Andy's Glasses

If you think too long about Brexit you simply go insane. Having placed your mentality on a merry-go-round of contradiction, illogicality and total fucking lunacy.

To leave Europe will cost us (and even this is only an estimate) £40billion. In ‘obligations’ to fund stuff we’d already agreed on but won’t (if we do ever leave) get to ‘enjoy’. If we don’t pay that we won’t get ‘the trade deal’. But no-one has actually worked out what the cost to us would be if we don’t get that ‘deal’. Because then it becomes simple maffs: if the cost of our Eurotrading is significantly less than 40 bil then tell Junkers et al to piss off and bully someone else. If its more, then cough up and try not to choke. Sadly, Brexit Minister, David Davies, as we learned yesterday, knows absolutely nuffink about nuffink. Which will help as things progress…

I never wanted to leave Europe and I regret my co-nationalists’ decision more and more with each passing day. We only need to ‘control’ one border, that between Ireland and Ireland and we’re struggling with that. Add in the new, inflated cost of my morning latte when I’m in Europe since the pound plummeted and I’m more convinced than ever that Brexit is ‘the biggest mistake ever’, making it even worse than the Vietnam War or Spurs buying Sergei Rebrov.

I think I’ll leave Britain for good. Move to Jerusalem. Its all the rage now. The American Embassy is doing it, I’ll do it. My move will be slightly less controversial. Other than among my family who might wonder where I am.

Jerusalem is a wonderful place. Bit spiritual for my own personal tastes but historically there’s no other place in the world to compare. Its where 3 major religions call ‘home’. The Western Wall is the most holy site in the world for Jews. The Al Asqa mosque, right next door, is the 2nd most holy site in Islam. And Christians like it too for the Jesus connection and the sheer Old Testimentiness of the whole place. Before 1967 Jerusalem was part of Palestine but after the war it became part of the Israeli occupied territory. This was never ‘recognised’ by the UN or any other inherently anti-semitic institution, even though they had no similar problems with other countries shifting borders in war-time. But Jerusalem has never ‘officially’ been Israel’s capital. It is functionally and in spirit, but no-one has declared it so. Until yesterday.

Yet my first thought was, the same one I have at least four times each day: “is Trump fucking MADDDD????” Because this will inflame yet again the most volatile region in the world. It will cause massive problems in Israel, for Israelis as their ‘neighbours’, already sworn to Israel’s destruction, will doubtless step up terror activities in the region. But once the Pope stepped in to condemn Trump’s intention I thought: ‘if its bad for that horrible Pope, its good for me’. And even though its Trump, another nemesis of virtually every thinking person on the planet, then so be it. I don’t think most people realise, in their concern for ‘the middle East’ that whatever happens, Israel is surrounded by a massive volume of people intent on its demise. Politics, ‘peace’ processes, nothing will change that basic fact.

Happy Thursday Madness,

A xxxx

I think its due to my upbringing. Society’s to blame. But whatever the reason, I’m not keen on ‘rules’, particularly when it comes to food. Yet even worse are people who feel the need to find loopholes in those rules rather than just ignoring them. As if that gives them the right to be somehow morally superior to those who just flaunt them openly and uncaringly.

The ‘kosher’ world is so full of rules that it would make the Pope become a Catholic, if he wasn’t one already, just to avoid them. Its a fucking minefield. No milk with meat. That’s the big one. So no butter on sandwiches that contain beef or chicken, and no ice-cream for desert. Ahhhh, but we can make non-dairy butter-ish spready-stuff and faux ice-cream that looks like shaving foam and tastes like shit but is 100% kosher!!!! Only black coffee or lemon tea after or with a meat meal. Everyone knows about pig, prawns, lobster and all manner of other ‘verbotens’. Fine, you do it or you don’t, you adhere for whatever reason or you ignore, your choice.

Yet they make ‘fake-on’, like bacon but made of turkey, or yoghurt or soya or something. And others choose to eat certain things on certain days which aren’t allowed but due to some minor technicality (normally hunger)… its ok!!! I hate all that.

And so to ‘lab-meat’. Not meat from a Labrador, that’s only available in Korean supermarkets, but meat constructed in a lab. Techno-meat. Because its made by scientists in Silicon Valley. And, the really exciting bit: NO ANIMALS DIE IN ITS PRODUCTION!!!! Holy Vegan!

What they do is harvest stem cells from cows and ‘build’ in labs, strips of genuine and for real cow-muscle (what we normally call ‘meat’). Grind it up, add onions and pepper, grill to just right and hey pesto (or not) an un-ham-burger-ish!!! It contains no fat (different stem cells required) so is arguably a lot healthier and an even greater lot drier than ‘normal’. So drink water with your burger. Or vegan beer.

Obviously vegans won’t go within a mile of it, because its still meat. Vegetarians similarly. And generally, people who eat meat won’t go anywhere near it because its not ‘real’ and we like our meat ‘real’. So who’s it for? Well Bill Gates and Richard Branson have invested heavily into the project so maybe they like fat-free genetically-engineered food.

More to the point; how do they get the stem cells? Do they a. ask the cow really nicely if he can give them some? b. steal a few while she’s asleep? or c. engage in minor surgery on said animal and suck ’em out with a syringe?

Its also known that stem cells are produced more rapidly around damaged tissue. So how long before what I’ll call ‘ethical meat’ is farmed by firstly causing damage to the animal’s tissue and then harvesting the stem cells? And skimping on the anaesthetic because it increases production costs? And who wants to eat meat that’s been pumped with growth hormones and steroids and all manner of shit? If you wanted that you’d buy meat from Tescos.

I mustn’t poo-poo progress and scientific advancement, its always good. And yet my inherent loophole-phobia and active tosser-rating-scale both go into hyperdrive when I hear of such garbage.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I was just reading about Nick Blackman, a Derby County striker who is currently on loan at Maccabi Tel Aviv. Bit of a culture shock, you’d think. And it is. Although Blackman is in fact Jewish. His father is a West Indian Christian but his mum is the daughter of a concentration camp survivor from Manchester. So Nick doesn’t exactly ‘look Jewish’ but according to the strictest of strict Jewish law; he is. Jewish mum = Jewish.

But what interested me was that Tal Ben Haim (used to play for Chelsea and Man City, but not at the same time) invited Nick round to his home for ‘typical Friday night dinner’. Hmmm…

Friday night dinners are a big deal for Jews. Even the most non-practicing, irreligious, atheistic, devil-worshipping, bacon-eating of Jews ‘does’ Friday night. Its a massive tradition. And, because food is involved, it has endurance that other traditions (where you stay hungry) don’t.

And the rule is simple. You have ‘the family’ round and you eat chicken. There’s no question as to ‘what shall we make?’ or ‘do you fancy beef??’ (have you seen the price of kosher beef??), you have a housefull and you feed them chicken. Roasted chicken.

We do Friday night dinners every week. Always have done. My mum and aunt used to share them, alternating, so we’d eat together with the cousins and (always) any strays and stragglers you can find.

Some hipster celeb chef in Hoxton reckons he invented ‘top to tail’ eating. Well he didn’t. My grandmother did. And she learned it from her mother, back in Poland. Because a chicken back then was an ultimate luxury item. So, other than the head, nothing was wasted. The liver was used to make chopped liver. The feet, heart, neck any other odds and sundries formed the base for chicken soup. Even the humble ‘parsons nose’, a lump of extraneous fat, was ‘rendered’ to provide the ‘shmaltz’ (fat) which was used on bread in place of butter. The feathers were fried… ok, maybe not. Poor people don’t waste food. End of. If rich people want to spend 35 quid eating part of cow that is normally thrown out with the garbage, that’s fine.

But then I went to Paris in about 1974 and had Friday night dinner with a Jewish family. And they brought to the table something called ‘cous cous’. Yeah, we all know it now, they sell it in Waitrose in all sorts of flavours and styles. But then, it was more WTF??? And the chicken was stewed. Because this family were originally from Morocco, not Poland. And their ‘traditional friday night dinner’ was way different to mine. Not in spirit, that’s a universal constant, as, being one of the ‘strays and stragglers’ I understood and appreciated. But in menu. No chopped liver. NO CHOPPED LIVER???? No chicken soup? (Soup is a cold climate thing, hence not big in Morocco). There was chilli, there were all sorts of ‘things’ that were selected specifically for me to eat as everyone sat there giggling. Like I cared as they were all delicious and the meal was total enlightenment.

So I wondered which version of ‘traditional friday night dinner’ Nick Blackman was fed in Israel. Which would depend purely on where his wife’s family originated and who taught her to cook. But I bet they ate chicken.

Happy Monday (you can eat what you want on Mondays, Lila’s having tangerine; bit sharp)

A xxxx

It was so warm this morning (relatively speaking) here in London that for tennis I decided to wear shorts. Yesterday was definitely a ‘long trouser’ day but today I feared overheating. Again, relatively speaking. What I hadn’t accounted for was the ‘rain’. Not Rain. Or RAIN. Or FUCKING RAIN!!!! Just ‘rain’. In that there was water in the air, but not necessarily coming down, more just sitting there and waiting for me to run into it. Typical bloody Euro-rain, I thought. You have to do the hard work yourself if you want to get really wet. If you stood still you’d stay dry. Problem on the tennis court. Bit boring if you don’t move. Bit wet if you do. And I cleverly removed my outer, waterproof garment and zipped it away so it wouldn’t get wet. Even though its waterproof. Never be too careful. And wore instead as my new outer garment a sweatshirt. Which, as I learned quite quickly, lacked some of the waterproofiness that may have been beneficial.

But heh; playing tennis in November is a privilege, not a right, so you take what you can. I take my responsibilities… responsibly.

Unlike Donald Trump. Because despite constantly seeing terms like ‘unfit for office’ (unless he’s cleaning it) and ‘possibly mental issues’ and ‘totally lacking in anything resembling judgment’ and even, ‘major league fucking asshole’, the man is still the acting president of the United States of America. And to make it worse it actually looks, a year after taking office, that he might actually finally get to pass a bill. The new tax bill. Because Trump knows that the way to anyone’s heart is through their wallet. And if you increase the bulk of that wallet, you can be ‘loved’ in that peculiarly American way that love can manifest.

The simple equation is known to all people. If you relieve voters of, collectively, a trillion dollars of taxation (I have no idea how many zeroes that has, but I reckon its quite a few), then you’re going to increase the national debt by approximately, to the nearest 50 cents… about 1 trillion dollars. Big numbers, easy maffs. But its a vote-catcher, number one, and more importantly (because the voting, sadly, is already done which is why the world has the Trump problem to start with) it’ll help to secure an all-republican government in the senate and the house of representatives.

To ‘impeach’ a president in America it has to be done by the government, not by lawyers. And if the entire government is Republican, even though many will think Trump a total nob like any sensible person does, they’re unlikely to initiate such proceedings. So he gets to walk away from the fact that he is the first president ever to be elected to power by the Russians. Putin don’t count.

Lila’s back. I call this pic ‘the one that got away’

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

No Lila today. She’s had to give way for this rather amusing little ‘thingy’ that arrived on my phone last week. And amidst all the furore about Damien Green, (momentarily suspended, possibly soon to be ‘ex’), deputy leader of the parliamentary Conservative party, its achingly appropriate.

Because all the ladies on his parliamentary computer need clothes too. Thousands of them. And they’re so cold all their nipples have… ok, too much information.

There’s two main issues here. I think. The first is whether there were images and what that implies, both about his personal tastes and the time THAT WE PAY FOR wasted surfing porn sites when he should have been running the country. The other issue is whether the images a. exist, b. were downloaded by him, and c. are not part of some conspiracy revenge plot by retired members of her Majesty’s constabulary for grievances past. Not Dominic Grievance, another one (Tory joke).

So; two issues, which have immediately grown to 5 issues. Possibly 9. And just for the record, Donald Trump didn’t re-tweet any of the images.

Mainly because this alleged offence took place in 2008. Oh! So why now? Which is indeed a very interesting question. If the police have allegedly been in possession of these images for nine fucking years, what’s changed to suddenly make them sufficiently more damaging or relevant to bring them to light now? Even though ‘historical crimes’ are really zeitgeisty at the moment. All the rage at New Scotland Yard. If your house gets burgled today (heaven forbid) the police will tell you that there will be a full and thorough investigation. In 2028 because by then it’ll be ‘historical’ and everyone will take much more notice.

Damian Green fell out with the police over a bungled investigation in 2008. And policemen, like elephants, have long memories. Though not trunks. Other than for swimming. Anyway…

This whole thing simply stinks. I don’t have any love for Damian Green. Not hatred. I don’t care about him one little bit. And if he was downloading porn, or photos of model aircraft, or Beany fucking Babies, that’s indeed wrong because he should have been doing his job. But I can’t be convinced about any of this. It feels like a witch-hunt revenge plot to me. And unless such a thing is aimed at someone really horrible, like Trump or Corbyn, I have no time for them.

Off to play some sub-zero tennis.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

Or TO Russia actually, as today is the draw for next summer’s World Cup in that lovely country. How the Russians won the bid to host the tournament would be something of a mystery, a bit like Russia itself. But now that FIFA has been totally dismantled because of institutional corruption at all levels, also a bit like Russia itself, the picture of how the award came about is a little clearer. Either bribes were placed or threats were made. “Hchchoww you like your tea? Milk, sugar or plutonium???”

Unlike the Qatar World Cup in 2022, there are one or two mitigating circumstances for awarding the Russians such a gift. For Qatar there are none. On any level. At least Russia in the summer has temperatures in which you can play football without dying. And Russia is a ‘footballing nation’, unlike Qatar, which has no cultural history whatsoever and the main leisure pastime there is ‘money’.

A spokesman on tv when asked about any possible ‘doping issues’ with Russian footballers complained that “oh, we’ve had this nonsense after Sochi and now you ask this”. Yes, but the Sochi winter olympics were a shameful mess of state-organised drug-enhancement. To the extent that the last Summer Olympics banned Russia from playing at all because they’re all ‘roided up. Why would we expect any different from their footballers?

Then factor in the lovely fans. The most aggressive, violent, racist and homophobic football fans anywhere. Along with Poles, Serbians and most other east Europeans. Russia is indeed outwardly homophobic as a nation but as there is no overtly gay footballer anywhere in the world, that shouldn’t pose much of a problem. And when I say ‘pose’ this is no intentional slur on Christiano Ronaldo.

And Gary Linneker, the most outspoken critic of both FIFA and of Russia winning the World Cup, is the person doing the draw in Moscow today. Which is either a sign that both FIFA and Russia have indeed changed their ways and are now treading the ‘straight and narrow’, or look out for a new, gold-plated helicopter on the BBC helipad any Saturday soon.

Happy World Cup draw day

A xxxx

Guy on my tube train last night; had the look of a professor of anthropology at SOAS about him; about 50, too long grey hair, grey beard, duffle coat and a non-leather (vegan, obvs) shoulder bag on his lap. Which had a red badge on it. I mean, badges are fine. On your school blazer. But in your 50s having a ‘badge’ is only one notch down from carrying a skateboard. It was a labour party badge, hence the redness (I checked to make sure it wasn’t an Arsenal badge, for which there is NEVER any excuse) and the legend read: FOR THE MANY; not the Jew.

Then I read it again, oh; FOR THE MANY (big letters); not the FEW (small letters). I’d made the classic Freudian error of imposing my subconscious paranoia(?) into the framework of a known anti-semitic organisation. With a mixture of relief (for the reality) and panic (for my mind). There again, I am a bit dyslexic so funny things do happen.

At the other end of the political spectrum sits one Donald Trump, saviour of the free world, most powerful man in the free world, blah, blah, blah. And another shining example of what grown-ups really shouldn’t be doing. Which is sending out knee-jerk tweets to his 45 million followers without looking at what he’s sending.

He saw three tweets by Jada Fransen, loved them and re-tweeted them. Easy peasy, just press ‘send’. And let the shit hit the fan.

Jada Fransen is the deputy leader of ‘Britain First’. That’s an organisation for people who like fighting. Well, for white people who like fighting. Skinheads mainly. White ones. Who were bereft when the British National Party was dissolved because it was an evil, racist, neo-nazi ‘party’ filled with hatred and whiteness and set up Britain First. Its a tiny, fringe party that thinks its fun to walk around Muslim neighbourhoods carrying crucifixes, Union Jack flags and anything that may possibly be inflammatory. They’re a joke. But a really un-funny one.

Trump wouldn’t have known that, probably. But should definitely have taken the trouble to find out. And what’s more, for the world’s biggest accuser of ‘fake news!!!’ stories, one of the tweets, a video, has already been discredited and was not ‘real’.

The White House defended the actions of the First Asshole as ‘a problem that is real and needs to be discussed’. Holy shit.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

I should be used to it by now. In 1962 I was 6 years old and have my first memories from then of football scores and results. Its blurry, but its there. I’d missed, by just one year, our ‘glory season’, winning the league and cup ‘double’. I was alive for it, just not aware. My footballingness had not yet been awakened. So for the last 56 years I’ve just been treading water really, waiting for the good times to return. Which is a bit unfair, a bit ‘stark’, and is not really how it works.

Because ‘good times’ can be good matches. Can be great results. Can be just one spectacular 42 second spell in a game of nothing in a season of shit. You take the good bits where you can. Its what keeps you going. I think. Football is not, generally, a high scoring affair. Its not like basketball. You work hard for a goal and then wait (sometimes foreverrrr) for another. And great goals are memorable. Particularly when scored by your team. Or, as is the case at the moment, against your team. You try to forget them, you want to forget them but your internal Match of the Day facility keeps re-playing them. And we seem to be shipping ’em in wholesale at the moment.

We beat Liverpool 4-1 at Wembley 5 weeks ago. And thought, ahhhh, the Wembley curse has lifted. We can play here, we can win here, against good opposition, and the world is rosy and shiny once more. Since then we’ve managed to amass 4 points from the following 6 matches. A 1-0 win against bottom-placed Crystal Palace was our only win. A point from Saturday’s West Brom game, the rest all lost. Ok, we managed to thrash Real fucking Madrid in between all that and get a remarkable away win at Dortmund, but domestic form? Oyyyyy.

We seem to start every game 2-0 down. That is; by the time I’ve checked the score we’re losing by 2. Other than the West Ham game in which we were winning by 2 and still managed to lose. That was worse.

And I know that there are people out there, real people, who support Brentford Town and Hartlepool and Luton and Arsenal, people who never see glory, wouldn’t know it if it bit them, who just go, just follow, just passionately support their no-hope teams. And they’d laugh at the arrogance of ‘bit team fans’ for having expectations to which their own teams will never aspire.

But it is what it is. I’m a Spurs fan. I do have expectations. I have, stupidly, hopes. And when it all goes to shit, it hurts.

Happy (phah!) Wednesday

A xxxx

Well, it had to happen. The Ashes started and then, just a few days later, it finished. The first test. Failed. Miserably. Leading, inevitably, to a national gloat-fest by the Aussies. Fair. We’d do the same. Just not as horribly. So now our only hope, as it always has been really, lies with Ben Stokes. Who is unfortunately on a ban for assault outside a pub in Bristol. So can’t play for England. And yet has just taken a flight to New Zealand carrying all his cricket stuff with him. Hmmmm, New Zealand, just a short ‘hop’ from Australia… hmmm…

Because the Bristol police are just about to announce whether he’ll be charged or not. And if he isn’t, and the ban can be lifted? He’d make the 2nd test, easy peasy. And then we might have a chance. So, dear police-people of the fair city of Bristol, can you drop the charges? Please?? Travesties of justice are what the police are all about, its not like its new or unheard-of, is it? Even though there’s that horrible video footage of him beating the shit out of those 2 guys, its not… errr… conclusive, in any meaningful way. THINK OF YOUR COUNTRY, FOR ONCE!!!!

Harry’s engaged. To Meg. Or, as they call her on the BBC, ‘Meghan Markle’. The full thing. They won’t call her just ‘Megan’, she’s soon to be a royal, so protocols dictate a level of respect precluding the ‘tu-toi’ familiarity. And ‘Ms Markle’ sounds like an Agatha Christie heroine who is 84 years old and wears a hat in bed, so they won’t do that. So in the meantime its ‘Meghan Markle’. Whilst we’re waiting for a princess-ship to become vacant. We may have to kill Eugenie.

Once they’re married they’ll get, from the Queen, another title. Just what every royal needs, more fucking titles. So they reckon Mr & Mrs Harry will become the Duke and Duchess of Sussex. Which doesn’t mean they’ll own Brighton or anything, in fact the title comes without land or property, so bit of a waste of time really. But they won’t be hard-up or anything because of the new Universal Credit.

But this is a big and great move for the Royals. Capitalising on Harry’s massive popularity by marrying him off to a half-black divorcee. How right-on and Islington-council-circa-1974 is that??I mean, in the absence of any potential ‘trans’ thing for the Prince to woo, she ticks a lot of boxes that have previously been off limits, royally speaking. Oh, and she’s pretty gorgeous too. Which helps. As she’s going to be even more all over the papers for the next 18 months than she has been in the previous.

Can they use ‘H&M’? I wonder.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

“Ich bin ein Spurs fan!!” Everyone remembers exactly what they were doing when JFK uttered those famous words. No-one knows why he said them, but just lived in that moment.

And if JFK represented, in 1963, everything that was great about the West, that was good, honest, adorable, loveable, peaceful (ish) and wondrous, then by extension, Arsenal must stand as a metaphor for the East of the Cold War days. For the forces of evil, for oppression, arrogance, totalitarianism, insidious infiltration of our core values and of smelliness in general.

No, I really don’t think I’ve stretched that metaphor too excessively, particularly as it didn’t exist until two little paragraphs ago. Thus: its fair.

But I’m not in Germany to waste my time with football. Not this weekend, anyway. Its all terrible. Glad I’m away and missing all the ‘fun’. I’m here to pound pavements. And pound them we have.

When we arrived yesterday morning it was raining. We then walked, all told, 11.7km in the pouring, pissing, fucking rotten, German rain. Not saying we weren’t productive. We saw some apartments (awful), we had lunch (wonderful), we learned much about the area and, eventually, we had dinner (amazing). We traveled by tube (‘U-bahn’) and by overground (S-bahn) and went from far west to farther east without getting arrested, getting shot or meeting the KGB.

Today we did similar. Brunch was different, but equally great, and we walked another 11.2km (according to Rachie’s phone) but this time, most of it in the dry! Germany without rain. Its like Arsenal without dodgy refereeing decisions. But we lived that dream. Til about 4 when it started to drizzle once more.

So we stopped for coffee and cake in the most decadent of decadent places ever. Shared a piece of chocolate tort cake that wouldn’t actually have fit into my carry-on suitcase. Though I reckon it was almost calorie-free. Because… errr…

And yet again, despite the awful weather and the icy-cold, I just love this city. You walk three blocks. The first is ‘knightsbrige’, with chi-chi shops and Luis Vuitton paving slabs and Rolex trash cans. Cross the road and you’re in Mill Hill; all suburban with parks and gardens and lovely apartment buildings. The next crossing takes you to Hoxton; old places re-done to the height of hipster chic and with coolness seeping out of the drains, street-art, graffiti and beards everywhere. And wherever you stop, its great value. Even with the sinking/sunk pound, nothing here seems expensive. And call me old-fashioned, but I like that.

One more day, then we return tomorrow afternoon/evening. Though with Rachie coming for good in January, the chances of returning here are… pretty high, I’d say.

Auf wiedersein,

A xxxx