Andy's Glasses

Do we, the humble, impoverished, post-Brexit, austerity-ridden football fans, do we ‘mind’ that our football players earn more money in a year than most of us earn in a lifetime? Do we care that an uneducated Serbian midfielder with a mohican haircut and an armful of tattoos, who can’t spell his own name without help and still has several rape charges outstanding in his homeland, do we care that he earns 20 times more money than the most skilful heart surgeon?

It doesn’t matter if we mind or not, its the way it is. Because of the immense amount of, mainly tv, cash floating round our national sport, the star players demand and get their slice of that rather immense, Bruce Bogtrotterish sized cake. And do we mind? Well, as a general rule, we don’t mind ‘our’ players earning telephone number weekly wages, they’re adored and thus ‘worth every penny’. But the players from other clubs? No, they’re never worth it. Pogba on 300k a week? Ridiculous. Ibrahimavic? Same money for sitting in the physio’s room. Alexis Sanchez? Mezut Ozil?? Both demanding ‘parity with Pogba’; fucking joke.

Which remains rather unfunny for Spurs fans. Because Spurs have always refused to pay outrageous salaries. Which accounts for the distinct lack of Euro-royalty type star names at our club. We don’t buy Barcelona rejects because they won’t take a cut in a disproportionate salary that it would take to get them on board. Because if you pay one player 250 grand a week, then, quite understandably, all the others will ask ‘why not me??’ Then fuck off to Manchester City who’ll pay any player any amount. So the ‘austerity model’ we use at Spurs means we can always lose players who’ll be lured away by promises of a better 3 Bentleys than the 2 they currently own, more diamond earrings, bobbles, baubles and fire-water. Oh, and several multi-million pound properties.

But we do mind the ‘agents’. We all mind them a lot. Because they are parasites and bottom-feeding scum. And so-called ‘super-agents’ are the worst of all.

Mino Raiola allegedly pocketed 41 million quid when Pogba went to Old Trafford. They reckon he was guilty of ‘TPO’. Third Party Ownership, in which the playing rights, rather than being ‘owned’ by the player’s former club, are actually owned, maybe just in part, by the agent himself. (Could be herself, but its generally fat Italian men.) A process made illegal after the Rio Ferdinand scandalous departure from Leeds and when Mascherano and Tevez moved to West Ham. Agents can’t ‘own’ players. That’s slavery.

We should shoot all agents (super-agents need to die much more slowly), introduce salary caps and get players back on the buses. Like the old days. Twenty quid a week and a free packet of Players Number Six. Then they’d at least appreciate the cost of tattoos.

I fear the game I love dearly has become an obscene money-go-round.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

Donald Trump sacked James Comey yesterday. The now former head of the FBI. Sacked the man for ‘mishandling the Clinton emails investigation’, a move that basically won Trump the election. No doubt he deserved sacking. Re-introducing at a public level an ongoing investigation, 11 days before a presidential election can only be seen as a ‘rather influential move’. What Comey didn’t mention at that time was anything to do with the ongoing investigation into Trump’s possible collusion with Russia into hacking those emails in the first place. That was kept quiet, Hillary’s shit was aired in public, the rest, for now, is history. The Trump/Russia ties are still under investigation. Maybe that’s why Comey was sacked. To throw off that very inquiry. All looking a bit dodgy over there. As it has since the last election.

Whereas our election is running positively swimmingly. I’m bored already. Theresa’s message: Brexit. That’s it. Nothing else. ‘I’ll get us out, or would you trust Jeremy Corbyn to do it??’ End of message. Repeat ad nauseum, print it on the side of as many fucking buses as you like, that’s all you’re getting.

Corbyn’s message is different. ‘Society is unfair’, he chants, like a mantra. Inequality. Some people are richer than others whilst some people are poorer!!! So there’s going to be (if he wins, of course, hopefully a very big ‘if’) in his words: ‘a reckoning!!’ Not a realignment, not a reconstruction, not something warm and fluffy and progressive-sounding, but a ‘reckoning’. Which to me, and to the BBC news interviewer last night, means something profound. Something hostile. Backs against the wall, blindfold, last fag, that’s a ‘reckoning’. And among his other great and new (well, they were new in Russia in 1922) ideas is a ‘National Education Trust’ for running… well, schools probably. ‘Like the NHS, but for education’. What a great idea. Using the world’s biggest, worst run, disorganised, wasteful money-burning-pit as a ‘model’ for other sectors. We already piss away about 300 billion a year mis-managing the NHS, let’s find other ways to squander our meagre funds. ‘The rich, greedy bankers will pay’. Phillip Greene, he’ll cough up.

He’s a horrible and divisive man engaged in his own hateful class war and I think he should just leave.

He also implied that he may not, again, should he win, sort out Brexit. Wouldn’t state categorically that we’d leave. Which is fine with me, but not exactly in line with the democratic wishes of the nation. Already, according to Mnsr Junker, ‘English is no longer an important language’. Well see if anyone over there understands this: JUST FUCK OFF, JEAN-CLAUDE. Or should I translate that to Mandarin?

Worrying Wednesday

A xxxx

I don’t know if you remember the famous ‘pink man’ incident? When half
of a handless pink man suddenly appeared in our garden many years
back. Would have been really weird and spooky and Twilight Zone, if we
hadn’t placed him carefully between the rhododendron and the rosebush
ourselves. And bizarrely, he’s a very divisive character. Its in his
nature. People either swoon over his very pink, plasticness or are
repulsed by him/it. But like really find him horrible, kind’a: ‘make
it go away!’. And its for those people really, that we keep him,
hidden in the bushes at the back of the garden. Hoping that they leave
earlier because of the offense he causes, drink less of my whisky, eat
fewer barbecued sausages.

But he’s ‘pink man’ no more!!! He’s got a new coat. (Of paint,
obviously). He’s never been subtle. So when the spray can of pink
paint finally ran out, (pink men don’t stay pink by themselves, a
process not helped much by birdshit and rain), we went dayglo. Why
not? We opted for fluorescent orange to help him blend in. Maybe a
tribute to Donald Trump. I’m not sure of pink man’s politics. He
doesn’t live in the middle of the garden, he’s shy. That’s his
‘spraying chair’, much like you sit in the barber’s chair for
beautification, so he… kind’a… stands(?) there on his waist
staring in a pink manly way. At the back of the chair. Deep in
thought.

He’s also developed a terrible and debilitating skin condition. Due
mainly to a poor diet and fluorescent paints lacking the covering
power of lesser colours. Who cares? He’ll do.

Emmanuel Macron is not pink. He’s kind’a pasty. Maybe he needs a
respray too. But that won’t affect his stance on Britain. And for a
noted ‘Anglophile’ he doesn’t have many nice things to say about us.
Particularly Boris and Nigel who he holds in particular contempt. So
his judgment’s sound, at least. He’s a businessman, not a career
politician. So first and foremost he sees Brexit as a great
opportunity for France. To take over as the financial capital of
Europe. Stealing business from US! Le batard!!! He’s also rather
divisive himself, like Pink/Orange-Man. As a ‘centrist’ you’d kind’a
think he’s hedged himself. But on Sunday he upset the entire right
wing because they love Marine, and yesterday the lefties were
‘marching’ in protest against his globalism and general non-leftiness.
And when I say ‘march’, I’m not sure when a march becomes a riot in
France. But over here, once they deploy tear gas and the SWAT teams
arrive, that’s a riot.

Bon chance, Monsieur Le President, je pense you’re gonna need it.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

France has a new president today. Emmanuel Macron, the youngest leader since Napoleon Bonaparte. How’d that one work out?? I wonder how, in future years, history will remember Macron. Whether as a great leader or just reduced to a psychological ‘complex’ like the previous young geezer. I hope the former, I like Macron. He’s ‘different’ enough to ride the wave of ‘populism’ because he’s never held an elected role before and he’s a perfect ‘centrist’ in a world of growing extremism. Political extremism rather than religious, in this instance.

Because in my (really simple, often malfunctioning, sometimes purely pathetic) mind, voters are split into four. So you have 25% fairly hard right wingers, 25% red-flagging lefties and then 50% in the middle split between ‘centre-left’ and ‘centre-right’. And real progress generally comes from the centrists because they’re more politically flexible and tolerant. The ‘hard’ parties can only extend their support by either becoming weaker in their stance, or by finding hate-figures that everyone’s a bit nervous about and using that fear/jealousy/xenophobia as a tool to move voters along the spectrum. Hitler did it with Jews, Marine Le Pen does it with immigrants and the EU, Trump did it with ‘Mussslims’ and building walls, Corbyn does it with ‘the rich’.

Which creates a culture of hate. Which is why the French used that word so often when talking of sweet Marine. She tried to get as many people hating immigrants as she could. Unfortunately, her work is not finished. She never expected to win the election and, like Hitler, she’s very clever. She’s content to have a fairly large controlling interest in the opposition and is already preparing for 2022. So Macron really had better be really really good.

Meanwhile, over in Ireland, they want to prosecute ‘national treasure’ Stephen Fry. For blasphemy. Yes, Ireland. Not Saudi Arabia, not Pakistan but the Republic of Ireland. Because in a radio interview 2 years ago he slagged off God. But like, really slagged off God. Albeit in his beautifully eloquent and deep bass way. You can hear it on youtube. He’s merely voicing an opinion. Along with anyone else enjoying ‘freedom of speech’. Yet police in Ireland want to ‘speak to him about what he said’. Why? Its on youtube. He won’t deny he said it. Can’t really, cos he did say it. And probably proudly too. So do they want him to deny he meant it? To retract it? Or basically, are they just stalling because the entire nation is looking more and more ridiculous and stupid as the process continues? They should either issue some kind of Catholic ‘fatwa’ on him or just go away. He can say what he likes. He’s a national treasure.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

If the Guardian says ‘this is a blog’ and the Times says ‘this is a blog’ and even the Daily Mail says ‘this is a BLOG!!!!!’, then it probably is a blog. Unless you’re a supporter of Jeremy Corbyn, in which case; firstly, you need psychological help, and secondly, the press are involved in a campaign to conspire unfairly against things that aren’t blogs.

That is the gist of their main argument that Jeremy is not popular because of the media. Because they’re all calling him a total tosser. All of them. All the time. Which may mean, errr…, that he is in fact a tosser and the press are united in making a relatively simply observation, or it may mean that the media is involved in some campaign akin to Trump’s ‘fake news’ bollocks. If they’re not printing what you want to hear then discredit the speaker.

So let me just clarify this: Jeremy Corbyn is an awful and vile man with obsolete ideas based on failed political models. He, and his team, live on pathetic soundbytes like ‘making Britain great for EVERYONE; NOT JUST THE FEW’, whilst lacking any substance behind them. We’re gonna make it fair, but we’re not telling you how we’re gonna do it, and for God’s sake don’t ask me to do the sums. Especially Diane Abbott.

So Comrade Jeremy, and the exceedingly smooth, slimy and dangerous Comrade McDonnell, are just ‘a little disappointed’ with the local election results on Thursday. In which they, pretty much, lost everything they ever had and gained nothing new. Other than installing Andy Burnham as Mayor of All of Manchester (he’s welcome to it; take Liverpool too, for all I care). The man whose visions and policies change daily, depending on who he’s talking to, should do fine up there. 200 miles from me. Shame he didn’t stand in Newcastle. But the losses were just because ‘we weren’t getting our message across to enough people… because the media are unfair…’

And all this because I just can’t talk about football. Simply can’t. Too painful. Too distressing. Too horrible. Not that I retained any hope of winning the league, which I didn’t. But I just wanted to end the season on a big high. So this weekend I’m more interested in the bottom of the table. Sunderland have gone, Middlesboro’ (sorry Ali) have no hope so its all about Hull, who lost yesterday, ironically to Sunderland, and Swansea, who won yesterday.

And its about Lila, always Little Lila.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

You know when you walk into a restaurant and they have those photos on the wall of the owner, normally some schmaltzy old Italian or Jewish guy with a big cigar and fat belly, shaking hands with the rich and the famous who have dined there. The ones who didn’t later sue for infectious diseases. The concept is particularly popular in America, especially in smaller, independent places and even diners. Because, believe it or not, the rich and famous eat hamburgers and hot dogs too. Obviously not Gwynnie and her ilk, they drink green slime and have their bodies pumped for toxins. The photos are a measure of success, a mark of acclamation. Look, if Robert De Niro/Barbara Windsor/Ian Paisley ate here and lived, how bad can it be?

I wonder if Prince Philip has a ‘wall of fame’. Not that he isn’t quite famous himself, but if he has a ‘wall’ at one of the Palaces with photos of everyone famous he’s shaken hands with, it must be a fucking massive wall. Everyone from Winston Churchill to Justin Bieber. From Harold Wilson to Bobby Moore. President Roosevelt to Woody Allen. He’s almost spanned the lot, from Queen Victoria to Victoria’s Secrets.

But now its over. He’s taking early retirement from public stuff (I can’t think how else to describe his actual job title). At 95 he wants a bit of a rest from the constant dressing up like a soldier/sailor/Lord High Executioner and put his feet up. Ride some horses. Bet on some horses. Doesn’t matter. He’s paid his dues. The Queen will carry on without him. Why, exactly, she chooses to do that when there’s about 600 lesser royals quite capable of cutting red ribbons I don’t know. She should retire too. Maybe travel a bit.

At the other end of the scale is Lila. Not quite ready to retire yet. Though she did have her first, official sleepover on Wednesday. Her daddy had to go away for the night so mummy and baby came to me. To help. To assist in stuff. And you think (because you’ve probably forgotten, or maybe never knew) how much time babies take up. Because the demands are constant. Not just for feeding, which are fairly constant. But in between. You can’t just let a baby sit there, even if she’s happy doing so. You have to ‘stimulate’, you have to ‘engage’, you have to… well, drive that baby mad with attention. So when (my)daughter/(her)mummy went for a shower in her 3.6 minutes of allotted ‘me-time’ for the day, Lila and I listened to some music. I chose Nirvana. She didn’t say ‘no’ when suggested, so we pranced round the kitchen to the jolly, tinkly sounds of Smells Like Teen Spirit. Lila loved it. Asked for some Black Sabbath. Sort of. Then sicked over her muslin.

And of course, the demands continue, even when she sleeps. So much to do. Like… like watching her sleep, staring at her for movements, just… just… anything.

I think I’m obsessed. Need some grounding. Spurs playing West Ham tonight. That might do it. Lila and I shall watch it together.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

I love a food fad. But I love chocolate more. And the best chocolate of all comes from Easter Eggs. I don’t know why, even after a concerted, concentrated, totally committed, 60 year study. And its a very scientific study too. Very controlled, all variables monitored, contingencies allowed for, statistics analysed minutely. This is what I do:

Every Easter when the eggs ‘come out’, I go to the supermarket and buy as many as I can carry. Its like Beaujolais Nouveau, or grouse or salmon fishing; very short seasons, gotta get in early. Then with my eggs I open one up and, very scientifically, stuff it into my face as fast as my fingers can carry it. Then I sit back, enjoy the moment, smile broadly, and open the next one.

Ok, I try to exert ‘control’ but its Easter Eggs, FFsake, they’re gone by… well, the end of Easter. When we once more visit the supermarket and buy all they have left. The two in the picture are the last survivors. If they were an endangered species they’d simply have no chance in my house. Well, the Thorntons one might live a bit longer but Cadburys? No chance.

But now those wonderful Danes have told me that its ok, that I’m fine to act like a total fucking pig around Easter Eggs, and in fact, around all other forms of chocolate too. Its fine to stab your children in the hands with kitchen knives for trying to take a piece, its ok to eat yourself sick. Its ‘a condition’. Bless those Danes. Underactive FGF21. And all that time I’d thought I was just an obnoxious, greedy bastard.

Fibroblast Growth Factor 21 is an enzyme released in the liver after eating sweet things to tell you ‘enough, already; ya fat git’. But they found that 20% of people simply don’t produce enough or any (I didn’t read it that carefully; once they got to the point where my horrendous behaviour around Easter Eggs was justified I just went straight to the sports pages). One in 5 have this ‘condition’ where we don’t shut off the need for sweet stuff. We can’t help it. Its science wot dunnit, innit? Not my fault.

Being cruel and heartless Danes they’ve played with this hormone in rats and monkeys and found they can manipulate the amount of sweet they crave. There again, how’s a rat going to open the box? I’m a human and sometimes I have to use an axe or chainsaw in my frantic panic to get in. Stupid bloody Scandinavians.

Anyway, me, hormones, underactive, over-achieving, hyper-whatever and great excuses. What was even weirder thought was that it had been assumed that these hormone deficient people, the 20% who eat 80% of the chocolate, would suffer greater incidence of obesity. But they don’t. In fact they found the opposite. The ‘no filters’ chokky eaters were less obese than those who really can have that mythical ‘just one square’.

I choose to interpret this data in an alternative manner. As is my right. That eating chocolate makes you lose weight. Keeps you thin, fit and toned. So cancel your gym membership today and spend that totally wasted 100 quid a month on more chocolate. You’ll thank me for it tomorrow.

Happy Wednesday

A (with a ‘condition) xxxx

We’re leaving ‘Europe’. An island once more, we shall be. Rule Britannia. Lock the doors, shore up the… errr… shores and leave us the fuck alone!!!! Except when it comes to trade, of course. Then we need to peddle our baubles and trinkets to other countries. Oh, and fruit picking, potato harvesting, we like to get foreigners to do all that dirty stuff. Mainly because English ‘workers’, devoted to the words of Jeremy Corbyn, don’t actually want to ‘work’, as such, more to just… kind’a… take money from other people in the form of taxes and go back to the pub.

But we’ll get a ‘trade deal’. Though Europe isn’t prepared to discuss one, that is the remaining 27 member states of the Union, until we do 2 things. Firstly we need to secure the future of the millions of European people currently living here. Not kick them out. Promise. And secondly, we have to pay Europe about 50 billion quid. That we suddenly, apparently, ‘owe’ them. Then we can discuss ‘trade deals’ and Euro stuff. Its not a ‘penalty’, its just what we ‘owe’ them. Settling the canteen bill. Nigel Farage’s bar tab. That kind’a thing.

Surely the money owed, which is questionable at least, and the plight of our vast army of Euro settlers who are here, represent part of the negotiation, no? I mean, you kind’a wanna discuss the whole thing as a package. This is what we want, here is what we offer. Make a couple of lists. But that’s been met with a solid ‘NON!!!’ by the Euros who count. Sort out the ‘debt’ and the workers’ rights to stay, then we’ll negotiate on trade and other shit.

And there’s 27 of the fuckers. All with the right of veto. All with their own agendas, as well as collective ones and several corroborative little ones. Plus the bosses. The Euro heads, the Junkers and his ilk. Noted Anglophobes all and chronically resentful of our departure. And I realised, watching that man leave his dinner wiv T’reeza the other night, that its simply never ever going to happen. Us and Europe; its over.

Whereas the Spurs/Arsenal match is never over. Not for me. And its not the actual game that I love, so I’ve only watched the hilights twice now, but the pundits. Thierry Henry on Sky and Ian Wright on the BBC, in particular. Squirming. Flattering in their praise of Spurs. Devastated by the rag-tag army of flops and failures that now, not so proudly, wear ‘their’ shirt. But heh, I won’t gloat, I won’t be smug or conceited… even though its definitely fun. I’ll be gentle in victory.

COME ON YOU SPU-URSSSSSS!!!!!

Happy Monday

A xxxx

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