Andy's Glasses

Last year at about this time of the season, Spurs found themselves in the lofty and a bit unexpected position of being the team ‘chasing runaway leaders’ for the title. Long way to go, 14 games or so, but there we were, second in the league and chasing… a pretty much lost cause. Last year we decided that we’d have a startlingly brilliant run, breezing past all who came before us, home or away, with flair, style, strength and brilliance. And then, for our encore, we’d totally self-destruct into chaotic and hapless oblivion. Or ‘third place just behind Arsenal’ as its known in certain parts of north London.

Many saw this as ‘typical Tottenham’, there was suddenly too much oxygen, couldn’t take the pressure (what pressure??), unaccustomed to the lofty heights, blah, blah, blah. I saw it more from a ‘bottom up’ perspective. In that we were usually much lower, and we’d moved up in the world.

To find ourselves, albeit a bit sooner, in a similar position; second in the league to runaway leaders, represents a brilliant improvement in my team. With particular credit to me, personally, for not killing myself, as I’d felt like so often during the dark years. Suicide is painless and is also one of the only things that gets rid of Arsenal. Unless you go to hell when you get to spend all of eternity listening to Arsene Wenger telling you about every foul that wasn’t given, every bad penalty decision that went against his team, all the injustices ever witnessed through the really bizarrely impeded eyes of a serial Frenchman.

Yesterday he saw a ‘foul’ when no-one else did. Thus everyone else is wrong. Obviously. Chelsea annihilated his team, mainly because half of them didn’t turn up. Well, Ozil certainly was somewhere a long way off. And as Spurs Paul commented, Arsenal can only bully poor teams, which they do, and then wimp out against the proper ones. I’ll check but I don’t think Spurs Paul an Arsenal fan.

Liverpool have crumbled. Just lost it totally as they have given up on winning ways. Both Manchesters are under-performing tragically and Everton, despite scoring 6 yesterday (and conceding 3?), are a bit short of the mark.

So once again its left to my boys to try and keep up with the leaders in an attempt to maintain some kind of interest in the rest of the season, for everyone in the country. Even though we’re not doing so in any really impressive way at the moment. But heh, who cares? Free points is free points, innit?

Ahhhh, fairly happy Sunday

A xxxx

Last night during my nightly tv-surf, I chanced upon Bullitt. The late 60s Steve McQueen cop movie. Which contains, arguably, ‘the finest car chase ever filmed’. Better than the one in the French Connection, better than the Blues Brothers (279 police cars smashed up en route), better than Vanishing Point even, which was an entire movie-as-car-chase, better than James Bond. Because really, who needs voices when a supercharged V8 says so much more? The words of the finest of bards fail completely to match the sheer elegance and poetry of that ‘glug-glug-glug-VROOOOOOOM!!!!’ that is produced when such an engine is given to the wind. The sound of angels. On horses. Lots and lots of horses. In the case of McQueen’s Mustang about 400 horses, whereas for the Dodge, about 500.

It was, in reality, a bit of a mismatch. The Mustang was a great and fairly dangerous car. In that they stuffed a 6 litre engine in a body designed for half that, added a few tweaks, nothing that would arrest that power surge, so nothing like better breaking or suspension, and off ya went. As long as you drove it in a straight line not too much could go wrong.

But the Dodge Charger was really something else. Same concept; basic body, stuff the biggest engine that can be crammed in, in this case over 7 litres. And just in case that’s not sufficient (is it ever??) why not stick a supercharger on it as well? No brainer. Extra 40 horse power at least for the blower. That was what Dodge called the R/T version. As in ‘road/track’. The engine used in that model, known as the ‘Hemi’, didn’t just redefine high power output from car engines, but is still the engine they use in all the top drag racing cars today, 55 years later.

I grew up in the 60s. The 1960s, in case you wondered what it meant. And we watched the new genre coming to (just 2-channel) tv, American Cop Shows. The English ones were ok too. But we noticed that in Dixon of Dock Green the police rode push-bikes or if they were sufficiently senior, had Morris 1000s as their ‘rides’. Whereas on the American shows they drove these fuck-off monster-powered Chevys and Dodges and Cadillacs that roared and groaned and throbbed and burnt rubber. Britain was a petrolhead underclass. Our ‘sports cars’ were tuned up 1600 engines. Their ‘family cars’ were V8 gas-guzzling supercars. Disguised as Ford Cortinas. And I wanted one. In fact I wanted 6. But my dad went and bought a Triumph Herald instead.

So that’s my excuse. Why I laugh at a Toyota Prius. Why I have nothing but contempt for anything electric that won’t make toast (ok, Tesla excepted) and why I love gas guzzlers, but only the one I’m driving. All the others will destroy the planet.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

As an almost qualified clinical psychiatrist (I read a book about Freud in 1984), I have chosen, as my most recent case study, the person hereafter and forthwith to be referred to, in order to keep professional standards up and personal expenses down, as ‘Jose Morinho’. Even though his real name is ‘client X’.

Mr Morinho was always what is euphemistically called ‘special’. As in ‘special needs’, ‘special consideration’, ‘special requirements’. He showed sufficient levels of self-awareness to make everyone aware that, psychologically, all was not strictly ‘normal’ within that Portuguese mind. But he came here, he was successful and we mistakenly accepted his use of the term ‘The Special One’ as some form of conceit, of trumpet-blowing. Because like so many with his condition, he has periods of lucidity and tranquility when all does indeed seem ‘normal’. These periods are know, in psychiatric terminology, as ‘when he’s winning’. Inevitably, when this period reaches some kind of change or transition, the patient’s underlying condition becomes manifestly apparent.

So he left Chelsea after a while and took his increasing levels of paranoia over to first Milan and then to Madrid. Where pretty much the same effect was noted. Massive mood swings of a truly bi-polar nature, often induced with merely one kick of a football. Or of someone’s shin.

At which point he returned to Chelsea, upped his medication and tried once more to appear normal but still special. Which was going fairly poorly and then exploded into ‘Doctor-gate’. When Jose poured all his scorn, venom and blame for all of his team’s woes on the fact that a team doctor had run onto the pitch to tend a wounded player. In the resulting ‘shit-hitting-fannage’ that occurred, Mr Morinho left Chelsea once more and changed his ‘shrink’ to one recommended by Arsene Wenger. A head-doctor who could train the mind to only see what it wanted to see and ensure a happy place.

So Jose moved to Manchester. Sadly, this only added to his paranoia as the ‘world’s biggest football club’ continued to play shit even with all his specialness. He chose to vent on the referees, on the Football Association, on crop circles, black holes, Elvis’ ghost, the Ayatollah, anything rather than accept any responsibility for his teams failings.

And that’s where we find Mr Morinho today. In the midst of an all-encompassing paranoid crisis, sitting in a padded physio’s room at Old Trafford, waiting for the men in white coats to inject him with something that might make him a little more normal, and a lot less special.

Footnote: there has been no merit given to hypothesis involving the deprivation of breast-feeding from an early age of his life. Despite those photos that emerged of Jose with Eva Carneiro.

Happy Thursday

Dr Conway
xxxx

Went to see the movie Denial last night. Had to. I’m Jewish. Its about the holocaust, or in this case, denial thereof, and its in our contract that we go see all relevant films. No choice. And it had Rachel Weiss in it, who is adorable, and Tom Wilkinson, who is brilliant and Timothy Spall who is probably the finest British character actor of his generation. Playing uber-shit-head, Hitler-lover, holocaust-denying anti-semite and all round proto-Trump racist, David Irving.

And its not just a ‘true story’ in the American movie sense in which ‘there were indeed two people in real life who had these names and one was in real life a woman, but everything else has been changed to increase viewing pleasure and happy endings’. No, this was a ‘true story’ in the sense that it was stunningly, almost obsessively, BBC-ishly (they produced it) accurate. The trial scenes were verbatim from the original trial transcript. That accurate.

And its about the trial of Deborah Lipstadt, American holocaust historian professor, who called Irving a ‘holocaust denier’ in a book, so he sued her for defamation. Even though he consorted with skinheads and other right-wing scum. He chose to defend himself (and they say the person who does that has a fool for a client) and Lipstadt had as her counsel, top QC Richard Rampton, played by Wilkinson.

Holy Shit!!!!!!!

As the name was spoken on the screen and his face appeared, I had a ‘special moment’. A flashback about 2 years. A phone call at work. “Hello, I’m the third props director’s second assistant’s under-secretary and we’re making a movie about a trial. And we’ve been interviewing the (now retired) QC and we want his glasses, because they’re ‘his thing’. Round, gold glasses. And you are his optician. Can you get us a pair?”

I immediately thought of ‘patient confidentiality’ and ‘database protection’ and the right to anonymity, of course, and said: “which credit card would you like to use?”

And I’d forgotten completely, as you do. Sold a few other pairs of specs since then. But as his name was spoken I realised that there, on the massive screen, were ‘my’ glasses. The Rampton specials. I wanted to tell everyone else in the cinema, in the whole world; I DID THOSE!! but instead just whispered it to Mel. Who said, with all due pride: ‘shhhhhh’.

The movie is ok. Rachel Weiss didn’t make her character work for me. But I never knew Deborah Lipstadt so maybe she is a strange mix of feisty-New-York-intelligensia one minute and quivering, whimpering timid thing the next. And, made by the BBC, it indeed had the feel of a tv documentary about it. Never mind, great story, they’ll remake it in Hollywood next year with guns and car chases and Terminator. Wearing my glasses.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

The much lauded ‘magic of the FA Cup’ is a euphemism for total mis-matches. We love them. Because it elevates (or perhaps ‘lowers’) the concept of ‘underdog’ to levels not normally encountered. When Chelsea play Watford, (or in fact when they play Liverpool, as they do tonight), the team not Chelsea is the underdog. Because the West London horribles are much much better. In theory. On the night, anything can happen. That’s why they’re ‘underdogs’ and not just ‘fucking losers’. Because there’s always a chance that they may not lose. That the team 16 or 17 places below the leaders in the league might just pull off some miracle.

The FA Cup produces much bigger mismatches. Because every team plays. Not just from the top 4 leagues but from all the lesser, lower, never-‘eard-of leagues below them. Thus on Sunday did Sutton United, currently lying 14th in the ‘Vanorama’ Premier (ish) Division of the National League, beat Leeds, currently fighting for a playoff place in the Championship. 84 places higher.

Sutton’s reward is a first ever match in the 5th round of the Cup. And to the victor comes the spoils, in this case Arsenal. Who spoil a lot of things. And will probably rain on Sutton’s parade in a fairly large and emphatic manner. But in the meantime we can dream.

And if you reckon this match, for Arsenal, is just a ‘pass through to the next round’ card, then you’re probably right. But we can all dream. And Arsenal will not like this match at all. Firstly they have to take their precious superstars, famed for their fragility, onto a lumpy, cluggy, mashed up pitch in the wilds of Surry. There’ll be no hair conditioner in the showers there, for sure. And the showers probably only run cold anyway. Sutton will play a different kind of game from Arsenal. A little more ‘industrial’, a bit more ‘tasty’. I certainly hope so, at least. And then there’s the pressure of expectation. If Arsenal do anything other than win very convincingly then they’ll be shamed by the media. And certainly by me. Mercilessly.

Sutton don’t care. Have nothing to worry about. They can do no wrong, whatever happens. And they’ll get lots of money for their day in the sunshine. I couldn’t find any recent figures but in 2003, Sutton United’s turnover was about £250,000. For the year. Many of Arsenal’s superstars earn more than that every 2 weeks. So a big payday looms for Sutton for packing their little stadium and for the tv rights. Which makes the match massive for a club, like all others in the nether regions of our national game, life-saving. Giving them a monetary respite which is essential to their survival.

In 1971 Arsenal played Yeovil Town in the Cup. Same kind of deal. Big team vs minnow. Such was my fervour that I joined the ‘Green & White Supporters Club’ of Yeovil. Just to get the little badge for my school blazer and annoy my mate Martin, the rabid Gooner of 5F.

But if it all goes funny, if things just go haywire and the world tilts on its axis for just 90 minutes on that match-day, then possibly…

Happy Dreams

A xxxx

Donald Trump has banned all Syrians, Iranians, Somalians, etc, etc, from entering his country. We only want to ban one person. Him.

The petitions have started, the protests and marches will be appearing at a Trafalgar Square near you any time soon, to stop the President of the Unaaarted Stayytes of Aaaameyrica coming to these shore to visit with our Queen. And just because he’s an isolationist, muslim-hating, mexican-bothering, anti-abortionist, misogynist, racist, sexist pig.

Virtually as soon as the words had left Theresa May’s lips on Friday, extending the state visit opportunity to Don J and Squinty Melania, an online petition had begun. It already has well over the 100,000 ‘signatures’ required to start a debate in parliament about it. I would imagine a lot of these signatories would be muslims, women or… people.

Before the royal visit, which may or may not happen, the Trump camp have already started making demands. For his diva-ship. He doesn’t want to meet Charles. Well neither did Diana but it didn’t help her much either. The Royals are a package. Ya don’t get to cherry-pick. But why Charles? Because Charlie is a renowned tree hugger, global warmist and flat-earther. And Trump is worried that Charlie will ‘lecture’ him. At which point Don will ‘lose it’, according to his people. Yes, the great statesmanship and diplomacy that is almost the benchmark with the Presidency, ended 10 days ago. This one, rather than make his point, rebuff an argument, state his case, just doesn’t want to get started on it because he’ll ‘lose it’. Just like any spoilt, petulant brat of a child.

Its a great time to be in the placards, posters and marker pen business.

Meanwhile yesterday in Melbourne, 2 veritable kings engaged in 5 sets of jousting in the Australian Open final. It was like 2010 all over again. As, from the ashes, both Rafa Nadal and Roger Federer (now 83 years old… or so you’d think to listen to the pundits) battled royal for the championship. Amazing game; missed it all, and Fed won. The greatest tennis player ever. And though I love Rafa too, Federer has that wonderful elegance, grace and perfection of every shot which only a few of US can ever really produce.

Over here we had giant-killing weekend in the FA Cup. Liverpool were the biggest of the Titans to fall, almost followed by Spurs, but (thank Gawd) not quite. Lincoln beat Brighton, Watford and Hull lost to lower league opposition and Sutton, mighty(???) Sutton, part-timers from the Tandoori Nights of Esher League, division 2, beat Leeds. Ahhhh, the magic of the Cup.

Great, done that, now let’s get back to agonising over the Champions League.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

Sent from my iPad

Men and women have certain differences. Chromosomal. Genetic. You can’t argue with science. Well, you can but then you’d probably be some kind of bible-basher, they argue with science all the time. Though about men and women the bible-bashers would be the last to argue any form of blurred lines. Men are men, they wear dark suits and they pray a lot. Women are smaller and prettier (we’ll talk about moustache issues in fundamental Christian women another time) and wear skirts. Long ones. Dark. Clothes God would like.

But the zeitgeist is to accept these kind of differences as merely physical, superficial, relatively unimportant in any grand schemes of the totally encompassing egalitarianism that must be seen at all times. Its what the entire ‘political correctness’ industry has been built upon.

So firstly, I’d like to say that I love the differences between men and women. Always have. I revere them. That’s why, in all my vast 60 years, I’ve played football with boys and played different things with gels. Because we are different. Biologically. And God bless those differences. Though not the God mentioned above, I’m talking about a much more permissive, naughty kind of God.

Women, if its ok to say this, give birth to live young. From within. Its an amazing process. The elder daughter is currently in just such a situation; carrying round a massive personage just above what used to be her waist. Its what women do. Almost a defining criterion; a womb. Ahhh, motherhood…

Yet now, in the most stupid advisory document ever produced anywhere in the world, the NHS have advised doctors NOT to use the term ‘mothers’ when referring to pregnant women. Because there is one person, in the entire world, who happens to be a pregnant transgender… errrr… thing. I’m gonna guess that this is a ‘woman to man’ sex change. Just a hunch. But its not complete (NO SHIT!!!) so it looks a bit like a very girlish boy, but its pregnant. And thus must be referred to as a ‘pregnant person’, and NOT a mother.

I wonder how much NHS money was wasted on the consultations to reach such an outstandingly daft decision.

Donald Trump has banned all muslims from America. So he can sift out the ‘radicalised jihadis’. Like they wear badges, or ISIS masks. There again, he’s also suggested reverting to torture if the situation is appropriate. So maybe he should just torture all muslims as they arrive at JFK, waterboard the whole fucking plane-load until they confess. ‘To protect us from another 9/11’. Even though he’s banned the wrong 7 countries. The ones from which no 9/11 participant had come. So 9 days in and it can be stated: Trump is still a tosser.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

How much do you like traffic wardens? Parking charges?? I know, I know, these are emphatically first world problems, or more precisely, they are inner city first world problems. In the countryside you can park on a cow. By the stables. Up a tree. Anywhere. The only yellow lines there are when someone has pissed in the snow.

I rarely drive into Town. Its just never worth the aggro. Mainly parking aggro. So you end up in an NCP paying three times what an Uber would have cost for the return trip. The tube’s even cheaper. For those of a rather ‘senior’ status, especially.

But people do drive into town. In their thousands. I have no idea where they all park, not my problem. I walk past them every morning, overtaking them on the pavements as they’re stuck in one great big endless jam, thinking ‘why do they bother?’.

10 years ago the then Labour government had a drive to get people using diesel cars and vans. ‘Better for the environment’, innit? So the populus, particularly those who really care about such things and buy into the global warming thing (no judgments here, no position taken, just some implications), traded in their old petrol cars and went all tree-huggy by replacing them with diesels. Save the planet; go diesel. Unfortunately it don’t ‘go’ as fast or furious as petrol but heh; where’s the rush?

Yet now we find that diesels are full of shit. Well, their exhausts are. Pollutants. Particles. Terrible for the atmosphere which now, in London, is horrendous and dangerous. All because of the diesels. Which they encouraged us to buy.

I don’t know how this can be a surprise to anyone. Petrol is an ultra-refined spirit. Diesel is a thick, gunky oil. Of course its got more shit in it.

Because the air quality is bad now, new(ish) mayor Sadiq is taking affirmative action. He’s increasing parking charges just for diesels in central London. And if you’re reading this in High Wycombe or West Wales or North Yorkshire, let me put this into perspective. To park in Marylebone for one hour currently costs £4.90. One hour, a fiver. The new ‘D-charge’ (not to be mistaken for the C-charge just for being in London) will raise this to £7.35 an hour. Four hour maximum parking, in a diesel, now £29.40. Fuck. Me.

There’s gonna be a lot of people prising the ‘D’ off their car’s rear badges. I’m gonna stand in Marylebone selling screwdrivers to diesel drivers. Make a killing. If I can survive the air.

Even though I’ve never had a diesel car; why would I when petrol ones are so much faster, louder, more dangerous? I feel sympathy for these poor misguideds who were only adhering to government policy and now are getting punished for it. Sadiq Kahn, who I generally like, is being a bit of a shit. Give people a chance to change their cars.

I reckon in 3 years time someone will find evidence that electric cars are ruining the environment. Break up the magnetic field of the planet. Kill birds by osmosis. Give people heart attacks.

Meanwhile, just take the bus. Oh, they’re diesel too. Ok, a taxi. Hmmm, more diesel. Easier to stay at home.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

Do you use ‘waze’? The sat-nav system favoured by Uber and so many others that Google bought the company a few years back. Its not just a ‘shortest distance between two points’ kind’a deal. Nothing like. It ‘knows’ where the traffic is, the roadworks, the speed cameras, and it avoids them. And it is, quite frankly, fucking brilliant. Not infallible, but it kind’a demonstrates the ultimate understanding that computers can take on new information, analyse it and spit out changes within milliseconds. So many websites that are allegedly ‘live’ (like Transport for London) give little information, virtually none of it being any use because the time signature was yesterday afternoon. When the computer operating union stopped for tea and went home early.

And waze is most impressive on short journeys that you do all the time. Because they’re the journeys for which we use ‘autopilot’. Waze is better. Mel had a nightmare journey coming back from her swim the other day (David Lloyd; 10 minutes away). So the next morning she used waze and it took her a route that indeed took her 10 minutes (the previous day was 40) but took her places she’d never been before. Over school playgrounds, through church car parks, down alleyways, over loads of speed bumps, and in and out of Sainsbury’s. Brilliant. Job done. Very few pedestrians injured. Just a few a bit scared.

I was in an Uber on strike day. And the driver’s ‘system’ crashed. The Uber system. He was fucked. We were round the back passages of some Islington council estate going through the garages when it happened. No idea where we were. Only waze knew, and it was not telling us. I accessed it on my phone and all was saved. Phew.

Systems crash. Its what they do. You’re writing an email and your screen freezes. Your ipad suddenly loses the screen you’re checking the football scores on. Its not often but its annoying.

So when you have your driverless car, what happens when the system crashes? Presumably you crash too. The metaphor becomes the reality. In a very dangerous way. Last year a Tesla on ‘self drive’ crashed in Ohio. Literally crashed. Into a lorry. The driver(less??) was killed. Wasn’t paying attention, according to the inquiry. But its a driverless car, no? You’re not supposed to pay attention. You’re supposed to be reading the paper, making tea, having casual sex in the back seat, watching baseball, whatever.

Tesla have said that the car, at the time, had only one camera, the new ones have 8. Not much of a relief to the geezer in Ohio who died. They’ve buried seven new cameras with him.

But systems crash. Its what they do. As someone who doesn’t trust other drivers, I certainly could never trust other driverlesses. Could you?

Happy Friday

A xxxx

I was watching some football a couple of months ago; I know, its unusual. But I was. And Spurs superstar midfield genius and vunderkind, Dele Alli, appeared to have what I thought was a new tattoo. Nothing new there, footballers and tattoos. Its like love and marriage, horse and carriage, lawyers and divorce. Even though Dele is relatively ink-free. Because upon his lower calf were thick black lines, extending up to his knee, in a nice, Maoriesque pattern. Nice.

Then I learned this was probably not the case. Mainly because a couple of weeks later the ‘tats’ were gone. These weren’t in fact tattoos but the latest in physiotherapy practice. K-tape. Short for kinesiology tape. Heard of it? Its great. The stuff of dreams. If you have odd dreams involving adhesive shit. Or if you’re Mel (unlikely) and are the ultimate believer. Mel loves medical stuff. She can’t get enough. We had to have the bathroom extended just to accommodate the pills, potions, medications, applications, dressings and now, k-tape.

In the ‘old days’ when you pulled a muscle or had a little ache, you’d use a strap, a bandage, an elastic tube-thing on the afflicted area. But no more. Now its all about ‘k-tape’. Take a lump of basically sticking plaster, make it stickier, most importantly, give it a proper colour, no ‘fleshy, pinky’ rubbish, black, blue, fluorescent green, strong, unashamed colours, and make it big. Two inches wide. And you buy it by the mile. Well, by the tens of metres. Cos you never know where you’ll need it next.

You don’t just stick it on and hope though. Its not like its magic. You put it on in such a way that it pulls your muscles in certain directions. To relieve or to enhance. In fact its so non-intuitive that you have to visit u-tube and watch Americans sticking the stuff all over each other. And learnin’. So you can repeat it.

Mel bought some (£2.14p on Amazon for half a mile, including post and package, how can you go wrong???) and we spent a couple of very productive hours on Saturday night anointing each other as if for some form of religious sacrifice or post-modernist artwork. On shoulders, f’rinstance, you don’t use one measly piece, you use 3. Necks? Another 3. By the time we’d finished with all Mel’s aches and pains she looked like a bright blue version of the invisible man. I opted for the shoulder, on the basis that when you’re desperate you’ll try any form of neo-quackery available to stop the aggro.

Does it work? Jury’s out for me, Mel’s convinced. She won’t ever have an unadorned upper body again. After a few days of showering it comes a bit loose at the edges, so you remove it. Which is far easier to write than it is to actually do. Its like the waxing scene in the 40-year-old Virgin. Lots of sticky = lots of shouting/swearing/motherfucking!!!

Happy taping

A xxxx