness. Bit like Rivaldo did in similar circumstances a decade ago. And now the phrase ‘doing a Neymar’ has already entered the social media lexicon for, basically, being a tosser. Which, considering how wonderful the world’s most expensive footballer can be, makes you wonder why he did it. I bet he wonders too. Shame he can’t ‘undo’ it.

Russia, the runaway outsiders, can be considered part of Europe because their teams play in the Champions League. But England, we have a more ambiguous status. Because we’ve voted to ‘leave Europe’. Which I’m well aware is strictly in terms of EU membership but I actually think ‘leaving Europe’ in the truly literal geographical sense; lifting Great Britain physically (whilst leaving Ireland exactly where it sits now) and depositing it… near Hawaii? over by North Korea? down in the Antarctic? would have been much easier than the horrendous, boring and repetitively circular process of merely working out what the world might look like after we leave.

But last night, at Chequers, Theresa May came up with THE MASTERPLAN for Brexit. And its brilliant. Ok, its a total sell-out compromise aimed at uniting the cabinet, the party, the government and eventually, possibly, to put to Europe for them to reject. So its job really is to cause as little offence as possible to as many disparate parties as possible, all of whom have diametrically opposing ideals. How can that be hard?

So I’ve decided that its all a load of bollocks and I’m going to devote my time to the football. At least you know what you’re getting there with nothing being put to a vote.

The Sweden match this afternoon, so we’ve been told, is the biggest, bestest, most importantest, amazingest… everything ever. Because having beaten Colombia, we have the famed ‘clear run to the final’. Which, other than the teams we have to play on that little journey, is what we do have.

But Sweden aren’t so much ‘great’ as ‘horrible’. They’re what is known as ‘pragmatic’. Which is a euphemistic term for ‘boring as fuck’. Not as boring as Brexit but almost. Though hopefully not as violent as the Colombians, there won’t be an abundance of Scandinavian flair on display. Their national football is like their tv offerings; very dark, sinister and complex.

Ok, time to prepare. How do you spell “BEER”?

Happy hopeful Saturday

A xxxx

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