Andy's Glasses

Look at this ‘table’:

1. Chelsea
2. Manchester United
3. Liverpool
4. Manchester City
5. Arsenal
6. Spurs

Now look at the league table:

1. Chelsea
2. Arsenal
3. Liverpool
4. Man City
5. Spurs
6. Man United.

The first table is the ‘most hated football team’ as voted by groups of fans representing all the premiership clubs. The least hated in the poll were Bournemouth (no-one cares about them and they haven’t been here long enough to build enemies), and Leicester (same as above but remarkable achievement last season earned masses of respect from all neutrals. Except Chelsea fans, obviously).

It doesn’t take a genius, or really a moron, or even a Chelsea fan, (if you can find one who can read) to note the similarities in the two tables. Thus it can be deduced that football fans hate success. They hate ‘rich’ teams, they hate ‘big’ teams and there’s a big jealousy element in all this.

I don’t think geographical factors enter, even though there’s just 3 London clubs and 3 from the North West. No-where else represented in the top 6. And as most London fans would ‘hate’ another London club more than anyone else, and the same applies to the Northwest, its not that these two sad regions have been ‘ganged up upon’ by the rest of the country. The bits no-one ever bothers to visit.

Stoke were 7th on the most-hated list but they always punch above their weight. No, literally, they punch everybody, will never rid themselves of their rather ‘industrial’ style of play, so are entitled to suffer in any popularity poll. And West Ham, currently 17th in the real league, were number 8 on the most hated. An interesting disparity that can only be really accounted for by accepting that they are really hateful in oh so many ways.

Yet the jealousy must be about perception of success rather than success itself. Spurs haven’t won anything for decades and yet rank high on hate. Arsenal haven’t won anything worth winning for ages but always act as if they have.

And when asked ‘which team do you hate?’ its really nothing about the players or their performances, past or present. Its a visceral distillation of everything you really feel about the club, the fans, the ground, the players, managers, team doctors and the price of a hot dog. Its everything boiled down into one byte. Just like the old hot dogs in fact.

Putting on my ‘impartial’ hat, the unpartisan, independent, free-thinking, Renaissance Man, neutral hat, I really think Spurs are wonderful and that if people hate them its just because they’re repressed Tottenham fans in need of counselling to bring out their inner cockerel. That’s not a gay thing. Least, I don’t think it is?

But you can’t argue with Chelsea at the top.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

My mate Rob, with whom I’ve worked for 12 years, never willingly moves. He doesn’t gym, he doesn’t play anything more taxing than an a cd and he won’t walk if a bus can take him there in just twice as long. He’s a bit overweight. Yet he never has an ache, a pain, a pulled muscle, a nothing.

I’ve played sport my whole life. Always. I walk a lot, I cycle, I have difficulty sitting still unless there’s food in front of me or Spurs are on tv. Even then I often ‘jiggle’ a leg or fiddle, and NOT just to annoy Mel. I’m a mover and shaker. Unfortunately, in the literal sense.

And I suffer. Back aches, I have a damaged thigh muscle from a high kick about 12 months ago, I have tennis elbow in my left arm, an occasional dodgy knee and a recurring shoulder injury from 13 dislocations during my footballing years.

So really, sport/exercise is bad for you. DON’T DO IT! You’ll be healthier without.

Why have I been so terribly depressed then? Over the last couple of weeks as my ‘repaired’ shoulder was so bad I wasn’t allowed tennis and then for one awful week, I stopped my martial arts too, I became steadily more ‘down’ and ‘blue’ and ‘low’. I almost started listening to old Leonard Cohen cds. It was that bad.

Today I played tennis. I tai chi’ed on Thursday and yesterday, and I feel great. I feel happy, I feel pretty and witty and bright. Yes, I almost burst into song. Though not that fucking song, I hate that one. I was singing ‘already gone’ because I watched (for the 65th time) the Eagles Story, in honour of dear-departed Glen Frey.

So happy that I got Spurs Paul to take a photo of me on the court this morning. ‘Man in his element’, I thought would be an appropriate title. Or, ‘gorgeous man looking pretty and witty and briiiiiiiiiight’. Whereas he suggested as a more appropriate title to represent my sheer joy and happiness and liberation from my tragically debilitating injury: ‘who gives a fuck???’

And I can’t argue with that. I think I’ve become a ‘shoulder-bore’.

The sun’s shining, the world’s good (other than all the bad shit) and I’m happy. What could possibly go wrong???

Happy Sunday

A xxxx (share the love)

I’m not a religious man. I would be but I simply can’t see the point. If you pray to a God you need to see results. I’m a materialist atheist. And you don’t see results. When someone gets over the flu people say ‘thank God, she’s better’. When they die of cancer they say ‘well, it happens’. ISIS happens. The holocaust happened. Tsunamis happen. All kinds of shit happens. Ahhhh, that’s because He gives us ‘free will’. Yeah, so again: SO WHAT’S THE POINT???? Where’s the bolts of lightening knocking the beheading knife out of Jihadi John’s hand? Where’s the hole that opens up to swallow that Nissan Micra driving at 18mph in the fast lane? GIVE ME A SIGNNNNNN…

And if there should, by some miracle (yes, that is a pun) be an old Lordy, bearded ‘thing’ up there, with all that omnipotence and omniscience, he certainly doesn’t need me to tell him 700 times how great he is every week. He’s not vain, but He knows He is the dog’s bollocks. Doesn’t need the endless flattery that is what structured prayer inevitably represents.

I went to synagogue this morning. Always reluctantly, but essential. My mate, the judge, has a grandson who today had his barmitzvah. And I love that aspect of religion, the continuity, the cultural niceties that accompany rights of passage. So I went to hear the boy-but-today-man sing his piece. And sing it really well.

Though we arrived late. Because I went to my Tai Chi class first. If God helps those who help themselves, then self-defence is pretty godly in my mind. So its almost like synagogue. Almost. Except its in English, with just a hint of Chinese. And its fun.

Which synagogue most certainly isn’t. But I only had to endure about an hour of mumbling and then… and then… and then it was time for fishballs!!! The only reason I ever really go to ‘pray’. I pray for fishballs. Good ones. And they were. Other stuff too, but its the geflilte fish balls that for me define Judaism. Firstly because we’re a very food-orientated culture. And secondly because whatever happens, we break out the fishballs. Someone’s born, eat a fishball. Someone dies, eat two. Barmitzvah; mazzletov! where are the fishballs. Weddings: bride looks gorgeous, fishballs a little dry. No event is too big or too small to indulge in this ancient form of ritual.

Done now. With a little luck it may be 9/10 months before I enter a synagogue again. Whereas I can buy fishballs any time.

Enjoy the Sabbath, to keep it holy.

A xxxx

Who speaks for ‘us’? I don’t mean ‘me and you’ or even ‘my family’, but who speaks for ‘us’, the entire nation of British people, and some Scots? Not sure about the Northern Irish but feel duty-bound to include them just this time.

Because the government is elected by us, though never all of ‘us’, that’s democracy. And we effectively hire and pay it to represent us in all things large and confusing and more important than which channel to watch.

So when Boris Johnson mouths off against Saudi Arabia, whose ideas is he espousing?

Theresa May decided, unilaterally, that his words were NOT representative of government views. No, they were big-mouthed Boris’s own personal views. But Boris (for better or for worse) IS the official Government dude, appointed by Theresa herself, for issues overseas. How can his views not be understood to be representative? She put over his blond head a large cloak that has written upon it: “I may look like an overweight party clown but I AM NOW Britain’s foreign mouthpiece”. She can’t just take it off him for odd phrases and conversations that occur in the public domain.

Boris said that Saudi Arabia were ‘puppeteers’ in the whole middle east. Using the many, many battles currently being engaged there as a ‘proxy war’ against Iran. Which many (virtually everyone, in fact) holds to be a completely true and factual statement. Wherever Sunni meets Shia with guns, you can simply assume those guns, and most of the ideas, come from Saudi and Iran.

‘But the Saudis are our friends and allies’, says Theresa May. Wrong. They are HER friends and allies. We (the entire nation) fucking hate the Saudis more than we hate any other nation on Earth, other than in times of sport. They are a vile and evil nation, the total antithesis of any liberal democracy. Never mind ‘equality’, they murder women for fun there, stone gays to death; they invented Wahabism, that vile extrapolation of Islam that created Al Quaeda, ISIS and a host of other lovelies. They are currently attacking Yemen with full (and massive) military might. Allegedly to ‘defend themselves against the Houthis’ (unsurprisingly a bunch of Shias), by apparently fire-bombing civilian populations. With weapons supplied by Britain, their mates.

If the Saudis didn’t spend zillions of pounds every year with us to supply arms our troops would probably be in Riyadh today to stop the evil.

But we have a deal. They spend shit-loads of black gold over here, we turn a blind eye to the vast array of global atrocities they perpetrate. And allow their super-rich Saudi-brat-pack to burn rubber around Harrods every summer in solid gold McLarens and diamond-encrusted, 6-wheeled Bentleys.

So yes, Theresa May, you can pretty much just fuck off. Boris, for once, is actually stating the thoughts of the British public. As we pay him to do.

We may face bankruptcy in Britain, but not of the moral variety.

Happy, much holier than thou, Friday

A xxxx

Saudi Arabia

Went out for dinner last night. The ‘works Christmas dinner’. Obviously there was no turkey involved, if Jesus was around today he’d eat Asian Fusion, like the rest of us. So it was that we trecked across to fancy Fitzrovia to our destination, upmarket (read: eyewatering), trendy (dark), Asian experience.

We were met by a stony-faced Russian, as you’d expect. Probably KGB trained cos she was only small but ‘menace’ seeped from every one of her pores, undisguised by the beauty treatments. She was hard. Cold. Not exactly who I’d choose as my ‘front of house’ greeter, but what do I know? She led us to the bar area. “Oh, let me see if I can find you a space”, leaving us in the doorway. 5 minutes later she returned, elated, that, yes, she had managed to secure somewhere for us to squeeze in, thrilled that she’d succeeded in this achievement. We went down to a bar area large enough to seat 200 that had 4 people in it, plus 26 staff. Oh, yes, this was our lucky night.

Dinner was pre-booked. Tasting menus, all the Thai you can hurl down but brought on small plates so you don’t make an obvious pig of yourself. 7 of us were ‘normal’. As in meat-eating and tolerant to most foods. The remaining 1 was abnormal. A gluten intolerant vegetarian. Who had called the restaurant a month ago, when we booked, to inform them of her disabilities. ‘No problem’, they said. At that time. Because all restaurants are very ‘right on’ about preferences, as half of London won’t eat various things and the other half can’t. Or they can, but then they’ll swell up and vomit and the taxi won’t take them home. If their swelling still allowed them to actually fit in the taxi.

Yet as the waiter (an Italian; which is odd because you never find Italian waiters in Italian restaurants any longer) took our order; “ah! issa problem’a”. Apparently you have to have 2 vegetarians at any one time. They don’t exist singly. ‘But we’d booked, but we’d told you, but we’d emailed our preferences…’ “Sorry, the manager (Lithuanian), ee says it ‘as to be 2’. Then send him over (fists balling, face reddening, teeth gritting). “Actually; iss’ok!!!” How lucky were we?

Then we mentioned the gluten thing. “Ah, issa problem’a”. Of the 9 courses listed on the vegetarian menu, Luigi/Paulo/Alfonso said only one item was gluten free. And faced with the ‘riotous taste spectacular’ claimed, tofu salad weren’t gonna cut it.

Some serious anger, frustration and cajoling later, they indeed conjured up a meal not just almost fit for a queen, but for a coeliac vegetarian Queen. Though still brought all the things she couldn’t eat as well, because… errrr… because they’re either stupid or concerned we might haggle on the bill.

The food was actually fab. The booze tasted like booze and slipped down remarkably easily. The ambiance was wonderful there, but I left with a rotten taste in my mouth. Nothing to do with the food. I contemplated this during the 10-minute, total they’ve-lost-my-fucking-bag panic, as the aforementioned Russian who took our bags laughing that she might need a ticket to find them again, couldn’t find them.

Food 9/10, staff 1/10.

Not good enough really.

Happy eating

A xxxx

Mark Carney, in an address in Liverpool yesterday, asserted all manner of stuff, as the governor of the Bank of England would. He actually questioned whether free-market capitalism is still viable, though failed to mention too many alternative models. Now that Fidel Castro is dead. And he bemoaned the plight of the now legendary ‘working man’ (or wo-man) as being left behind. Further, he added, to cheer everybody up, there’s the potential loss of a further 15 million jobs due to advancing technology and robots. I wonder if he’s counting prostitutes among the casualties.

Because shagable robotics is where its all at, currently. That is the new pinnacle of man’s technological aspiration. Robots you can not only have sex with, but that can be made to look like anyone you want them to. Sounds submissive? No, its just programming and make-up. Though not sure I’d personally want to ‘plug in’ to a lump of titanium. Even a lump with an Angelina pout and Scarlett Johansson wig. Maybe they’ll cover the metal with some flesh-ish substance, like Arnie in Terminator. Though I never fancied him much.

And rather than a totally programmable, bent-to-your-every-whim, Jennifer Aniston/Thandie Newton/Gigi Hadid, surely your average Scouse punter would rather a greasy-haired, cold-sored, smelly crack whore from the Wirral?

On a totally different track, Alexis Sanchez and Mezut Ozil, Arsenal’s 2 mega-star players, are in contract renewal talks. The time when their agents prove their… their… well, they prove that they’re still alive (if ya call that livin’) and that their greed knows no bounds.

The players are currently earning about 150,000 pounds a week. How can ya live on that? They’ve been offered more. Up to the 160 grand a week because Arsenal’s ‘ceiling’ is the manager’s salary. Or has been. The club are prepared to break this for their two superstars, going up to possibly 180/190,000 a week. (A FUCKING WEEEEEEK!!!!)

But its not enough. Nothing like enough. They want ‘parity with Pogba’. A phrase that I think I want printed on my t-shirt or mug. Sounds like a worthy protest, a union cry, the shout of a political protest or moral crusade. PARITY WITH POGBA.

Paul Pogba earns £290,000 every single week. Oddly, he ain’t that great. I reckon he’s worth about 10 bob. In ‘old money’.

Arsenal can’t pay that. They should never pay that. Because in 3 months’ time 7 other players will renew their contracts and the club will end up bankrupt.

But if they don’t get ‘what they’re worth’ (always questionable) ‘they’ll leave!!!!’ Because they’re mercenary scum with no loyalty to the club that nurtured them. But where will they go? It would have to be to Bayern Munich. Because they were rejected by Barcelona and Real Madrid originally and no-one else other than Paris St Germain could afford them.

Much as I love football, I think I hate it more.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Today is the long-awaited supreme court decision on the legal basis for Brexit. That is the question. Whether tis nobler to leave the European Union in one go or by slinging arrows and misfortune at the hapless government to force parliament to agree terms. This will affect greatly whether the current Brexiteers maintain the ‘headless chicken’ approach of seeming to not know its arse from its elbow, or adopt a more ignorant course in which right hands know nothing of left-hand’s movements.

So I’m gonna talk about sport. Which is both far more interesting and also greatly less boring than yet more Brexo-bollocks.

For even though my tennis was iced off yesterday morning, there were other events of massive interest occurring all over the weekend, seemingly unbothered by the status of my shoulder or the frost conditions in NW11.

The rugby. England against Australia. The real ‘enemy’ in the rugby world. Scotland may be the ‘Auld enemy’ but that’s only because they can’t speak properly and they’re not very good. Australia has that arrogance and almost limitless facility to cause offence to everyone at the same time. So to beat them (as we did 3 times earlier this year in Aus) is extra special. To beat them at Twickenham after falling behind early on was truly special. Eddie Jones may not be convinced that the England team is magnificent, there’s always ‘work to do’ in Eddie’s world, but we certainly looked the part.

And at almost the very moment that Jonathan Joseph was scoring his second try, 10 miles away in Tottenham, Harry Kane was demonstrating his very own world class status when he scored his second goal in the 5-nil drubbing of Swansea. A team whose organisational skills make Brexit look positively simple.

Earlier Chelsea had gone to Manchester City and beaten them bad. Really bad. And it all went downhill in the end as normally quiet, calm, thoughtful Sergio Aguero attempted to eviscerate David Luiz with the most orthopaedic tackle of the year. A horror tackle. Roy Keane would have been proud of it. Aguero’s red mist turned to a red card and then another was bestowed upon team-mate Fernandinho. Who’s ‘crime’ was attempted strangulation of Cesc Fabregas. On the basis that ‘any act of aggression or violence against Fabregas is good for mankind in general’, the Brazilian should actually have received commendation for his action. But the ref saw it differently.

Poor West Ham’s season took a turn from ‘shit’ to ‘fucking shit!!!’ at the hands of Arsenal and the feet of Alexis Sanchez. I would say ‘poor West Ham’ but instead will say ‘good!’, even though it was Arsenal wot done it.

And finally to Liverpool. Playing at struggling yet classy Bournemouth yesterday. Breezed to a 2-0 lead yet managed to lose 4-3. Ya just gotta love Bournemouth. Because whatever happens they only play one way. The right way. Bless ’em.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

man plans, God laughs.

Bollocks!!!

xxx

We all crave freedom. Freedom from, and freedom to.

Freedom from persecution, freedom from starvation, poverty, slavery, freedom from gloating Arsenal fans and all manner of horrible things.
Freedom to vote, freedom to live as I please, to pray as I please, to not pray as I please, freedom to enjoy road-rage. And to do all manner of nice things.

Like tennis.

Man’s greatest freedom. Ok, this man’s greatest freedom. To run around like a mad thing, chasing little yellow balls in the hope of hitting them so hard they don’t come back. I didn’t say all freedoms were clever. But tennis has been off the agenda for about 6 weeks. My shoulder physio banned it. Every week, the same question, the same answer. Not yet. Not ready. Still healing.

So I was faced with a choice. Wait for the shoulder to recover completely (assuming it will at some point), or find another physio. Not necessarily a better one, just one who thinks playing tennis is not such a bad idea. And yesterday I found just such a thing. Who happens to be rather brilliant too, but that was way secondary to giving me the permission I sought so desperately.

Recommended by half my tai chi class (all old, pre-injured, sports-wounded men who, like me, just don’t know any better), I went to see ‘Mike’. He’s big, he’s blond and he’s funny. And he hurt me like a motherfucker, but in the fullness of time I shall forgive him. Because when I asked about tennis his reply was: “does it make you happy?” to which I replied in the affirmative. “So play” he said, “and then we’ll cope with whatever happens after”.

It was that simple. I’m not saying he’s right, I’m not saying everyone would agree with his ethos. But it appealed greatly to me. Whereas my old physio, she was different. Way more cautious, way more protective, way more… female. Some might say ‘more sensible’, but those saying that would probably be female too. Because, as we learned the other day; men’s and women’s brains are different. Maybe its just two different schools of thought in the physio world, and nothing to do with gender?

I’ve never ‘erred on the side of caution’, but I’ve erred plenty.

Spurs win 5-0, England beat the Aussies in the amazing rugby, the omens are good.

Playing tennis this morning.

Very Happy Sunday

A xxxxx

Zac Goldsmith is basically a good person. I think. His father, Sir James, wasn’t. But he shouldn’t be punished for that. You can’t choose your parents. Though if you are being selective, an offshore billionaire would be right up there with ‘loving, caring, nurturing’ on most lists.

So Zac was the Conservative Party MP for Richmond, posh place over in the SW of London. Not a million miles from Heathrow, making it convenient for the locals to whizz off regularly to their second homes in Grasse, Tuscany, Como, but far enough that its not THAT big a problem as it is to those who live in Hounslow.

Zac decided to stand to be mayor of London. But failed. Not just because he’s wetter than a thunderstorm in a rainforest but also because Sadiq Kahn was the better candidate. Never mind, he’s still an MP.

But he put his reputation on fighting the expansion of Heathrow. He was the ‘people’s anti-expansionist’ for that airport. And they decided to do just that; expand Heathrow. Zac was pissed, his own Conservative government passed it, against all his expressed wishes. So he resigned his MP-ness. So he could fight the constituency again, this time as an ‘independent’ on a ‘protect Richmond from Heathrow’ ticket.

Meanwhile, in case you missed it, we had Brexit. Ok, you would have to be dead to have missed it, but I’m just sayin’. Brexit. Zac was a big ‘out’ campaigner. Whereas Richmond, who he represented at the time, was 73% in favour of ‘remain’.

So Thursday’s by-election in Richmond was about 2 things. Heathrow’s expansion, which won’t happen for 10 years, if at all (the proposed runway thing has been bounced out of parliament numerous times before), and about Brexit.

The Lib Dems canvassed strongly on Europe. Massively. To the virtual exclusion of all else. Zac banged on about Heathrow, because its all he knows. Labour did nothing. Not relating to anything relevant; they’re stuck in 1917 Russia. The Tories didn’t field a candidate, out of respect to Zac. So the lib-dems won. The people of Richmond feel way more strongly about Europe than they do about a few more planes whizzing overhead.

That means the Libs now have about 10 mps. And they’re already talking about ‘landslides’ and ‘labour are finished’ and the next election. No-one learns; by-elections are for protest, general elections are never predicted by them.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx