Andy's Glasses

The problem is mainly that Spurs, currently, are very very good.
So much so that my confidence raised more than it perhaps should
We’ve beaten them all, the good and the bad,
particularly at the Lane where they’ve all left rather sad
But this was Arsenal, this was not the norm,
upon this match stood mocking, derision and scorn.

So yesterday, match day, at just about mid-afternoon time
I did what every real, true Spurs fan and devotee would find just fine.
I went to the Tate Britain, the David Hockney exhibition to see
(Booked months ago, in advance, absolutely nothing to do with me.)
Because I’m so cultured and genteel and a total arthouse dude
I wandered round staring at the pics, predominantly of men in the nude.

“Oh, that’s his first California period” I pretentiously would exclaim,
“wonderfully vivid colours”, whilst staring on my phone at the game.
Yet I needed not to watch it, really needed the distraction
Because its just too unsettling to get anywhere near the action.
Instead I decided, in my unselfishly devoted state,
to place my trust in Lila, who has never let us down, of late.

For Arsenal, meanwhile, a crunch game this would have to be
Their entire season in a mess, their future no-one can see
They had to beat the auld enemy, had to thrash them good and sound
Or face the grim reality that indeed new players and new manager, should be found.
So with passions higher than high, emotions ready to be dashed,
I was poncing round the fucking Tate looking at ‘a Bigger Splash’.

I needn’t have worried, shouldn’t have given a care
As Arsenal’s many frailties were repeatedly laid quite bare.
Spurs, on the other hand, were simply, magnificently, in every department too strong
The Arse couldn’t cope, couldn’t score, couldn’t stop us, got it all wrong.
And in doing so, for the first time in 23 horrible, long, hard years
We will finish the league above them, which brings me to copious tears.

So as I sob my way through the aftermath, the celebration, the hope, the joy
It takes me back to the glory days when I was merely a boy.
Because on this most important day, essential match and game
Tottenham were victorious, no matter who you choose to blame.
For me, for Lila, for all the loyal fans; Tottenham Hotspur won
Making it a bad day for Jeremy Corbyn, Osama bin Laden and (probably) Atilla the fucking Hun.

Happiest Monday Ever

A xxxx

Do you ever watch Jules Holland? You should do. Its the safe way to keep up with music. Safe because Jules is pretty old and therefore shares my value system when it comes to what sounds good. He’s also funny, likeable, rather charming and the most brilliant pianist of his, or many other generations. And he plucks unknown superstars out of the ether and simply ‘makes them’. So many wonderful artists achieved their ‘break’ on his show. He has a knack for finding brilliance and show-casing it. As you would if you had your own tv show that’s run for 20 years and must be the most widely respected of its kind in the whole wide world.

He does pop. He was pop. With Squeeze, back in the day. But his heart is in the Blues, in jazz and he’s no stranger to both rock and roll. I first saw Taylor Swift on Jules show. When she was about 9. Ok, 18-ish but ‘young’. Very young. KT Tunstall exploded onto the music scene on Jules show too as have so many others. And he does country music and a capello music and heavy metal and punk and ragtime and hip-hop and (on last Friday) tribal music from the Faroe Islands.

He also had Jain. New French bird. Bit like the last one, Christina and the Queens, in that she’s more ‘performance artist’ than ‘merely’ a singer. And talented. Not sure about her music, whereas Christina’s is brilliant, but the total effect is somewhat unique and unusual. I loved the whole Bowie thing, back yonder, the physical artistry of producing music. Same with Talking Heads and Velvet Underground. Art-school makes music. Brilliant music.

Then on Friday night there came a band called ‘The Amazon’. Not ‘the AmazonSs’ then they’d have been gels. These were boys. Even though they had long hair. The long hair was because they woz ‘heavy’, man. And metal. And FUCKING LOUD. Yet they produced a neat, tight sound that merged rock with something a bit more jazz-ish. But what made it for me was the drums. I love heavy rock drums. And they simply have to be played by fat, long-haired geezers with beards using heavyweight drumsticks. Fantastic sounds. As soon as Mel looks up from her Su Doku and says: ‘I don’t like this much’, I just know its gonna be great. And loud.

All this as a distraction. From the main event of the day, the weekend, the year, the season, THE LIFETIME!!!! Spurs playing Arsenal this afternoon. Biggest match of all time, EVERRRRRR. ‘6 points’ barely covers the pre-match warm-up. I’m feeling confident but hysterical. Shitting myself in a really positive way. Seriously conflicted. Seriously. Need help.

Happy Sunday… or will it be?

A xxxx

The problem with religions is that the more obsessive they are, the more preachy, the more holier-than-thou, the more… basically, up their own arses, that they are, the more stupid it all seems when it goes wrong.

When I see, on a tube train, f’rsinstance, a ‘black hat’ Jewish dude, all beard and dangling bits and stuff, reading his little prayerbook (they’re always reading their little prayer book, rarely 50 Shades of Grey or Brave New World), and an old/pregnant/wobbly person gets on, I always think they should be the first to stand up and offer their seat. But they never are. And there, in a nutshell, sums up the problem with all religions at that level of observance: too busy praying to be a good and decent person.

Which is so arse-about-face to be laughable. Religion started as the foundation of the moral code. In times when it was cool to shag your mates wife, kill your brother cos he didn’t pay you back 6 beads and some fire-water, steal anything you wanted just cos you had the biggest stick to hit people with. Mankind needed rules and guidelines, so an abstract concept, called ‘God’ was invented to back those rules up. ‘Thou shalt not kill’ is only so useful as a guideline. Whereas ‘if you fucking kill you will burn in the fires of hell for eternity and all your family will die in pain and suffering’ is more potent. So you need God. As an ‘enforcer’. Even though he never enforces.

Also, if outwardly religious people act in unpleasant or evil ways, those actions are judged as part of that religion. ‘That Jew didn’t stand up for a pregnant woman’. ‘That Muslim beheaded a journalist’. So those who are outwardly, visibly, emphatically of any particular faith must accept that responsibility that they are representing that faith in the eyes of the world.

But at some point the religion overtook the morality. It became the End rather than the means. Otherwise how could you ever explain ‘holy wars?. Which breach every single ‘God given’ commandment, other than sloth. Which happens to be my favourite deadly sin.

On a bleak and desolate Hebridean Island, they run the place strictly according to the Free Church of Scotland. Its like a little Sharia state for Presbyterians. And it was ‘run’ pretty much by its Reverend. Who was basically shagging 7 different women over about 20 years, whilst being the ‘happily married’ head of morality on the Island. Which, due to the strictness of his church, had no sunday trading whatsoever and even refused to open the public swimming pool on that day, despite outcry from locals. Can’t do that, not Godly. Sabbath must be observed. Morality is everything. Except when you’re shagging someone you shouldn’t. Then its ok.

The reverend killed himself. Which is a shame. Though the shame really is that he bothered pretending to be a religious man. If he’d pretended to be a French politician he’d be a hero and probably still alive today.

I’m ok with religion being there, I just don’t need to play.

Happy Friday, or Good Shabbas, as we say

A xxxx

I was more worried about last night’s match than anything. More than North Korean nuclear threats, more than Trump’s need of subtlety in his life, more than Jeremy Corbyn becoming Prime Minister.

Because ‘doing a Spurs’ is all about collapsing. All about showing promise and glory up to a point, only to see the carpet ripped out from under our prematurely dancing feet. It used to happen in matches, it certainly happened over seasons. Most notably last season when the draw with Chelsea, as well as reaching Tarantino levels of violence by our normally calm and placid players, was the declaration of ‘over’. It crumbled after that. A switch had turned. The minds went. You don’t become your own metaphor by not sticking to type.

So last night. We went to Crystal Palace. The team simply must have been in a bad place after Saturday’s match at Wembley. Not physically, this team is super-fit and super-strong. And young enough to play on. But its in the minds that games are won and lost. Always in the minds. Ok, a little skill, a bit of luck maybe, but minds are so much more fragile, more susceptible to doubt and trouble.

This is the wonder of Mauricio Pochettino. Because he took his team from the cup defeat and somehow gave them back the belief in themselves that they needed. Ok, it wasn’t a spectacular performance like we’ve seen of late, but against an Allardyce team you know what you’re gonna get. Yet they stuck with it. Kept banging on the door, albeit in a slightly more subdued manner than the flowing, flying performances against Watford, Bournemouth, Swansea.

It took 78 minutes for Spurs to find an opening. And the sublime Christian Eriksen took his chance so sweetly. The league’s top goal-creator did it himself from 30 yards out.

WHAT A FUCKING RELIEF!!!!!

I was out. Came home and watched the 7 minutes of extra time. In a bit of a panic, a little nervy, ok, in a complete flap. Though I knew Lila was watching and that gave me the confidence to go on. We still haven’t lost a league match since her birth. And last night she did her magic once again, even though she was looking the other way. We didn’t have her last year.

Bring on the Arse. I’m normally really worried about ‘north London derbies’ but feel (probably stupidly) excited about this one.

We have a great team. We have a fantastic manager and wonderful attitude. We have Lila.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

So Tim Fallon, leader of the Liberal Democrats, was finally nailed down regarding his dilemma. He’s ‘pro-gay’ and yet has repeatedly refused to answer the question as to whether gay sex is a ‘sin’. According to his ‘devout’ views. And yesterday he said it wasn’t. Bollox to God, bollox to the bible, he’s happy with gay sex. Oh… err… hmmm… for others, obviously. Were he to engage in such an activity himself he’d burn forever in the fires of hell. Which is again ironic when you consider the track record of priests. But heh; I’m no Christian, so what do I know? I’m sure that liberal leaning gays are relieved at his words. And I hope Tim can find his peace with that. Without any unwarranted and quite frankly nasty accusations of total hypocrisy.

So from the frying pan of hell to the fires of eternal damnation as his party then announced that David Ward was to stand as one of its candidates in the upcoming election. Who? Oh, let me remind you. The former Liberal MP for Bradford East was warned, suspended and then almost banned from the Party for antisemitic views and comments. Said if ‘he lived in Gaza he’d fire rockets at Israel’. That was one of the nicer things he said. He also stated that ‘all terrorist attacks in the UK stem from our foreign policy’. And, desperate for bodies to line up for the election, the Libs have seriously scraped the bottom of the proverbial barrel with this one. But so many of their people are making silly excuses (I’m buying a house, can’t stand this time) and ridiculous reasons (Oh, sorry, election called at such short notice, I’m busy that day) they’re desperate to find people eager and willing to lose the election for them.

And on top of that; Chelsea won last night. I have no real hopes of winning the league anyway this year, but wouldn’t it be… couldn’t they just… maybe if only…

Not gonna happen. Instead we’re being constantly threatened with losing our players. Kyle Walker, the best right back in the country, is on the wish-list of both the Manchesters. As is his left-side running mate, Danny Rose. Dele Alli is wanted by everybody from Madrid to China. Harry Kane is always in the sights of every other club. But we don’t sell our best players. Only when we have to. Or want to. Or just can’t keep hold of them. Otherwise, to all those horrible, destabilising, rumouring, evil clubs and reporters out there: FUCK OFF AND LEAVE SPURS ALONE; WE STILL HAVE A SEASON TO FINISH. Tonight at Selhurst Park, in fact. I would go but I can’t find South London and I have a dinner.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Although the proper ‘election campaigning’ can’t start until the Parliamentary session is officially ended, it does kind’a look like its begun already, with all the big players, and Jeremy Corbyn, even Paul Nuttall, getting out and about and… well, basically, talking bollocks all over the country.

Theresa May exudes confidence. She’s like the headmistress of a school that’s totally, sometimes brutally, under control and neat and tidy and just leave it all to her and we’ll be fine. The kids are doing great. Even though a lot of them don’t feel very great most of the time. You’re safe in my hands, she purrs, threateningly.

Whereas Jeremy Corbyn has another agenda. Give us more bank holidays. Not one, not two, but FOUR extra days off a year! For ‘his’ trade unionists who average 72 days paid holiday per annum. His economic understanding is ‘feeble’ at the best of times, based on a model of ‘pouring money that you don’t have down a big drain’. Never mind, the ‘rich’ are rich, they can pay for it. And think what we’ll save getting rid of nuclear bombs (which he’s still keen to do) and also MI5. I mean who needs military intelligence? Not like the world’s dangerous or anything.

Paul Nuttall, UKIP’s leader probably won’t stand for parliament himself. Or he might just say he’s won a seat when he hasn’t. He does that sort of thing. Claims he can ‘be more effective by not being actually in parliament’. Depends how one defines ‘effective’, I reckon. But leaving Europe has left his party with nothing to say. Because the ‘phase 2’ for UKIP can only be sorting out immigration from within our shores, as the main input has been plugged. So he’s worked out an ‘integration agenda’ for Muslims. They need to dress proper, talk English, possibly start getting drunk more, you know: ‘IN-TEG-RATE’. Basically: be more like us or fuck off. Reasonable.

My biggest worry though is Tim Fallon. The leader of the Liberals. Remember them; big in D’Israeli’s day, then kind’a slumped other than the terrible Coalition with Cameron, now reduced to near nothing and led by the smiling Christian. Which is what worries me. And a lot of Liberals too. Because Timbo is ‘devout’. Which is why he smiles so much; Jesus is with him. So he inevitably has views about, f’rinstance, gays, which are not strictly ‘liberal’. Even though he always makes sure, smilingly, to say the right thing. Once the word ‘devout’ (other than in relation to football or any other really worthy cause) is invoked, that’s when I leave the building. Yet as its only the Liberals its not going to make a massive difference one way or the other.

Everything to play for. Bit like Newcastle last night. The ‘bounce back’. Well done them. Not easy to do that, yet they did.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

I missed a lot yesterday. Running round like a blue-arsed fly, I believe the expression to be. Though I’ve never seen a fly with blue arse myself, that doesn’t mean they don’t exist somewhere. Maybe its a regular, black-arsed fly that is moving so fast away from you that it is experiencing ‘blue-shift’, like planets and meteors do. Who knows? Who cares? Whatever it is, that was me.

So I missed the football. For which I’m eternally grateful. Watching Arsenal win the day after enduring Spurs loss is simply too much. So I watched the granddaughter instead. Much more interesting. Much more enlightening. Even though she was asleep.

But as I found the score, there was mass upset and emotion from the Spurs fans who happened to be in my kitchen at the time, free-loading on my scones, as they do, yet massive excitement from a Man United fan, happy to see anything that is bad for Manchester City. How shallow and weak and rather pathetic such an outpouring is. Wallowing in the upset and misfortune of your rivals. Wouldn’t catch Spurs fans doing that…

Then the son-in-law suddenly brightened. “That’ll keep Wenger there for another ten years!!!” he proclaimed. And I thought ‘yesssss’. Best news for Spurs fans ever. And as Alexis Sanchez hit the winner, they’ll pay him whatever he and his team of black-mailing, corrupt, live-in-another-world team of psychopathic ‘agents’ and other bottom-feeding, parasitic vermin demand. “You want 300k a week; TAKE 400!!!! Just keep him at the Emirates”. He gets injured that’s then 20 million a year sitting at home watching Netflix with his physio.

Yet over in France yet more excitement. The two centrist parties, the ones that have held sway in that sorry land for decades, both lost their candidates in the presidential battle. Not that either were worth that much. Can’t be; they’re French. But that leaves just Marine Le Pen, fascist, slightly-sanitised neo-nazi, in the right corner, and Emmanuel Macron, granny-shagging (no comments, per-lease, I refer only that his wife is 25 years his elder) independent socialist in the left one.

The rise of populism once more. Anti-establishment voting hits France. In what they’re calling ‘the continuation of what started with the ‘Arab Spring”. And that worked out… errr… hmmm… ok, its still working out.

I vote for Lila.

Happy monday

A xxxx

What do you do when you meet your God? I don’t mean… ‘Him’, or ‘Her’, perhaps, up there all bearded and omnipotent and omniscient, but your real, honest-to-goodness heroes? What do you say to them that expresses how you feel but doesn’t leave you looking like a screaming Beatles fan in 1964, throwing your underwear and sobbing like a baby? Of course, what you want to say is: I LOOOOOOVVVVVVEEEE YOUOUOUOU; YOU’RE MY HERO, THE BEST, BRILLIANT, SO MUCH PLEASURE… and I LOOOOOVVVVEEE YOUOUOUOU!!!!

So instead you remember where you are (errr, Wembley?) and shake his hand and say: ‘How’s your knee these days, Ledley?’ all calm and relaxed as if you get to meet iconic sporting heroes every day and you haven’t just wet yourself in just a teeny weeny way.

Because Ledley was not just our captain, our God, our saviour, he was also one of England’s finest players. When he switched from central defender to holding midfielder he transcended the mere brilliance he brought to his former role and redefined a new one. For club and very notably for country too. And all that with a knee that was beyond normal dire fuckage. Way beyond.

Ledley (my new best mate), ‘told me yesterday’ that he couldn’t train with the team for 5 years. If he had, his knee would be too inflamed to play the match. So he just rested it, then (probably) had it pumped full of steroids so he could last hopefully, 90 minutes on Saturday. After which it would be re-swollen like a giant melon, and the cycle went on. And that is, by any definition, heroic. Although some would define it as ‘stupid’. Not me.

I also met Ossie Ardiles. And if Ledley was Thor, then Ossie was Zeus. He came in 1978 after winning the world cup with Argentina and, along with compatriot Ricky Villa, became the first ‘foreigner superstars’ to play over here. Odd to imagine now, when you look at any Premiership team sheet that we used to have a league full of English players. A Scotsman seemed exotic back then. The Welsh positively other worldly. Which in a way they still are.

And Ricky was brilliant. But Ossie was simply divine. Playing alongside Glenn Hoddle in the midfield he was an absolute master of skill and vision. Which had me down the Lane every match. The Hoddle/Ossie show. Didn’t even matter if we lost (he says, even though it did, it really really did).

Bit like yesterday’s match. We were better, we were dominant, slick and superb. And much nicer than Chelsea. Prettier. Yet we lost. Yet another semi-final disaster. Our seventh now.

But heh, it was a great day and right now Ossie and Ledley are writing how they met Andy Conway!!!! In real life!!!!

If you call this living. I’ll get over it. In time.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

Everyone loves communism. When they’re 17-18 years old and don’t know what it means. It sounds so ‘fair’, so equal. A life of working for the community, never needing anything, never wanting, working for the good of all, decisions made by committee. Brilliant. Except it doesn’t work. Never has, never will. Not on a large scale, anyway.

When I was 18 I went to work on a kibbutz for a summer. Cheap holiday. Holiday? Up at 6, collecting eggs from chickens who, in the most part, didn’t really want their eggs collecting, they wanted to keep them. I still don’t know which came first. But for my toils I was housed (in a shed), fed very well, even got paid a little, given all the horrible cheap Israeli cigarettes I could eat and had a great time. The kibbutz ran by a committee and it was efficient and profitable (fertilised eggs and furniture plus a bit of agriculture, obviously). Decisions were made collectively and although there would be disputes (Jews love a dispute) these were minimal and rarely produced gun-play. Which was good because everyone on the kibbutz was armed. To the fucking teeth. And I thought ‘communism is a wonderful thing’.

Then I learned the brutal truth. The kibbutz model is on such a micro-scale that it can function well and everyone can gain. But on a bigger, macro society, it just can’t. It crumbles to corruption, state-armies to control the masses and worse inequality than in a non-communist state. Communism effectively replaces democracy with starvation for the majority. All enforced with secret police, random arrests, imprisonments without trial, all the good bits that make Russia and China such great places to live. Never mind North Korea. All of which are ‘lands of equality’ in which a select group of billionaires run a nation that can’t feed its people, so it locks them up instead. Least you get fed in a gulag, I suppose. Well, I assume you do?

So where does Jeremy Corbyn fit in with all this? He may claim to be a ‘socialist’, he may pay lip service to a ‘fairer society’, but he’s a communist, pure and simple. You have to be to dress that badly. And the first thing communists do is remove democratic process. It gets in the way. So Corbyn’s best mate and main party funder, Len McClusky, head of the Unite Trade Union, just gave a wonderful demonstration of how to be a good ‘comrade’ and ‘bruvva’. He just sacked from the Union the man who was due to stand against him in a leadership election. For ‘allegations’ that may or may not prove to be true, so we can’t say what they are.

Jeremy Corbyn is a horrible and divisive man, he’s even divided his own party, many of whom are fleeing rather than be ‘tainted’ by association. His ideas come from Tsarist Russia and he has no economic plans other than ‘tax the rich’, that ill-defined group. Almost as ill-defined as ‘the working people’. Captains of industry are not included in that, despite their 97-hour working weeks creating the employment we need.

And I’m worried. What if… what if… you know what I mean.

Happy anxious Friday

A xxxx

Donald Trump has a lot to answer for really. He’s a sexist pig, a total moron, he repeats everything he says twice, because its so important you might have missed it the first time. (Bring in finger gestures:) SO. IMPORTANT. YOU. MAY. HAVE. MISSED. IT. THE. FIRST. TIME. He builds walls to keep his neighbours out, sucks up to the Russians, threatens the Koreans to the point where we’re closer to nuclear war than any time since 1962 and sends bombs and missiles across the world like most people send Easter Eggs.

I can forgive all of that. But having your own son cavorting round the White House gardens in full Arsenal kit????

I mean: WTF????

This is Barron Trump (naming children as a way of pandering to your own outrageous ego is a whole different question) who is 11. And the thought is that Barron was ‘turned’ by either Thierry Henry (former Arsenal striker and French hand-ball specialist) who met Trump at some book signing or other; or by Piers Morgan, noted Gooner and serial contender for the ‘World’s Biggest Tosser’ title for 27 consecutive years. Morgan ‘befriended’ Trump (fame and famous people are everything to Morgan) when on his Apprentice show.

One of those 2, we feel, ‘radicalised’ the innocent child who may previously have decided to do his cavorting dressed as a Washington Redskin (before they ban the name on PC grounds) with shoulder pads and helmet. Or a Yankees kit. Utah Jazz. Enough fucking sports teams over there, for God’s sake.

Yet he chose an Arsenal one. His father must have known this would be deemed offensive in so much of North London. Personally I’d have been happier to see the little tyke in ISIS black, rather than ‘THAT’.

This is the final straw. Raping women is one thing, but dressing your son as a Gooner?

I’m with Kim Jong-Un on this one.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx