Andy's Glasses

Manchester City were the team of the moment,
they came to the Lane and endured some torment

Six wins out of six, so far, thus the record showed
But records are for breaking, their progress to be slowed

Pep Guardiola, the total football man
watched his scheme go right down the pan

Against a Tottenham side a few key men down
the pundits said against City we would surely drown

to Navas, Aguero, Silva and all their silky skills
but they couldn’t keep the ball, that was the first of their ills.

Spurs were right at them, in their faces all
from the moment of the kick-off, their fans to enthral

We pushed them hard, pressed them high
nipped their ankles, bit their thighs (poetic license; figurative)

City looked jaded, lost and well off the money
Gave the ball away so much at times it was quite funny

Then amazingly we went a goal to the good,
Didn’t matter who scored, just that we could

Devilish Danny swung the ball in from the wing
It hit poor Aleks Kolarov, the Serbian he did sting

Yet still the Spurs came swarming, with pace and energy and style
City were lost at sea, coming second by a mile

After half time we became the gift that kept on giving
Another goal, Dele Alli, Pep inclined to be less forgiving

Then we defended, in heaven and on earth
blocking, tackling, marking, for all that we were worth

A penalty miss but other than the frustration
it didn’t spoil the win that thrilled the entire nation (the important parts of it, at least)

The Arse went up to Burnley, won with the very last kick
Which was actually the very last ‘hand’, its enough to make you sick.

We’ve got more clean sheets than the Premiere Inn
So the inevitable hope and belief now has to begin

What a wonderful start to the new year of the Jews
A big ‘shona tova’ and let’s break out the booze.

A xxxx

The first album I ever bought was ‘With the Beatles’. I was 7. Knew fuck-all about music, but I loved the Beatles. Because I was alive and conscious, in a 7 year-old kind’a way, and therefore I loved the Beatles. Everyone loved them. You simply had to. They were ‘different’ enough to be special, with their long hair and matching suits, yet normal enough (arguably, being Liverpudlians, ‘sub-normal’ might even be appropriate) that you kind of related to them rather than revered them.

Which was probably their Unique Selling Point. That and the total mass hysteria that they created from the moment Please Please Me hit the charts. Everyone became a part of the Beatles story. Albeit a pretty small part, unless you were John, Paul, George, Ringo, Brian Epstein or George Martin.

Last night I went to see the new Ron Howard movie, The Beatles: 8 days a week. And it is totally brilliant. Not just for those of us who remember some of the events shown from their insane ‘tours’, playing in front of crowds of up to 55,000 people. No, actually not ‘people’ in any regular sense, 55,000 screaming teenage girls. But really screaming. To the point that no-one could hear the music, neither the crowd nor the band.

The movie shows everyone why the Beatles were great. Mainly because they were the first ‘pop group’ who wrote and played their own brilliant music, four guys who truly loved and supported each other, but who were always funny and irreverent at a time when such a thing was tantamount to anarchy. They answered back. Which turned them into the first ever ‘superstars’, even way beyond Elvis’s wildest dreams (and he dreamed pretty ‘wild’, particularly where food was involved).

They refused to play at a stadium in Jacksonville, Florida, because it was ‘segregated’ (the American Apartheit system so popular in the South in those days), so the authorities had to de-segregate it. Which they didn’t do for the civil rights movement, but they did for the Beatles.

In an interview John had said that ‘the Beatles were bigger than Jesus’. He said it not literally (obviously; to us, at least) but ironically. The fact that 55,000 people wouldn’t have turned up for a prayer meeting but would to see the Beatles was not really what he meant. But it was ironic, thus the Americans misunderstood it, banned them, burned their records in Birmingham, Alabama (bible belt; ‘segregation’, you gotta love that southern mind-set), and issued death threats.

The movie showed the fantastic relationship between the four guys, and their wonderfully charming way of dealing with the madness they created. At the end they show the concert at the Shea Stadium before 55,000 shriekers but manage to filter out most of the screaming. And its wonderful. Four amazingly talented guys living ‘the dream’ just as it was really turning into something of a nightmare. But what music…

Go see it.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

This was me yesterday. Ok, this is just a random photo of the genre: ‘guided injections’. But imagine that victim as me, without the hat, and the jab was in my shoulder. Or jabs, really. The table rotates and raises and the big arm thing moves around, all by magic. I felt like a Ford Fiesta in the paint spray factory.

There’s two things in life I dread. Snakes and injections. We should get that straight. Fortunately there were no snakes on view in Harrow yesterday when I had my injection. There were probably snakes around (there’s ALWAYS snakes everywhere, that’s why we need to check under the bed, behind the sofa, in my shoes, my garden, EVERYWHERE!!!) but I didn’t see any.

Ok, one down, just the needle issue to contend with. More difficult. When you’ve gone for an injection. I realised that.

I survived. That’s all I can say. I survived. Bravely. Didn’t cry. Didn’t take my comfort toy. She was working. And the ‘injection’ turned out to be about 14 jabs of local anaesthetic followed by several of cortisone.

And although its a bit sore (no tennis today, no tai chi; banned) I slept for the first time in months without waking up in agony. Ahhhhhhhhhh. I love injections.

Meanwhile its the weekend and therefore its more football. They do that. In between the endless scandals and sleaze and corruption-in-our-beautiful-game stories and inquiries, they play the odd game just to redress the balance. But to be honest there’s only one match worthy of mention this weekend. Tomorrow. 4pm. Spurs playing Manchester City. Top-of-the-table battle. 1st versus 2nd. Could’a been 1st vs 3rd but Everton couldn’t beat Palace last night.

So I’m gonna be first to state the hyperbolic: this is a season-defining game. There, I’ve said it. For us, this will show us how far we’ve travelled on our journey to greatness; how much work there is still to do. Being a game of two halves, we need to play a high line, get at them, high-pressing tactics, win the second ball, win the first ball, win every fucking ball, and invoke as many cliches as you can think. Only then can real joy and happiness happen.

On the eve of the (Jewish) New Year, we need Him to play his part too. You know, the omniscient and omnipotent Spurs supporter in the Heavens.

Happy Saturday, pray hard.

A xxxx

Next week starts the London Film Festival. In fact, its the 60th LFF. A- n’anniversary version. So the BFI have decided to add something new. As well as screening the movies at the usual; Leicester Square Odeon, NFT at the Southbank, various other high profile movie-emporia, they’re adding a new one to the list. Except its not built yet. The pic is what it looked like last night. And the festival starts on Wednesday. But don’t panic, on Monday it was just a flat piece of land.

Park-land in fact. Cos they’re putting up a cinema in Embankment Gardens. The little park, my own best secret place (even though its often jam-packed with tourists, commuters and winos), that is hidden between Victoria Embankment and the Strand, by the Savoy. Its beautiful there. Really beautiful. They must spend about a million quid a year on flowers, bushes and trees. They only plant ‘mature’ and they only plant ‘symmetrical’. Add in a truly wonderful array of sculptures, scatter around some discarded Special Brew cans and you have a little bit of peace and quiet and aesthetic wonder hidden between the River and the ‘shops of horror’ on the Strand (don’t like shopping, especially don’t like generic shopping).

Last week they un-planted half the beds in the park. Ooooooh. But they do that often. End of season re-plant usually. But no, not this time. This time they’re planting metal sheeting and steel scaffold. And they’re putting up a movie-house. I’ve seen images of it on the BFI site and its gonna be… well, its gonna be a proper movie-house. Big, tiered seating, big screen, Dolby wi-fi, ultra-HD, super surround-sound, silicon-chippy, fuck-off quality. And did I mention: ‘big’. Its fucking massive.

And I don’t know why; that made me very happy. In an ‘I heart Lundun’ kind’a way. You wanna show movies; I’ll build you a new cinema. Gimme 4 days.

I wish the BFI could run the roadworks department.

What doesn’t make me happy is needles. And this afternoon I’m joining Bradley Wiggins and getting some cortisone. Its being pumped into my wicked shoulder. Oh fucking joy. Needle the size of a… the size of a temporary cinema.

Happy (???) Friday

A xxxx

I find the whole Labour conference thing rather depressing. I find Jeremy Corbyn deeply depressing. But as we know, his job now is to try and unite his party. Which is deeeeeeply divided. Grand Canyon kind of divided. So whilst Jerkoff Jezza and Malicious McDonnell were up there singing ‘the red flag’ (swallowing back bits of vomit here), Tom Watson was trying to moderate things.

Tom’s a heavyweight. In every sense. He’s the deputy leader, put there specifically because he’s not a loony-lefty but the ‘acceptable face’ of ‘New Labour’. A Blairite in lefty clothing. Not the full ‘geography teacher’ elbow-patches-on-tweed, but he tries to placate those members of his party who aren’t rabidly Stalinist in their views. Mainly because they see it as being unelectable. So bung in Tommy W and you have the ‘dream ticket’; Jezza’s insane leftism moderated by Tom’s more pragmatic, business-friendly, mildly capitalist-friendly Blairism. That should work.

Sadly it doesn’t. The conference became a Momentum-driven hate-fest of the free market economy.

Watson’s speech stated that ‘capitalism is not the enemy; money’s not the problem; business isn’t bad’. And that pissed off everybody there. Especially Len McLuskey, leader of the Unite union and strong contender for ‘most hateful person of all time’ award. Len said that Watson’s speech had ‘no vision’ and showed ‘ideas of yesteryear’. A good criticism from a man representing a group based loosely on a satirical sit-com from 1972. The ‘Citizen Smith’ model, which indeed included the Red Flag as its theme tune, showed the true face of ‘anarchy’ against capitalism.

So they want to ‘out’ Tom Watson. They should speak to the Daily Telegraph, set up a sting, that should do it.

And then Sam Allardyce can become the next deputy leader of the Labour Party. He’s ideally qualified. Big, ugly and northern. Perfect. Oh, and currently unemployed.

The Allardyce ‘thing’ is still irking me greatly. I’ve seen the videos, I’ve read the transcripts and still can’t find anything other than a man ‘bigging himself up’ a bit to impress people. He never DID anything. He said he could do lots. He took nothing. He asked for nothing, other than a fee for ‘advising’, and even then ‘subject to the ok from the FA’.

This was entrapment, it was a stupid, meaningless ‘sting’ which showed nothing. If the victim hadn’t been in a very high profile position it would have been a nothing more than a minor embarrassment. But because the FA are a pathetic, testicle-free bunch of half-wits, they only make BIG, IMPORTANT decisions when they’re either wrong or meaningless.

They fly red flags at Arsenal.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

‘Be careful what you wish for’ is a useful expression. Because we all wish for things that may prove to be less than we’d imagined. But sometimes your wishes come true and yet lead to disappointment.

Spurs fans only ever have two wishes.

1. To finish above Arsenal (never happens)
2. To finish in the top four.

Because finishing there gives you a place in the coveted, the noble, the exclusive, the elite… Champions League. Yet getting into the Champions League isn’t really the point. Its WINNING in the Champions League that matters.

Until last season, Manchester City had twice entered the Champions League (yippee; we’re in, we’re taking our place with Euro-Royalty, yippee) and twice bummed out in the group stages, barely winning a match. At which point you’d rather be a Stoke fan whose hopes were never raised to such aspirations therefore experienced none of the tragic upset. Is it better to ‘never have loved that to love and lose’? I don’t fucking know, I’m not a poet, I’m a football fan.

In fact, I’m a Spurs fan. And we know about the capricious nature of the game more than most. We can piss away unassailable leads like no team before. We can wish for everything and get nothing, yet still keep coming back for more.

But we all remember the Champions League run the last time. Because it was brilliant. Gareth Bale at his absolute peak of unplayable-ness. Modric the Magnificent, Va-Va-Van-der-Vaart. Inter Milan at the Lane… ahhhhhhh.

That was then.

This year we started that (potentially) fabulous journey once more. With a terrible home loss (well, Wembley loss) to Monaco. At which point I started moaning. “What’s the point of a top four finish if you fuck up the group stages? Why did we lose a game we’d bossed? What is the meaning of life?” kind’a thing.

And so last night. To Moscow. No, not me, I went to Finchley to watch it at me mate’s house. But ‘we’, the team, went to Moscow, possibly the most intimidating place to play in Europe. But after an initial bout of inevitable nerves, Spurs settled down. And played proper football. Great football. Easy on the eye football. An early goal would have been easier on the heart, but such is life. But we were patient, controlled, controlling. And eventually it paid off. Come on my Son!! yelled… well, me, at the tv, when our favourite Korean scored the winning goal. I would have sung: “Oriental Harry Kane; you’re just an Oriental Harry Ka-ane…” but the words don’t fit the tune.

We’re back. On track. In the Champions League. With no worries, no regrets. And I think I’m finally learning the true meaning of life.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I never turn on the tv in the mornings. Well, only if something BIG has happened the night before. The last time I turned it on was after the last general election. Just in time for the Leeds result which changed Ed Balls’ career from fat, loud-mouthed politician to fat, loud-mouthed ballroom dancer. To be honest, he’s shit at both.

But I turned it on this morning. I wanted to see what happened in the Trump/Clinton slag-fest over in New York last night. And slag each other off they indeed did. You said, he said, she said, they said. All manner of things. Denials, accusations, insults, histories. Like schoolkids in the playground calling each other names to try and score points with the braying hordes assembled.

We don’t do ‘head-to-head’ pre-election debates over here. Mainly because there’s too many heads involved. Where would you stop? Would the Monster Raving Loonies get a ‘head’? Would the Lib-Dems?? And watching what transpired last night with Hils and Don, I’m glad we don’t. You get the two people vying for the most powerful job in the world and reducing themselves to the worst kind of undignified tabloidesque monsters for the duration. Though in Don’s case, what you see is pretty much what you get.

What you don’t get is policies, ideas, visions of the future. There’s no time in between all the shouting and insults.

But what I also learned on the tv this morning, again, something that happened too late to reach my morning paper, was that Sam Allardyce has been a bit of a naughty boy. In fact, possibly, allegedly (though there’s shit-loads of video footage), an exceptionally naughty boy.

Sam was enticed to a meeting with some ‘businessmen’ to discuss various things, including the acquisition of British footballers by ‘third party’ agents who would ‘own’ them or part of them. Maybe a leg. A neck. A testicle. So that when the rest of that player is transferred for £57million, that little testicle might be worth a good few mil to them. Third party ownership. Banned by the FA. The farce by which Carlos Tevez and Javier Mascherano first came to West Ham, ‘owned’ by their agent.

And Sam told these ‘businessmen’ that there are ways to circumvent the ruling… lots of money to be made… I know how to do it… blah, blah, ain’t I fucking clever… blah, blah, blah.

These people offered him, vaguely, £400,000 to ‘assist’ and set up a meeting in Singapore with the ‘investors’ involved. At which point Sam did say he’d need to ‘run it past his bosses’, in reference to the FA, which is odd if any kind of ‘bung’ is involved from an illegal proposition.

But in fact its all a tabloid ‘sting’. The Daily Telegraph set it all up. The ‘businessmen’ were reporters and Sam was filmed all the way. Hah!! Gotcha!!!

The Daily Telegraph is the real loser here. What kind of fucking hi-brow journalism is that? Its the sort of shit that had the News of the World shut down for good. Take a man out and make him feel big and special and he’ll fill the role. He’ll SAY he can do anything, he’ll SAY lots of silly things. Its a testosterone problem, an ego issue. Doesn’t mean he’d do it.

I have no massive love for Sam Allardyce, nor a lot of trust, really, but The Daily Telegraph should be seriously ashamed of resorting to gutter sleaze, of ‘creating news’ and of acting like the Sun.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

So the younger daughter, in a fit of niceness (one of 7 in her 25 years) decided to have a ‘coffee morning’ in aid of McMillan Cancer. An amazing organisation who, as we sadly know from the last years of my mum’s life, give the most incredible support to people who need it, and do virtually anything to make things easier.

Anyway, Rachie, ‘coffee morning’, McMillan. Come along, drink coffee, eat a cake, give us 20 quid for charity and piss off. That’s the deal. We’ve all been there.

But a coffee ‘morning’ is an unlikely event for that daughter because she doesn’t normally get in from Saturday night until about lunchtime Sunday. So factor in a little sleep… quick shower… and the coffee morning has to become an afternoon tea. Fine.

We’d been signed up to bake a cake. No problemo. I love making cakes. Ok, I love eating cake mixture, same difference. Because I’ll always be in with an ‘I’ll help!!!’ when cake is involved. Help being somewhat ambiguous in this context.

Then we get a call last week: “there’s about 25 coming to the morning-in-the-afternoon, don’t have sufficient seating in my flat; can I have it at your house?” Not a question. Just a politely worded statement. I’M HAVING IT THERE. Oh… ok then…

In my particularly male-orientated world, if you’re having 25 people round hurling cake around, there’s no point clearing up the place first, you’ll only have to do it again afterwards. No? But Mel’s different; she doesn’t think like a proper man, I worry sometimes. And we got the tea pots and the spare extra kettles and got some fruit and…

They’re coming at 3. “What time are you coming over”, Mel asked the daughter. To help ‘prepare’, get all ready and all the et ceteras that women understand. “Quarter to 3” was the reply. Which turned out to be 4 minutes to 3. About 45 seconds before the first bus-load of mates arrived, cakes in hand.

They all came, a truly fab bunch of girls, (no men invited; only me, not so much invited as part of the furniture), who all brought loads of cakes, brownies, cookies, flap-jacks, biscuits… and ate fruit. Only fruit.

When they departed a few wonderful (but sooooo fucking noisy) hours later, all the fruit was gone. All the cakes untouched. As if a flock of gluten intolerant bats had descended. Or just calorie conscious babes, perhaps.

I’m going to work, I need a rest.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

A salient tale of two ‘yesterday men’ but with rather different outcomes for each.

That sounds almost intelligent? Almost interesting?? Either of which would be unusual for these pages so don’t get hopes too high.

Jeremy Corbyn is a yesterday man. On the grounds that:

1. he’s a nob
2. he’s a tosser
3. he’s a wanker
4. I hate him
5. Can’t think of a fifth without resorting to language that would make me blush. Which would have to be some serious fucking language indeed.

Corbyn’s a throwback. Which I can forgive. I’ve always had a soft spot for socialism. Michael Foot did it and all worked well until a general election when it became apparent that most of this fair nation lack sufficient soft spots for socialism to want it in their lives.

Where Corbyn leaves me totally, other than the rabid anti-semitism that his presence has somehow engendered, is the subtle shift from a benign Marxism (possession is theft; power to the workers; tax the rich; then tax them more) to a more aggressive Stalinism (kill the rich; behead the monarchy; my way or NO WAY) with his own KGB (Momentum) and an acceptance of a brutal, bullying, nasty way of treating his own colleagues and party members.

And yesterday, given the wonderful opportunity to get rid of this horrible little man, the Labour Party, or what’s left of it, chose to give the imbecile a new mandate to lead them.

The other yesterday man is Wayne Rooney. The Roonster. The tubby little England captain who was dropped by new manager, Jose Morinho and sat on the bench for all but 10 minutes of Manchester United’s win over Hull yesterday afternoon. The game was over before he came on. 4-1. Easy peasy.

But where does that leave Wayne? And Colleen? What will they do?

Leaving out Rooney gave the United team a balance they’ve been lacking in recent weeks (and recent losses) when the little Scouser plays. United were more threatening, more fluid, they were quicker, dangerous and clinically effective. Whether this was due to Morinho’s brilliance (as he would doubtless have it) or due to Morinho’s men reading every sports journalist saying ‘leave Rooney out and United will be great’, we’ll never know. But Jose’s put his money on Ibrahimavich and without Rooney has found the best way to make the big Swede most advantageous.

Arsenal beat Chelsea with breezy ease. Which is both funny and horrid at the same time.

And Spurs go second in the league.

I’ll repeat that: Spurs go second in the league.

Very happy Sunday, which will be yesterday by tomorrow.

A xxxx

A cake, one could argue, is greater than the sum of its parts. Flour. Eggs. Sugar. Mix into a sludge. Then bake. And out comes a miracle! Or, if you’re like me, just eat it before baking. Why waste the energy when the batter is so wonderful. Yet if you eat that you’re just a pig, but eating cake is the height of civility. Go figure.

So how about the Bake Off? The Great British Bake Off? Four people and a fucking great tent. You could do it in your own garden. Buy a few ovens. Pots and pans. Sorted. The Great Conway Family Bake Off. Mel could be the judge and me and the girls could squabble, argue and make stupid comments about soggy bottoms and stupid innuendos about limp dough. Its easy. Ok, a few contestants would be an idea but really they’re not that necessary.

Its a formula. And a fantastically successful one. I won’t watch talent shows, I don’t do dance-offs, sewing circles or people eating shit on desert islands. But I love Bake Off. And I love cake.

And now its over. The BBC have lost the programme to Channel 4. For a mere 75 million quid. That’s a lot of eggs.

Yet 3 out of the 4 stars of the show have refused to sign contracts with the new Channel. They won’t leave the BBC. Therefore the Great British Bake Off becomes The Paul Hollywood Show. And without the charm of Mary Berry and the wit and love from Mel & Sue, it becomes a grumpy, miserable old fat git with blue eyes moaning in a horrible brummy accent about baking incompetence. I’m sure there are lots of Brummies would do that for less than 500,000 pounds a series. I’d put on the accent and do it for a tenner a show. Long as I could swear.

And what’s to stop the BBC coming up with a new show? The Gross Brutish Buke Orf. And have 5 people starring, instead of 4, put them in a field instead of a tent, and bake things in a different order? I’m no intellectual property lawyer (I’d rather be a serial child-molester) but seems to be you can’t stop the BBC from baking stuff.

Never mind, Mark Zuckerberg is going to eliminate all disease and illness for $3billion. What a relief. I’ll cancel my shoulder jab next Friday and get cured on Facebook for nothing. What a great man he is. Throw a few bob at any problem and it can be solved. Its that easy.

Saint Mark.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx