Andy's Glasses

Would you press the ‘fire’ button on a nuclear missile? Would you actually be responsible for the imminent destruction of (possibly) millions of people, most of them uninvolved in whatever the row is about, even if there was similar coming our way? And if that was the case, what good would the ‘retaliatory strike’ do, other than give you some posthumous vengeful satisfaction?

But we’re hard-wired to defend ourselves, right to the very end. Yet it has to be ‘proportional’. So if the good citizens of Halifax choose to jeer at Theresa May when she read her election manifesto there, exercising their democratic right, why didn’t she just bomb the place? I would have. Because the fall-out would have taken out not just Halifax but most of the people north of Watford, south of Glasgow. Hmmmm…

At tai chi we learn self-defense. And if someone tries to hit you/stab you/kick you, the most expeditious conclusion to the problem is ‘break his arm’. Which may not be as ‘proportional’ as asking him to stop and slapping him back, but it works much much better, much more quickly. So you get on with going out for lunch.

Jeremy Corbyn doesn’t eat at McDonalds. He eats in workers’ canteens or not at all. He can’t digest globalised food. Certainly wouldn’t drink a Starbucks coffee. He’s also nuclear-intolerant. Which, if I’m honest, on some level, we all are. Because no-one really would ever want to deploy the ‘ultimate deterrent’. Unless it was on Saudi Arabia or Manchester, obviously. But you have to maintain that deterrent because if you don’t, in politico-military parlance; you’re fucked.

Countries are not all run by sane people. North Korea certainly isn’t. Iran? Hell, no. And those countries are the ones who might just think twice before pushing their own buttons and sending nukes to a country that has the capability to retaliate. But would Kim Jong Un think twice about bombing anyone else? He’s a nutter. Wouldn’t give it a second thought.

Whatever he may say to placate the population, Jeremy Corbyn would never push that button. Fine, that’s his right. But does that make us safer? Or make us a potential target for rogue nations confident in our lack of response? And if he won’t push the button, why renew our Trident missile system at a cost of £2billion which could otherwise probably get pissed down the health service toilet? (I’m a big believer in the NHS but NOT just pumping more money into the terribly organised waste of money system it is now).

So the Shadow Foreign Secretary yesterday claimed that Labour’s previous ‘we will reconsider updating Trident’ position may not happen. Only for the Shadow Defence Minister to contradict her and tell her its not her brief. Oooooh, yet more conflict in Labour. Handbags at dawn is preferable to nukes at (eternal) dusk. And certainly more fun.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

That title is not about Lila, though she’d actually wear it on a baby-gro if they made one and if she could read, she’d have the tattoo.

But its not. Its about Spurs. And the rather nasty and horrible accusations that we face every season of ‘bottling it’. By crumbling at the end of seasons. Normally at critical times, but, as last season, losing the plot just for fun.

No more.

Last night was a pretty meaningless match really. Leicester, ironically safe from relegation, (and still, in some way, ‘champions’), played my boys, who are second and will stay there. Nothing to play for. Why bother?

Why bother? Because we’ve had a 6-goal match in us all season, that’s why. It was just a matter of time. And finding a team prepared to crumble under the wake of our immense tidal wave of play.

I missed it. Entirely. Martial arts trumps meaningless matches. Rule number 14b. So meaningless I forgot to record it. Instead I sent Wayne up there to Leicester, he has plenty of time on his hands. As my envoy. And what transpired in the wet and grey wastelands of the East Midlands was an abject lesson in attacking football by, ON THEIR DAY, (read: ‘not at West Ham’) an unplayably brilliant and gifted team. And another from Harry Kane in how to score loads of goals and put yourself top of the golden bootees. Til Sunday.

Jermaine Defoe, never exactly one to stick around when relegation rears its ugly head, is out’a Sunderland in a hurry. It was in his contract that if that doomsday scenario should arrive, and it did, then his contract is over. So not only he can leave, but as a free agent. So the £6million quid asking price is in fact for him. And he wants 100 grand a week to play. You know what: that’s a fucking bargain. For any team. To score 16 goals for a team that dire and dreadful is a feat on its own. And he virtually was on his own. And he’s only little. But he will score goals. Always. Wherever he plays.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

On average a baby is awake for 12 hours a day. Yet it takes approximately 49 adult hours to cope with it. How is that possible? They’re only small. They don’t run away, don’t eat much so what’s the problem?

The main problem is, as we found last night when Lila once again came with her mummy for a sleepover, that every action needs three careful and cautious adults. Two to change the baby, bath the baby, move the baby, and one to watch. Preferably just to stare but photography is allowed by the starer. As long as its limited to short times so as not to detract from the staring, as that could endanger the baby.

Lila doesn’t have any hobbies yet, other than football, obviously. So she just kind’a lies there or sits there, or is held there, just kind’a… being Lila. Its a full-time job. Which involves wriggling, kicking, making funny noises, doing her own staring (she’s learned that from true masters) and ‘learning her environment’. Although I tested her to she what she’d learned so far and she didn’t do very well. Couldn’t even hold the pen to write her name. Little disappointing. I thought she’d be doing GCSEs by the time she was 1, university at 5, doctorate at 9, president of America by 14. One year older than the current president’s mental age.

Though her actual job is ‘growing’. That’s it. The entire description. ‘Get bigger’. And at that she is indeed a raging success. That milk is great stuff. But I’m not sure where it fits on the vegan scale. So while its not exactly ‘dairy’, one of the heinous crimes of veganism, it is emphatically ‘an animal product’. So I’m not sure if I approve. Even though I’m not a vegan. Though everyone else seems to be so I thought I’d better take notice.

David Haye, the boxer, finds nothing wrong with beating the living crap out of any man for a few million dollars, but feels uncomfortable for cows being milked. So he’s a vegan now. Morally correct. And veganism is becoming ever popular, even with its own restaurants. And you know what: I’d eat there. When we went to a vegan wedding in Israel the food was simply outstanding and wonderful. Not sure every vegan offering would be that good but I’d try. Because for me food is all about taste and texture. Not politics. For that I read the papers. Or eat the papers.

Vegans tend to be evangelical about it. Whereas carnivores don’t often post on Facebook images of raw meat or slaughterhouses.

Oh well, gotta go stare at my baby, I’m on duty.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

Here’s a plan. Or we can call it a ‘manifesto’ if you like. Why not raise shit-loads of money by raising tax on London. Where all them rich bastards live. Where all those sodding banks lie, steal and cheat. By doing that, til they fucking bleed, we could raise… take away 7… add on NI… carry 4… we could raise £6.7 billion extra. And using that we could fund the NHS properly, free school meals, put everyone back on benefits, give more to the Trade Unions for when they strike, nationalise half the country’s services… which would cost, according to Diane Abbot, 30 quid a week, but according to economists, it would actually cost 72 billion quid. 6.7 in, 72 out; that’s what we call, in the Labour Party, a ‘perfect balance’. (Don’t quote me on the numbers, minor exaggeration effects may occur at any time; both by me or by the Labour Party).

We’d be a bankrupt nation before Corbyn had finished installing Lenin’s statue outside Number 10 and supplying copies of Chairman Mao’s Little Red Book to every schoolkid in the land.

Labour have also pledged to ‘recognise the State of Palestine’. Anyone can recognise it. Just look for the rocket-launchers, can’t miss ’em.

I won’t be voting Labour. I’ve decided.

But the more important question is: will Arsenal make it to the Champion’s League next year? They eventually managed to beat Sunderland last night and that leaves, theoretically, 3 teams vying for the remaining two Champions League places, joining Chelsea and Spurs.

Manchester City, with their win last night, are almost there. Almost. Only a loss at Watford on Sunday, coupled with a 4-0 win by Arsenal over Everton, AND Liverpool beating Middlesboro’ will see City lose out. So basically, all City have to do is win or draw and they’re in.

Liverpool are in a similar situation but to be safe, they must beat Boro’. Which, in any normal season, would be guaranteed. Mighty Liverpool, fortress Anfield, you’ll never walk alone, and Boro’ are already relegated. But Liverpool this year have been strange. Beating great teams away from home and losing to shitty teams at home.

If City and Liverpool win, Arsenal are headed to the UEFA Cup next season. The first time ever that they haven’t qualified for the Champions League. But if either of the other 2 slip, Arsenal can, in theory, still make it.

And that, really, passes for the only excitement left on the final day of the season. In case you’re uncertain for whom to cheer in this little 3-way thing, may I remind you that Jeremy Corbyn is an Arsenal fan.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Who said they were mutually exclusive? Death and taxes?? It was never implied or stated that the two ‘guarantees’ in life; death and taxes, were totally independent of one another. Because the dead will now be required to pay tax. In fact, they always have, in the form of ‘inheritance tax’ or as they now call it ‘death tax’. And its all our fault. For having the bare-faced cheek to live longer. Selfish bastards that we are. Better medicine, better food, diesel fumes, have all conspired to increase longevity. Which is lovely. Ahhhh, old people, aaahhhh, nice. But they’re not nice. Not at all. They’re parasites. They drain the NHS, spend all day filling every available space in doctor’s waiting rooms and refuse to die at 73 like they did in the old days. And when they reach even greater ages and even more debilitated stages, they need care. So get shipped into ‘homes’ where they are beaten by socially-minded nurses, fed swill and neglected, all of which costs a lot of money. Generally, tax-payers money.

So the government need to address this, in fact are addressing this. Because carers and care homes are expensive. Probably because the ‘smart money’ about 20 years ago was in creating them. Not for love of the elderly, but for the potential profits. A ‘shrewd investment’. Buy a big house, fill it with people who dressed like nurses but were actually martial arts trained, then wheel in the oldies by the lorry-load.

Thus ‘care’ will be provided but where the oldie has something of value, like a house, the cost of that care will be liquidated from its eventual sale.

I really don’t know what the answer is. Not totally sure what the question is. But when in doubt, just keep on taxing. Its what governments do best.

Everyone knows, salt is a ‘killer’. Add salt to food and you die. Simple. Eases the care home problem a bit, but not good. Salt hardens arteries, damages the heart, blah, blah, to the point where if someone sees a salt-cellar they shout “MURDERER!!!” Well no more. Another (fucking) study (have these people no real work to do?) has shown that salt, always known to be of value to a human body in small doses, might actually be good in larger doses too. And, the killer line, it may help with weight loss. A big ‘wow!’ It worked on mice. Gave them deathly levels of salt and they lost loads of weight.

So if you want your mice thin, give them lots of salt. For your own diet, the ‘everything in moderation unless you really like it and don’t count chocolate’ is always the way forward. You must be careful not to die young; you simply can’t afford it.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Ok, having said how I’m nostalgia-immune from the whole White Hart Lane thing, I’m now basking in the stuff. Positively wallowing. The little vignette they showed yesterday before the ‘legends’ walked onto the pitch in the pouring rain was wonderful. And so many times I called out (to no-one really, Mel was busy nearby but is generally football-intolerant so didn’t care). The 1972 UEFA cup final, Paul Robinson’s goal against Watford (I was behind him that day in the away fans’ bit, for some reason), Younis Kaboul’s equaliser in the 4-4 100th anniversary match against Villa… that was my life. Til Lila came along, of course.

So yesterday I went and watched the game with Lila. And it was uncanny. Even though she never appeared to be paying the slightest bit of attention to the on-field activity on the tv screen, her influence was unmistakably profound. She sneezed, we scored. She smiled, we hit the bar. Dele Alli had an amazing dribble into the box; Lila had dribble down her chin. Frikkin unbelievable. I really don’t think I’m reading too much into this. Though some say that Lila and Spurs is my own, personal version of images of Jesus in a chocolate cake. Difference is: I believe in Lila.

And we won the game. The last EVERRRRR at old White Hart Lane. Because they keep saying that there’ll be ‘no more White Hart Lane’. But the new ground is precisely, all but about 6 metres, where the old ground is. But will undoubtedly be called THE BETFAIR!! or THE CATHAY PACIFIC!! or THE GOOGLE!!! or THE LILA!!! depending on who we screw more money out of for the ‘naming rights’. Its big biz these days. First comes the corporate-isation of the ground, because corporate punters pay lots more than mere mortals. Unfortuately they’re much fatter so need bigger seats. Then you build them 15 fancy restaurants to eat their prawn sandwiches in, install the executive toilets with free wi-fi and even (so I’ve seen on the plans) real toilet paper! Then, with whatever meagre space is left over, you shoe-horn in a few paupers. The real fans. The ones who can only afford to pay £125 a ticket to see their beloved team play Stoke.

Then they spend the first 5 years wondering ‘where the atmostphere’s gone??’ Its in the car park, next to the Bentleys.

I hope Spurs get it right. Meanwhile, what a season to depart. 17 home wins out of 19 matches. Impressive. Bring on… errr… Wembley…

Happy Monday

A xxxx

At White Hart Lane, in the upper east stand, which seats, I reckon, about 3000 people, there are two toilets for ladies. Not two rooms of toilets, not two areas where toilet may be partaken, just two stalls. You learn these things when you have daughters. The toilets for men ain’t exactly ‘beautiful’ in any way, but as men are born with the innate ability to piss against a wall, any wall, it just about works for the less-fair gender.

One can only assume that in 1899, when the Lane was built, gels didn’t do football. Or maybe gels didn’t take a piss back then, or only twice a day. Who knows? Or just two women went to football at any one time so they built them a loo each.

Thus The famous ‘Lane’ is being demolished. Tomorrow. Today is the last game at the old Lane ever and tomorrow the 7/8ths of the ground still standing go under the bulldozers. I can’t get too despondent over it, even though the nostalgia flowing through the papers this week has been rather lovely, because its not like we’re going very far. In fact we’re just turning round a bit in the same place. We can still enjoy the vast array of classy boutiques and upmarket eateries that Tottenham High Road has to offer, like… errr… like fish’n’chips either in an old newspaper OR in a styrofoam box, that’s pretty fancy. Like kebabs, with or without salmonella. You don’t get a choice, its just a random selection based on time of day and availability coupled with which day the chef last washed his hands. Eeeuuuuw.

But still, ‘old’ White Hart Lane, the place I first went to football and my first love. Standing for matches in the Shelf, winning the UEFA cup there, Glenn Hoddle’s magic, Jurgen Klinsman, Stevie Perryman, Dave McKay, Allan Mullery, Martin Chivers and of course, Bill Nicholson. Whose statue Arsene Wenger is not fit to polish.

And talking of nostalgia, Twin Peaks is coming back for a ‘new series’. Even though the old one, in 1991, never really finished. Nor did it really begin, nor have much of a middle. As with most things related to the wonderful David Lynch, Twin Peaks started in the 5th dimension, where space and time have separated, never to join again, and from there got progressively more confusing. To the point where you just give up and enjoy the ride. Which was fucking spectacular. Amazing cast, incredible story (I think?), fantastic music, dancing dwarves, log-ladies, brilliant apple pie and a succession of incredibly beautiful women. And possibly my favourite tv series ever. One of 17 in that category, maybe 19. Can’t wait for the new one.

So let’s make it a truly memorable last day at White Hart Lane this afternoon and worry about playing at Wembley later. Coupled with the general level of success and atmosphere created at new stadia. Hmmmm…

Happy last Sunday EVERRRRRRR

A xxxx

See its not just Jeremy Corbyn who gets fed up with the constant bombardment of paparazzi and being constantly hassled all the time. Lila has enough too.

The difference being that Lila is a divine and sweet little soft thing filled with love and gorgeousness, whilst Corbyn is a motherfucker. Or worse.

The Labour party election manifesto was revealed yesterday. Shouldn’t have been but someone ‘leaked’ it to the Daily Telegraph. And as the thing was only in draft form and hadn’t been sent to MPs yet, one can only assume that someone within the inner confines of the Kremlin (as we’ll soon be calling Labour HQ) actually wanted it ‘leaked’. In which case I suppose, its less ‘leak’ and more… something that’s thrust out there suddenly from within… its more ‘vomit’.

And it reads like that too. Not that I’ve read it. In fact you don’t need to read it. Look up any hard left manifesto of old and you know precisely what it says.

In my heart I’m a Labour supporter. Sadly, rarely in the polling booths, but in my heart. But ‘my’ kind of Labour is not just about fairness and caring for the needy in our society, it needs to be workable and it needs to be tempered by sound facts, common sense and be without the venom and hatred that the Corbynites have for any kind of success. It needs to be inclusive, rather than this horrible, hateful divisiveness. The ‘we’ll make THEM pay!!!!’ attitude of the current band of militant tossers. Bring back champagne socialism and I’m in.

Champagne will be illegal if Labour win the election. As will ‘being successful’ or ‘caught in possession of a sense of humour’. Because there’s nothing funny in the manifesto. Just like one written in the 1970s it calls for re-nationalising the railways, the energy supply, all the things that are really unpopular. Of course, there were probably even more unpopular when under national control, especially the railways, which is why they privatised them in the first place.

Free school dinners, again, immensely popular, free university tuition fees; brilliant. As a rule, anything in any manifesto that uses the word ‘free’ will always be popular. Sadly, and this is where the whole things parts from reality, nothing is ever ‘free’. If its ‘free’ for you, then someone else is paying for it. In this case, the 90 billion quid that all these lovely ‘free’ things will cost, will ‘easily’ be paid for by increases in, basically, tax for the ‘rich’ and for companies.

We already have a situation here where 5% of people and organisations pay 47% of all tax. And they are precisely the 5% that Corbyn et al wish to get to pay this 90 billion quid. The problem being that as well as being the major job creators and work providers, they tend to be more flexible, both in their ability to move away (maybe over to post-Brexit Europe) and the ability to find ways round paying punitive taxation. Corbyn has no ‘plan B’ if this tax plan fails. He’s not creating any more jobs or businesses, just punishing those already there.

And of all the horrible, hateful, nasty, war-torn, murderous nations in the world, the Manifesto only wants to take issue with Israel.

I’m still voting for Lila.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

Do we, the humble, impoverished, post-Brexit, austerity-ridden football fans, do we ‘mind’ that our football players earn more money in a year than most of us earn in a lifetime? Do we care that an uneducated Serbian midfielder with a mohican haircut and an armful of tattoos, who can’t spell his own name without help and still has several rape charges outstanding in his homeland, do we care that he earns 20 times more money than the most skilful heart surgeon?

It doesn’t matter if we mind or not, its the way it is. Because of the immense amount of, mainly tv, cash floating round our national sport, the star players demand and get their slice of that rather immense, Bruce Bogtrotterish sized cake. And do we mind? Well, as a general rule, we don’t mind ‘our’ players earning telephone number weekly wages, they’re adored and thus ‘worth every penny’. But the players from other clubs? No, they’re never worth it. Pogba on 300k a week? Ridiculous. Ibrahimavic? Same money for sitting in the physio’s room. Alexis Sanchez? Mezut Ozil?? Both demanding ‘parity with Pogba’; fucking joke.

Which remains rather unfunny for Spurs fans. Because Spurs have always refused to pay outrageous salaries. Which accounts for the distinct lack of Euro-royalty type star names at our club. We don’t buy Barcelona rejects because they won’t take a cut in a disproportionate salary that it would take to get them on board. Because if you pay one player 250 grand a week, then, quite understandably, all the others will ask ‘why not me??’ Then fuck off to Manchester City who’ll pay any player any amount. So the ‘austerity model’ we use at Spurs means we can always lose players who’ll be lured away by promises of a better 3 Bentleys than the 2 they currently own, more diamond earrings, bobbles, baubles and fire-water. Oh, and several multi-million pound properties.

But we do mind the ‘agents’. We all mind them a lot. Because they are parasites and bottom-feeding scum. And so-called ‘super-agents’ are the worst of all.

Mino Raiola allegedly pocketed 41 million quid when Pogba went to Old Trafford. They reckon he was guilty of ‘TPO’. Third Party Ownership, in which the playing rights, rather than being ‘owned’ by the player’s former club, are actually owned, maybe just in part, by the agent himself. (Could be herself, but its generally fat Italian men.) A process made illegal after the Rio Ferdinand scandalous departure from Leeds and when Mascherano and Tevez moved to West Ham. Agents can’t ‘own’ players. That’s slavery.

We should shoot all agents (super-agents need to die much more slowly), introduce salary caps and get players back on the buses. Like the old days. Twenty quid a week and a free packet of Players Number Six. Then they’d at least appreciate the cost of tattoos.

I fear the game I love dearly has become an obscene money-go-round.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

Donald Trump sacked James Comey yesterday. The now former head of the FBI. Sacked the man for ‘mishandling the Clinton emails investigation’, a move that basically won Trump the election. No doubt he deserved sacking. Re-introducing at a public level an ongoing investigation, 11 days before a presidential election can only be seen as a ‘rather influential move’. What Comey didn’t mention at that time was anything to do with the ongoing investigation into Trump’s possible collusion with Russia into hacking those emails in the first place. That was kept quiet, Hillary’s shit was aired in public, the rest, for now, is history. The Trump/Russia ties are still under investigation. Maybe that’s why Comey was sacked. To throw off that very inquiry. All looking a bit dodgy over there. As it has since the last election.

Whereas our election is running positively swimmingly. I’m bored already. Theresa’s message: Brexit. That’s it. Nothing else. ‘I’ll get us out, or would you trust Jeremy Corbyn to do it??’ End of message. Repeat ad nauseum, print it on the side of as many fucking buses as you like, that’s all you’re getting.

Corbyn’s message is different. ‘Society is unfair’, he chants, like a mantra. Inequality. Some people are richer than others whilst some people are poorer!!! So there’s going to be (if he wins, of course, hopefully a very big ‘if’) in his words: ‘a reckoning!!’ Not a realignment, not a reconstruction, not something warm and fluffy and progressive-sounding, but a ‘reckoning’. Which to me, and to the BBC news interviewer last night, means something profound. Something hostile. Backs against the wall, blindfold, last fag, that’s a ‘reckoning’. And among his other great and new (well, they were new in Russia in 1922) ideas is a ‘National Education Trust’ for running… well, schools probably. ‘Like the NHS, but for education’. What a great idea. Using the world’s biggest, worst run, disorganised, wasteful money-burning-pit as a ‘model’ for other sectors. We already piss away about 300 billion a year mis-managing the NHS, let’s find other ways to squander our meagre funds. ‘The rich, greedy bankers will pay’. Phillip Greene, he’ll cough up.

He’s a horrible and divisive man engaged in his own hateful class war and I think he should just leave.

He also implied that he may not, again, should he win, sort out Brexit. Wouldn’t state categorically that we’d leave. Which is fine with me, but not exactly in line with the democratic wishes of the nation. Already, according to Mnsr Junker, ‘English is no longer an important language’. Well see if anyone over there understands this: JUST FUCK OFF, JEAN-CLAUDE. Or should I translate that to Mandarin?

Worrying Wednesday

A xxxx