Andy's Glasses

I have some questions, a few issues, just to clear up before we go to war and the nukes start flying and nuclear winter takes over for the next 12 million years. The questions concern the total hypocrisy of the entire political world.

Saudi Arabia has been bombing the Houthis in Yemen for years. No-one complains. People die, children maimed, populations displaced, no problem. Other than for those affected, when its a fucking massive problem. Just not OUR problem. So Saudi bombing is fine. Legal. Then they use a few cluster bombs and there’s outcry. Theresa May takes issue, even the UN roll over and sleep on the other side for a bit, its outrageous. Cluster bombs are illegal!!!!

And made in Britain. Supplied by us. We don’t mind indiscriminate bombing of civilian populations, or merely accept it, until a particular type of bomb is used which WE HAVE SUPPLIED. Ahh, say the government, cluster bombs aren’t illegal, only if used on civilian populations. Well, that’s fine then, you can spend 23 billion quid on cluster bombs but only if you use them in the empty desert.

Cluster bombs are just more efficient at killing people. Therefore, I wanna know where the line is? When is killing innocent, civilian people ok, and why is it any different when you just use a different implement, a stronger tool?

Move over to Syria. Assad and Russia have bombed the shit out of Aleppo for 3 years. There is nothing left of Aleppo and every single day civilians, children, babies, all die. Every day. Then he just changes the method, not the intent, that’d be ‘death!’, just the method. Uses chemical weapons and suddenly there’s outcry.

DO THE DEAD PEOPLE GIVE A SHIT WHICH PARTICULAR FORM OF MUNITIONS KILLED THEM?

I’m not saying chemical weapons are ok. Obviously they’re a zillion miles from even acceptable. But I suppose my main question is: WHAT IS THE FUCKING DIFFERENCE????

Trump (who won his election in part by promising not to intervene in overseas conflict) sits on his lardy orange arse whilst tens of thousands of Syrians are murdered by their own president. Then that President uses a different method of killing people and Trump, with no concrete evidence or proof, sends 59 missiles into Syria. Normal, non-chemical, un-cluster, ‘green’ missiles, obviously. But at what cost?

When we saw the images from the chemical bomb, the knee-jerk reaction from every person in the world in possession of a heart, was ‘punish him!!!’ Me too. But then you have to consider consequences, you certainly need process and proof before assuming moral high ground, and you need to think where it might end.

I suppose my main question, to Trump, Putin, Assad and all the other trigger-happy warmongers, is: WHAT THE FUCK???

Happy Saturday. We can only hope the world doesn’t end before Spurs have finished a season above Arsenal. Never lose sight of the big picture.

A xxxx

Are babies addictive? Should they be given a ‘class 1’ rating? Like heroin and cocaine? Have they set up support groups for tragic grandparents who swoon over any and every photo of their sleeping progeny? “My name’s Andy and I haven’t seen my grandchild for 35.72 hours”; “HELLO ANDY!!!!”.

Because last night I went to tai chi. I needed to get in touch with my spiritual side, fire up my energy levels and also to kick the shit out of something. Done that. Job done. Now where’s my baby?

Thankfully she’s in London. Safe and sound as you are anywhere in this semi-horrible world. Unlike the babies in Syria. 27 of whom died in Tuesday’s diabolical chemical bomb attack on a ‘rebel-held’ town. ‘Rebel’ means ‘anti-Assad’. Their president. Killing people. Killing babies.

The UN will probably start ‘talks’ over this next September. They’re too busy issuing resolutions against Israel. Russia are Assad’s mate, ally and probably supplied the planes and the chemicals. So its left to John Wayne, sorry, to Donald J. Trump, to take action. Which came in the form of an air-strike on the airfield from which the chemical attack came.

Assad has, meanwhile, denied the attack. No mate, weren’t me. Was some other geezer with access to fleets of military bombers and chemical weapons. Everyone has those round my way.

So America condemned Russia for being in some way ‘complicit’, which they undoubtedly war. Doing nothing when you know what’s going on is a big crime. And Assad certainly has ‘form’. Bombing Gouta in 2013, killing 1300 people with ‘banned chemical weapons’.

Undisputed fact: Assad is the motherfucker’s scumbag.
UndisPutined fact: Putin could be worse.

Trump has been cosying up to Russia for some time. To ally himself with them against China. Which coincidentally is meeting him today in Florida. Well, not all 1.6 billion of ‘China’, just President Xi. (That’s pronounced ‘Zi’, not ’11’) And now Russia are pissed off with Trump for accusing them of complicity at worst, tacit negligence at best, in the chemical bombings.

Which puts me (yes, it IS always about me) on the verge of World War 3: The Big One.

Should we be worried? FUCK; YEAH. Though personally I’ll be fine, we do ‘self defense from nuclear weapons’ in tai chi. We have a ‘move’. But you? And more importantly, baby Lila???

Worrying Friday

A xxxx

Lila Sophia was born last Saturday morning. Other than being April 1st I thought no significance to the timing. Natalie did, as she’d been struggling and suffering and bleeding and being surgically intervened with for the 2 days previous. But its not about her, women deliver babies all the time. How hard can it be?

Yet this is a very spiritual time of year. Probably the most. Easter is upon us. Passover is at the same time. So its all about miracles. Salvation. Jesus was reincarnated, to save us. A tramp told me that in St Johns Wood, so it must be true. God parted the Red Sea so the Israelites could escape from Egypt. Therefore we don’t eat bread for a week. Logical.

Spurs home form this year has been pretty sensational. But our away form not so much. Fairly awful. The worst of the top 6 teams. And on Saturday we played at Burnley. And we won. Which was great because Lila is a massive Spurs fan, even if she doesn’t know it just yet, thus her birth day was marked with a win. Forever.

Then last night it got stranger. We were losing. 1-0 away at Swansea. I was at Lila’s house. Used to be Nat & Ben’s house but this tiny little ‘thing’ has completely taken over. As they do. And after her feed I adopted the position of ‘winder in chief’ and rested her on my shoulder. That position is actually known as ‘heaven’ until the baby’s sick, then its ‘hell’. But she’s not a sicky baby, she’s a perfect baby, obviously, so not a problem. And if getting shat upon by a bird is ‘good luck’, then being thrown up on by a grandchild must be a total blessing.

So there we were, Ben, me, Lila, watching Sky Sports news together to learn of ongoing events in the matches. Liverpool went 2-1 up against Bournemouth, Arsenal started to win too. And we were still 1-0 down. And it was getting late. So late that we (the 3 of us) had long agreed that ‘we’d take the draw’ and even that seemed ridiculously optimistic as the clock hit 88 minutes. In fact we were praying for a draw. In that way that non-religious people pray in hopeless situations.

But our prayers were answered. Lila twitched, Delli Ali scored. It was that simple. Yet was far from over. The clock ran into injury time, Lila twitched again (ok, she had hiccups, but gimme a break here) and Son hit the winner. Yet Lila wasn’t happy with that. And with the last of her hic!s Erikson scored to make it a quite magnificent 3-1 away win.

Some say this is ‘the new Spurs’, others that our amazing levels of fitness and speed take their toll on opponents at the end of games. But we know different.

A ‘messiah’ is defined as ‘the saviour of a particular group or cause’. Well Spurs are a cause, aren’t we?

And now we have our messiah.

Unbelievably happy Thursday

A xxxx

Do you like pizza? The ‘strict’ answer is ‘of course not, bodies a temple, blah, blah, excessive fat, unnecessary carbs, too much salt, blah, blah, foodie-blah’. But of course the real answer is ‘FUCK YEAH!!!’ But generally when you go out to eat its a question of ‘do you want to go for a nice, decent meal, or a pizza?’ Ne’er the twain shall meet. Or in my case ne’er the twain shall meat. Cos I love pepperoni pizza. With chillies. Otherwise I won’t eat them. That’s what I like. Well, love really. Me and Homer Simpson.

The pizza was ‘invented’, unsurprisingly in Italy, actually in Naples, specifically at L’Antica Pizzeria da Michele. Sounds like an Argentinian midfielder but its not. Its a restaurant. Where they brilliantly, in 1870 or whenever, basically ‘re-invented the humble sandwich’. Because if you open a sandwich up and bake it/grill it, its remarkably similar, at least in appearance, to a pizza.

So what do like in your sandwiches? Tuna? Egg mayo? Smoked Salmon? Banana and peanut butter?? Cheese and chopped liver??? Doesn’t really matter, does it? Its personal. Its ‘taste’. Same with pizzas. In nineteen seventy-something pizzas exploded. Not literally, what a fucking mess that would be. But pizzerias opened up in vast quantities and went wild with options. Pizzas with tandoori chicken, pizzas with ham and mushroom and banana and 7 different cheeses and marshmallows and guavas and wood-chips and positively anything.

And one option they offered was the ‘Hawaiian!!’. And as every foodie (or pig) knows, ‘Hawaiian’ is a euphemism for ‘added pineapple’. It was without a doubt the most evil thing any drunk, misguided, tasteless, sick chef or customer ever created or ordered. But it endured. Unaccountably. So you know what you do? You just don’t order it. Same as you do with ‘live monkey brains’ or ‘black olives’ (hate olives) or ‘the parts of a pig that even a pig wouldn’t eat’. Top to tail eating be damned, we all have limits. Or rather, we all have different tastes.

Gordon (fucking) Ramsey spoke on an American tv show how its ‘wrong’ to put pineapple on pizza. An abomination. An act against mankind. And he’s right. Its horrible. But if sufficient people think its lovely enough to keep ordering it, WHO THE FUCK IS RAMSEY TO DEPRIVE THEM OF THEIR PLEASURE. The pizza inventors in Naples piped up in agreement. But what do they know? They only make them in marguerita or cheeseless. They’d freak out at a mushroom, so a pineapple (has to be tinned) is totally beyond their lack of imaginations.

Gordon Ramsey is a cook. He’s not cooking for himself. He should cater to people’s needs and not decide, a priori, what is good, tasty, fashionable to eat when paying customers think otherwise. Its foodie fascism.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

the omens were good. Lila was born and a mere 7 hours later Spurs won at Burnley. Obviously completely down to her. The very next day, yesterday, the day when, had she the power of speech, she could actually say: ‘do you think I was born yesterday??’, that very day Arsenal and Man City drew at the Emirates. The perfect result. For Spurs. Chelsea even lost on Saturday, so aware were they, unconsciously, that in the world there now existed a presence. A very little and pretty sleepy presence, but a presence nonetheless that is the future for Tottenham. The force is strong in this one.

But she’s a baby. So she don’t know nuffink. Not yet. She is the ultimate ‘tabla rasa’. But when is a good time to start learning? I turned up yesterday with some things which I strongly believe, in keeping with the ‘Suzuki method’ and various other brutal and merciless ‘tiger-mom’ paradigms, will make our baby a true wunderkind. So I brought a violin, obviously, a tennis racquet, The Sunday Times, a logarithmic calculator and a Samurai sword. For the perfect, rounded child. I thought I’d leave the Nirvana and Black Sabbath cds til next week.

Unfortunately, none of it would fit in her little car seat. No room. Mel wanted to take her a swimming pool but that was really out of the question.

When you have a child it just becomes your life. Everything else, whilst not exactly stopping, certainly gets put on hold or postponed, cancelled or takes second place to the tiny little presence that has a beyond-exponentially dominating effect. But when you have a grandchild its different. Its more relaxed. I loved my babies (I stress: WHEN THEY WERE BABIES) and now its like being given another go. Stick another 50p in the slot and you get to play again. Because babies are fun. They have no agenda. They live totally in the moment. Well they would do, wouldn’t they? They don’t have much of a past and don’t understand what the future even means. So if a baby wants to dump a bowl of porridge on its head, it just does it. The world of ‘consequences’ (a slimy head) and repercussions (none) simply doesn’t exist.

I’m going to try not to be obsessive, not to be a baby-bore. But its going to be really really hard. I’m a bit obsessed already and she’s barely opened her eyes. I’m renaming these pages ‘Lila’s Diary’ and will dedicate it to parental advice (God help her) and comparisons of baby clothing with a particular view to health and safety…

So look out for pictures of ‘baby with electric screwdriver’ and other caringly grandparental stuff.

Yours over-indulgently

A xxxx

I’m new to this grandparenting lark. From what I’ve seen so far, its fantastic. I get to stare at the most gorgeous baby in the world, as long as I like. And I do like. She’s wonderful. Not that I’ve seen her with eyes open yet, but there’s time for these things. No rush. I know what you’re thinking: all babies are gorgeous, everyone thinks theirs is the best. Which is normally true, but little Lila really IS the best. I’ve done a poll. And both Mel and I agree. So that’s final. And babies are all gorgeous, they have to be. If not they really wouldn’t survive the first 3 months of incessant demands and attention-seeking, let alone bed-wetting and shitting themselves. If you tried that; I’d kill you, no question.

People who aren’t grandparents just don’t understand. Ok, that was me until yesterday morning too, but now I’ve seen the light. Because people say ‘oh, so shall we cancel dinner then, you’re grandparents now’, or ‘oh, so you won’t be playing tennis will you, you’ll be grandparenting’.

Wrong. On all counts. (Misconception number 1) And that is what makes grandparenting special. You get to choose. Ok, we accept that we’re on call 24 hours a day, or with elder daughter, possibly 29 hours a day, and we like that. But its really not like the whole world stops with the birth of a grandchild and there’s no return whatsoever allowed. That’s called ‘becoming a parent’.

Grandparents are different. We need to spend all our time (misconception number 2) worrying about what the baby will call us. Grandpa? Grandad? Poppa? (Then come the Jewish ones) Zaida, Zaidee, Oompah, Kinderfarterfarter (German/Yiddish, very literal), Schmendrick (only stupid grandfathers) or Wally (my grandfather). And the truth is: I don’t give a shit what the baby calls me, as long as she keeps calling me. Not like she can speak yet anyway.

Mel will NOT be a Booba, Gran, Granny, Nanny, anything even vaguely goatish or Fanny. Her grandmother’s tragically anachronistic name. She wants to be ‘Grandma’ and nothing else. Good luck with that, 2 syllables, hmmmm.

When people ask me what I want to be called I just answer ‘Kevin’. I have no idea why. Prince George calls his grandad ‘Sir’. Or possibly, ‘Princely’. Everyone else calls his grandad Schmendrick. So there’s obviously no real rules.

Well, I better get back to baby-staring or name-working.

Very happy Sunday

Dorothy
xxxx

So the biggest ‘worry’ at the moment is the plight of the ‘misplaced Europeans’. We have millions over here and thousands of our good, British, post-Brexit workers ply their trades and live their lives ‘over there’. The status of these people was suddenly, on the day after the referendum, put into question. ‘Can we chuck out all the Poles?’ was the first question asked, probably by ten thousand third-rate, semi-unemployed useless British builders, looking to seize their chance. But what about all our bankers in Paris, Frankfurt, Berlin??

Theresa May immediately said a great big, soft, fluffy blanket: no-one here will be sent home, won’t happen, they’re safe, we love our Euro-workers and their families. But the next day as she crossed Westminster Bridge and was pick-pocketed by a group of Romanians, accosted by beggars from Bulgaria and had to step over 55 Albanian families sleeping rough on Parliament Square, she reconsidered.

So instead of her ‘they can ALL stay’, it suddenly became subject to how Europe treats our ex-pats. Conditions were set for immigrants from Europe. Basically: we’re happy to keep the useful ones but you can take the fucking rabble of freeloading parasites back. We’ll implement a system based on salary earned, job done, stuff like that. ‘Criterion based’ is the by-word. Others instead used the phrase ‘bargaining chips’ as this band of happy people became part of the process. So we’ll keep 10,000 more Germans for a 1% drop in sales tariff. 62,000 Lithuanians will give you half a BMW at the pre-Brexit price and… no, no-one wants the Greeks. At any price.

But how will this affect the football? That’s the most important political question of the day. Never mind Trump’s consistent cock-ups in the US, the rapidly escalating fiasco of corruption that is the French election, WHAT ABOUT OUR BLOODY FOOTBALLERS?????

Who, currently, would only pass the immediate ‘can stay’ rules if they’re internationals. Others, however good, for some unaccountable reason, might have to leave. Like Juan Mata and Ander Herera at Manchester United. Azpilicueta at Chelsea. Fuck off back to Spain, you’re not good enough. Bastard rubbish. Many think that turfing out the ‘Europeans’ from the premiership (currently 30 of the players) would actually be good for English football as it would encourage young English kids to fill the void left. And yet footballers certainly pass the ‘highly paid’ criterion. And some.

Its a bit of a mess really. Though the whole thing’s a bit of a mess. But just a word to David Davis and co.: YOU’RE NOT TAKING DEMBELE!!! NOR ALDERWEIRALD OR ERIKSEN!!!! Nor Arsene Wenger. We need him too.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

At 12.25 yesterday, GMT, Britain’s Dear Jean (French for John, innit) letter was submitted to the European Union. By 12.29 I was bored with fucking Brexit. I have no idea about the significance of that particular time. It was a totally ‘un-Kennedy’ moment. In that, no-one will ever remember what they were doing at 12.25 on Wednesday, March 29th 2017. But as its such a significant event of world-shattering consequence and repercussion, I’ll show you the letter.

Dear Foreigners,

Theresa xxxx

It was brief and to the point. And now the negotiations begin in earnest.

The Poles want to ensure that their thousands of nationals will be secure in Britain. The Germans want to make sure we’ll still buy their BMWs. The French surrendered. They don’t know who to, but its what they always do when things get rough.

What an exciting time for the Nation, for Europe, for the WORLD (zzzzzzzzzz…)

Happy post-article 50 Thursday

A xxxx

A judge on Monday gave a cricketer a suspended sentence ‘so he could pursue his professional career’ after his trial, rather than banging him up. For banging his wife up. With a cricket bat. Oh, and forcing her to drink bleach when she… because she… Well, it doesn’t really matter, does it? Forcing someone to drink bleach is not something most people would ever think about, let alone do. Its ‘not normal’. But Mustafa Bashir is not really normal. He also lied about having a contract with Leicestershire Cricket Club, which earned him the virtual reprieve, but they denied any knowledge of him. The prosecutors are going to appeal the sentence. Otherwise what message does that send out? That its ok to attack your wife with things if you’re a sportsperson. I would never hit my wife with my cricket bat. Its an expensive and delicate bit of kit. I’d use a broom handle.

But cricket, even without the help of Mustafa, is in a funny place. Because its such an odd game. It is the most curiously unexciting of sports. You watch it for 3 days and if you’re really lucky, the last 2 hours will get really… really… well, sufficiently interesting that you stay awake in the summer sun and possibly feel so engaged that you put off the next trip to the bar until the end of the over. And then its a draw, however much the excitement suggested otherwise.

Which is why its not good for tv. Too bloody long. So the only people who really watch county cricket (3 days) or even test cricket (5 days) are the retired and the unemployed. TV needs stuff that grips you to the seat. Speed it up so as to force the entertainment value. Make it bigger hitting, faster bowling, shorten it and put it on at night. Then workers can watch it too, when their labours are done for the day.

People still watch test cricket. In fits and starts. Its a great place to host corporate hospitality. More deals are done at Lords over an Ashes test match than in 11 months of boardroom antics in the entire City of London. I made that up, but it could so easily be true as all the brokers and dealers and multi-nationals all have boxes and suites there. Come to the cricket, bring your lawyer.

So the Indians, the most cricket loving nation on the planet, invented a wham-bam version of the game just for the impatient masses. T20 they call it. Just 20 overs each, highest score wins. Oh, and change the ball from the red its been forever to white, just so we know its different. And cos its at night. Generally under floodlights but maybe ‘dark cricket’ is the way forward. A little dangerous, but with infra-red glasses, (only for the fans, not the players), a real spectacle. Anyway, they want to do it here. Pay lots of money to just 8 clubs, move them from the rural wastes where cricket lives, to the Cities where the spectators live and make a version that can be watched in one sitting. Mainly at home on tv. Where the money is.

Lots of crusty old English gentlemen are turning in their graves. And Sky are rubbing their hands together.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

This looks like Stephen Hawking, the world’s most brilliant man, giving a lecture. Or possibly floating in space among the stars, but that would be cruel, even if rather appropriate. But its not. Its a hologram in Hong Kong. Whilst the Prof was at home in Cambridge. And seeing as hopping on Easyjet is a bit of a problem for the ageing physicist, and they don’t fly that far anyway, holograms are the way forward. Though they cost a bit more than an Easyjet flight.

What’s amazing though is that Stephen Hawking is still alive at all. I know a guy with Motor Neurone Disease. I saw him a couple of years ago and he just looked a little ‘stiff’ when moving. Then a few weeks ago he came into work and he has become a Stephen Hawking impersonator. It was terrible. Chin down, speech impossible to understand, distorted completely. Just 2 years. Stephen Hawking was given 5 years to live in nineteen sixty-whatever (go watch the film again if you want precise details) and is still miraculously ‘here’. A brilliant mind, possibly the most brilliant since Einstein, trapped in a totally useless body. And winner of the prize for ‘the most disabled person ever to cheat on his wife’. For which he must be praised to the stars.

Meanwhile, back on the building site, all is not looking good for bricklayers. Our favourite construction worker, the ‘brickie’ is counting his days (ok, or ‘her days’ but really…) as they’ve invented a robot brick-laying thingy. Wot lays all the bricks you want, all perfectly, all with the correct amount of mortar, all perfectly… bricklike in ever way.

Furthermore it just lays bricks. It doesn’t request that passing women bare their breasts for it (though the technology is there), nor stop for 6 pints over a 3 hour lunch (only when on daily pay, not hourly, obviously). It doesn’t ‘piss like an elephant’, nor request tea with 9 sugars every 40 minutes.

The bricks have to be loaded, presumably by a humanoid of some description, probably wearing a hard-hat, and I assume that the parameters are input first, otherwise it would just keep building a wall forever. Fine for Donald Trump, not so good for your new garage, the wall of which goes on for 600 yards windowlessly and breaks 736 planning regulations.

They’re comin’. The robots, holograms, techno-peoploids, just you wait.

Happy Monday

A xxxx