Andy's Glasses

Ok, football is suddenly back on the agenda. No idea why, just one day the world is depressing and dire and football is a total waste of time and energy and then, ka-boom! it re-enters life in the most dominating and demanding fashion.

It was a shitty 7 days. We were 2-nil up against West Ham in the nothing-cup and cruising. Then managed to lose 3-2. Four days later we went to Old Trafford and got beat again by United. A different United from the Carling/Watling/Bass/Heineken/Carlsberg Cup one. All grim, all bad, all sorry for oneself.

And not the best way to prepare for the biggest game of the century. The biggest match everrrrr. The home game against the mighty, the all-conquering, the twice-running European champions, Real Madrid. We’d done brilliantly well to hold them to a draw at the Bernabau 2 weeks ago and I was prepared for some kind of revenge thing. Though this time we had Dele Alli back from his suspension. Which proved somewhat important.

And Spurs were just magnificent. Simply brilliant. Cruising to a 3-1 win, only conceding Ronaldo’s conciliation goal in the 80th minute.

I missed it all. Was out stuffing my face somewhere local where the food comes BIG. The first time I checked we were 2-0 up, 63 minutes. Oh my. I dribbled pulled brisket all over my phone, had to get an extra napkin to wipe it, after I’d licked to the food off. Too good to waste. Then I checked again with one hand, the other was holding Mel’s spoon-hand from the chocolate fudge cake and ice cream we were ‘sharing’. 3-nil. Then it refreshed, 3-1. 80 minutes and panicking now. There’s no Spurs fan anywhere who ever feels confident about holding onto a lead. To many horrible memories. Even when we were 9-1 up against Wigan I was praying for a quick end in case they stole 9 goals in the remaining 2.3 minutes.

Not this time. 3-1 it ended. Two from Dele and one from Eriksen. And so Real Madrid, who hadn’t lost a Champions League group match since 2012, lost at Wembley.

Toby Alderweireld went off with a dodgy hamstring, which is a massive loss. And yet Eric Dier slipped seamlessly into the back 3, Sissoko came on in the holding role and they barely missed a beat. I love that. Not the injury but the depth in quality and versatility. Walker fucks off to Manchester City, Danny Rose gets injured and Trippier and Davies just improve ten-fold. Jan Vertongen was apparently humungous at the back.

And I love them all. I love everyone today.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

One Direction are bigger than the Beatles!!! Said so in the paper so it must be true. Because by some warped criteria for ‘bigness’, the four/five Tossers (depending on whether you count Zayn Malik now he’s left to become a full-time, solo, boyfriend-to-a-supermodel) have four members currently sitting at number 1 in America with solo hits. Well, not at the same time but its a first for a UK band. And that, according to The Times, makes them ‘bigger than the Beatles.

Just so you’re not under any confusion or ambiguity about my personal view on this situation, allow me to clarify. The Beatles were Gods of music. Pioneers. They were the first ever supergroup, even though that term wouldn’t exist for 10 years. They were not merely incredible musicians but extraordinary songwriters. And Ringo. They changed music forevermore.

Whereas One Direction are a bunch of 3rd rate Karaoke singers (they did in fact come 3rd in the X-Factor wot spawned them) who look pretty and are pretty worthless in any real musical sense. They are a Frankenstein of the music world; put together by Simon Cowell of all the ‘bits’ he knew little girls would like. Then churn a few songs from his music factory and hey presto! they’re number one!!!

One Direction wouldn’t exist if the Beatles hadn’t been there a long way first. There’s a lovely line in The Comedy Store’s fabulous old ‘Bad News Tour’ in which Ade Edmonson’s character states: “Jimmy Page was 16 when he wrote ‘Stairway to Heaven’. I could play it when I was 14. I think that says a lot”.

In 50 years time, when One Direction are old and fat and bald and doing Karaoke nights at the Three Tuns in Watford every Friday, they’ll probably be singing along to Beatles songs.

I have a cold/cough thing and can’t sleep due to excessive snottage. I’m not happy, I’m very tired and miserable and if I wasn’t such a hero I’d stay in bed and moan for a week.

(Not quite) Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I have a rule. Only one. And its fairly general. Almost a generalisation, but spared only because generalisations are generally wrong. The rule is this: if a man is accused of wrong-doing, he’s always guilty if his hair is dyed. Just as an extension (to the rule, not the hair), dyed hair on men is actually always a sign of guilt, you just sometimes need to look deeper to find what he’s guilty of.

You look round the Chinese National Congress, all late-middle aged men (ok, one woman out of 2400, so safe to ignore her, like the other 2399 delegates probably do) and there’s not a grey hair in sight. The President himself looks like he bought his jet-black hair from an Elvis impersonator store. Yet the greatest culprits of this crime against greyness are undoubtedly the Americans. American men don’t go grey; they go a reddy shade of ‘mahogany’. With silver at the roots. Nice. Lucky that Trump is a natural ‘blond’ or he’d be showing signs of grey too and would doubtless dye it into a ridiculous yellow birdsnest. Oh, he does.

So enter Paul Manafort. Stinking rich business-person, Trump campaign chief strategist and all round ‘big guy’ with unnaturally dark hair. Therefore (Andy’s rule) he’s guilty as sin. And of sin. In his case, the sin being taking millions of dollars in payments from the President of the Ukraine, who was himself massively ‘pro-Moscow’. In other words, a Putin Puppet. And Manafort brought the money into the States by buying properties and other acts generally considered to be of the ‘laundering’ variety. Then lying to the Feds about its provenance. As ya do.

Another Trump campaigner, George Papadopoulos, has already pleaded guilty to the investigation about lying over his contacts and his attempts to source Clinton emails from the Russians.

These two are in big-shit trouble with the Feds. Manafort is on ‘house arrest’ and has actually had his passport taken away. An act which wouldn’t trouble 96% of Americans who only acquire passports when they want to go to Florida to shoot alligators. But it will definitely trouble him.

And yet its all kind’a circumstantial at the moment. Big campaign dudes with links to Russia and fraud. But not an actually link to the election mechanism. Not yet anyway.

Trump meanwhile does what he does best. He doesn’t make speeches, he doesn’t hold press conferences, he sends Tweets. Can only handle 15 words at any one time. 9 of them insulting and abusive.

God help America

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

David Attenborough is 91 years old. That’s ancient. Makes me feel young. And yet makes he best tv programmes ever. As he has for 700 years. The latest series started last night, Blue Planet 2. About the seas. Hence ‘blue’. Goddit? And the sheer majesty of his programmes just sets them apart from every other show on tv. The photography is better than on Strictly Come Prancing, the drama higher than whether Sophie’s tarts will rise on Bake Off, more excitement than Bristol City vs Skelmersdale on a Thursday night in November. Wow. David is not the only one responsible for the magnificence of the series, there’s probably one or two other people peripherally involved. But I think he does most of the ‘heavy lifting’ himself. And although we, as the viewers, can delude ourselves into thinking that we’re embarked upon a noble quest for education, for information and enlightenment of a- intillec-chul nature, really its just another hour spent stodging out in front of the tv with a bag (family size) of Doritos and guacamole. Maybe a few beers. “Don’t disturb me, Darling, I’m engaged in my further education, innit”.

And there among the pods of dolphins surfing immense waves and massive fishes leaping 3 metres out of the water to catch birds in flight, was a fascinating little snippet. About what I’ll call ‘Ugly Fish’ but in fact are kobudai. The weirdest fish ever. Not just because its ugly, lots of fishes are. Lots of people are. But because of the life-cycle. The mature males mate with the mature females. You can tell them apart because the males are 3 times the size, 5 times as ugly and have a massive lump on their heads. Like another head. Attractive. The females do their mating thing for a year or whatever, then they go into a cave. And change into a male. They grow, they get the head-lump, they get really ugly, and hey presto: I’M A MAN!!!! Who then goes out looking for females with which to mate.

In evolutionary terms this is a great thing. Gives the females more chances of producing offspring that carry her genes. But fuck me (unfortunately, due to timing, the kabudai can’t fuck themselves) it puts a new slant on the whole ‘trans’ thing.

Kabudai live in Japan. They probably banned from Saudi Arabia, Russia and Iran. Aren’t allowed to swim in Alabama or Tennessee. Japan’s safe for them. They have a high threshold to odd perversions over there. Not that I’m judging or stereotyping. Heaven forbid.

I only watched the first half of the programme due to ‘factors beyond my control’. Was one’a those weekends. And now I’m intrigued to see the rest.

Because, more than anything else, David Attenborough just tells the story. In ‘neutral’. He doesn’t shout and scream and he certainly doesn’t use that ‘high drama’ voice that all the other ‘nature’ programmes do when the shark’s gonna strike, when the eel’s racing out of the coral, when an innocuous looking bit of sea weed develops teeth and consumes a whale, whole. He lets nature tell the story. He just fills in the bits. Bless him.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

Its a weird world. As you can see from the picture. Though that was intentionally ‘AHH-OMG!!’ weird, obvs, rather than ‘eeeeuuuwwww, creepy’ weird. The creepy bit is sex-bots. Really creepy.

Some dude in California (where else?) is now producing a line of ‘sex-bots’. Expensive but really customisable. Up to 7 heads. Not necessarily all on the same robot. You get to choose the head of your choice. And the breast size, nipple type (errr, squidgy or robust, pink or blue?) small bottom, large bottom, Kardashian-bottom (+$330 depending on price of silicone at the time), knee-cap durability, elbow-width and personality. Yes, personality. They’re apparently ‘cold and clammy’ in the attempt to make silicone into ‘skin’, so it might be more like fucking a corpse, but this will be a corpse that at least whimpers at the appropriate times. And speaks. Hugs you when you get home from a hard day at the orifice, sorry, office.

And that’s the creepy bit. The really creepy bit. We’ve always had ‘blow-up dolls’, they were invented for groups of stag-nighters to drag round Kings Cross Station with a paralytic, 6 foot 4 groom-to-be wearing a dirty wedding dress and stilettos. But they looked like balloons. With funny mouths on them. Looked ridiculous. Purely ‘functional’ in the saddest of ways.

But sex-bots? That speak? For which you choose a ‘personality’??? Noooooo…

That’s creepier than creepy. “This could be your lucky night, Babe”. Vomit. “Shall we go upstairs??” Or maybe stairs are a problem and you have to change the chip for advanced leg movements. Who knows?

Prostitutes must be living in dread. Who wants a filthy, possibly-diseased crack-whore any longer when you can have a silicon ‘dolly’ in with a ‘shy’ personality instead? Cleaned nightly with peroxide. You could have an ‘assertive’ one, either normal or ‘big ass-ertive’, all manner of combinations and cheap puns are available. And they’re on the market from about $7.5k.

Mr Californian Sicko reckons they’re great, “and not just for sex”. And that is a claim-and-a-half considering they can’t play chess and why would you want to take one to football with you?

So life is catching up with sci-fi, but thankfully slowly. Or here’s a thought: having sex with… people? I know, sounds bizarre, but it may catch on. Ya never know.

Happy Sunday (and still no football worthy of any comment whatsoever; that area of my brain is currently suspended, pending…)

A xxxx

Ahhhh Alabama, sweet home Alabama…

Except I’ve never been there, not sure exactly where it might be other than ‘deep south’ and I’m not sure if, even now, they allow jews in. Yet, as ever, I won’t let a little ignorance stop me from making wild accusations and blanket statements abusing that entire state. Frikkin’ cross-burnin’, confederate-flaggin’, good-ole-boyin’… sister-shaggers!

But Alabama has always been a bit of a problem. Well, maybe not always, just since the civil war ended. They’ve always had issues over race. Still do, by all accounts. And I haven’t seen any statistics but I’m gonna guess that there’s a few privately owned guns down there. In line with the constitution.

What they don’t have though is a senator. Since Jeff Sessions left the scene. So they need a new one. And last month they had the primaries for the Republican candidate. There may or may not be a democratic candidate at some point, but strictly to make up the numbers (errr, that’ll be ‘2’ then). Alabama is so Republican that it becomes a debate about which type of Republican you want. Or don’t want.

Donald Trump put his man forward, no idea what he stood for, its irrelevant anyway; he basically stood for and by Trump. A ‘pawn’ for the somewhat challenged Prez. And Steve Bannon, former White House organiser, election-winner, now back leading the ‘alt-right’, put his man up too. A guy called Ray Moore. An ex-judge, twice disgraced (no idea, just read it this morning, but it simply can’t be a good thing really) who arrived on election day on horseback. And in case you thought that this might be a subtle personal homage to Brokeback Mountain; safe to say Ray don’t do ‘subtle’, wouldn’t know ‘homage’ from ‘omelette’ and has rather strong views on homosexuality. Like never saying he wouldn’t bring back capital punishment for being gay. During a political speech he pulled out his gun. That’s not a metaphor, it was his six-shooter. Just to ’emphasise the point’.

He’s not in yet, but he will be soon.

Yet the scary thing is; if he beat Trump’s man, Ray Moore must therefore be ‘the good guy’.

God help that nation.

No talking about football. Iss banned.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

In the wake of the Harvey Weinstein story, and its more tsunami than mere ‘wake’ really in view of the vast numbers and sheer horrors of the events claimed, other groups are queuing up with their own tales of harassment, abuse and predatory behaviour. Models have a badge now, so many of whom had terrible experiences at the hands (literally) of svengali-esque ‘carreer-makers’ can speak of their own personal experience. Even MPs are now recalling similar events of groping, harassment, physical and sexual abuse. It appears to have been an epidemic. Much of it ‘historical’ but that in no way mitigates the gravity of the offences. Its not like such activities were acceptable in ‘pre-feminist’ times. I’m not sure when, exactly, ‘post-feminism’ started but I’m guessing Donald Trump wasn’t instrumental in its induction.

I’ve now reached the point where I’m actually concerned that no-one ever sexually harassed or assaulted me. Was I not pretty enough? I reckon I was drop-dead gorgeous. Did I mix in the wrong circles? Give off the wrong vibe? Ok there’s the ‘probable’ fact that most (errrrrr…) of the guilty are men, and being the world’s most heterosexually wonderful person that I am, maybe there just aren’t enough predatory women to go round. Obviously I’m not talking a woman who looks like Harvey Weinstein (heaven fucking forbid that there is any woman anywhere who could look like THAT), but more an Anne Bancroft in The Graduate kind’a deal. That’s what I was looking for when I was 15/16/17 (I could go on).
Whatever it is, its gotta stop.
And so has Jared O’Mara gotta stop. More revelations have come about of previous appalling acts of pretty much anything nasty and hideous. Calling a coffee shop girl an ‘ugly bitch’, very nice. Very Labour. But as one wag commented yesterday: ‘is this enough to get him thrown out of the party? No, only talking to Tony Blair can guarantee that’. So true. The fat ginger tosser lives another day.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Much as I’m always happy to see any Corbynite discredited, disgraced, demoted, demolished, even disfigured, I must admit to feeling a little ‘something’ for poor Jared O’Mara. Though what I’m actually feeling is in no way sympathy or support, even compassion. But that’s because he’s a Lefty-Labour Tosser. What I’m feeling is a touch of schadenfreude and a sniff of the total hypocrisy that always arises in these situations. Coupled with the wonderful irony. An MP on the Womens and Equality Committee in parliament spouting sexist, misogynistic, homophobic comments of a seriously nasty nature. I’d pay money for that. He also attacked fat people and celebrities in the rant which occurred 13 years ago. Part of his campaign to become a councilor. How does that make you a councilor?? But that’s history, this is now! How can a man who ever held such views possibly be on a committee for, basically, equality and tolerance? When he’s a sexist homophobe, fattist bastard?

His argument, pretty much because its the only argument you could ever make, is the ‘Trump defence’. “I’m not like that any more”. Ok, we have ‘leopards, spots…’ but do people change? I reckon they do. Because what the attention-seeking (council membership is nothing if not that) little ginger-haired plonker’s comments really are is just so much intentionally outrageous anti-PC ranting. I dare say they didn’t even represent his true feelings even then. Ok, ‘they came from somewhere!!!’, that’s true, but I’m familiar with… errrr… ‘people’ making inflammatory statements just for effect and they come from the desire to offend as much as from any deep-seated belief system. Other than that: SACK THE BASTARD, HANG HIM FROM THE YARD-ARM OF POLITICAL CORRECTNESS AND WATCH HIM TURN BLUE!!! (obviously not blue in the political sense).

And speaking of Trump, who can’t even be nice to a frikkin’ war widow, I’m worried about Melania. There are deep suspicions that the Melania we see (big hair, dark glasses, misery-pout) is not the same as the ‘real’ Melania (big hair, dark glasses, misery-pout) but merely a big haired, dark-glasses-ed, miserably pouting imposter!!! Who fucking cares. She says nothing, does nothing, merely turns up alongside… him. A clothes horse on wheels would do. Would probably look happier.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

I’m looking for reasons to be cheerful if you’re a Manchester United fan. And I’m thinking… and I’m thinking…

Naah! Its all gone to shit. Lost a game, not such a big deal, happens to the best of them, (though apparently not to Manchester City), second in the league; that’s ok, early days still. But there is darkness on the horizon. Extreme darkness…

Jose Morinho has an interesting personality. Something you could also say about Hitler, Stalin, Jesus Christ and many others. But Jose’s is interesting because he swings between smug, arrogant smiley Dago (can I say that word??? oh, I already did) to psychopathic whingeing excuse-monger on a turn of a centre-forward. Not his, the opponents. He simply cannot handle defeat. Well, strictly, he does handle it by playing his own version of the ‘blame game’. There’s nothing in the middle. No ‘normal’ for Jose, he’s either gloating or self-destructing.

Most famously this happened in his last term at Chelsea when he blamed the team doctor for the loss of a match. She’d gone on the pitch, as is her professional and ethical duty, to tend one of Jose’s princesses, who he trains to treat all contact as seriously as they can get away with, clutching heads, holding faces, waving for medics, and he chose to put the entire match responsibility upon her pretty little head.

And now, following the loss at Huddersfield yesterday, Jose’s at it once more. He’s blaming the ‘really poor attitude’ of the team. Who he then has to work with tomorrow and get them all ‘onside’ and team-spirited before the next match. Which he has now made way more difficult by his statements to the press.

There’s no doubting the man’s talent. But it tends to stall. Anyone can manage a team who are playing brilliantly all the time (does that even exist??) but its the minor hiccups that really define managerial skill. And Jose’s minors explode into majors of his own making, and they seem to get worse each time it happens.

But good managers are hard to come by. Can West Ham afford to sack Slaven Bilic? Who would they replace him with? Does anyone even care? I like him being there, particularly as we’re playing them this week.

My main worry is that Spurs magnificent midweek performance at the Bernabau spotlighted 2 things. That Pochettino is the manager that Real really want, and Harry Kane is an anagram of ‘Christiano Ronaldo’. But only if you’re dyslexic.

Liverpool this afternoon. Gonna watch it with Lila. Big game. Even though it is indeed ‘early days’ in the league, I’ve unilaterally decided that all Spurs matches henceforth are now ‘massssive!!’

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

Do you have a mobile phone? Just wondered. I used to have one. Then I replaced it with a mobile Lila-photo-storage-facility. Its much better. There’s no room for apps, text messages, phone numbers, just photos. Only of Lila. Except a few that sneak in of Harry Kane or even Donald Trump when someone says something funny about him when he fucks up. Ok, which is pretty much a daily event, but Lila really trumps all. Even trumps Trump. Though 49 photos a day really doesn’t satisfy totally. It gives me a little taste, but mainly of what I’m missing. So this morning, after over a week’s forced separation (holidays, work, life), I managed to squeeze a quick visit after tai chi but before tennis. I was in mid-activity mode and so was Lila. Every minute is an activity for Lila, even if that activity is just chewing her socks. So we got together. And all I can say is: denim jacket. Don’t like to be the love-struck, totally-obsessive grandparent thing but sometimes… just sometimes…

Lila knows nothing about the intricacies of Brexit. She has that in common with Theresa May, Boris, David Davis, Jean-Claude This and Michel That and everyone else involved in the divorce fiasco. Which is more akin to the lottery than to any logico-mathematical process. Think of a number, in billions, double it, add on the number of lovers enjoyed by the entire French parliamentary ministers over the last 4 years (also in billions), divide by the national debt of Lithuania and THAT’S HOW MUCH BRITAIN HAS TO PAY!!!! Then Theresa May offers them 75 quid, in cash, and negotiations start in earnest. And its all bollocks. Because much as I love numbers, as a general statement, I never trust them when spouted as a gospel. Particularly by politicians. First we had the Boris “350 million quid EVERY DAY to go into the NHS when we leave Europe” blatant lie. No-one ever mentioned the pay-back we get against that Euro-payment, but they wouldn’t, would they. Today I heard that ‘Britain has paid 200 billion more than any other nation over the last 40 years’. I’d question that one a bit too.

So if we aren’t sufficiently generous in our offer they won’t discuss trade. If we are generous everyone cries ‘Judas’ for still cow-towing to those Euro-bastards. Then there’s borders. Then there’s laws. What happens to EU citizens still living here, as they’ll be allowed to, if their vast array of European human rights are abused in some way (Europeans should have their human rights abused at every opportunity, nothing more than they deserve) and we’ve left the Euro legal thingy? Where would that poor person stand? How would it work? Oh my.

I’m still aching over the price of an iced-coffee in Tel Aviv and I’ve got all this to worry about.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx