Andy's Glasses

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

We’ve had the Leveson Inquiry, we’ve shut down the News of the World as a consequence due to Murdochian sleazy journalism and now it appears, on the very day that government suspended ‘Leveson 2, with a vengeance!’ or whatever it was called, the noble and hi-brow (ish) Sunday Times, Murdoch’s flagship journal, was acting in an even more despicable manner than the regular gutter press. They hacked phones, bugged homes, stole bank statements and mortgage accounts of then PM Tony Blair, of Gordon Brown, anyone big and famous. So they issued a statement. Along the lines: this newspaper has made every effort to uphold the standards, blah, blah, blah… morally up our own arse… blah blah, never intended to descend into the nether world of corruption… will strive to maintain standards…

Well they fucking failed. Miserably.

So to avoid being tarred by any association to that newspaper (in that I read it), I’d like to issue my own statement of innocence, if not ignorance:

“This blog has never hacked a phone, bugged a flat, rummaged through a cabinet ministers dustbin, accessed bank or other financial statements or in any way acted contrary to the official code of conduct of ‘andysglasses.com’. There’s simply no need. I just make it up instead.”

Sifting through an Islington wheelie-bin in the cold of night in me rubber gloves rummaging through Peter Mandelson’s used tea bags is just not my thing. Question my dedication if you will. I just don’t care enough.

Meanwhile, back in Salisbury, we seem to have acquired a couple of very sick Russians. And for the benefit of Boris Johnson the old adage ‘if it smells like shit and looks like shit then it probably is shit’, doesn’t automatically work if you change it to ‘if it looks like Litvinenko and smells like Litvinenko…’

Of course it PROBABLY is the Russians cleaning their laundry in someone else’s garden, yet again, but Boris, WHAT’S THE FUCKING RUSH? Why start making stupid accusations and promises of sanctions now, when we know nothing, rather than waiting a few days until we can speak in an informed manner? I’m allowed to make shit up, the Foreign Secretary isn’t.

As a cruel irony, just this weekend Mel & I have booked a little holiday for May. St Petersburg and Moscow. So we’d really prefer it if Britain hasn’t declared war on Russia before then. I JUST BOUGHT TICKETS FOR THE FUCKING BALLET, FFS!! So leave that nice Mr Putin (haven’t got our visas yet) alone, Boris. Or at very least, wait until the inevitable facts are known.

Happy Wednesday and COYS tonight

A xxxx

Who d’ya feel more sorry for; Arsene Wenger or Bradley Wiggins? One is a victim of his own self-important arrogance and the other… is pretty much the same. One is being hounded out by his own club’s supporters whilst the other has the entire mechanism of government railed against him and accusing him of being a cheat at his sport without giving him the benefit of any form of defense. Wenger has a defense but its really shitty at the moment. So you can see, this is no meaningless and facile comparison but indeed a question that needs to be considered.

The entire sport of cycling has been in disarray since Lance Armstrong was caught crossing the Tour de France finish line with a syringe hanging out of his left arm. He was a ‘drug cheat’ and was correctly disgraced and disbarred… errrr… dismembered… whatever they do to drug-cheats. Which, at that time, it must be said, was a bit of a grey area.

Everyone was taking drugs for something. Even for a cold, for an allergy, hay-fever, whatever. And if you had a letter from your (team) doctor, stating you need meds for ‘a condition’ then that was pretty much a carte blanche to take what you like. You can take an anti-histamine for hay fever, but you could also choose a fuck-off mega-steroid which would (among so many other wonderful things) probably stop your sneezing. Whilst making you bigger, faster, leaner, stronger, more powerful and A FUCKING GOOOODDDDD!!!!! Or at least feel like it.

So they questioned Sir Bradley last night and he maintains that he “never crossed the ethical line”. Yeah. Like what’s he gonna say? He was doubtless under pressure, both personally and also from ‘the team’ and did what the doc told him. Ethical lines are big grey areas with lots of little lines inside them.

And if that’s not bad enough as it stands, they also announced today that Bradley Wiggins invested in a tax AVOIDANCE scheme. Not ‘evasion’ but avoidance, so it was legal. Even though they closed it down. And not just any ole tax avoidance scheme but one which used a charitable front to acquire tax benefits for its ‘investors’ whilst doing virtually nothing for any known charity in the process. Usual tax avoidance mechanism: you invest a million quid, sell it to a trust for a pound, establishing a massive loss, which you sell to an offshore loss company who sell it back to your for 22 million quid which is lodged in Panama for a month, during which time there’s no tax due on the million quid and the government here owes you £48k off your tax due to the excess losses. Or something like that. In this case, add in some ‘gift aid’ from the government and a charitable status umbrella and you’re talking major league, bottom-feeding scummy finance.

But I still feel more sorry for Wenger. Just because he’s Wenger.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

I’m not the biggest fan of Arsene Wenger. Though after yesterday I almost feel sorry for him. Almost. And I can’t stand Jose Morinho either. Because I don’t like managers who can’t lose with any grace, managers like Wenger and Morinho who always want to blame the ref, accuse everyone of persecuting their teams, the ball-boys did it, the team doctor was wrong, anyone and anything but accept responsibility.

But yesterday a new contender for ‘most hated’ simply rocketed to the top of the list. When Antonio Conte took his Chelsea team to Manchester City. Ok, it was Manchester City who, quite literally, are sweeping away all who come before them. So you have to approach them with care and consideration and caution. If you attack too strongly you leave yourselves exposed at the back and they will punish you. Yet attack is always the best form of defence and if you have the ball then they can’t score.

Teams fearful of the opposition often set up more defensively, more conservatively, particularly away from home, hoping to score ‘on the break’ with just a couple of attacking players left up the pitch.

But Conte is an Italian. Raised on that nation’s fine tradition of defending first, second, third and forth. Fouling and violence come 5th and 6th and attacking comes in at a lowly 19th.

And thus yesterday his team set up at the Etihad with 5 at the back, four more sitting about 5 yards ahead of them and the lonely, solitary figure of Eden Hazard pretending to attack all by hisself. The ideal ‘target man’, all 5 foot 6 of him. Playing where all his unquestionably brilliant skills are rendered virtually worthless.

Had the plan succeeded in producing the 0-0 draw that was the stuff of Conte’s dreams, he would have created the blueprint for the death of our national game. But inevitably, as Chelsea did not chase the ball, rush to break down attacks, move towards the City players at all, a goal came just after half time. And I thought, great, now Conte will bring on a striker and will have to chase a goal and it might look like a game. But no. He didn’t. Just kept to his incredibly disciplined banks of defenders to stop City scoring again.

Because he’s a total… heap of shit.

His justification, as the pundits and critics slammed into Chelsea’s horrible tactics, was that, basically, he knew they would lose, everyone does, and a big loss would be very demoralising for his players. So to lose 1-0 is a great thing, no?

Well how demoralised are his players, does he reckon, that their esteemed manager essentially told them that he has absolutely no confidence in their abilities or skills, that they’re going to lose the game, lack any chance of winning so might as well not bother. Instead just try to ‘lose not too badly’.

It was cynical, it was horrible to watch, totally cowardly and it gave a terrible message that he wasn’t just playing for a draw, but was more than happy with a ‘gentle’ loss. Oh, and fuck the fans who not only went 200 miles to watch their team embarrass themselves but now have to face the humiliation as they read today’s papers and see their mates at work.

I don’t know what they call football in Italy, but its certainly not ‘the beautiful game’. The sooner Conte goes the better. He’s a danger to football.

Happy Monday (which, in terms of results generally, it really is)

A xxxx

The ‘me too’ campaign have teamed up with the ‘time’s up’ brigade and formed a new, consolidated, cohesive and unified group that, quite frankly, you wouldn’t want to fuck with. I may have to rephrase that end bit. And although both those causes are noble, worthy and could both be replaced with ‘about fucking time!!!’ like all populist protests, they can go a little far.

In that anyone with a grudge against someone in Hollywood (and that’s almost everybody whose ever worked there) can invoke the ‘me too’, name-and-shame and the person named has a massive presumption of guilt by the media and everyone else. No-one asks the story, considers ‘the other side’, its just ‘me too’ and then he’s a son-of-a-bitch. Turning something with good intention into a modern-day lynch-mob.

And there’s also the ‘not me too’ to consider. Those who weren’t abused, assaulted, raped or intimidated. How do they feel? The ‘me too’ almost becomes a badge of honour, the admission to a club. And that club means that men, albeit horrible, Weinsteiny, abusive, megalomaniacal, power-wielding misogynists, found the members attractive and desirable enough to risk their won careers (eventually) for the pleasure they sought. And thus the ‘why not me too’, by extension, are unworthy of groping, seducing, abusing. Which, in the vain and narcissistic world of movies, is almost insulting.

So to show my own solidarity with all of the above, I went to see a proper, non-abusive, totally woman-ish movie last night. Ladybird. Written and directed by a gel, (Greta Gerwig), and at least half the actors were women, and no-one gets shot or punched. And Saoirse Ronan is totally captivating, even though she looks a total mess through the entire movie. Its wonderful. And in normal circumstances I’d want her to win tonight’s Oscar for the best acting by a female person in a non-lgbt, non-objectified, proper feminine role. But I think that’s gonna be Frances McDormand’s for 3 Billboards.

And on the way home we stopped and picked up felafel. Which would also win an oscar for the ‘best felafel in a wrap’, so brilliant was its performance throughout its very short career (about 4 minutes, I reckon). And as with all great film performances, it left me wanting more. A credit to its skill? Or a reflection of what a pig I am? I almost felt guilty eating something in which nothing had died to feed me.

Happy Sunday. Come on Brighton

A xxxx

A word of good cheer for the inevitably miserable, depressed, suicidal and gloomy Arsenal fans. Just when those poor devils thought that yet another season under the management of the depressing Frenchman was set to end, yet again, with absolutely nothing to show for it, other than how awful their team is, a little good news for them. Because on Thursday night, whilst they were absent from the Emirates, but somehow still counted among the “58,000” (which looked like about 25,000) slitting their wrists during the second horrendous humiliation by Manchester City in 4 days, elsewhere they were holding the ‘prestigious’ London Football Awards. And the great news for Gunners is that a. the award for ‘women’s player of the year’ went to one of their own, and b. it wasn’t given to Mezut Ozil but to an actual woman called Jordan Nobbs. So there we are; something else to put in their trophy cabinet to please the fans who aren’t actually going any more but appear, numerically, to be there anyway. Well done Arsenal!

And its cold out. Its amazingly, incredibly, horrendously fucking cold out. Today is ‘warmer’ by reaching a lofty 1.5 degrees ABOVE freezing. Poor Rachie in Berlin is enjoying -12. Lucky she comes from really tough and heroic stock or she’d be on the first flight to Barbados. But with the snow and ice comes a degree of difficulty. Which they manage to manage in Canada, gives them no problem in Sweden or Norway, is just a way-of-life in parts of China, but over here causes a simply amazing and incredible amount of absolute disasters. Ok, we’re not as familiar with snow as perhaps the Swiss or the French, but fuck me, we are just hopeless. And the worst thing of all is not what happens but how unbelievably slow the authorities are to act. In any meaningful way. Sending a bobby on a bike to a motorway pile up involving 63 cars is some way short of actually ‘solving’ the problem. Having 17 chin-stroking jobsworths in hi-vis jackets standing around drinking tea next to a train full of people that’s been stuck for 18 hours is not the same as any kind of ‘action’.

Its the same in ‘normal’, non-Arctic times. There’s an accident on a road. So the police shut off 2 of the 3 lanes for ‘elf’n’safety’ concerns, then stand around for 12 hours looking at the wreck whilst traffic builds up for 23 miles behind them.

Our people are simply great, possibly world leaders, at ‘stopping things’ when it gets a bit hairy. But everyone concerned, the people sitting in cars immobile for 15 hours in the New Forest, those stuck on trains in Weymouth, they’re concerned with getting off, getting out, getting warm and safe and dry and fed. They want to go home.

So yesterday, when a train stopped just outside Lewisham station in south London, after 2 hours, in the freezing cold, being told nothing and just watching yellow jackets walking back and forth outside, the passengers took it upon themselves to break a door open and ‘escape’ onto the tracks. Ok, which were live at the time, but fucking good luck to them. They walked the 200 yards to Lewisham even though the police were called to prevent this ‘decidedly unsafe action’ from occurring. But if the authorities consistently do nothing about the people involved in disasters, then quite frankly, fuck ’em. At least being electrocuted would be warmer than freezing to death. And certainly quicker.

Well done once more to Arsenal, and happy Saturday

A xxxx

Now this is proper snow. Its not two-and-a-half millimetres of ‘the wrong kind of snow’ which fucks up trains from Yarmouth to Inverness, its not just a ‘light scattering’ as we normally get for about 10 minutes before it melts. No. This is proper. This is close-the-schools, build-a-snowman, get yer sledge out, stay-at-home and don’t drive if you can avoid it, snow. The full Canadian. We have ‘red’ weather warnings. We don’t normally get past yellow. Even though the snow’s still white. And people don’t have a clue how to drive in the snow.

Coming up through Hampstead last night an Uber driver had stopped where he really shouldn’t have stopped, at the bottom of a snow-covered and icy hill, so he could pick someone up, blocking the road for all. But when he drove off he did so at about 8mph. Oh, careful. No, fucking ignorant. You need to maintain your momentum going up a hill in the snow/ice and that speed don’t do it. You drive as fast as you can til you start sliding. Then you enjoy that slide, do a couple of 360s, if its safe, then slow down a bit and you’re fine.

The snow didn’t stop the fun at Wembley last night. Spurs played their cup replay against Rochdale and won 6-1. The score is irrelevant, the game was irrelevant, the real ‘star’ of the show was the VAR. The Video Assistant Referee. And that bastard caused delays of 8 minutes during the whole game.

I don’t care that Lamela’s goal was deemed not to be a goal; we scored plenty. I don’t care that we won a penalty that the ref hadn’t given because the VAR showed it to be so. As we all know, only limp-wristed tossers, mentally-impaired whingers and serial child-molesters blame all the game’s ills on poor refereeing. The ‘normal’ among us accept refereeing decisions as just part of the game. And right or indeed wrong, it don’t waste 8 fucking minutes when you’re sitting in -4 degrees of blizzard and not being informed why and what the VAR hath spoken.

We don’t need VAR. Its only to appease low-life excuse-mongers desperate to keep their jobs. And those who think that VAR is some kind of ‘god’, some ‘absolute’ that is perfect and beyond question, are so wrong. It just gives the whingers something new to moan about and they’ll be constantly demanding to increase its scope, causing yet more delays.

Happy snowy Lila-day

A xxxx

London has turned into a winter wonderland. Which is gorgeous, long as you don’t have to go out. From inside it is beautiful, peaceful, WARM and sunny. Out there its fucking hell. Ice and snow, trains cancelled, tubes disrupted, roads closed, cars crashed, slush and slip, cold and messy. And as my ‘worst man-flu ever’, personal epidemic, enters its third week, still having minor problems regulating my body temperature as I alternate between ‘shivers’ and ‘too hot’, both at the same time, getting dressed for this weather poses problems. You put on 19 layers, cover everything except your eyeballs and you’re fine. Til you get on the tube. Then you sweat. Like a mo’fo. So you unpeel, stopping only when you reach underpants and vest as optimum clothing for the temperature. By which time you’re half way there and need to start putting it all back on so you don’t freeze at the other end. And if that doesn’t piss off everyone else on the carriage, coughing repeatedly all over them certainly does. But heh, this isn’t about making friends.

Going to the Hampstead Theatre tonight to see ‘Dry Powder’. Supposed to be really good, stars Hayley Atwell and was booked months ago. Before… the disease! If I can manage to stay awake and not cough all over the stage I’ll consider it a result. And if the coughing doesn’t piss everyone else off then checking the football score at Wembley for Spurs Cup replay certainly will. Again; not about making friends.

Europe used to be our friends. Until we decided we’re not going to play with them any more. Which was a bit like cancelling a gym membership because it seems a bit expensive, and then realising that cancelling would mean you can’t actually go to that gym any more. We want to leave Europe and stop paying them all that ridiculous money. Yet still want all the benefits that the money used to reap. That’s half the team. The others want no ‘benefits’ whatsoever, want complete autonomy from Europe in every sense, keep your trade deals and your open borders, stick your zero tariff up your collective jacksy, we’re off to play with Japan and China and America!!! (Europe currently accounts for about 75% of our trade, the rest of the world, 2.6%. I’m not a mathematician.)

If we actually had a collective plan on what we really wanted, that might help. But we don’t. And even if we did those Euro-bastards would probably veto all of it. Other than that; its all going really well.

Right, I can delay no longer, gotta start getting dressed for the journey. Should be out in an hour. Or two.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

For most of my adult life the nation of Belgium has played way less than even a ‘bit part’. Ok, as a kid we used to go to Knocke-Zoute in the summers to freeze my pre-pubescent testicles in the North Sea, and in fact had some great holidays. But Butlins in Bognor Regis counts as a ‘great holiday’ for kids so the bar is not that high. But then suddenly, the world became Belgium. Well, the footballing world became Belgium. Having never had one Premiership player from that nation, suddenly one arrived. Can’t remember who, possibly Thomas Vermaelen, maybe Vincent Kompany, followed swiftly by our very own Jan Vertongen. All centre backs, all brilliant, all of the new, ball-playing, attack-minded variety. Not the ‘solid as a rock’ (and moves about as quickly) type as centre backs once were, these were a new breed. Imported from Europe’s least significant nation (other than Luxembourg, obviously). The floodgates opened. In came Fellaini, all 6 foot nine to the top of his affro and Nacer Chadli and Moussa Dembele, Ramelu Lukaku, Benteke, followed by even more simply brilliant players, Eden Hazard, Kevin (all bow) de Bruyne, Toby Alderweireld, Thiebald Courtois, all with stupid names and all wonders of the modern game. Ok, maybe not Benteke, but he tries.

But what really sets the Belges apart from ‘normal’ footballers is that they are, in the main, way more intelligent. Perfect English is a given, but they speak in sentences, they’re funny, they’re humble and they’re clever. And the cleverest of all, the nicest of all and probably, over the years, the absolute best of all, is Vincent Kompany. For whom I’ve had a man-crush for years. Because he is the perfect footballer. Big, strong, no-nonsense and ‘ard-as-nails, but always sporting, clean as a whistle with not a thuggish bone in his body. And a leader. Such a leader. The type of leader that every team wants and Arsenal haven’t had since Tony Adams and Patrick Vieira left the game.

Yet Vincent (as I call him) is old. 31. And has sustained 41 injuries in his time here as captain of Manchester City and Belgium’s national team. And his manager, Pep Guardiola, knows the value of a true leader. As he appreciated at Barcleona with Carles Puyol, always playing the man even when pumped up with painkillers and strapped from head to foot. Thus did an ‘as fit as he can be’ Kompany lead Manchester City out for yesterday’s (whatever-) Cup Final. And he was dominant, outstanding, totally in control and brilliant and even scored a great goal.

I cried. Ok, only on the inside, but it was a simply magnificent moment in the outstanding career of a true legend of the game.

City won 3-0. Same score that Arsenal lost by. Hmmm. But really it actually looked like Arsenal lost by a far greater margin. According to Wenger, his team were beaten by two dodgy refereeing decisions for the first 2 goals. I think Arsene had been watching a different game to everyone else. Which actually made his pathetic comments sound more desperate than the usual just plain stupid.

And Spurs beat poor Palace. Which was almost even more brilliant that a dozen Caribou Cup Finals, or Carabou or whatever.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

Friday night is ‘special’. Anyone can do it but for Jews its always special. Its a family night. A get together. And we celebrate the start of the sabbath (drink whisky), re-align with the spiritual world (eat chopped liver) and re-affirm our closeness with God (that’ll be the roast chicken then). And its a wonderful tradition and its delightfully inclusive in that if you hear of any ‘strays’ knocking around on a Friday night, or friends of the kids in town or anyone worthy, you get them involved. Even if they’re unworthy fucking freeloaders, you do what you have to. Because its nice. And for some reason food never tastes quite as good as it does on Friday night.

And last night I didn’t go. As Friday nights have been moved to Lila’s house so we don’t have to move her, when I arrived home from work, I parked my bike and thought… BED! Along with ‘warm’ and ‘unmoving’ and ‘sleep’. Its probably the first Friday night dinner I’ve missed in my entire 61 years, other than holidays. Of which there have been a few, I grant you.

Because, in medical parlance, I felt like shit. Worse than shit. Like… Donald Trump’s shit.

I’ve had some undefinable, persistent, horrible condition for about 2 weeks. And because of staff shortages, I’ve had to go to work every day, when really I should have been at home with a team of nurses, doctors and masseuses, or in a hospital. But in the mornings I feel relatively ok. I cough a bit, but otherwise quite normal. Then as the day progresses I get achy, shivery, cold, hot and the coughing increases horribly, which means every muscle in my body gets strained. Even the ones that were aching from the flu symptoms. And I get really tired. Like, ridiculously tired. The journey home, 45 minutes of relatively easy travel, felt like the homecoming of Odysseus.

I was asleep by 7.30 last night, just couldn’t stay awake, needed to be warm. Then of course I woke up drenched in sweat, but that’s fine because I don’t have to go anywhere. I slept for about 12 hours. A record. Though Lila’s beaten that and she’s only had 10 months to compete.

No tennis, no martial arts, no nuffink. I’m officially ‘resting’. Other than an appointment with a doctor this afternoon. Only opening my eyes for the rugby and for tomorrow’s virtual entire day of football on tv. Its like the Gods of Sky knew I’d need mindless entertainment so saved 3 entire matches, all really exciting prospects, for my special day.

When man-flu becomes just flu, you know there’s a problem. If I was a horse they’d shoot me. And if I was a French horse, they’d then eat me. So it could be worse. Just doesn’t feel that’s possible.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx