Andy's Glasses

Its funny. I never think about Canada even though its fucking humungously massive and large. It just kind of sits there, right above Trumpsville, minding its own business and being… well… being Canadian. Its a nice place, a sweet place, clean, affluent, pretty and freezing cold for 11.5 months a year. I keep me mate Dave there, just in case anything happens, but it never does. Until this week. Then its suddenly, its like they’ve taken out a PR campaign and its all you see.

Firstly there was that awful van attack in Toronto killing 10 people and injuring loads more. Which, rather than being a boring, zeitgeisty ISIS kind of deal is looking more like it was a specific attack on women. Something we can all understand to a degree. (Can I say that? Can I think that even?? Too late, I’ve done it now). The driver, called Alek, is part of some online group called ‘incels’ which is an abbreviation of ‘involuntarily celibate’, which in turn is posh speak for ‘can’t get laid’. So faced with the choice of becoming a rapist or a mass murderer, Alek obviously took the latter path. Common sense dictated so. I despair.

Then at the University of Toronto there’s more trouble brewing, with more women! Probably all those who refused to have sex with poor Alek.

In an effort to try and dispel stereotypes of ‘women in science’ as being geeky, nerdy, bit ugly, probably slightly greasy, unwashed and wearing protective eyewear when they go out for dinner, a rather fit and lovely science babe, a PhD student, started posting selfies showing how gorgeous a, basically, gorgeous girl can look, even when in a lab, wearing a white coat, doing sums on a blackboard, all kinds of wonderfully sciency, Steven Hawkingy type things. So a fellow student commented that really, rather than showing how these girls (because it inevitably spread) look pretty and smiley, shouldn’t they be better engaged trying to reduce the gender inequality in the scientific world. Which is currently massive. I’m gonna guess at 73%, just because those ‘gap’ statistics are always so stupid as to be totally meaningless. But the sad truth is probably that a few more people are going to take the trouble to look at a photo of a pretty girl than are going to read in-depth analyses of sexism in the scientific workplace. Sadly.

Then lastly, to round of Canada week perfectly, Lila was wearing her brand new Canadian baby-gro, with maple leaves and everything.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I’ve just been shopping. I love shopping. Though that depends on how you define it.

The shopping I love and just enjoyed was done at the Amazon shop in my own kitchen. I needed tennis balls… sorted, new tennis shoes… done and dusted. Be here tomorrow. And I only really have time for that because my shoulder was so bad yesterday that even I, in an uncharacteristic moment of sensibility, cancelled playing today. When, ironically, the shoulder(/arm/neck) feels much better.

Then we have a lunch up in town on Portman Square for Mel’s aunt’s 80th birthday. Lots of people going but most importantly Lila will be there. That’ll be worth the price of admission on its own. And because (apparently) I need a new suit and we’ll be in town anyway, Mel is intending to drag me screaming to that other kind of ‘shopping’. The kind that involves shops. Which I absolutely fucking hate. Don’t know why. When I was 18 I loved going shopping but unfortunately didn’t have the funds to buy much. Now I can afford to shop but just hate the process. Why do I need a new suit anyway, I have lots of suits. Considering I rarely wear them and a couple are fairly ‘new’ at no more than 7 years old or so. This has ‘disaster’ written all over it.

Bit like last night’s Cup semi-final. Awful result. And now Pochettino is talking in vague, Argentinian, Spanish terms (which accounts for the general vagueness about most of his comments) about how he may not be leading the club forwards. Holy shit! He can’t go. We love him and he’s ours forever.

I went for comfort after the match to the Hampstead theatre. Saw something called ‘Caroline, or Change’. And its a musical and its quite brilliant. Fantastic cast, amazing production, incredible voices and really really funny. Yet fairly serious at the same time. A total ‘wow’. And headed for the West End soon. At which point it changes from 30 quid a ticket to 130 quid. So go see it now.

Why are you still reading this when you should be booking?

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

If you bought a wonderful, state-of-the-art car 22 years ago, it would have been a revelation. Then, 5 years later you’d notice that other people’s cars suddenly had different bits. More computerised, less mechanical, more sophisticated. After 10 years it would be decidedly ‘old hat’ but still lovely and doubtless wonderful. Give it another 5 years and everyone has sat-nav, computerised everything, USB ports, a sound system that just sucks the songs you want to hear out of your brain and all the space age technology you could ever want but never actually realised you did want.

As an Arsene Wenger analogy that’s quite fair. I consciously avoided the labrador puppy model, which after 22 years is blind, diabetic, incontinent and in pain and really needs to be put down FOR MERCY’S SAKE!!! I avoided that one because it may be more accurate, more representative, its a bit disrespectful. Hmmm…

Wenger arrived at Highbury and inherited a fairly decent football team. And then proceeded to single-handedly take all the fun out of footballers’ lives. He is exalted as a revolutionary, well so was Lenin.

The team would turn up for training, eventually, and enjoy a great big fry-up. Because it is definitely the best cure for the inevitable hangover, or to bring you down from a serious coke-buzz. Then, before the gym work started in earnest, there would be half an hour of bookie time, when the players could get all their bets down for the afternoon’s events, arrange a few judicious yet highly profitable handballs for Saturday, basically, taking care of business.

And Wenger stopped all that. Rather than coming up with some healthy-eating hangover cure he decided instead to ban the players from drinking. I mean, come on, is that right? Was that in anyone’s best interest? The gambling had to stop too. Recreational drugs were probably totally out of the question. Because he was Mr Straight. Or however that translates into French. Monsieur Straight.

So what did all that killjoying actually achieve? When you really look at it? Ok, it produced the most fit, strong and energised group of players that football had ever seen. They ate well, trained well, banned all the ‘good’ things, won everything, played the football of dreams and basically became the model of envy for every decent football team in Europe. Wenger changed the game, but totally. Nothing superficial or sticking plasterish about his methods. They were Gestalt. He addressed every facet of the players lives. Starting with their minds, then their waistlines then their feet. And consequently Arsenal won the league 3 times, twice in ‘double’ seasons and capped it all with the only ever unbeaten season.

Then it went downhill.

Because football is not ever a ‘revolution’ but an evolution. Wenger just represented a Jurassic explosion in the beautiful game with lots of changes all at once. But then his branch on the evolutionary tree stopped growing. He stuck with the 1997 plan and refused to budge. Even as others used his methods and then improved them. Like Maggie Thatcher, he was not for turning.

But I come to praise Wenger, not to bury him. Because he was a genius. Not a word I band about in any context. Then his inherent stubbornness? Frenchness? stopped him from embracing the changes necessary to keep his genius alive.

Au revoir Arsene

A xxxx

Yesterday was the hottest April day EVERRRR. Well, since 1949. So long ago that anyone who was actually alive then doesn’t have the memory to remember yesterday, let alone 69 years ago. So for all intents and purposes, yesterday is the new record day. And hot it was. Today’s gonna be hot too. And Saturday and Sunday.

And Sunday is the London Marathon day. And will be the hottest one everrrrr. 40,000 runners doing their 26 (and a bit) miles in the searing heat. And its city heat, which is never that lovely, always a bit damp and stuffy. Of those 40,000, 24 are serious athletes. Mo Farrah and that kind of person. 193 are competitive amateurs, run for athletic clubs, fancy themselves a bit. After that they get older and frailer and progressively slower and are the people who wake up every day with aching backs and sore limbs and take too much ibuprofen but love the running or are too competitive to quit. That takes care of the first 20,000. The other 20,000 are doing it for charity. And run in fancy dress.

I could never run a marathon. I can barely run for the bus. Without falling over… and I’m actually in total awe of those who do. Because it takes a level of discipline that I simply don’t have. Plus, I don’t like running really, only on the tennis court where it comes in spurts of wondrous energy. I don’t like the seemingly endless repetitive sports like swimming, running, biking for 35 miles on a Sunday morning. I like sports that involve trash talk and insulting competitors. Which is probably why I loved playing football so much. Maybe I don’t like the idea of spending 4 hours (phah! in yer dreams!!), ok, spending 9 hours in my own solitary company?

So the fancy dressers impress us every year. Because not only are they going to run a frikkin marathon, they’re going to do it as a pantomime horse with their mate Billy. Or as a pregnant camel, shlepping round about 50 lbs of humps and bumps. On stilts. Dressed as a fully functional tank with rotating cannon. Two people strapped together running it ‘3-legged’ (like running 26 miles unencumbered is just too easy). On stilts. Pushing wheelchairs. There’s no limits.

But this year they are advising people to ditch the fancy dress for fear of dehydration. And… er… possible death. No-one wants to go to work Monday morning to find the streets littered with bodies. It’ll be like 1665 all over again. The great Plague, in case you’d forgotten.

Yet the marathon without those people will not be true to its ethos. And you simply know that anyone daft enough to run that far with that much impediment ain’t gonna cancel because of a bit of sunshine.

Good luck to them all.

Happy sunny days. Cos they ain’t gonna last.

A xxxx

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