Andy's Glasses

This is Lila. You all know her. She’s ‘my’ baby. Others may claim her but she’s mine. And I’ve posted one or two photos of her and she’s always gorgeous and happy and serene and wonderful. She’s that kind of baby. Ok, she has her moments, but they really are quite few and far between. Its not like dating apps when the… members? victims? liars? put up their very best of all possible photos so that when they finally meet Mr/Ms Dream-Date, both are tragically disappointed at the lack of photoshopping opportunity in the real world.

Not like that with Lila. What you see is what you get. She IS that beautiful and peaceful and happy. Until yesterday afternoon. When she turned into an extra from a Wes Craven movie. With a little help from medical science.

She had her first inoculations yesterday. I don’t know what they’re for. Polio? Yellow fever? Diphtheria? Arsenal? But they inoculate kids to prevent horrible things so you have to do it. Short term pain, hopefully long term gain. We’ve all been there. Except Lila. She’s never been there before.

They STABBED MY BABY!!!! at about 2.40 and she wasn’t happy about it. I wasn’t there but whilst at work I suddenly, at that time, felt a sharp pain in my thigh. Ish. Because they Conway gene, as well as bestowing extreme beauty on all who possess it, also gives you a morbid fear of needles when in the hands of, so-called, Doctors. I have that gene, passed it on to my younger daughter, Lila’s mum remaining curiously exempt from that particular mania. And Lila didn’t like the jab one bit. Mum calmed her down, fed her and all was good and sleepy. For about 10 minutes when the screaming started. And continued. And continued. And continued.

3 hours later Mum was in a panic, as you get when your baby is inconsolable and hyperventilatingly hysterical, so the Grandmother popped in on her way to spin class. Babies might be hysterical but the need for cycling 200 miles in 45 minutes without going anywhere is powerful, so off she went. And I went round on my way home from work. Don’t know why but that’s what you do. I couldn’t console her any more than anyone else, poor little red-faced screaming thing, but Mum certainly needed support. Dad came home to. The three of us, watching the world’s most unhappy child.

On the little pamphlet they give you at the Child Abuse Centre, sorry, the Medical Centre, it says ‘your baby may be a bit grizzly after the injection’. Vague. There’s grizzly and there’s hysteria. We phoned the NHS. Who were, it must be said, totally brilliant. Check this, look at that, do this, fine, here’s the doctor on the phone now, check something else, hmmmm, I’m sending a paramedic, just to check. 10 minutes later a yellow and white car pulls up outside filled with empathy and caring.

She’s fine today. Of course. As you can see. Calm, happy. Might take her mother a little longer to become truly ‘fine’. And if I find that doctor who gave her the jab yesterday, understanding as I do the need for such things totally, I will kill him.

Happy Lila, sorry, Happy Thursday

A xxxx

So the election’s in full swing, the sun’s shining, the football season has finished, leaving the game in ‘grand finale’ mode, starting tonight, if you don’t count the playoffs, with Manchester United playing Ajax in Stockholm for the EUFA Cup. Oddly the only trophy United have never lifted. Mainly because they’ve never been bad enough to play in it before last season. So the stakes are high. Because a victory in that cup tonight will give them (never used to be like this) entry into next year’s Champions League. Where they want to be.

And then a bomb went off. In Manchester. In case you missed that. What happened was this:

Some deranged motherfucker was convinced by a whole load of even more deranged motherfuckers that the path to God, the path to personal, spiritual and moral happiness is to kill children. And deranged motherfucker number 1 believed them. To the point where he would give his own life for furthering their own cause. The cause of death. The slaughter of innocents. The deranged motherfucker collective never warned him that in fact you go straight to hell. Fast-tracked. Rather than the 70 beautiful virgins he was promised, if there is any kind of God, Salman Abadi is spending eternity with 70 really ugly, sadistic gay power-lifters from Romania who all suffer with chronic halitosis.

Maybe its the grandfather thing, or the father thing, but when I saw the picture of little Saffie Roussos I was almost in tears.

What the BBC have decided is that following any act of terrorism, what the people of Britain need to calm them, to comfort them, to inform them, is endless fucking repetition. They know 7 concrete facts and have 9 pieces of more speculative information. So let’s repeat those 43 times each. In fact, let’s extend the News, disaster special, so we can repeat them some more. And then the the emotion gives way to boredom and impatience and everyone feels better?

We are now in ‘critical’ mode as a nation regarding its security. Or insecurity. Could happen any time, any place. Yet the football tonight goes on. Must go on. Otherwise ‘they’ win. Any city in any free, Western country is at risk. Which makes you mildly paranoid… ok, makes you severely paranoid, but you have to carry on. We cannot let our values, and the things we love to do, be changed by a group of psychopaths.

Manchester… United.

Happy sad Wednesday

A xxxx

There’s a new dating app around. Just what the world needs; more people staring at phones rather than engaging with others and, like, kind’a, sort-of, like ‘meeting them’. But dating apps are big biz, big money and who am I to call the culture of the swipe ‘tripe’? Yet this new one is different. Rather than the Tindr thing, which, for want of a better parallel, is a quick one behind the pub, this new app, ‘Appetence’ is the full Mills & Boone. It doesn’t even let you see a photo of your ‘intended’ until hours of ‘conversation’ have occurred. Its more a chaperone than a hook-up thing. But that’s the intention. Romance. Remember that? Big in the 40s, 50s, 60s… then died with the smart-phone. Its about the full experience of getting to know someone in the non-biblical sense. For a while at least. The best thing about it is that on the app questionnaire you get a choice of 20 different ‘genders’ to define yourself. Wow. Just 20. Is ‘Arsenal fan’ a gender now that they’re out of the Champions League, I wonder? I’m stuck at 2 otherwise. But will make allowances for the massive range of ‘semi-gay-pre-trans’ and ‘tri-sexual hermaphrodites’ that seem to have evolved somewhere down the line.

What I say is: don’t get a dating app; get a season ticket to find true love.

For Spurs, of course. Because in the manliest of manly ways, my love for that team is currently over-flowing. Last season we played our last match at already-relegated, shit-as-anything, couldn’t win a 1-ticket raffle, Newcastle and lost 5-1. Whereas yesterday, in the season finale, we played already-relegated, what’s worse than shit but not quite dead, Hull and beat them 7-1.

Seven goals to one. Which is almost as amazing as it is meaningless. There again, football is pretty meaningless, that’s the whole point. Its the ultimate distraction.

So Harry Kane, bless his lilywhite socks, won the golden boot for the second year. He’s scored 7 goals in 4 days. Leaving me to ask that eternal question: WHY DOES THE SEASON HAVE TO END????? IF THERE REALLY WAS A GOD (who would obviously be a Spurs fan) HE/SHE/IT… (20 options elevates PC to new realms of ridiculousness) WOULDN’T LET IT HAPPEN!!!!

Arsenal beat Everton.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

Its an old problem. No, I mean, its a problem; the old. Old people. Millions of them. Where do we put them, how do we store them, what should we feed them, who’s gonna pay for them?

Answer the last question first. Who’s gonna pay?

Jeremy Corbyn wants all old people to be put in palaces, clear out that useless monarchy, they’re different old people, and fill up with retired union members. The rich will pay. Ok, he didn’t actually write that in his manifesto but could have done as he lives, economically, in some kind of cloud cuckoo–land anyway where money is in endless supply as long as he perceives the cause to be worthy. Worthy of the Bolsheviks in 1917 probably more than of Britain in 2017 but in his mind they’re almost the same.

Theresa May has a different plan. Make old people pay for it themselves. Ooooh, that’s radical. In fact its rather logical, welfare statism notwithstanding. Because the welfare of the welfare state is dependent on its wealf. And currently; it don’t got none. So those old people who go into care will, basically, lose their houses to pay for that care. Or, in many cases of care homes; to pay for that lack of care verging on total neglect. Seems reasonable.

Except its the most unpopular thing any politician has ever said. The Conservative lead in the opinion polls dropped catastrophically as soon as Theresa had finished the sentence “… to pay for those miserable old gits”.

There’s been uproar. Mainly by the children of those oldies who see their own futures suddenly bleaker to the tune of several hundred grand’s worth of house. And those ‘children’ are the ones who vote. Old people don’t, they’re not physically able to do so and the ones who are don’t waste their time in polling stations whilst the bookies are open and the brothels available.

As a society we’re getting ‘older’. Medicines, care and health have increased longevity massively in just one generation. Which has created the biggest stockpile since the European Milk crisis in nineteen seventy-something.

I think we should eat old people. They’re fairly nutritious and certainly abundant. It would solve so many problems, if we just put aside our quite irrational fear of cannibalism for just a moment. The French eat horses, for fuck sake, and we’re all appalled by this. Until we visit Paris and sample the Red Rum Stew. So we could overcome our reluctance if necessary. I know lots of people don’t eat meat, mainly because they’re silly, so they could eat the old people who were in a ‘vegetative state’. Be kind of a ‘vegetative steak’. I mean obviously I’m just thinking this through at the moment, haven’t finally formalised the details, just thinking outside the horse-box.

Too much thinking, too little football. That’s the problem,

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

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