Andy's Glasses

There was a wonderful documentary a few years ago about the phenomenon of ‘fatty feeding’. Where normal, thin, regular people enable seriously obese people (normally their partners) to consume masses. They encourage them. They buy them ‘little treats’, like a sack of cream doughnuts, a wheelbarrow full of bacon sandwiches, even though they know that its killing them. But its not, apparently, in the world of the super-obese, an uncommon situation. Its like buying a recovering alcoholic a bottle of whisky and making him drink.

Or like buying Mel a fit-bit for her birthday. It just encourages obsessive behaviour. And makes everything worse. But what do you buy your wife for her birthday???

So I thought, I know, she’ll love one of those (really annoying) wrist things that count your steps during the day, monitor your sleep patterns during the night and quantifies all manner of health and fitness shit.

Mel is fit. She swims 80 to 100 lengths four mornings a week, she does two spin sessions a week from which she returns home disguised as a little soggy red-faced thing. And of course, she does pilates. Everyone SHOULD do pilates, but only the dedicated few really do. You have to want to contort your body where, at almost any age, it really doesn’t want to go. You need to crave a degree of suppleness that you’re never going to re-gain and you need really to be a middle-aged, middle-class Londoner. Fortunately I don’t do facile stereotyping.

And we walk, of course. We walk a lot. Though not necessarily when its minus 5 and snowing. Then we do more sitting.

So we strapped the fit-bit on and downloaded the inevitable app and its really… really there. And great. And the next day I come home from work to find my wife pacing the kitchen. Because she’s nearly reached her ‘target’ for steps but not quite. At which point I realised I was the health’n’safety version of a ‘fatty feeder’, enabling and encouraging obsessive behaviour. Albeit of a ‘better’ version than the chocolate eclairs.

Jose Morinho is in a bad place. Maybe a fit-bit would help him? I don’t know. Leaving the country would certainly be good for the rest of football, but meanwhile he’s here, he’s unhappy and he’s managed to take Manchester United, the ‘biggest team in the world’, the veritable metaphor for hard but glamorous attacking football, and turn them into Stoke City, parking buses all over the City. Well, his half of the city. Guardiola in the other half of Manchester is doing simply wonderful things, to further rub Morihno’s nose in it. But then he publicly attacks his team. “No personality, no fight, no nuffink…”. Strange choice of words. He should have signed Bruce Forsyth, while he was still alive, if he wanted ‘personality’. Maybe Ant’n’Dec if they’re available and out of rehab. But footballers? He’s already making his excuses for another shitty season (relatively) and trying to distance himself from any responsibility. He is definitely my ‘tosser of the week’. And most weeks.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

You put 23 intelligence agents in, you pull 23 intelligence agents out, ya slag off the president, shake him all about, ya do the Hokey Kremlin and ya suffer from gout, that’s what its all abaaaart… (repeat til you get bored or are murdered by ex-KGB agents).

We’re taking ‘sanctions’ against those horrible, nasty, evil, sarcastic, wicked Russians because we’re… fairly sure… 92% convinced… 88% certain, that they were responsible for the attempted murder in Salisbury the other week. The lingering doubts, which the Russians express daily, are that basically there is no proof as yet that they actually did it. Someone else might have murdered 2 Russian official ‘enemies of the state’ with a nerve agent never manufactured anywhere except Russia. So in theory, anyone could’a done it. The check-out girl at Tescos, ISIS, someone building a basement in Kensington, any Arsenal fan, Prince Harry, anyone.

So after the first wave of tit-for-tat diplomatic expulsions of each other’s spies, we are now considering what happens next. Who blinks first. And the latest suggestion is to withdraw from this summer’s world cup. Hmmmm. Sport, politics, ne’er the twain. Unless we do. I would actually withdraw the England team from the following world cup in Qatar, as a protest against the Russians. In some respects it makes no sense, but the world cup should never be in Qatar, its too hot, too unfootbally and too stupid to even consider. That’d show Putin.

We banned all sports in South Africa for years, when apartheid was in place. But we’d banned all trade, all commerce, investment, everything between the two nations. Its different to isolate one single sport to use as a punishment. And who, exactly, would be most punished by it? The Russians wouldn’t give a shit as there’s still every other country going. They would barely notice the loss of income from the (inevitable) 3 matches played by the England team. And the fans would suffer because we’d be deprived of spending the entire summer moaning about how shit our national team is and agonising on why it always performs so badly in the major tournaments. And how likely is it that the French (now, temporarily onside again) and the Americans and Italians and Germans will follow the boycott? That would produce a much greater problem for the hosts but really is quite unlikely.

Jeremy Corbyn’s plan is a good one. That we take the opportunity to just declare ourselves part of Russia. If ya can’t beat ’em, join ’em. Embrace our inner communist. Except most people don’t have one. Twin St Petersburg with Islington. Oh, and shoot the Queen. Useless fucking rich bitch.

I just don’t know… anything!

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

Nonchalance is a wonderful and underused word and a consummate skill for the true exponent. And having just read a wonderful article in the Times which should have been entitled “I LOVE LIONEL MESSI WITH ALL MY HEART!!!!” but actually bore a slightly more eloquent and objective strap-line, it lead me onto nonchalant. The ability to do things with no apparent care, consideration, excitement or enthusiasm. But it only really works when its something special. Going to the office in such a manner really doesn’t count.

I realised (reading an article about Lionel Messi? go figure) that’s why I find Lila’s eating process so amazingly hilarious. Not because she systematically picks out all the carrots (which yesterday she couldn’t cram in her mouth fast enough) and simply drops them onto the floor to get to the peas underneath, so that every alternate handful of those can suffer the same fate, but because its so effortlessly care-free for her to do it. She doesn’t laugh while she’s doing it, nor even really look, she just does it, without an apparent thought nor care. Neither of which, at 11.5 months, she’s really that good at yet.

Lionel Messi is a bit older. Though not much bigger. And I’ve never seen him eat, so I can’t comment on that. But I have seen him play football. And as the debate rages as to a. is he better than Ronaldo (absolutely no doubt whatsoever) and b. is he the greatest ‘ever’ (ie Pele, Maradona, Messi), I just ignore it all and enjoy watching an absolute master of the game. Not only blessed with the most incredible ball control ever, including all of those mentioned above, amazing balance and the most incredible left foot since they were invented, he plays the game as it should be played. He enjoys himself. And best of all, he is the least likely forward ever to ‘take a dive’. Its just not in his repertoire. You push him over, he just gets up and makes you look stupid, you kick him, he ignores it. He is drawn to the goal like a moth to a light, like flies to shit, like me to Easter Eggs, and nothing will get in his way.

And its once again the sheer nonchalance of his actions that is what is so incredibly special. He just dips a shoulder and is gone, no fuss, no stupid fucking step-overs, just balance and speed and of course, end product. He scores goals. Shitloads of wonderful goals. Including 2 on Wednesday against Chelsea, putting the ball through the goalkeeper’s legs both times. And that’s Courtois, allegedly one of the best in the world.

Its also worth mentioning that Messi never gets accused of racial abuse, of biting opponents (like some of his team-mates), of spitting at little girls on the way home, or anything nasty. Just a few ‘issues’ with the tax man (case ongoing) but no-one’s perfect. Not even Lila. But Messi is about as near to perfect as any sportsman could ever be.

See, I love him too.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

They’re funny things, children. Especially babies. They don’t say much that you’d wanna repeat but they do lots. Most of which is blatantly destructive, but all of which is really funny. Odd. Bizarre. Illogical. But they do it with such a charm, such wonderful total innocence that even Mel can’t get upset that the entire fucking house is totally trashed within 10 minutes of Lila’s arrival. The Who in 1971, high as kites and in full Keith Moon insanity mode, couldn’t have been more destructive.

And you get babies ‘toys’ and ‘games’ and traditionally, they’re more interested in the wrapping paper and delivery boxes than they are in the games and toys themselves. Because they just like ‘things’ and are pretty indiscriminate about them.

Last weekend we went to the loft and retrieved The Toy. The killer game that every child loves. It was adored when our girls were babes and all who visited became obsessed with it. The Fisher Price ‘kitchen’. Its big, colourful, got lots of doors and pots and pans and food and toasters and blenders and all safe and blue and pink and yellow and plastic and safe. And we presented it to Lila. The kitchen and the box of about 2,000 ‘things’ to throw, play with and chew. And she left it after about 30 seconds and hoisted herself up by the drawer in the (real) kitchen that she knows is full of plastic containers. Because every synapse in her lovely little body craves disorder; its instinctive. And, it must be said, is possibly part of her genetic inheritance from her grandfather. So she systematically examines every single tupperware thing, every lid, every carton, jar and item, chews it then throws it onto the floor to pick up the next exciting… thing. She is yet to master the physics of sliding drawers and little fingers but she’ll learn. We all do. Even Stephen Hawking had to start somewhere.

Everyone’s ganging up on the Russians now, as expected if ya go round administering illegal toxic weapons of mass destruction in quaint and sleepy little English country towns. Everyone except Jeremy Corbyn and the French. Can’t see the connection but the French want more proof and Corbyn is somehow blaming cuts in the diplomatic service budget ‘BY THE TORIES!!!’ for the whole episode. And because of OUR PAST ISSUES WITH W.M.Ds and their incorrect assessment. Even his own party now find him an embarrassment, a dick-head and a throw-back. And those three adjectives are actually the best 3 things about our esteemed leader of the opposition. From there, its downhill all the way.

Happy LilaDay

A xxxx

Stephen Hawking has died. Or been switched off. Or run out of charge. Whatever, the greatest genius Britain has produced since Isaac Newton and Bill Nicholson will roll his wheels no more. He is an ex-Lucasian Professor of Clever Stuff at Cambridge. And clever he was. Did you ever read ‘a Brief History of Time’? I did. The book that ‘popularised’ the unfathomable. I like science. I do science. I read science. And as I was reading that book I was following his concepts and felt like I understood them totally. Then as the book shut, they were gone in an instant. I could open it again and grasp (at straws?) it over again but it wouldn’t stick. So, in short, Stephen Hawking was much cleverer than me. Amazingly he was given 5 years to live in about 1965 due to his Motor Neurone Disease, but managed to hang on a while longer. And we’ve all seen the film and thus realise that he probably wasn’t the nicest man on the planet. But possibly the one who understood that planet better than anyone else. He never achieved his ‘grand unified theory’ but as most people can’t even spell it, he did better than was expected. He always wanted to join the colossal big stuff; planets shifting, time warping, gravity of black holes, with the microscopic, the energy produced in the nucleus of an atom. One equation that would encompass both ends of physics. But he failed. No cigar but he couldn’t have smoked one anyway in his condition. How he managed to father children is more than most people can fathom. I wonder what they’ll do with his ‘voice’ thingy?

Meanwhile right down here on planet Earth, on solid ground, Ahmed Hassan is in court for putting a bomb on a tube train. Which ignited but didn’t work properly, instead shooting a fireball down the carriage burning about 70 people and scaring everyone shitless. The actual detonation failed thus the bag of horrible sharp, nasty, rusty ‘shrapnel’ wasn’t deployed. Thankfully. And Hassan says he never wanted to kill anyone. The screws and bolts and knives in the bag were ‘just to look good’. Because “the idea of killing anyone never crossed my mind, never in my life”.

It takes a special kind of person to draw a line between creating a fireball in a crowded, confined space and claiming he wouldn’t murder on ethical grounds. You almost have to admire the little fucker. Then deport him.

Its Lila’s birthday soon. And as her present arrived her mummy and daddy decided to ruin the surprise and give it to her early. Where has that year gone???

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I really like this government. Because at no time before can I ever remember ‘triggering an article’ and yet now, so soon after ‘triggering article 50’ to get us out of Europe (and that seems to be going really… errrr… hmmm… really well?), it looks like we’re set to now trigger article 51. I mean, that’s fucking amazing. I didn’t realise articles had to be triggered in sequence, but there ya go. I’m an article-triggering-virgin so not sure of the rules.

Article 51 is a UN thing, it should be noted, I s’pose, whereas article 50 was a European thing, but I don’t think we should let that underplay the neatness and synchronicity of these events. And, of course Article 51 basically accuses the Russians of attacking Britain. Which it PROBABLY did. And allows us to take action. From my own point of view, I still think we need to establish all the facts, as in ‘would they stand up in a court of law’. If not, then really we should hold all threats until such details are established. We all fucking KNOW that the Russians did it. Who else would have the motivation to kill a traitor-to-Russia? Who else would possess a Russian-made nerve-agent? But its not enough. Ironically, even when it does become ‘enough’, as it did with Andrei Lugavoy killing Litvinenko, the Russians will still deny it anyway.

So we’re going to shut down Russia Today, the Russian state tv channel based over here. Which will cut Jeremy Corbyn’s income source significantly, cos he’s always on it. And we’re threatening a ‘cyber attack’ on the Russians. Which is a bit like taking your slingshot out to attack a tank because Russia leads the world in cyber-crime. They hacked Hillary Clinton, they affected the US election, they played a part in the Brexit referendum and lead the world in ‘malware’. And we’re going to attack them?

Midnight tonight. That’s the ‘deadline’ for the Russians to respond to Theresa May’s threats. Otherwise… otherwise… she’ll trigger article 52 (not sure there is one, but we’ll make it up as we go along)? Very exciting.

I think we should suspend this til May 26th. Because that’s the day we come home from our trip to (fucking) Russia. And having spent about 19 hours filling in the visa application, I’ll never get that time back. Never. Listing every country visited for the last 10 years, dates and times of entry and departure, details of last 3 passports, names and addresses of children, parents (including where they’re buried, when applicable), every meal eaten in the last 9 months, quite unbelievable.

So please don’t declare war on Russia til we’re home and safe. Triggering articles is opening a can of fucking worms. As we know.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

If power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely, then what about absolute, eternal, total power forever? What does that do to the price of eggs? Because yesterday the National People’s Congress in Beijing voted to abolish the ‘2-term’ rule of leader by which the boss man can only serve 2 five-year terms as President. That is no more. So President Xi can rule his little heart out until his little heart actually gives out. It was a close contest. With 2,958 voting with the President to abolish the rule and 6 voting against. They had a recount. Mainly so the dissenting 6 could be identified and will be out of a job by today, locked up by Wednesday and in some forced labour camp by Friday. They introduced the 2-term rule after Chairman Mao died. The founder of Communist China. Who did all sorts of things of a fair-ish and decent nature but was also responsible for an estimated 30-50 million deaths, mainly of some kind of ‘dissenters’. I’m not sure how rich he was at the end but let’s say Chairman Mao was never short of rice.

Over in that other model of the Communist Dream, Putin is still serving up ‘the dish best served cold’ in the wake of the latest revenge killing in Salisbury. Which ‘might’… ‘allegedly’… ‘possibly’… be something to do with Russia. Maybe. And Putin again is in sole charge of a totalitarian state. In which ‘dissenters’ tend to get arrested and disappear with what would be over here, alarming frequency and worry. But over there is just ‘life’. And again it is reckoned that Putin has literally billions stored up in various offshore accounts. Just a little ‘nest egg’ so he can keep the heaters on when he retires. But how far from the original mantra of: from each according to his ability to each according to his needs? Ok, he might ‘need’ another little jet plane, what’s the problem?

And that is the dream to which Jeremy Corbyn and most certainly John McDonnell aspire. I just caught part of a speech to by the latter to the Scottish Labour conference yesterday and in an almost throw-away line, as the shadow chancellor was slagging of Conservative policies generally, he blamed the usual ‘market forces’ and ‘big business’ and then just kind’a threw in ‘terrible liberal democracy’ as a third horn of his personal devil. What? You got a problem with over-hornage? Who said the Devil can only have 2? You ever seen him??? Well thank you.

But since when, in Britain, has ‘liberal democracy’ been an evil? Been the cause of problems? Yet in McDonnell’s sick and warped mind that is the case. Whereas the totalitarianism in China and Russia are political aspirations.

He is a very dangerous man. I bet he does tai chi too.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

What do you do when your football team is shit? This is a deep and profound question that goes to the very heart of the underlying philosophy of our national game. A less pretentious person would see the irony in intellectualising something that is far more animal, basic and visceral than ‘mere’ thought.

But the first consideration is always: ‘who does a football team belong to?’. And the only answer to that question is ‘the fans’. Because really, no-one else gives a toss as long as the money keeps rolling in. Some of the players are passionately loyal. Until a better offer comes along. And I don’t blame them for that. The managers are the way the club performs at any given time, how they play, how they set up, what their immediate goals (no pun) are. Then they get sacked or leave for more money elsewhere too. The owners have their own agendas. Some see their team as a viable way of writing off losses for tax purposes. Others, like the Glazers at Manchester United, see the club as a cash cow, to be milked extensively and often, using any form of obscure financial wheedling they can. The Oligarchs own teams to try and keep their profiles high enough that the KGB don’t kill them in Pizza Express. And the Oil Barons just buy ‘toys’ all around the globe because they have nothing else to do and are prepared to pay very handsomely for the vanity of buying ‘success’.

So a club is really just the fans. They bear the name, the badge, the shirt, through good and bad. Til death do they part. But unlike marriage, there is NO divorce ever from your club. Its the tattoo that can’t be erased or covered up.

Thus is fan ‘protest’ an acceptable form of voicing an opinion, normally that their team are shit and heads need to roll. sumfink needs ter be dunn!!! So they hoist banners that ‘WENGER MUST GO!!!’ or that ‘Mike Ashley is vile’, neither of which anyone would deny. And then there’s West Ham.

Their team are indeed shit. No one would question that. More interestingly, they’ve always been shit, so why all the problem now? But unlike ‘civilised fans’ (a contradiction in terms if e’er there was), those ‘ammers don’t do peaceful, thoughtful protest. They gang up with horrible collective aggression and violence and launch an attack on the director’s box. That’s not to mention the total morons who invaded the pitch, mid-game, to… errr… to… do something disruptive and incur the wrath of the Premiership who will inevitably make things much worse for the club and the fans as a consequence. But the evil intent on the faces of those 20 or 30 throw-back Neanderthal’s out for David Sullivan’s blood (Sullivan duly bottled out 10 minutes later) was a really horrible sight to behold. Ugly.

If they impose sanctions on West Ham and perhaps play in an empty stadium for a few games, that, in terms of atmosphere, won’t actually make much difference at the London Stadium.

Ban them from the league. Relegate them to the Victoria’s Secrets Dulux Paints 3rd division (South) for a few years. Til they can learn to behave.

Happy Sunday (Spurs have just taken the lead at Bournemouth so I’m hopeful)

A xxxx

The two New Yorkers, possibly hit-men, otherwise, probably something of low repute, for sure, certainly nothing requiring high levels of industry as they spent about 25 days out of 26 at the pool, were an odd couple. Steve was the ‘old man’ of our group at about 34. A big, burly, hairy New York Jew. Joey was about 23 and Eye-talian to the core. The name, the family and the odd word thrown into a conversation in traditional Long Island Latin.

Steve’s girlfriend had come over for a vacation and one day Joey told us a couple of his old, dear friends were paying him a visit. Schoolfriends, family friends, bad’a,bad’a,bad’a. And we were just hanging there one day at the pool (where else??) when along came Jackie and Debi. Two more ‘Talians from Noo Yawk.

They weren’t modelesque, like Susan was, they lacked the leg length and the high gloss polish. In fact these girls would rub off the polish as being ‘tacky’ because they were dressed in ‘street smart’ and ‘demi-punk’ and were the coolest things ever. And they were New Yorkers, and thus moved with a self-assured confidence that was almost a challenge. They simply exuded the Taxi Driver line, ‘you talking to ME???’ with every stare. And they swore a lot. Which, coming from basically, petite and gorgeous brunettes, I found rather alluring. Oh and they were funny. Every comment met with a put-down, every sentence barbed, especially Debi. So I let Craig (my flat-mate) take Jackie and I went to sharpen my wits on 7 stone of solid, New York rock.

Debi was (and still may be; who knows?) a psychiatric nurse. Like Nurse Ratched in One flew over… but seriously cute. And she started work at the Cedar Sinai hospital in Beverley Hills. No shortage of rich nutters there, for sure. And then when she finished, she had me, her own, private, poor nutter. And I was still seeing Susan. But that was ok cos Debi was going out with one of the doctors at the hospital too. Well, ok-ish, obvs.

And just when I thought that my cup was well and truly runneth over, I got a letter from Brazil. Ivani was coming over to do an advanced English course at Redlands University in the Desert. So we can get together and spend lots of time. But… but… but…

You know how ‘you can never have too much money’, well it doesn’t apply to all good things, that’s for sure. Life was getting really complicated. Yeah, in kind of a ‘pinch me and tell me this is real’ kind’a way, but seriously. I mean: SERIOUSLY!!

Happy Friday

A xxxx

There’s no disgrace in losing to Juventus in the Champions League. Its not like they were some unheard-of Swedish part-time minnows who scraped into the Europa League on alphabetical merit. They’re Juve. They’re frikkin’ massive. And they’ve made it to the C.League final twice in the last 3 years. Yet still it hurts. But more because it brings to an end our run of 17 games without defeat. And I hate statistics like that. Because I don’t want my world to crumble in the fallout. Now we shall see the real magic of Pochettino if he can rally the troops for Sunday’s match at Bournemouth. A fixture which lacks the inevitable romance of playing Italy’s biggest team in the most prestigious tournament in the world of football, but its just as important.

Meanwhile there’s a tale of two nations being played out right here, right now. Two what could be termed ‘rogue states’ but only one is. That one is Russia in the wake of the latest death by really weird manner in Salisbury. Though no-one’s actually died yet and most tragically, if anyone does die soon its most likely to be the policemen who was first there to try and help the Russians.

They haven’t stated yet exactly what the nerve agent used was. But they know and if they know that they’ll know where it comes from and if they know that then they’ll know for sure… that the Russians did it. They always do. Though Boris’s premature accusations have only given credence to the Russian persecution get-out of ‘everyone accuses Russia, even though we’re cuddly and nice, so typical of the West’. The same ‘west’ who, for some reason, feel unable to take action against Russia blanket bombing civilians in Syria, killing hundreds of children, every fucking day.

The other nation that would be ‘rogue’ but instead is our ‘greatest ally and bestest friends forever’ is Saudi Arabia. Prince Whatever (big fat geezer with a beard wearing a dress, you know the one) was accorded not just the full red carpet treatment, but lunch at Liz’s too. And as he’s not a head of state, that is big. Like lunch would have been. Prince looks well fed. And we do lots of trade with Saudi, especially arms. So we look after them and entertain them at The Palace. Otherwise they’d use another nation’s bombs to murder half the civilian population of Yemen with. And we wouldn’t want that. Not me, nor The Queen, nor Theresa May.

Its all fucked up.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx