Andy's Glasses

This is no time for fence sitting. You’ll only get splinters in your bum. This is a time for Europe. And our future within it. Or without it. In politics as well as football. And decisions have to be made.

This picture is of sweet blond, Eva Van Housen. She sits on no fences. EVER!! She probably eats broken glass.

But she demonstrates quite nicely, one part of the political spectrum. Which many believe is not a linear affair with ‘right wing’ at one end and ‘left’ at t’other, but more a circle. Because that circle meets when you go just a touch to right of Nigel Farage or the left of Jeremy Corbyn. The place where Hitler meets Stalin and all is equal. Such extreme totalitarianism, however its marketed, is the same. Is Kim Jong Un a fascist or a communist? Makes no difference whatsoever to the starving masses of North Korea living in absolute repression.

Then Eva comes along and in fact starts to straighten that line once more. Because if you go all the way to the right, to the English Defence League, the Ku Klux Klan, Donald Trump and all manner of neo-nazis, if you then go just a touch further you reach the place where brain cells are replaced by tattoos. And that’s where Eva lives. The place where they have, to quote the Mail on Sunday: ‘a swastika on her breast’. Though you’re not supposed to be looking there when you talk to her.

How unusual, implied the Mail, that someone with such political views should also be an active member of the ‘vote leave’ campaign. I mean; who’d’a thought? That an ultra-nationalist should want our lonely little Isle to be freed from foreign input, foreign interference, foreigners comin’ over ‘ere, takin’ our farkin’ jobs, eatin’ our farkin’ babies, bein’ sick in our farkin’ ‘ospital beds.

But being the Mail, it has to be way more insidious than just that. ‘Look who is on Boris’ team’ the headlines shriek. All manner of neo-nazi vermin are handing out the official ‘Brexit’ leaflets.

And thus by Mail style implication of reciprocity, Boris must therefore be ‘one a them’. There are supporters of Spurs who are nasty, violent, bad people. That doesn’t make the team bad. Whereas at Chelsea, oddly, it really does.

Nigel Farage then today opined (and he has many things to opine, does Nigel) that staying in Europe will increase the number of sexual assaults on women by migrants. Which, presumably, is grossly unfair on proper, English sexual assaulters who won’t get their fair share.

The whole debate is now ruled by total tossers. Both in and out. It just becomes a question of who is the best, or worst, among them.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

I’ve heard of the ‘naughty step’ where errant children are forced so sulk whilst contemplating the errors of their ways. That its not acceptable to show your hatred of broccoli by dumping it into grandma Gina’s lap. That the cat’s tail is attached permanently and should not be removed so it can be wrapped around a dolly. Other kids get sent to their rooms ‘to teach them right from wrong’. Mainly because we can no longer thump children round the head with broom handles. Iss illegal. So we have to be more subtle; more gentle in our punitive measures.

Different in Japan. Tough love. Sorry, Son, ya gotta learn the hard way. So even though you’re only 7, I’m gonna kick you out of the car, alone, in the middle of a fucking forest that’s filled with bears and probably a few snakes, jagged bushes, thorns, big holes to twist ankles, cos you gotta learn how to behave. Bye.

Its the Samurai way. Its the warrior way. He had to learn.

6 days later little Yamoto Tanooka had learned enough and the military found him. In surprisingly good health.

Ok, his dad meant to go back for him, but by that time he was lost in the wilderness of Hokkaido island. And I feel sorry for the dad. The kid not only got over it, but will forever be a hero. He’s fine. But dad?? Fuck me; what kind of parenting is that? But give him a break. His remorse will live with him always.

Mohammed Ali died today. According to the radio today, he was the greatest man of all time. Anywhere, ever.

And in many ways, for a guy famous for hitting people very hard and causing injury, he may well be just that.

I hate boxing. Bores me. Never seen the point. Don’t watch it. But I did. Only for Ali fights. Everybody did. Because he was brilliantly clever, wondrously witty and beautiful to look at. Other than that he didn’t have a lot going for him. He invented ‘sporting hype’ single-handedly. Or single-mouthingly. He was gobby. Wonderfully so. He was a poet, a civil rights activist, comedian and probably the best heavyweight boxer ever.

For once the endless eulogising is worthwhile.

Rest in peace

A xxxx

England played last night. Another, and the last, warm-up for the Euros, starting soon in a French country very near you.

I missed it. Thank God. I hate friendlies, even when England have become basically ‘Spurs with lions on’. And this friendly was so limp that Portugal’s only real player never even bothered to show up. He was busy hardening up his 6-pack for the next underpant advert, oiling his torso, bronzing his bits, gelling his hair, doing whatever preening poseurs do in their time off. Even preening poseurs who score 60 goals a year.

The great Christiano Ronaldo missed the game. And so did I. I was doing none of the above. I went to tai chi to ‘internally massage’ my muscles. And learn how easy it is to break a thumb. Someone else’s. You wouldn’t wanna break your own, tai chi doesn’t do suicide missions.

But I heard about Hodgson’s Howler on the way home in the car. How he played the Kane and Vardy out of position. Well, why not. We’re brilliant. We’re England. Let’s take our two most potent strikers and play them on the wings. That’ll show ’em.

I’m not sure what, exactly, it was supposed to show, but apparently it didn’t work. A failed experiment. Which is fine, that’s what friendlies are for. Experimenting.

But this was the last friendly. This is the ‘one you take with you’ to the tournament. The previous game. We played Portugal devoid of its talismanic superstar and managed to just about beat their 10 remaining men 1-0 with a goal scored by a centre-back in the last 5 minutes. Though all goals count, it must be remembered.

We should have thrashed them. 6-0. Even 3-0. There’s a time for tinkering and a time for consolidating. It wasn’t like he was blooding new players; he played what is, effectively, the A team, but played them in different positions.

However, the Euros start in 10 days time and I feel quite optimistic. Spain aren’t what they were. France always have political issues in the dressing room, however good their players might be. Belgium aren’t quite the real deal yet, despite producing about half of the best players in every top European league, and Germany…

Always an issue, them Germans. Maybe they’ll get some injuries.

Ok, 10 more days to go. I can cope. Its better than the usual 3 months.

Come on England

A xxxx

The sandwich bar chain, Pret, is opening a pop-up in Soho to test a new concept in Pretism; vegetarian food only. Oooooh, that’s radical. Let’s just hope they fold quickly in abject herbivorous failure.

Because what makes the First World different from less fortunate places is food choice. In fact we probably suffer from choice overload on every street when it comes to what we should eat. Though chains like Pret, like McDonalds, Abocado, Wasabi, Leon, Starbucks, Itsu and so many others have it arranged that those choices are in fact pretty standardised on any street. And as Pret already (as do all of them) offer vegetarian options, why would they remove choice? Surely that will remove the half (?) of potential buyers who don’t want a vegetable wrap for lunch.

They’re doing it because its a bandwagon. Because foodies like Ella Woodward and the Hemsleys are really ‘into vegetarianism’ in a big way. Add in a Gwynnie or two (heaven forbid; one’s more than enough) and the only way forward is the path to vegan.

I have but one argument against the entire vegetarian movement: courgetti.

Why would anyone in their right mind invent ‘spiralisers’ and things that cut courgettes into ribbons that look like spaghetti? But taste like watered down shit, without the shit. Surely the time would have better spent genetically modifying a breed of fly that infects courgette plants and turns the crop to dust. Or turns it into proper pasta. If you want to eat something that really looks like pasta, almost tastes like pasta and is so pasta-like its uncanny; EAT FUCKING PASTA!!!

Ok, I’m not a big fan of the humble courgette. In case you missed that. If they ceased to exist, I wouldn’t even notice. But if people, even my own daughters, to my eternal shame, want to eat them, then fine. I’m no foody fascist. I may sound like one, but I’m not.

But forcing food types down our throats (interesting concept) is a form of foody fascism. And thus removing anything meaty or indeed fishy from our lunchable options is evil.

I never eat meat for lunch. That’s a shocker. In that ‘who gives a shit what he eats????’ kind of way. I do tuna. I do cheeses and falafel and egg and all sorts of even veganish type fare. But I’m a carnivore. So when ordering my egg salad on granary with coleslaw and extra everything, I find it comforting to look at plates of red meat sitting in the cooler display.

We are carnivores. We evolved that way. Anything else is just a phase, an aberration.

Happy eating

A xxxx

There’s a new crime in the world of public office. Its called ‘sharing a platform’ and its a major offence. Punishable by… something.

John McDonnell, the shadow chancellor and comrade vice-chairman in the People’s Republic of New Old Labour, has slagged off new mayor, fellow (ish) Labourite Sadiq Kahn for ‘sharing a platform’ with David Cameron over Europe.

Sadiq and Dave strolled round, hand-in-hand, arm-in-arm, extolling the virtues of staying in the EU.

And the EU issue is not party aligned. Its ‘free’. There are some things, like perhaps, the very future of Britain, that transcend petty party politics and almost all alternative alliterations.

Oddly, both McDonnell and his BFF Corbyn have both ‘shared platforms’ with Jerry Adams, various other IRA gunmen, kneecappers and shunters, the leaders of Hamas, Hezbollah and a host of other Islamists, and terrorists from most of the world. Ahhhh, but that was ‘to engage’, that was ‘to talk’ to try and solve problems. Oh, I see.

So the rule on sharing platforms is simple: its fine if I’m doing it, but an act of treachery if you do it. Ok, thanks John for the clarification.

There are limits though. Neither Corbyn nor McDonnell would ever share a platform with anyone Jewish.

And if you’re travelling this summer, the message from the US State Department is: ‘avoid Europe’. All of it. Its a fucking death trap waiting to happen.

Following the Paris massacre and other ‘incidents’ America is warning its citizens, in the ‘home of the brave’ there, not to come to Europe. And if they do, to avoid big gatherings; like the European football championships, pop festivals, maybe the Vatican, anywhere where large groups gather, as the risk of attack is higher. Better not sit outside that gorgeous cafe on the Boulevard St Michel watching the world go by in glorious Parisienne sunshine. Just in case.

The horrendous attack in Paris, as with all the others, was an attack on our lifestyle. The fact that we ‘hang out’, we go to parties, we have fun and enjoyment and do wonderful things in groups that don’t involve sex with camels. That was what those muthafuckers were attacking. Not a football match and a concert hall, but the Western way of life. They attacked enjoyment itself. And if you stop that enjoyment as a consequence, then the terrorist scum have won.

So yeah, there may be some added risk (though in America there’s a massive risk element to simply walking into your school for the day) but what is life without the good things? Without the fun?

God Bless America.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Sunday night we went to see a movie. Called ‘Remember’. Its clever. Its unusual. The ‘stars’ are a 90 year-old ‘hit man’ who has dementia, and another 90 year-old who’s in a wheel chair with an oxygen tube permanently affixed to his nostrils. Not yer normal ‘action flick’ then. No ripped six-packs and motor-cycle chases here. This is more an ‘incontinence pants’ type thriller. A lot of the action is set in care homes across America. Some of which I may phone for a brochure in the not-too-distant future.

Dementia man, played quite brilliantly by Christopher Plummer (he’s come a long way from the Sound of Music. He needed to) as a holocaust survivor who sets off in pursuit of an Auschwitz guard living somewhere among the most cinematographically beautiful back-drops in America. The guy wakes up every morning forgetting that his wife is dead and calling her name. He has lapses all the time, confusion.

If this sounds in any way lacking in credibility, then you know nothing. Sending out armed Altzheimers victims on shoot-to-kill missions is really common in some parts of… of… errr… of this film.

But in fact its brilliant. And very very clever. No spoilers here; just go see it. I’ll say no more…

Other than, whilst seeing that I missed the first edition of New Top Gear. Which is fine as I never really watched old Top Gear in any religious way. Though when I did see it there was no question it was a fantastic bit of tv.

Which the new version sadly wasn’t. I caught a bit on catch-up, just to see why it had been so panned by the critics. And the consensus really is that Chris Evans is a tosser. Reading between the lines.

Old TG worked because the guys played it very cool, very ironic, very straight. But were very very funny in such subtle ways. When the quiet and sardonic and wry gave way to excited whooping, it was rare and therefore quite potent.

Chris Evans starts at volume 11 (out of a possible 10) and within 10 seconds you realise he’s turned the programme into Crackerjack! for adults. Into a pantomime. He has basically become… Chris Evans. One half of a pantomime horse. The back end here being played by Matt Le Blanc. Who is American. In case the accent, the history and his role as Joey on Friends for 10 years didn’t make you realise that already. But being Chris Evans, the ‘transatlantic’ theme was played to death. And that was only about the first 7 minutes. At which point I could take no more. And for me to hit the ‘stop’ button when there’s a Dodge Viper roaring across the screen takes a lot. Well, it takes Chris Evans. Thought I’d better leave before the custard pies came out.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Here’s a moral dilemma for you.

Little boy falls into a gorilla’s pen a the zoo. Gorilla appears to help little boy get steady. Then picks him up, walks round with him for a bit, ok, drags him round a bit too, then looks puzzled. Though how ‘puzzlement’ is assessed on the face of a 400lb primate I don’t know.

You are the zoo-person/director. What is your course of action?

First you assess the situation, a risk assessment. Little boy, 60lbs of skin and bone; gorilla: 400lb of muscle and power. So the boy ain’t gonna fight his way out.

I would first want to make sure it was a proper gorilla and not just a man in a gorilla suit. If it was the latter I would immediately shoot to kill. Same if it was a man dressed as a woman. Or half of a pantomime horse.

But it wasn’t a man, it was indeed a fucking great, hulking gorilla.

So you first hack into your inner memory bank; David Attenborough section; animals… mammels… primates! Ok. And what do we know? The great man (almost a God, certainly way beyond mere ‘national treasure’) once did primates, probably in Africa, cos it was unlikely to be in Birmingham, and I remember a few interesting facts.

Chimps looks sweet and cuddly, pouring all that tea and grinning all the time. But they’re in fact nasty, vicious, brutal and are the only other member of the animal kingdom (no prizes for guessing the other) who commit pre-meditated murder. Not for food purposes. Whereas gorillas, whilst appearing about as cuddly as crocodiles, are in fact very loving, nurturing, kind and considerate animals. And very non-aggressive. Though you wouldn’t wanna steal his banana.

But heh, this is a little boy. Not really good to just, kind’a, see that he might probably be ok. Issa gorilla. Massive one.

What I would do, were the decision made by me, would be to shoot a tranquilliser dart into Harambe (he lives in a fucking zoo; course he’s got a fucking name!!) and knock him into barbiturate-land to remove little boy from clutches. Apparently this was considered but tranqs take a couple minutes to work. And they were worried about the wait. Even though they’d watched the scenario for over 10 minutes already.

This happened at Cincinnati zoo. In America. So the whole dilemma thing is really redundant. Cos over there they live by the motto: ‘shit happens; shoot to kill’. Sometimes: ‘anything happens; shoot to kill’. And that’s what they did.

I don’t protest at hunt meetings. I don’t set fire to animal research centres. I’ve never boycotted McDonalds on cruelty-to-animals grounds. Nor any other grounds. I like meat. Chicken. Veal (sharp intake of breath). Foix gras (clutch heart in horror). But I also like animals of the non-culinary variety too. Which is why I hate zoos generally and American zoos in particular.

Who runs that zoo? Donald Trump??

Happy sunday

A xxxx

Ok, Real Madrid beat neighbours Athletico in the Champions League final last night to officially end the entire official football season, in any properly official way. Its over. Finished. Normally gone til August but for the transfer mania that generally erupts about now even though no-one decent will actually put their name to a contract before 11.59pm on 31/8.

Before those Madrids decided which would be the euro-champs, there was the (financially) biggest game in football, anywhere in the world. Bigger than the world cup final, bigger than the FA Cup, bigger than winning any of Europe’s most elitist leagues, bigger than the Superbowl. Hull beat Sheffield Wednesday in the Championship playoff final. Yes, Hull came third in the (old) second division and win a prize, effectively of… well, reports range between 100 and 200 million quid. No-one can get it more precise than that. With the new tv deal coming into effect next season, the Premiership teams get a pay increase from an annual payout of £more-than-you-could-ever-imagine up to £totally-fucking-obscene-for-a-bunch-a-morons-kickin’-a-ball. That’s a big increase. Approximately 152% divided by 16% of 98%. A lot. More than even Jose Morinho will earn in the next 3 years.

Just as a new measure (like we need another) of just how ridiculous the world of professional football has become; the 12 million a year that Manchester United will pay Jose does NOT include his image rights. They’re still (bizarrely) owned by Chelsea. So if United want to sell Morinho scarves, or mugs, or t-shirts, they can only depict the Portugezer’s legs, arms or bottom. Not his face. Unless they buy a ‘license’ from Chelsea.

12 mil just doesn’t go as far as it used to…

However; this summer we are blessed. Instead of the football-free-void into which so many people sink in depressed misery, having to actually talk to their wives for a bit, playing with their kids, all that awful shit that football normally excuses, we have the European Championships.

We can all paint our faces (metaphorically if you’re not man enough to do it for real) with the cross of St George and root for our national team as they play the finest of foreign scumbags and slimeballs who seem to forget who invented the bloody game.

And the big question is: do you take Daniel Sturridge and Marcus Rashford to the tournament?

Rashford, definitely. The kid is spectacularly brilliant and can win matches. Whilst Sturridge is on a ban. Oh, not from football, no, he hasn’t played long enough to get a red card over the last 6 seasons. No, he’s been banned by BUPA. They’ve withdrawn his membership to their health insurance and refunded his money. He was on course to bankrupt them by 2017.

Daniel Sturridge is (theoretically) a wonderful striker. Who has been ‘injured’ for 90% of the past 2 years. And is injured NOW. Why are they even having the conversation?

Come on England

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

I don’t give a shit about Johnny Depp. Not a toss. Can’t stand him. Looks like he needs a good scrub. Never seen the attraction. He was brilliant in Scissorhands but then his career has been in nose-dive along with his love life. Divorced his long (Hollywood relative) term wife, blond skinny waif, married an American blond skinny waif and after just about 10 minutes started beating her up whilst simultaneously getting a divorce. Do I care?

Nor Europe. I’m so bored with it now. “If you leave Europe WE WILL ALL DIE!!!!! IN AGONY AND SUFFERING!!!!” Whereas “if you stay in Europe “WE WILL ALL DIE!!!! IN AGONY AND PAIN!!!!!”

Yeah, right.

So in the absence of football (I don’t count the Morinho inevitability, nor the 12 million a year), I thought I’d instead talk about my favourite subject. Me.

Because in about 2 weeks time its my 60th birthday. Fuck. Me. How the hell did that happen???

And its also our 30th Wedding anniversary. I’ve put up with that woman for three decades. How either of us has ‘survived’ relates only to your definition of ‘sanity’.

This pic is from back in the day. When we met. Back when we worked together. Ahhhhhh…

The day I started work for a long-gone company, Mel was there. I received a phone call: “Andy, its your girlfriend on the phone”. Which it was. And she was. Emphasis on the ‘was’. She’d called to tell me that, after going out for about 3 months, she’d been proposed to by her long-term ex and agreed to marry him. Probably a good idea if we kind’a finished, really.

I was thrilled for her. But really. She was a fab girl and we’d had great fun. But it was never a ‘forever’ kind’a thing. There again, I’d never met anything vaguely beyond ‘maybe tomorrow’. So, bizarrely, I was genuinely happy for the gel, and in part relieved that this relationship would never need to fizzle or end in a horrid, messy way. “Bye then, love you… til… hmmmm…”

Mel and I just kind’a sparked. She had a boyfriend. Long term and, because she was (and still is) a female, it was ‘serious’. Work was fun, and we had fun. Lunching together, talking, laughing. There was something there. The boyfriend thing wasn’t going well. So we started to kind’a ‘see’ each other at odd times. Which became ever more frequent. It was exciting. I had other girlfriends, decidedly non-serious in nature, but we found time.

Eventually the boyfriend proposed. She accepted. Says a lot that having anything to do with me will make you marry someone else. So we agreed to ‘cool it’. Break. No more. That’s the plan.

But, as they say, ‘man plans, God laughs’. So after a few months, by which time my then girlfriend, The Dane, had moved in, Mel & I bumped into each other on the escalator (I was walking up, she was standing, which is very important) at Bank station. At which point everything else really just followed its own momentum driven by inevitability.

She’s a very lucky girl.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

This is a picture. Possibly the funniest picture I’ve ever seen. And I don’t know why. Though it probably encapsulates virtually everything that is wrong with the Conservative Party at the moment. Again; no idea why. Its just a ‘feeling’. Yes, men have feelings too. We’re allowed.

Alec Sherbourne is an mp. Who has two ‘sweet’ (no other word is appropriate here) little doggies and I’m gonna assume, something of a weight issue. He’s big (ha, ha, haaaaa…) in the Remain campaign. And he made the papers today for throwing a tantrum in the restaurant at the House of Commons. Not that screaming is uncommon in the commons. But poor Alec was ‘attacked’ in the verbal sense by ‘Leave’ campaigner and fellow MP Andrew Bridgen. I tried to find a photo of him too, perhaps in a tutu, but none were worthy. None compared to THAT.

Bridgen started slagging off Alec because the latter (and fatter) was eating a breakfast of a toasted sausage sandwich. And a toasted bacon sandwich. Which to me is the perfectly balanced meal. One of anything is unbalanced, have two and the scales are redressed. Perfectly balanced, all the major food groups represented, except for the good ones, the healthy ones and the ones which won’t kill you before you get to 52, but they don’t taste of much anyway. And if you put ‘superfood’ of tomato ketchup on your high fat, carb-laden bacon sarnie, that’s one of your five a day, at least. Two if the cap falls off and it all blobs out.

And Bridgen, sitting there all ladylike with his soft boiled eggy, smugly and holier-than-thou-ly, basically accused Alec of kind’a being a pig. But deep down this wasn’t about food. It was about the referendum, it was about Brexit and Remain, it was about the entire future of civilisation and the British way of life. All neatly distilled into a metaphor about food. Well, the bacon’s always crispier on the sunny side-up of the street. His cup runneth over. As did his belly. And his plate was more than half full. No idea about his cup, they didn’t mention.

So two tories bitch-slap each other, verbally at least, in a row about Europe. The party’s divided, the government’s gone to shit, everyone hates everyone else, the other side is lying, cheating, exaggerating, dramatising, scare-mongering, doomsday scenario-ing…

We should have more referenda.

Happy well-fed Thursday

A xxxx